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kneelingshadowsalome · 4 months

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I know we're all focused on Satyr/Faun König but that bull comment... I'm quite partial to minotaur's and whats better than a darling who isn't from the area. Oh yes she's innocent of the crimes against König because she was not raised there.

Some foreign little creature just running blind in a maze trying to see where there might be a way out. It's been days after all and the screaming has gotten quieter and she wonders if she's the last one left alive. He takes his time eating his meals... this can be stretched out for such a long time as she hides herself in a dead end just a short rest... the darling is so tired unaware of the horrifyingly silent steps moving closer to her little haven. It's just her left now.

@kit-williams I've wanted to write for Minotaur!König for ages!

Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Word count: 5 k oneshot Tags/warnings: Sexual tension, threats of violence and rape, implied cannibalism, power imbalance, moral ambiguity. Predator/prey dynamic, Beauty and the Beast elements, Ancient Greek religion & lore. 18+ MDNI A/N: The Minotaur in this story is not an actual hybrid. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Merry Christmas y'all! <3

The screams are the worst part.

They echo through the Labyrinth while you wait and wait and wait.

Even the very stones seem to cry and wail as you place your hope on Theseus who descended to this hell along with you and the human cattle. Seven young men and seven unwed women, meant to satisfy a beast...

And judging by the screams alone, it sounds like the monster is satisfied. It sounds like it's having a ball.

Fourteen lives have been lost, their blood swallowed by the earth as if Hades himself is drinking the crimson of Athenian youth in His feast. The flesh is the beast’s to devour: an underworld demon born of tainted lust.

Half bull, half man, you always thought the stories were only tales told by the fire to scare children. Turns out that the stories, for once, are true. There's something even worse in this maze, something cursed and foul... Hecate herself would shiver if She were here, in the womb of the earth, witnessing what you’re witnessing now.

You don’t actually see the Bull of Crete cut or hack or slash anyone, and you can only imagine what the monster does to the bloody, gutted corpses of the young. The only thing you see are the hollow, dark walls carved out of soil, sand, and clay, the intestine-like route dug deep into the earth. And you don't have to see the massacre: the screams tell you enough. The silence that follows betrays even more.

Your only light is flickering, waning: the candle will hardly last an hour. If the hero from Athens won’t arrive soon, you will have to leave this place.

And oh, how you want to leave… You were a fool to follow him here. Blinded by love and hope, you thought Theseus of Athens would be your way out of Crete, but it’s clear that the only thing the young hero is capable of loving is fame. The only time his eyes turned to yours was when you said you might be able to help him with a small bundle of yarn.

Red as the setting sun or spilling blood, the thin woollen string is your only way out now. It’s ironic how a heap of twine is the only thing that can help you out of this hellhole, but the Fates always did possess a cruel sense of humour. Your silly daydreams might’ve cost your life, and even if you’re sworn to the dark goddess, you would rather die anywhere but here. In the darkness, all alone, with nothing but eyeless worms to keep company to your decaying bones.

The sudden draft from the outside world is warm but threatens to blow out your candle. It’s a sign from Apollo: if you don’t leave now, you’re dead. Theseus has to manage without you because you’re not dying in this underworld prison because of some man’s stupid lust for fame.

There's only deafening silence in the maze as you scurry up, taking support from the wall as your sight darkens for a moment. You rose too soon: you can’t even remember the last time you ate. And it appears that even the sun god has abandoned you because there's a faint echo of steps in the tunnel, and they don’t belong to a man. They’re too thick, unduly heavy, and it’s not a pair of sandals that are thumping against the soil.

So, Theseus is dead...

So much for the legend, the myth, the demigod.

Heart thumping in your chest and in the hollow of your throat, it threatens to drown the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re all dead, the people who descended here with you. The only thing you are right now is prey. You're being hunted; whether the Minotaur knows you're here or not, you know you're being hunted. You can feel it in your gut.

You cover the candle with one hand, hoping that the flickering light doesn’t reach around the bend. The falling thump of the footsteps stops, and you still your breath, hoping that the beast would turn around and search the other way.

You hear it sniffing behind the wall. It's trying to catch your scent in the air, the smell of dread and terror, sweat so thick it must reach his nostrils and make them flare with lust. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and the tunnel is so quiet that that you’re certain the creature will hear that, too. (Your heart always betrays you.)

And your luck is cursed.

The beast shifts.

You can’t see him yet, but you can hear it: the scraping sound underneath his feet as he aligns himself anew, choosing the path that leads straight down to you.

“Hecate save me,” you whisper into the air that seems to grow denser as he approaches, loud thumps of feet now accompanied by metal grating against clay.

“Hear me, flame-bearing guide... Darkness, protect me…”

He’s dragging bronze against the wall, announcing that he’s carrying a weapon with him, the strength of a bull apparently not satisfying enough if he wants to break your bones with metal.

Don’t blow out the candle...

If you blow it out, you’ll die.

It’s a clear message, a knowing voice in your head that says it. It’s not young, it’s not old: just knowing. Alert. Wise beyond ages.

So you still your breath and wait.

Shadows fill the curve of the tunnel just before he emerges: thick like thunder, a darkness so deep that even the name of the twilight goddess escapes your tongue.

And he’s big. Bigger than the bulls you used to dance with, bigger than kings, or heroes, bigger than even Theseus, the man you thought was a myth walking. His head is enormous, bigger than the rest of him, awkward and rough like it’s not quite part of him even though he’s supposed to be half ox.

The gigantic, horned figure stops when it sees you. Vast shoulders tense; the fat, double-edged sword falls to his side when he settles to loom between you and your only way to escape this place. You’re oddly thankful that the horrible screeching stopped, but then you notice that his blade is drenched in blood: actually, his torso, thighs, even the buckskin loincloth – the only garment this monster has chosen to wear – is spattered with red dots.

The bronze tip drips with crimson, and the earth drinks it all. Hades is never satisfied: this beast is never full. Everyone who was sent down here is dead: everyone else has met their doom except you. You wonder if your mother would cry if she heard her only daughter died because she fell in love with a fool.

“I killed your hero,” the walls of hell boom.

His voice is thick like tar, dark and foul like it’s the God of Earth himself speaking.

The flame in your hand quivers from fear, and you slowly remove your palm, the tiny candle illuminating the beast with warm homely yellow, making the prominent muscles of his chest even bigger.

He’s carved like the statues in Athens, only, this giant is far hairier than the painted marble heroes of the city. The hair on his chest is thick and wild; it shoots down his abdomen and disappears underneath the loincloth, spreads over his inner thighs, even covers his shins in dark mats. He looks like a wild man, a beast indeed: sweaty, filthy and thick. But you never knew a beast like him could talk…

“A coward, that one,” he snarls, the voice reverberating oddly like it’s a human man speaking from under a wooden mask or inside a clay jug.

And you believe every word he says.

Theseus was strong and able-bodied, but he had built his strength just to show it off. This man’s body speaks of pure, ripe survival.

A hulking shadow with shoulders that barely fit the tunnels of the Labyrinth, with palms nearly twice the size of yours, he’s the myth walking instead of the hero whose blood now adorns that dull bronze blade. The Minotaur who survived his father’s wrath, his mother’s absence, these bleak surroundings, and all the heroes sent down to get his head… His weapon isn’t even sharp anymore, and still, he managed to cut through the sacrificial humans like butter. And what a horrific death it must’ve been to be hacked to pieces by a dull blade.

Is it evil of you to hope that the death of your “hero” wasn’t a quick one…?

Theseus was a fool and a coward, rotten to the core, but you saw all of that too late. He never cared about the human sacrifices or the king’s wrath; he never cared about digging into Pasiphae’s sorrow. He only cared about getting his face depicted on a pot or having his deeds played out in amphitheatres, his name uttered in song, accompanied by harp and flute.

“I know.”

Your voice gets sucked into the earth: it doesn’t echo from the walls like his. It’s thin, damp, and frail, just like everything else meant to walk under the sun instead of stand buried under the earth.

But the beast before you tilts its head a little. It’s curious.

Why would you say that?

Why don’t you cry from hearing the news...? Why don’t you howl out your hero’s name and beg the gods to heed your grief? Why don’t you run away from a monster?

The candlelight is puny and weak, but it’s bright enough to bring out the eyes of an animal. You draw breath in the dampness of the earth when you finally see it: the bull’s head is devoid of eyes, and yet, the beast still has them. Blue as the summer sky, stern as the death grip of winter just before spring.

There’s nothing but ripped shreds of skin where the eyes should be, and instead of looking at you from the sides, they’re greeting you from the front. The horns are sturdy, but otherwise, the colossal head is a bit skewed... Thick patches of fur sticking out as if it was years and years old, and then – you realize it’s not his head; it’s only an illusion.

There’s a man under there. A full, grown man who’s made himself a terrible helmet out of a bull’s carcass.

“You’re a man,” you say out loud, earning yourself another shift of the colossal head.

“...What?”

The muffled echo confirms it: he’s speaking from inside the bull, moving only slightly to get a better look at you.

“You’re not a monster. You’re just a man.”

His eyes are wild but intelligent; they pierce you from inside the inanimate shield. The large chest heaves, his ribs flare like sails as he draws air through what must be the foul stench of a long-dead animal.

He takes a step, and you shrink, almost dropping your candle and the roll of red yarn.

“You think talking will save you, female?”

He speaks like a man, walks like a man, but his moves are an animal’s. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s a bull about to attack, you recognize the way his muscles quiver from the times when you used to do bull leaping. You don’t dance with Rhea’s oxen anymore: your tasks at Hecate’s temple are more suitable and less wild for a maiden your age. Back when you were younger and more agile, you used to jump from the back of one bull to the next, clouds of dust swirling around you as you showed your prowess to the priests.

But you can’t charm this ox by dancing. This one can’t be tricked or fooled: he will pierce you with those horns or his brazen sword if you take even a step.

“I can get you out of here,” you wet your lips, noticing that the blue eyes shoot straight to your mouth when you do that. “I know the way out.”

“What makes you think I want out,” he says, so tight and tense that you fear he’s either about to leap at your throat or plunge his sword into your chest.

And you should be concerned about your own safety, not about his sensibilities – if he even has such things – but hearing this beast man’s reply is like drinking bile.

Why would anyone want to stay here?

You don’t know if he eats human flesh; you don’t know if he had to in order to survive. Everyone knows why his father threw him down here, but no one knows he’s not half the things the people above say he is. And if half of it isn’t true, what other lies have been told about the Minotaur?

Even most prisoners see the sun, yet this man has been deprived of that, too. He’s been robbed of mother’s love, of father’s mercy, of friends and foes, of mentors and guides. He’s been robbed of life, of stars, of fires and summer skies, of women’s giggles, of fistfights with fellow men. Of songs and plays, of festivals and games, of bull dances, and maidens that leap…

“Have you ever been up there…? On the surface?”

You turn your voice into soft water on pebbles, a soothing pour of persuasion and goodwill. His pecs contract, strong abs under thin hair and body fat bunch like you’re about to hit him there. You take a step, and now it’s his turn to shun away. It’s only half an inch, but he actually moves away from you.

“I can take you there,” you offer gently. “Have you ever seen the sun…?”

It’s like talking to a starved predator, trying to entice them to follow you with a fresh steak in hand, hoping that the fanged mouth won’t take more than was promised if it decides to accept the offering.

And the beast accepts.

“As a boy,” he grunts, a tad more softly.

Those eyes are fixed on you, reminding you of horses when they’re slightly afraid. The glint of white and blue behind the carcass is fiercely alive, quite unlike the hollow, disinterested stare of the Athenian hero who was only interested in himself.

But this beast is interested. Oh, the Bull Man of Crete is wildly, fiercely curious about you.

“You’ll take me to the sun,” he repeats, an affirmation rather than a question.

“Yes. To the surface. I promise.”

He moves. Like an animal who learned long ago to drive others into the corner so that he wouldn’t get forced there himself, he’s primal, sensual in the way that oracles in a trance are sensual.

Approaching you in silence that’s almost eerie, the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end by the time he’s only an arm’s length away. Why announce his coming earlier if he can move so quietly?

“You’ll lead me to my father.”

His gaze bores into you, and not even the warm draft from the tunnels can prevent you from shivering. He’s distrustful, and it’s no wonder. It must be odd that some girl with a candle and a bundle of yarn is suddenly waiting for him around the bend, and doesn’t even flee. He’s a behemoth, but he’s not stupid. A stupid man would not have been able to survive, let alone thrive in this place.

And why should he trust you? Who is he supposed to trust in this maze when every person he has seen has either run away from him or tried to kill him? His father will slaughter him if he ever escapes the Labyrinth, so what else is a priestess in his kingdom but a squealing mouse, trying to feed him lies and then guide him to the surface and into a forest of spears?

“No,” you shake your head slowly. “No, I promise I know the way. There will be no soldiers–”

You shut your mouth just before a huge palm closes around your throat.

Gods, but he moves fast when he wants to…

The candle and the yarn drop the instant his hand seizes your neck, strong fingers nearly meeting at the back as he squeezes your windpipe ever so slowly.

And he’s so close now. The carcass reeks of death, but the man underneath stinks of plain human sweat. His musk is a peculiar mix of blood, earth and soil, something both stale and invigorating, the thin sheen of sweat and dirt covering his muscles making him look like a common builder. It’s strange that the bull’s head hasn’t yet decayed in this place, that the man doesn’t reek of bodies and bones that must be scattered around like debris further down the tunnels.

Another thing that’s strange is that he doesn’t seem to want to simply silence you.

He also wants to touch you.

A wide thumb strokes the underside of your jaw as he studies you. It slides down the column of your throat, the blue eyes gleaming with fascination when you swallow against him.

He drinks in the sight of you: the lips that part with fear, the frail collarbones that breathe against the side of his palm. The promising crevice between your breasts, the enticing softness of your teats.

You can hear his breath grow heavy under ox skin and bone, the rugged, vicious helmet he has chosen to wear. What lies under, you can only imagine, wherein he has little left to the imagination when taking in the curve of your breasts, your nipples rising to peaks under the thin white linen only temple virgins use.

Seeing your reaction to his touch makes him growl -- he actually growls like an animal, a deep, low rumble of approval rising up his throat when he sees how different your body is from his. How supple and cushy it is, soft and plump like a peach, covered only barely as if to tease a best like him. You wonder if he ever took pleasure in the maidens sent here by the king… If he ever thrust the sword between his legs into their weak bodies before giving them the mercy of his actual blade. Would he even know what to do with a woman, having lived here for so long?

“Please,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back to yours, the ice in them now liquid sapphire of pure want.

Gods… You need to bring his attention back to your offer of help before he sees it more compelling to just stay here and play with his new, plump little mouse. Virgin or not, you wouldn’t survive a mating with this man.

“I swear on Hecate’s torch that it’s not a trap. You have my word: I’m a priestess soon to be.”

He’s entranced. Hypnotized by your lips. You lick them to confirm your fears true: the man grunts with pleasure, out of instinct, absentmindedly like an animal who reacts to the sight of a fat, meaty bone.

Oh, he might not know what to do with a woman… But he would try his best to find out.

“Priestess…?” He rasps.

“It’s a holy woman,” you explain. “I serve the Goddess of the Crossroads.”

He snorts, either because he’s not impressed or because he’s downright amused by your vocation. The eyes, warmer, more demanding now, are far from the eyes of a bewildered beast.

“Little female of the crossroads... You will take me to the king. And then, I will kill him.”

He puts weight into his words, tries to make you understand.

He wants you to guide him to his father.

To the King who claims his son is half bull, to the husband who claims his wife was adulterous with an ox. To the King who demands tribute as virgins so that he can send them down to hell. The dark goddess screams justice, but you're at a horrible stalemate.

The gods will curse you for this… They will smite you with a bolt of lightning or drown you next time you cross the great sea if they see you’ve helped this half-beast escape. If you guide him to Minos, you’re a participant in kingslaying, and the gods never forget things like that.

“He’s your father and the king of Crete,” you whisper in fear. “The gods will strike you down–”

“Gods?” He spits. “I piss on the gods. I fuck their corpses and leave them to rot.”

You almost choke on the blasphemy levelled at you. The shadows creep closer, the stare behind the black fur is dark and amused, burning with the crooked wrath of a thousand years.

“Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.”

It’s unnerving that you don’t find the threat wholly unappealing.

If anything, your eyes drift down to the hairs of his chest, to the two big muscles that resemble the work of the best sculptors in Athens.

“Are you a virgin, female of the crossroads?”

His eyes search for your response: they want to see your fear and disgust. You swallow again, arduously against his hand, both caressing and testing you.

The beast leans forward, as if weighing if he could somehow insult the gods by pillaging you. The rough hair of his chest meets the white cloth, it brushes against your nipples as he bends down to have a good sniff of you.

“You smell like a virgin,” he growls.

The hand leaves your throat, only to travel down your sternum. He grabs your breast nonchalantly, a little too roughly, the hot palm closing around the teat and squeezing it like it’s a toy. When you don’t react, he squeezes it again, this time hard enough to coax a whimper out of you.

“Sound like a virgin…”

Without warning, the hand dives straight between your legs next, palm forcing its way through your thighs and curving to cup your sex, moulding around it with barbaric thirst.

“Feel like a virgin, too.”

It’s thick, hot, and heavy, how he simply tries you through your dress. Fingers testing your folds, he’s clearly enjoying the subtle wetness he finds down there. You can hear another hitched grunt pushing up his throat, rugged and whiny this time, a broken groan that dissipates because of how dry his throat is.

No man has ever dared to lay his hands on you... Many have wanted, but none have tried. Even drunkards and fools respect women who belong to the dark goddess.

But he doesn’t care about the wrath of Hecate. He doesn’t give a shit about the gods. He simply takes what he wants, what falls into his lap. The fifteenth offering, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in devouring your flesh.

How easily he could simply yank that loincloth aside and drag your dress up. Force his cock into your tight, wet heat without uttering a word. You doubt that he would even take the trouble of laying you down on the ground for taking... Beasts rut when they want to: this man could fuck you against this wall if his loins demanded so, guttural groans being the last thing you hear before the candle goes out.

You don’t know if you have to spread your legs for him before this is over, but you reckon you will do even that if it means you’ll see the sun again. You’ll endure every thick thrust, and gods be cursed, you wouldn’t even be solely disgusted if this half-animal chose to breed you... As shameful as it is, you would somewhat enjoy having him rut you like an animal in heat.

And you’ve gone mad, surely.

You want to touch him too, just to test another theory.

Deciding that it's a good idea to stick your hand into the maw of hell, your fingers lift. They meet his bicep, and the lewd panting stops.

He’s not even breathing… He’s just drowsy and drunk, looking at you with a mixture of soft sleepiness and awe in his stare. Like a dog who has never been petted, even his eyes drift half closed when he forgets to threaten you, now focusing solely on your hand.

And you start to caress him, slowly, so slowly… Tracing the muscle all the way up where it meets the shoulder, you stroke even the thick cord that leads to his neck. The rest of him disappears under the bull, but the man behind it already shivers under your touch. He even bends his head a little in hopes that you would go under the mask and touch him there, and the gesture reminds you of an animal exposing its vulnerable areas, baring its very throat in submission.

Braving a quick peek down, you notice that the buckskin cloth is stretched high and wide. His whole body is tense and immobile: you could cup him through the soft animal skin and he would probably shoot his seed from a single stroke of your palm.

If this is not a virgin, you don’t know what is...

In a way, it would perhaps be wise to shove your hand down and disarm this man. That way, you would be safe for a few more minutes. Instead, you lay your palm over his chest, right over where his heart should be.

“So do you, Bull of Crete...”

His gaze flickers.

The darkness hesitates, widens, nearly swallows the azure pools whole. But he doesn’t look irate or wild... Only shocked.

It’s an impasse. A thicket. His hand on you, your hand on him.

He surrenders first: the underworld budges before the utterly pure. You bless him with grace the instant he withdraws his hand from between your legs – slowly, reluctantly, like leaving a place that belongs to him. Or to which he belongs…

“I promise I’ll help you, Minos Tauros. But I need you to give me something in return.”

You remove your hand too. Softly, slowly, like a horse master who trains and tames wild things. All words seem to have escaped his tongue: he only grunts, unsure of what a beast like him could give you in return for your help.

“You must promise to be kind to me.”

“Kind...?”

“I need you to behave,” you explain. “No bad things on the way up... No fucking.”

Everything else, he seems to accept, but during the last sentence the Minotaur blinks at you, utterly confused.

“But... You smell like you want to fuck.”

Your jaw drops open a tiny bit. Then you remember that a priestess of Hecate doesn’t gawk.

“I don’t–How would you know that…?”

The beast only shrugs. Then he leans forward and takes another sniff as if to prove it’s true that you want his cock inside you.

“You smell good,” he grunts. “Different... Female, not afraid.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to…”

He even raises his hand to inspect the slight wetness there. Fascinated by the thin film on his fingers, he rubs his thumb in it, probably thinking about bringing it under his mask to get a good sniff of your juices too.

You grab his wrist without thinking, mortified to your core by the prospect of him getting high on your slick.

“Look. We need to leave before the candle burns out.”

The obsessive stare threatens to swallow you once more, so you let go of his wrist and steel your resolve. Scooting down to grab your things, you try to ignore the violent erection still pointing straight at you.

Hecate keep you from offering yourself to this man out of your own free will...

And you don’t have a torch, only a candle and a skein of blood-red yarn, but you know the way out, so there’s hope. There’s always hope.

“I need you to promise me,” you turn at the mouth of the tunnel, seeing that he’s still standing there, in the place where he almost took you like his first whore. As if waking up from a thrall, he straightens to his full height, picks up his sword and looks like a half-human, half-bull once more.

“I promise,” comes a booming voice from under the animal skull. “No fucking… I’ll behave.”

You nod. There's a sense of trust in the air. A promise of hope... It's mutual, invigorating -- life-giving, like the sun and blood in your hands.

You don't know if the son of Minos has ever smiled in here, but from the quick glint in his eyes, you suspect that he's smiling right now, the man under that animal mask. Somehow, it reminds you of the stars in the sky.

“Lead the way, maiden.”

#könig x reader #könig x you #könig x fem reader #konig x reader #könig #könig cod #konig x you #cod konig

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stevieschrodinger · 5 months

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Link to part five

Part six

Steve sits in the Beemer squeezing the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. He can't make himself let go.

He also can't seem to make himself leave.

His mate is in there. His mate who is carrying their pup. Steve's pup.

He can't leave.

It's a good ten minutes of Steve feeling like the world is collapsing in on him before the door swings open, and Wayne comes out, holding two beers. He opens the door and climbs in, sitting in the passenger seat, handing a beer to Steve, who takes it reflexively. He's pretty sure he doesn't actually want it. But Wayne chinks the necks of the bottles together in toast and says, "congratulations."

Steve starts laughing, it's a bit hysterical and it takes a few minutes before he can make himself stop. He does drink the beer.

"He told you?"

Wayne chuckles, "nah, of course he didn't. Clocked the positive test just sitting in the trash, but that boy hasn't thought more than thirty seconds ahead even one time in his life."

They sit in comfortable silence for a while before Steve admits, "I'm so angry with him."

"Think you've a right to that."

"I'm not leaving him."

"Didn't think you would."

They sit together, ten more minutes of silence between them before Steve admits, "I feel like he's stolen it from me...not the pup," Steve elaborates as Wayne raises an eyebrow at him, "the chance to do this properly. The chance to court him, mate him. Have a nice nest ready, a home together...and then pups. I still want it he's just...taken away my chance to do it all properly, I guess."

Wayne hums agreeably.

Steve sighs, "I should go in."

"Reckon." Wayne agrees stoically.

Steve had bought Eddie a spinning wool thing with a handle as a courting gift. Eddie had been so happy with it, something he wanted to organise all his balls of wool into...more square balls. Steve didn't understand it, but Eddie had been so happy he'd spent an hour playing with it and organising his small yarn collection while Steve watched, puffed up and proud his Omega was happy.

Eddie had smelled so much better since his heat, so much more like home and mate...and Steve just figured it was because Eddie was doing better.

Now he knows the real reason he's scenting so appealing; the pup.

Eddie hides deeper in his nest. Whatever that thing was that he lost when his Omega went to ground, well, it's been back since his heat. It's been back ten fold. Eddie had never nested in his life, now? Now if Hawkins held some sort of nesting championships, Eddie would have won it three times this week.

He knew, knew for certain before he bothered to piss on a stick that he'd caught. He knew it was early to show, but his usually almost concave stomach was...not that anymore. He was eating more, some instinct driving him. He was tidying the trailer; sorting things he'd never bothered or cared about before.

So he'd known. Known before those pink lines had appeared on the test.

And Steve. Steve who is courting the hell out of him. Steve who nuzzles him and scents him and brings him home made cookies and pasta and meatballs. Steve who buys him things and holds him close and, even though they haven't done anything more than kiss a little since Eddie's heat, is happy to run gentle hands across Eddie when they nap.

Steve who had innocently investigated that oh so subtle curve to Eddie's stomach. Steve who didn't even question that there was something there until he caught what must have been a horrified, guilty look on Eddie's face. Eddie who had stammered out an apology, like an idiot.

He should have just told him.

He should have come clean, right at the beginning. But Eddie was harbouring a guilty fantasy where he gets to keep his pup and Steve, and he wasn't quite ready to loose it just yet.

He hears the trailer door from where he's buried in his nest. He hears his bedroom door and opens his mouth to tell Wayne to go away, but it's Steve who speaks, "we will be talking about this in the morning."

And then the mattress dips, the blankets shift, and Eddie is pulled into Steve's arms, Steve's hand resting delicately over Eddie's belly button.

#eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington #steddie #ficlet #omegaverse #mpreg

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inherdaze · 2 months

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heaven surrounds you — yuji itadori

angel yuji x f reader

fluff, strangers to lovers, human/nonhuman, slowish burn

8k words

summary: yuuji, your guardian angel, flirts with the idea of breaking heaven's law to be with you.

Yuji lies, draped at the feet of God.

He presents himself in front of a being that he, along with other angels, cannot ever describe through any human language.

He knows what he’s here for. There’s no use in hiding it– he’s in front of God. And even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t feel the need to hide it anyway. He’ll plead guilty for days on end, knowing what he’s done. No one should beg for forgiveness, for simply loving you.

He loves you.

A voice, a loud but gentle voice, reaches down and into Yuji’s ears. It’s like it comes from inside of his head. No other angel or being that walks the earth can hear it, except for him.

“Yuji,” It rings. It nearly lulls him to sleep. “You know what you’re here for.”

“Yes,” He whispers out.

God does not have a face. And if it does, Yuji has never seen it. But God has a voice, and Yuji thinks that God is smiling right now, just by the sound. It’s soothing, makes him feel better about the punishment he’s about to receive. He doesn’t know what God will make him face in light of loving you, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll greet it with open arms. He’ll never regret what he feels for you.

Devotion. It’s all about his devotion to you.

Yuji lets his eyes slip shut, feels as if the warmth of heaven suffocates him slowly, invading all his senses and clouding his mind. All his memories, all his knowledge- it unravels slowly, like a ball of yarn spilling from its place and undoing itself. He’s losing more and more of it, the thin material slipping right out of his very fingers, but at the very end, he sees you.

You don’t slip away.

He is everywhere, that boy with pink hair.

You don’t know his name– you’re always too shy or shaken up to ask, but he’s always there. He’s behind you in the grocery line when you find you’re just a little too short to pay for everything, so he covers the rest of it for you. He’s there when your car gets stuck in the snow, using all his strength to help you push it (his strength is inhuman, you find out). He’s there to offer you a bandaid when your finger catches on a piece of metal on the subway, there when you spill a drink all over yourself and stain your white shirt at the diner- he’s the one who saves the day, as always, giving you his jacket to cover up. He was the waiter passing by.

You’re in front of the same diner now, his jacket folded neatly in your hands, carrying the scent of fresh lavender. You washed it with the intention to return it to him as soon as possible, and perhaps, catch his name, talk to him a little bit.

When you step in and greet the hostess, who is quick to get you seated, you blurt out a weak Wait! and she freezes in her tracks.

“I’m only here to return this,” You start sheepishly, holding the jacket up. “I didn’t get the waiter’s name, but, he’s really tall and… he has pink hair. I think he’s got some beauty marks under his eyes, too,” Your voice shakes from embarrassment, “That’s all I remember.”

The hostess eyes you carefully. “No one that works here has pink hair, I’m sorry.”

“N-No?” You repeat, feeling your inner hope crumble into pieces. You purse your lips and try to think a little harder… maybe it was the lighting that always made his hair come off as pink? Maybe he was actually blond…

But to be pink every time…

“Ah, um- I think he had blond hair, actually, and uh…” You try to recall any other details that could help.

His necklace.

With every encounter you’ve had with the boy, he was always wearing a dainty gold chain around his neck- it always suited him well, in your opinion. It wasn’t tacky or too flashy, and always neatly tucked into his shirts.

“He wore a gold chain, I think,” You add impulsively, a little too unsure of yourself.

“A blond waiter with beauty marks and a gold chain...” She trails off, then looks behind her shoulder to glance over at all the staff working. “I don’t think anyone here fits that description, but I could go and check, if you like.”

“No! That’s fine, no worries! Maybe he was actually a customer and I just– yeah, yeah that’s all. Thank you so much for your time, though!”

You’re chirping at her like a frazzled bird, face heating up and heart racing intensely from the embarrassing encounter. It wasn’t that bad, but you had to take a few deep breaths after you settled into your car, recovering.

Why can’t I find you?

Yuji knows. He knows you’re on the search for him.

He sees you peeking about, observing every single face you can when you’re out in public. He watches as you try, time and time again, searching through his jacket pockets to find any sort of identification. He saw, and even laughed to himself a little, when you deep cleaned your washer and dryer in hopes that something spilled from the pockets and got lost in the machines.

No dice.

He was, quite literally, impossible to find. And he knew that very well– no one could seek him out, he had to be the one to find you. He’s not even human, so you’re just out of luck.

Or, perhaps you aren’t.

A few weeks have passed since you tried to find that mysterious boy at the diner, and now that you’ve slowly given up, you’re starting to forget about him. You haven’t seen him around, and you haven’t run into any issues that he could possibly save you from, so both his jacket and your memory of him are tucked far, far away, in the corners of a closet you don’t usually open.

That is until the plastic bags holding all your snacks from your corner store run rip open, and all of your goodies spill out onto the sidewalk. You huff out an aggravated, tired sigh as you crouch to scoop everything up and fit it all into your arms to your best ability.

A pair of hands creep into your vision, soft and clean. They wrap around your items on the floor, and for a second, you think this person is going to steal your stuff and run away.

But you look up, and it's him. It’s that flighty, pink haired boy, beauty marks and gold chain and all.

“It’s you!” You sputter, so excited that your things fall from your grasp and tumble back onto the pavement, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. “You! The boy! From the diner, and the store, and- and–”

You’re so excited that you cut yourself off, a big smiling gracing your features, and you feel so elated, so excited and literally overjoyed, just the sight of him being so close to you makes you feel like you’ve swallowed a vial of sunlight.

Yuji, on the other hand, feels like there are sirens and alarms going off in his head. He’s read about this in a book, he’s sure, and he’s nearly positive that Gojo taught his class what to do in a case like this (which would be considered a worst-case scenario; for you to recognize him). Angels are supposed to make their appearances quick, easy, and harmless. Only a little amount of words should be exchanged, and then they should go, leaving behind no trace for their human to follow.

Angels are supposed to be in Heaven. Really, Yuji should be in Heaven right now, and instead of him being here to help you scoop everything up, it would’ve been a different stranger, a stranger that Yuji propelled to help you. It shouldn’t be him.

But Yuji has been cast down to Earth by God, claiming it’d be better for him, a more hands-on experience. He can’t go back until the higher ups within the angelic hierarchy decide that Yuji has learned his lesson and is suited to guide and protect from the Heavens. It’s harder when you’re so far away, but he’s been able to catch you in difficult moments now that he’s here, in a somewhat human manifestation of himself.

His brain goes blank. He remains silent, but flashes you a smile.

“Uh,” You cough out, surprised by his lack of communication. “Thank you for helping me pick all of this up,” You start, and then Yuji thinks that it counts as a sort of goodbye, so he starts backing away.

“Wait!” You call out unceremoniously, as if he’s already miles away. “I need… can you help me take all of this stuff back home? And- and I have your jacket, still. It’s… yours. Yeah. And- maybe, since you’ve helped me out so much, you’d be okay with dinner? N-not in a date way, I just… really feel the need to pay you back…”

He’s intrigued, to say the least. He’s never heard someone talk and stutter so much before, besides himself, of course.

Truthfully, he doesn’t need the jacket. He doesn’t need the dinner, either– he’s not entirely human, so it’s not like he gets hungry. But you need his help, and, well, isn’t that the point of all of this?

“Okay,” He finally lets out, sounding a little robotic before he clears his throat and tries again, “Yeah, of course. I’d be happy to help.”

You let out a happy hum before guiding him to your apartment, and the entire time that the two of you walk there, he’s quiet. You’re going on and on about how hard you tried to find him, and how it’s so funny that he’s always there whenever you need help. He laughs nervously at that.

When you ask him about his name, he hesitates for too long. Really, he shouldn’t tell you. He thinks he’s crossing some sort of line– he really shouldn’t tell you.

But then again, it would be heinous if an angel lied, right? He can’t just lie to you. That would probably be worse than telling you his name, he thinks.

“Yuji,” He lets out finally, a little too late. “Sorry, I… spaced out. My name is Yuji.”

“Yuji,” You repeat, giving the name a test trial before you happily give him your name in return.

I already know, he wants to say.

He’s quiet when you both reach your home, quiet as you cook dinner, quiet as you pad around your cozy little apartment. Though he throws you a soft, appreciative smile when you give him back his jacket.

This is the most silent he has ever been in his entire life. There’s too much going on in his head, he’s unsure of what to do and of what to say to you, but it feels like he’s only entrenching himself deeper and deeper into his dilemma as he keeps agreeing with you, letting you take the lead. His life as an angel really, really does depend on all of this. If he breaks a rule (God knows how many he’s already broken– literally), this could be his first and last gig.

Yuji’s broken from his thoughts as you set down a plate of food in front of him; supper, he presumes.

Yuji has never eaten anything in his life. He’s an angel, a heavenly being, he doesn’t need to eat, drink, take a leak or a dump, doesn’t get hot or cold, doesn’t feel pain. He’s not human, as much as he may look like one.

And, from your perspective, you just assume he eats slowly. Your eyes are all focused on your plate as you take your fork and eat, missing the way he’s observing your every move to mimic you.

He takes the fork into his fingers, slowly and sort of clumsily, but is forever thankful that you don’t notice. He’s about to give up and just grip the end of a fork like a child would, wrapping a whole fist around it, but he picks up on it just enough to slide by.

Yuji has never eaten anything in his life. But as he takes a bite of your food, some of it spilling off his fork and right back onto his plate, he thinks he understands why humans eat so much, disregarding the fact that they need it to survive.

Your cooking makes him think of a place he’s never been, gives him a feeling he’s truly never felt before. It’s warm– he knows the food is actually warm– but the feeling itself spreads throughout his chest, and it feels like it’s nearly engulfing his heart. It’s almost like he wants to cry, maybe.

He was created and raised in Heaven, and he has never felt something so, so, so… human. To eat. To enjoy food– to enjoy it enough, to eat more. To feel this warmth, this sort of fullness that’s doing good for his heart.

Needless to say, he wolfs down his plate (as politely as he can).

You’re practically over the moon as he shyly asks for seconds, then scarfs it all down quickly before asking if it’s okay to have a little more. And you just nod eagerly, taking his plate and adding some more. Yuji makes a mental note in his head– he really has to tell Megumi and Nobara about how good food is, once he’s back up there.

The both of you finish up and Yuji finally remembers who he is and what he’s here for. He’s only here to protect you– from afar, of course. Dinner with you made him feel like a housemate, like it was a regular, recurring thing.

It’s getting darker and he’s trying to inch closer and closer towards the door, telling you how much he needs to get home, thinks he left the kitchen light on by accident. It’s a little fib, he knows, but he cannot risk this for any longer.

There’s a soft, repetitive pit pat sound that hits your windows, your ceiling, and the walls outside. It’s so gentle that he doesn’t hear it at first, but within seconds, it’s pouring. It’s so rambunctious, it’s like there’s hundreds of people throwing rocks at your building, and when you peek out your window to see how bad the rain is, the street is flooded.

You pull back from the window, looking at Yuji sheepishly. “It’s really bad out there, so, if you want… I mean… you can stay until the rain passes…. I’d hate for you to get caught out there.”

His eyebrows raise.

Is this a test? Is it all a test?

The timing seems a little too coincidental, and if he could, Yuji’d look up at your ceiling (imagining it was God) and give a proper scowl.

He has a difficult time declining all your offers as you smoothen out your sofa, draping blankets and pillows all over to make the space more comfortable for him. You do it silently, eagerly, excited to treat someone who has saved you so many times. He senses it from you, your genuine hospitality and kindness.

It’s getting darker. You can only see the outline of his figure in the living room as you bid him goodnight, tell him to sleep well before you slip into your bedroom.

While Yuji lays on his back, hands folded beneath his head, he cannot help but think about how much the roles have reversed this time.

Yuji’s confession reaches you in your sleep, through your dreams.

You’re back at the diner. You’re sitting in a booth, Yuji sitting across from you. He’s adorned in a white gown and golden robe, with a soft, circular glow around his head.

You can’t see yourself, can’t look down at yourself, but you feel a comfortable feeling on your shoulders, your arms. You’re wearing his jacket.

Yuji smiles to himself, eyes avoiding yours as his fingers fumble with an empty straw wrapper.

“I have something to tell you,” He starts quietly.

“Yeah,” You say with disbelief, but your voice comes off as amused. “Yeah. I think you do.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. What he must tell you has already been conveyed.

You think, in your dream, that there’s a lot to unpack. But it’s like Yuji communicates with you silently, slipping his words into your mind until you understand. It almost feels like as soon as the dream began to play out in your mind, you already knew of the secret he carried. It’s a deep-seated knowledge that nearly feels like you’ve been born with it.

The two of you are quiet as your food arrives, as you eat. This time, Yuji doesn’t need to watch and learn from you. He intrinsically knows how to handle a plate, how to eat.

It’s funny, you think, somewhere in the realm of your dream. It’s funny to see Yuji, an angel, fit a huge burger in between his hands, taking a reckless bite. There’s ketchup at the corner of his lips. He doesn’t move very gracefully for an angel.

When the two of you are done, he rests his palms on the table and pushes himself up to stand.

“I have to go now,” He says.

You want to speak up, want to tell him to wait, to stay. But it’s like your mouth is sealed shut, because you can only hear yourself pleading in your mind for him not to leave as you silently watch him slip into the dark corners of your vision. Your heart aches, because you so desperately want to tell him to stay, even just a little bit longer, but you stay quiet.

And just like that, he’s gone. He’s left you again.

The feeling of him leaving shakes you up enough to wake you up. But it’s a peaceful awakening– you're not sweating, gasping, or panicking for air. You simply blink your eyes open, greeted by the rising sun and soft songbirds. He leaves you with a sense of peace and curiosity, as he always has.

You softly step into your hallway, peeking into the living room, checking if he’s there.

He is. He’s up and folding all the blankets you gave him the night before, fluffing your pillows and sorting them neatly on the cushions of your couch.

You make your presence known with a gentle clear of your throat, and he whirls around to meet you. Yuji smiles at you, admiring you in your sleepy state.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” You croak, eyes landing on his dainty little chain. He sees you focusing on it. You both know what it is.

He’s positive that his message got to you. He coughs and smooths over his shirt before tucking his hands behind himself like a shy schoolboy.

“I have to go now,” He says, again.

This isn’t your dream. This isn’t your dream, so you will yourself to move forward and speak, because you know that you will likely never see him again like this if you let him leave.

It’s a selfish, selfish thing. A human thing.

“You can’t,” You start, reaching forward to hold his arm, but a sudden fear strikes your heart and you let your hand fall. You’re not sure if you can touch him. Yuji’s gaze softens when he sees it.

“I must,” He says simply, though he doesn’t move. He watches your features wash over with some sort of grief, a sort of longing as if he’s already gone, like you’re letting yourself feel it now so that you don’t have to face it later.

“Yuji,” You start again, voice so gentle and tender. The tone of it makes him freeze up, makes him reminiscent of something he has only felt in Heaven. The way you say his name brings him a feeling of prayer, somehow sounding so similar to an angel's whisper of Dear God.

“Stay,” You plead softly.

“Watch over me.” A prayer, he thinks again.

Yuji finds that he cannot deny your request. He is, after all, here on Earth for the sole purpose of protecting you.

Living with Yuji by your side is like raising a toddler. It’s teaching him how technology works, telling him the stove is hot, showing him how to use different kitchen utensils. And in return, you learn from him as well. You see light in his eyes, feel kindness from his heart, tenderness in the entirety of his being that is pure, untouched by humanity. He has no hidden motives. There’s nothing that he must keep from you. He’s unabashedly expressive and warm and like a beam of light that resides next to you on your creaky couch.

You give him little lessons about the human world. He shows you unadulterated warmth.

Yuji is filled to the brim with curiosity, and sometimes, you’re nervous that he may burst at the seams. His wonder has a chokehold on him, and on you, too. Everywhere that you take him, he’s pointing things out, asking what certain ads and newspapers and commercials mean. He’s a stranger to pop culture, to history, to the world climate.

You ask him, one day– only slightly irritated by his pestering nature– how come he doesn’t know any of this. You thought that angels may be just as all-knowing as God is; how is it that he has been assigned to keep a human safe, with little to no knowledge on the world a human lives in?

His answer comes out sheepish, almost ashamed. He plays with his napkin, folding it over and pressing it flat. “In Heaven, there’s kinda this idea that- that–” He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek as his hands freeze their movements, like his mind is recalculating.

“There’s this idea that humans live in a tainted world. There is no benefit from learning about it, and I think… I think some angels are afraid that if we learn about it, we will bring that poisoned world into Heaven.”

You only hum in acknowledgment, in understanding. Your heart softens like water being poured over dry, packed up soil, and you feel something unfurl within you. A want, or perhaps more of a need, to show Yuji that mortal life is not all that bad, is planted in you. And despite the obvious gap between you two– a heavenly being and a human, sinful by nature– you’re sure that maybe you can be his beam of light, too.

And so, with your tender heart, you let Yuji pester and question you all he wants. You let him point out things very obviously (and maybe a little bit embarrassingly) out in public, let him peer over your shoulder as you read the news, let him catch up on documentaries and shows that inherently teach him more about the world while you’re gone at work, thus letting him get ahead of you. And when he’s apologetic, you tell him it’s okay, and then the both of you play the media from start to finish again. He never gets tired. Never of the world, of learning, of you.

Yuji has learned a plethora of things during his stay with you. Through reading, watching, observing– he’s learned slang, history, gestures, culture; but above all, he has learned that he does not know what love is.

Yuji thought that he knew what love is like. Angels feel love, but it’s different from what he’s seen ever since he came down to earth.

The love that angels carry is the kind that is unwavering, it never dies out, though it is not as intense as the love that Yuji has begun to see. It’s a feeling that every single angel is innately born with– a love for humanity, a love for God. There are no intimate ties or pretty feelings, but it is a love that is known, like an unspoken law. He feels love for you, feels love for people; wants to protect you, guide others, keep everyone safe and keep the peace. That’s what Yuji calls love.

But as Yuji becomes more familiar with human nature and behavior, he cannot help but feel like he’s clueless when it comes to love. He sees relationships, family, small acts of what he thinks is real love occurring between them.

He sees people splitting food in half and into sections to share with others. He sees people with matching bracelets, rings, necklaces. He sees people translating what others are saying so that their loved one can understand. He sees people linking pinkies, sees people on the subway whispering to each other and snickering to themselves, sees children clinging onto their parents. He sees people splayed out on the grass, surrounded by blankets and baskets and plenty of food. He sees true, real, love.

Yuji learns, through time, that he doesn’t know love. Not up close and personal, anyway. He hasn’t felt it, and he knows surely that his love for humanity is not the same type of love that people share amongst the ones they know. It’s different.

So at every waking moment, Yuji tries to see if there is love in the things you do. He watches when you cook, thinks if you’re chopping up the vegetables with love. When you laugh at one of his questions, he wonders if there is love behind it. When you read a book and lean over to him, pointing to a specific line that you think he would like, he wonders, is that love? In the mornings, as he spots the little sticky notes and instructions that you leave for him on the fridge, he asks himself if it is an act of love. There’s a dull itch that resides somewhere in his chest– somewhere that he struggles pinpointing himself– an itch that yearns to know how you love.

He wants to know, and he wants to try.

One evening, after you’ve finished making dinner, the two of you sit across from each other as you eat. Yuji keeps throwing you glances as you munch quietly before leaning over the table and bringing his plate over yours.

Wordlessly, he uses his fork to push some of his food onto your plate.

You freeze, eyes overlooking him.

“Are… are you full?”

He shakes his head before eating more food from his plate. “No. I can’t get full.”

“Then… what’s… what’s this about?”

“I wanted to share with you.”

“Share with me?”

“Yeah.”

You’re utterly confused, eyes flittering from your plate and back up to his face over and over again. He isn’t suppressing a laugh, he doesn’t look guilty as if he’s pulling a funny little prank like the ones he’s seen on your social media.

“There’s more food in the pan, Yuji,” You start, “You didn’t have to give me yours. There’s plenty left… I could’ve gotten some myself.”

You’re missing the point, he thinks.

You clear your throat. “Did you… not like it?”

“No!” He bursts, leaning over the table again, hand reaching out only slightly as if you’ll dissolve away within a matter of seconds. “No– no, I mean, I did like it– I just thought I could share. I thought sharing was nice. A nice thing to do.”

He wants to tell you that he thinks sharing is an act of love, but he bites his tongue and sinks back into his chair.

You smile softly at his words, then give a little hum.

“Thank you, Yuji.”

He looks at you from beneath his lashes, catches the sight of you eating the food that came from his plate. And although his plan didn’t go exactly how he wanted, and the message flew over your head, he thinks this is enough.

You and Yuji spend a rainy night inside watching movies and trying out new shows.

The thunder outside is a little muffled as you pick a show, tossing the remote somewhere onto the couch cushion next to you. The entire apartment is dark, save for the flash of lights and images on the TV screen.

The show starts off strong– it introduces the main character, then within a few minutes, shows the character going out for a spunky night and, of course, escalates into a sex scene.

You feel like you’re 16 and watching an explicit scene with your parents. Your eyes avoid the screen and you cough, making it obvious that you’re searching for the remote somewhere in the dark, muttering something about how in-your-face the show is.

But when you glance at Yuji, he’s focused on the screen, confusion and maybe even a little bit of discomfort on his face. He’s quiet, splotches of dark blues and reds reflecting across his face until he finally speaks up, voice soft, “That’s not out of love, is it?”

You turn back to face the screen, eyes locking on one of the characters writhing on the bed.

“Um,” You start, evaluating the situation. “No. It’s- it’s not out of love.”

He gives a gentle hum with a nod before falling quiet again.

You sound far away as you laugh nervously and catch the remote in your hands, fast forwarding the scene till it’s over. The images become blurry to Yuji as he unfocuses, mind caught up in the act of doing things without love being the motive. There’s a newfound awareness that resides in his mind, in his heart, that there are so many things out there that might be lacking love.

He refrains from looking towards you.

He doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

Yuji denied it at first. But God is all-knowing, all-seeing.

Yuji loved you just as much as he loved anyone else– he loved everyone. Yet, as the two of you spent more time together, there was just something that rested heavy in the back of his mind that he could not come to terms with. He thought he never would. He thought, maybe, if he tried hard enough, that God would not make him face it either.

It was a feeling. A feeling that grew from that one particular itch in his chest– a feeling that followed him around, crept down his back, up around his neck and mouth until he was at a loss for words whenever he looked at you.

He knew he was in trouble when he spotted his friend, tousled black hair and small golden chain circling around his wrist at the grocery store. Fate is unstoppable.

You had asked Yuji to come grocery shopping with you so that he could pick out what he wanted to eat for the week. He couldn't do anything but agree. But, Yuji thinks that even if he had disagreed, Megumi still would've found him.

While you're looking over your rumpled little grocery list, Yuji swallows the lump in his throat so that his nervousness doesn’t seep through his voice. “How ‘bout I, uh, go get the things I want real quick? I’ll meet you back in the produce section.”

There’s a short silence as you look up from your list and into his eyes, registering what he said. He cuts you off before you can even start, “I won’t take long.”

I’ll come back, I promise.

He thinks he played it off smooth, thinks you won’t notice the way his finger is strung onto his golden chain as he drags it back and forth. You’ve never seen him touch his ‘halo’, ever. You know him too well at this point, and even coming to terms with that fact has your chest swelling with something unspeakable.

“Okay,” Is all you say, soft and tender like you want to tell him you hope he’s okay. Just the tone of your voice has him short circuiting, hesitating to step back and leave you all alone in front of the chips display.

He lingers for a moment, eyes full with an emotion you think might be similar to what blooms in your ribcage. And then he’s backing away, turning around to head off and fetch what he wants, and even though he’s only walking away from you in a grocery store, you can’t help but feel like there’s something more to it. He’s bound to walk away at some point. As you push your cart to the pasta aisle, you really think about how he has been crafted by God and you are not the match for him.

Yuji approaches Megumi a few aisles down, knowing he’d trail off there– an angel’s intuition. He walks towards him with a sort of drag in his step.

“Hey, Megs,” He starts casually, eyeing the boy in human form. Yuji's lips quirk up as he reads over Megumi’s t-shirt.

“Didn’t know you, uh, liked The Cure.”

Megumi clenches his jaw.

“You need to come back.”

Yuji tries playing dumb, eyes scanning over the shelves of food like he’s going to pick something out, like Megumi is an old college friend he happened to cross paths with in the store, like there’s no deeper meaning to the situation. He tries to play dumb like a human does. Megumi thinks, for a second, that Yuji does play the role of a human pretty well.

He wouldn't ever tell him that, though.

“Come back?” Yuji asks lightheartedly, as if the sight of Megumi and his greeting sentence didn't make him feel scared for his life.

It would be one thing if God confronted Yuji on a one-on-one basis. If God were to be the first to move its chess piece, waiting for the move Yuji will make in return.

But God is peering down at Yuji from the other side of the chessboard, beckoning him to start the play. It’s all in Yuji’s hands, now.

Yuji now knows that his inner dilemma regarding you has been cast out into Heaven like it’s some sort of soap opera, similar to the ones he watches with you. He’d feel much better if only God knew- but Megumi knows. And if Megumi knows, then so does Nobara. And if the both of them know, then it’s more than likely that every angel he’s ever brushed past is aware of the situation.

He knows that Megumi has come to save him out of fear. It was Megumi’s choice to touch down on the Earth and track down his best friend to save him before it was too late. And the thought of that, too, made Yuji feel something he’s not sure he’s ever felt before– queasy.

Like heavy goop spun in the center of his stomach slowly, tantalizingly.

“You’ve been here for far too long,” Megumi starts, eyes narrowing, “In that place for too long.”

“Place?” Yuji snips back, expression ridden with irritation as Megumi lets the words leave his lips with only a little bit of disgust.

“It’s not just some place, Megs,” Yuji defends.

“It’s my—” Home.

“Your what?” His friend pushes, eyebrows raising to encourage him. He knows that once Yuji says it, his fate is sealed and he’d be pulled away from you forever.

“It’s nothing,” he quickly decides, retracting from his previous statement as his attitude dissolves. “I’ll go back, soon.”

“Soon.”

“Yes, soon,” Yuji says exasperatedly, tired of Megumi pushing him into a confession that would change both your life and his. “I’m going back,” he repeats to reassure Megumi, and maybe to reassure himself as well. If he were to be honest, he hadn’t really thought about when he’d head back to Heaven. He never thought about it after you had asked him to stay.

“Okay,” Megumi says with hesitance, like he doesn’t believe his friend.

And out of spite, he adds, “Don’t go falling for that– that human, Yuji. Come back home.”

Megumi turns on his heel and walks away, rounding the corner of the aisle, and as much as Yuji wants to follow after him and give him the lecture of his life– the they’re different lecture– he knows the boy is already gone. If he wanted to track him down, he’d have to chase him down in Heaven.

At home.

Yuji mentally reminds himself where his home is, where it’s always been, but his heart knows better.

When he catches up with you, seeking you out in the produce section, a sudden feeling of serenity washes over him, gently and slowly as his eyes focus on you. He gets the feeling that it’s okay– it’s okay that God knows, that Megumi knows, that the entirety of Heaven knows that he has overstayed his welcome. Because although the Earth may reject him, and the Heavens will pull with tooth and nail to get him back, you will always be there. You’ll be there– waiting in the produce aisle, picking veggies. You’ll be at home, cooking up something he mentioned he liked. You’ll be at the bookshop, sorting out different books you think might help him in understanding the human world a little more.

Perhaps, you’ll be there, welcoming him with love?

You bring him back to Earth with a soft little hey, almost like you’re shy. Yuji thinks that he can think about all of that later. For now, he can focus on you. He dumps all of the things he said he’d get into the cart as he tries to smoothly, flirtatiously shoot out a “Hey yourself.”

It makes you laugh. Quietly, given that the both of you are in the middle of the store, but you laugh.

And, Yeah, Yuji thinks. Maybe you’ll be there to greet him with love.

Time is running out, and Yuji is getting desperate.

He knows that he doesn’t have an actual time limit, knows that there is no specific hour and minute that he must go back to Heaven– but he knows that the longer he drags this out, the more painful his punishment will be. He has strayed from God’s word, from his original purpose, as now his entire life revolves around you, and more recently, loving you.

The boy is torn.

Day in and day out, he shows his love to you in ways he thinks you’ll understand. He’s learned enough from his little observations to try and practice, to convey his feelings for you. His heart is set on you. All he wants is to make that clear.

He’d like to hold your hand more often– and not just when you’re guiding him through a crowd, or leading him to a store. He wants to hold your hand simply because he can. Wants to hold your hand on the couch, in the subway, across the dinner table. And he does. He’s shy at first, looking at you for any sign of discomfort, but he gets his green light and holds your hand. Whenever. Just because he can. Because he wants to.

He shares his food with you (again). Helps you comb your hair. Tries to help you pick which outfit you should wear for a picnic. Offers to carry you when your feet get tired from all that walking and exploring (you’re too shy to take up the offer, so instead, you lean against him completely as you walk and he steadies you). Wipes the crumbs off your lips. Sometimes, he even thinks about picking them off with his own lips– or maybe his tongue? Eats the candy you don’t like, so that you don't have to toss it all away and waste it. Holds both of your hands between his hands when they're cold. Helps you put lotion on your back on the days that you’re especially tired and don't wanna reach. His face gets warm as he does this, your bare back exposed to him as you press a towel to your front and wrap one around your lower body. Gives you space when you ask, and bundles up with you on the couch if you ask.

With every single one of these things, he’s telling you that he loves you. And at first, as he became more responsive, open and touchy, you thought your mind was only playing tricks on you. You thought that he was only mimicking what he saw on TV and what he learned about the world. You only thought he was doing these things to appear more human.

But, he just is. He’s human– or, almost human. He wants to be human enough to be with you.

You realize this tonight, as he helps you brush your hair out after a shower. You were already tired from a stressful day at work, and as you arrived home to Yuji you mumbled that you'd skip dinner and just go to sleep. But he caught you before you could dive into the comfort of your bed, pulling you closer into him as he mumbled into your hair to let him help you take care of yourself.

You were drained, nearly falling asleep in the shower as the warm water kissed your skin, lulling you. It took forever to move– to scrub, to rinse, to clean your hair. A tired part of your heart wanted to ask Yuji for help, but a sensible corner of your mind told you that you probably shouldn't.

Not that you were uncomfortable with the idea, but a part of you was nervous– what would he say, what would he think? Would he think you’re showing him a tainted world, trying to muddle his light by asking him to step in and help? To let this angel see you undressed, touch your bare skin, let you slump against him in the heat.

Lazily, you managed to get clean and turn off the shower.��

Yuji hears your muffled voice call for him from the bathroom. He’s a little nervous, perhaps the good kind of nervous, as he approaches the bathroom.

You open the door and it's a little foggy, the heat clouding you both and giving you a little bit of a glow. You smile sheepishly up at him and he can only blush back, a warm feeling sneaking up his spine, over his shoulders and down his chest.

“Can you…” You start, gesturing towards the bottle of pretty scented lotion on the bathroom counter. “Can you help me? And… my hair, too…”

You sound so sleepy. Yuji just wants to wrap you up in his arms and sleep beside you.

He sits you down on the toilet, warming up the cream between his hands before running his palms down your arms, around your shoulders. He notices your towel dropping lower and lower down your chest and makes sure not to look.

He sits on his knees and kneads the lotion onto your legs, making you laugh when he slathers it all over your feet. You apologize for giggling and twitching but then playfully remind him You’re my angel after all, you must look over me. It's not a demand, only some gentle banter, but Yuji thinks (and is too nervous to voice) that he would take care of you regardless. Angel, human, demon– he would watch over you time and time again.

You get up and turn around so that he can help moisturize as much of your upper back as he can, swallowing nervously as your towel slips lower and lower. And before it can travel dangerously low, before he thinks he feels his temperature rising, before he can comment on just exactly how hot the bathroom is (which would be a first– he’s not very sensitive to temperature) you’re weakly skipping into your room to slip on some pajamas.

You're not gone for long, coming back so he can help you with your hair.

The mirror starts clearing up, steam fading away as he carefully runs a comb through the damp strands, careful to not yank on your head and to make sure the bristles don't bite at your ears. You’re reading the back of soap bottle label to keep your thoughts occupied, to keep you from thinking about how nice this is, to keep you from thinking about how much you love this, how much you love him—

Yuji quietly announces that he’s finished, and out of some newfound courage, he circles around to face you and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

The both of you freeze, the moment feeling far too intimate and normal and right, like the two of you belong together.

He steps back, sort of dumbfounded by his own actions, opening his mouth to apologize. He tries to come up with an excuse fast, thinks of playing dumb and telling you he saw it in a movie and thought maybe he should try, as if he doesn't know the meaning behind such an action.

But you only smile bashfully at him, take his hand in yours, and tell him, “Let’s go sleep.”

After all, you knew that he knew what it meant.

It’s the first time that Yuji has ever laid in the same bed as you, and it pains him. It pains him because you look so comfortable, clinging onto his arm, and he knows he cannot stay. His little silent love confession earlier had spoken for itself. He knows he can't push it off for any longer, knows that he must reap what he sows. Carefully, he pries you off of himself, stopping his movement for a moment to get one last look at you. And he thinks, well, it wouldn't hurt to do it one more time, right? Since he’s going to face punishment, may as well do it anyway.

Yuji smiles at your sleeping form, leans forward, and kisses the top of your forehead. His voice is cracked and dry as he weakly mutters an I love you against your skin, another confession that’ll reach you in your dream tonight.

He makes his way out of your bedroom and plants himself in the living room, in front of the couch. Yuji kneels, elbows resting on the couch cushions as he shuts his eyes and prays. He prays, and prays, and prays– and then he’s gone.

The living room is quiet, and empty. You’re alone in your apartment again.

And Yuji lies, draped at the feet of God.

Yuji confesses, unabashedly, to his creator.

He loves you. He loves you in the way that humans do. He tells God nervously that he loves you in a way that he’s not sure he’s supposed to, but he does, anyway.

And through confession, God is forgiving.

Yuji's not sure what’s going to happen. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn't want to think about it– about his actions, about God, about what’s coming for him. Even if and when (he suspects) he faces pain, he just wants to think about you.

His mind feels muddy and weird and every single memory he has becomes warbled, and he's grabbing at his hair and cradling his head at the feet of God. He’s not sure what's happening, and then, he’s not exactly sure where he is. But his silent wish is granted, because as all these things he knows start fading away, he sees you clearly. He sees you, you, and you, and his heart feels so happy. And he stays happy, even as he feels like he’s tripping and spiraling into some sort of darkness.

It’s dark. He’s quiet. He’s asleep.

Yuji wakes but doesn't open his eyes, tries to think about what's going on. There are clear images and memories of you upfront in his mind, but all of his other memories seem distant and hard to grasp, like an oncoming sneeze that never releases. Flashes of light, of people he thinks he knows… he’s not sure. Scruffy black hair, short and smooth orange hair. Robes, gowns, soft cushioning on the ground that nearly feels like clouds….. he can't put his finger on it.

When he opens his eyes, he’s laying on a couch in a living room. Your living room, he realizes. He scrambles to get up, to situate himself, and when he sees you sleepily creep out of your room, he dashes towards you.

Within seconds, his hands are all over you, awkward and clumsy, unsure of where to stay until you guide them to cup your cheeks. His lips are on yours, and he’s leaning into you so intensely that you have to grab onto his biceps to balance yourself. You sigh into the kiss, happily so.

Everything clicks for him. He knows he’s meant to be here. He’s got this faded idea, some faded memory that regards him being different than you, but he wastes no time to dwell on it now. He can think and talk about it later.

You kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and then kiss some more. He’s devouring you– kissing you slow, then kissing you fast, then peppering kisses all over your face. He’s no longer afraid to try out everything he’s seen.

When he finally pulls away to let the both of you breathe (for some reason, he feels his lungs begging for air– an unfamiliar feeling) you laugh shakily, on the verge of asking him heaps of questions.

But then his stomach rumbles. It rumbles, something that you're sure has never happened before, and Yuji says so naturally like he’s felt it his whole entire life, “God– I’m so hungry.”

The two of you cook, then eat, then kiss some more. He gets up a few times to pee. Later on, he burps shyly into his curled up hand. He tells you he’s a little cold, asks you to come over and let him hold you (for the sake of warming up).

And you know– you know, with all your heart, that he’s yours. He’s yours for forever, for however long the two of you will live.

Later on that night, you thank the Heavens.

#itadori yuji #itadori yuuji #itadori x reader #yuji x reader #itadori yuji x reader #yuji fluff #itadori fluff #itadori yuji fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #yuuji x reader #itadori yuuji x reader

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cloudcountry · 7 months

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can you possibly do che’nya with a s/o who’s just as or even more catlike than he is :3

SUMMARY: you are chenya are a purrrrfect pair!

WARNINGS: none!!

COMMENTS: DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW HARD IT IS TO FIND OFFICIAL ART FOR CHENYA. I STRUGGLED MAKING THIS HEADER. ignore riddle's antenna.

If you're dating Chenya, you've absolutely picked up on some of his more catlike traits already.

Like, for example, meowing at random intervals or going up behind your friends and “making biscuits” on their backs when you know they're stressed.

To say Chenya isn’t smug about your new habits would be a bold-faced lie.

But there are some things that even your relationship with Chenya can't explain. Like, for example, how you despise being touched but will rub up against people who you trust.

Or how you've taken to headbutting Chenya to get his attention when you want a kiss.

It's gotten to the point that Chenya will take balls of yarn and wiggle the stray string in front of your face. He tries his best to hide his giggles as you swipe at it so your trance isn't broken.

How could you possibly get even more adorable? He quickly found out how on a rainy day!

Since you hate the rain so much, Chenya has come up with ways for you to avoid it. Like, for example, a floating umbrella! Isn’t that so much fun?

(Juuuuust kidding! That's an invisible Chenya holding an umbrella over your head, making sure the two of you don't get wet.)

The both of you take great joy in parkouring all over Heartslabyul and giving Riddle a heart attack. Chenya uses those opportunities to remind him that you two have yet to actually break anything.

It’s a bit alarming to everyone when they catch the two of you play wrestling, but Riddle ushers them away with a frantic chant of “they’re playing THEY’RE PLAYING.”

So yeah, you’re Riddle’s constant headache but he does care about you two. And you two love each other <3

#this is . my first time writing him idk WHAT im doing.#xen <3 #auburn's fics <3 #twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #chenya #twst chenya #twst wonderland #chenya x reader #twst chenya x reader

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rapz-rites · 11 months

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Cats

Damian Wayne x reader

Black cat x orange cat relationship

What happens when you and Damian get turned into cats for a day

Word count: 631

Warnings: Cute

Of course you and Damian both had to be turned into cats accidentally by Raven. She was trying a new spell, Gar distracted her and it went sideways. Damian was turned into a black cat and you were turned into an orange cat. Fitting. Luckily it would wear off after a day.

Damian, as a human or cat, was very reserved. He wanted his own space, isolated from everyone, peace. Unfortunately for Damian you were a very affectionate person. You would cuddle with Gar, comfort Jaime when he was homesick, reminding Raven she’s cared for.

Damian was the only person you couldn’t show affection. It was almost like he was allergic to it. But you were going to fix that.

As cats, if Damian was somewhere, you were right there with him. You loved it. He hated it.

Throughout the day he would try to avoid you, but you didn’t accept the hint and stayed near him anyways.

One would think Damian hated the affection you gave him, but that wasn’t the case. He kind of liked it, but he just didn’t know how to react to it. In the League of Assassins his mother never hugged him, his grandfather never asked him how he was, or ask how his day was going. But you did. You always checked up on him. Even though he acted like it annoyed him, deep down he really appreciated it.

Damian would never admit this but he got jealous when Gar would transformed into a cat play with you.

As previously mentioned, you were attached to Damian at the hips. Even when he tried hiding on top of the fridge, poof, there you were. He actually got startled by you and fell. Luckily for him, he still had his ninja agility even as a cat.

You and Damian were playing with yarn, well Damian was. No body knows what you we’re doing. Damian pushed his black yarn ball left and right between his paws. When he look over at you, that’s when he saw. You were completely entangled in purple yarn. He couldn’t help but snicker. Thankfully Raven was there to set you free. Sadly for you, she took the yarn away from you. When Damian noticed you pout he kind of felt bad. In no way was he going to give you his yarn to get tangled in, but he just his paw on you and you immediately felt better.

At one point during the day you thought it would be fun to pounce on Damian and tackle him. He just let you.

Damian was on the couch just sitting there, watching everyone. Even as a cat Damian was still intimidating. You could tell he was tense.

You sat on the opposite end of the couch. Damian didn’t know why considering how you’ve been all up on him since you two got turned into cats. He wanted you near him. As if on cue, you made your way towards Damian and rubbed your head against him. You could feel him relax from your touch. And you laid by his foot until you fell asleep.

That night Damian went to his room. Of course, you followed him. You laid on the bed just watching him. He was on his desk just looking at his thinks. He leaped down by his easel. He knows what his next painting is going to be. Being a cat for a day has really given him some inspiration.

When he was done looking around he saw you fast asleep by his pillow. He decided to join you. He laid there, cuddling with you, slowly drifting off to sleep. And that's how you two were in the morning, as humans. Starfire was sure to take a picture to send to Dick.

This was just a cute little blurb I thought of in the shower... I just wanted it to be something sweet. ☺️

#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #damian al ghul #damian al ghul x reader #cats #spell gone wrong

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blueberryarchive · 2 months

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𝒈𝒐𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒔!𝒋𝒌 𝒙 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓ֶָ֢𓍯ִֶָ .

(wlw, smut, jk is a female goddess with four arms and a long tongue...yes, size difference) shorts for the sleepless

Sometimes, the most fun a divine entity can have is watch an ordinary woman. It is to look down and admire how banal the life of a mortal is, to think about each of their actions knowing the inevitable end.

It is sitting among the clouds and with your fine finger creating a hole until it shows a creature, one of those sweet and soft ones with hair stuck to its forehead and full, pink lips.

A woman.

Jun opens her eyes wide, her long eyelashes fluttering as she sees how she bends down to the stream and washes her clothes with the delicacy of a mother. As a goddess she has seen women for millennia, but she had never given them the attention that those breasts deserved.

Something deep inside the goddess blossomed, just beneath her stomach, a hunger that no mortal man or god or demon could satisfy.

It was your yellowish dress, larger than your body that made the goddess take the first step; it was the liquid of a juicy plum falling down your chin that was the cause of the second step, the third was your gaze on her. Two balls of yarn, so innocent that they made the goddess salivate.

Your eyes tightened on the figure stalking you from the depths of the water. The water lilies hiding her body, her long hair floating like copper eels.

You looked around, and there was nothing Jun didn't enjoy more than human curiosity. How you stuck your feet over the edge, lifting your dress so it wouldn't get wet.

"Are you hiding from the boss?"

Jun denied, letting her lips peek out, one leg in front of the other. Little by little and her hunger would be satisfied.

"Poor thing, you're probably lost. You must be hungry." You said and took out another plum from your dress. "I stole them from the boss's daughter before I came to wash her clothes." You admit with a laugh that the goddess must have lifted her ears out of the green water to listen.

"It is not your dress you're washing, then." The voice made your shoulders tense, it was raspy and seductive. Like those of the ladies who don't have to marry for money.

"No, God, no." You looked at the garment drying on the stone.

As you turned your face back to the woman, you saw how her body was imposed in front of yours. With sinful curves, erect breasts and four arms squeezing the hair to remove the water.

"Oh, don't faint on me, sweet thing." One of her hands rose to your chin and made you see her long, oval nose, the mole beneath her thin lips. "It's all a sweet dream, a mere creation of your vast imagination is what I am."

You fluttered your eyelashes until you stabilized your body, another of her hands raised yours and took a bite of the fruit between your fingers. Her eyes did not escape your reaction.

The lights that bathed the water became softer and the singing of the birds sounded far away.

"Have you ever played with dolls?" The enormous creature asked as she cornered you between the hot stone and her body. The air smelled sweet, like summer sweat and rose soap.

"I've never had a doll, ma'am." You stuttered and the goddess laughed lowly.

"I have seen few girls in my long life, how they take their little bodies and manipulate the limbs of their toys."

One of her long nails served as a razor to send your only dress to the floor, the heat consuming your skin—also the fourth hand that squeezed your thighs with scientific curiosity.

"Today you'll wear the clothes of a high-class lady, you'll wear your hair down, you'll laugh at the taste of alcohol on your lips."

Jun grabbed the plum between her fingers and squeezed it until it became only juice, you opened your mouth and, maybe it was the dream, maybe the hypnotizing voice, but the fruit tasted like liquor going down your throat.

And as predicted, you laughed with every drop while the creature licked from your breasts and collarbones, causing your little body to feel ticklish.

You moaned, pursing your lips as her teeth gently nibble the skin of your stomach and reached the valley that suddenly wet your thighs.

"Is this the fruit you offer me?"

"No, please." Your blushing cheeks looked away, you bit your fingers until you felt her tongue burning between your legs. "I have to wait until I get married and-"

"Isn't it the most divine action to consummate the act with someone like me?"

"I-i guess." You moaned as you felt two of the arms spread your legs in ways you didn't know you could.

The tongue flattened to savor every hiding place, every fold. And Olympus knows why women exist, and why they have them hidden among the thorny branches of a rose bush.

Every time you moaned it was like the cherubs were singing and the more you wet the stone beneath you with such ease. You could feel her tongue throbbing inside you, like an eel writhing hard.

The two main arms took your breasts, squeezing until you felt the long nails.

"Good girl, I'm going to make you mine until you adore me." Jun whispered into your hot ear, your juices dripping down her chin.

You couldn't bear to see her beautiful face, she was worthy of a thousand kisses. Your trembling hands reached for her cheeks and you licked every drop until you memorized your own taste.

The goddess's wet dress showed off her juicy pussy, the fine layer of hair that covered it, the clitoris that stood out like a flower about to bloom.

Your lust dominated your senses, caressing her curvy and strong body, kissing her nipples, wanting to reach her collarbones but the size difference was so great.

"Make it come out, soothe my itch." You begged, raising your legs. Jun smiled.

"Very well."

The goddess loved to see your sweaty and corrupted face. She loved your desperate hands lining up your pussy with hers to rub your poor clit in search of release. Jun pressed her pelvis against your thighs until there were no spaces between the two drooling, fleshy pussies.

The four hands intoxicated your senses: one of them brushed your nipple, the second held your hair, the third squeezed your waist to stabilize you and the fourth buried itself between your ass to play with your anus with small circles.

It was sinful, it was demonic, a divine blasphemy and had to happen to know it was worth it.

The goddess's soft lips fell on your neck. The first to cum was you, with your clumsy, inelegant moans and your tremors. You felt the smile next to your jugular.

"Did you-"

"Three times already, only from seeing you from far." Jun gasped, her long tongue licked the sticky plum juice from your neck to your ear. "Now sleep, next time you must wear the dress for me."

You nodded, letting her voice engulf you in a lethargy.

Sometimes, the most pleasure a divine entity can have is fuck an ordinary woman.

#bts #bts imagines #bts fanfic #bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook imagine #jungkook fanfic #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x reader #wlw smut

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carmyboobear · 2 months

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ALEXITHYMIA CH 4: piccata, bills, and ghosts

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

ao3 link ch 1 ch 2 ch 3

Chapter Rating: T (9.1k)

Chapter Summary: Carmy realizes that this is what joy looks like, and when he looks that truth in the eyes, he finds himself blissfully unafraid. Their company is an indulgence he's finally allowing himself to have in its entirety, and it's beautiful. The world is both unfolding and combining, all for him, all because of them.

Tags: carmy being mentally ill, panic attacks, happy carmy, silly carmy, physical touch

A/N: Here's our fluffiest (and longest) chapter yet! But the hurt/comfort is also on full blast this chapter…This one really has it all. You'll see what I mean. Here's the also start of Act 2, in which Carmy is gonna be realizing…and he won't stop realizing…until he realizes it all. Also I am taking creative liberties with how family actually works. Enjoy!

It doesn’t always stay the same.

When Carmy looks in the bathroom mirror this morning, he feels as tired as he looks. Exhaustion resides in his dark eyebags and temperamental curly flyways. The fire from last night had interrupted the little sleep he was able to snag. Despite all the weariness, though, there’s something different about today.

He’s used to a blazing fire in his brain, constant in its sweltering heat and pain, but today, the fire lays low. There’s actually room in his head for quiet, for silence to exist. It’s not the dissociative emptiness he’s used to. He thinks he can only describe it as peace.

The thought almost makes him laugh with how ludicrous it is. Peace and him don’t typically mesh.

He remembers the fire last night, crackling in the containers of pots and pans before billowing upwards. He imagines a different outcome, instead pondering a future where his apartment burned down. Where their apartment burned down, and in this alternate reality, he stands in the ashes, unsurprised that he’s destroyed yet another good thing in his life. Then the grief of him realizing that it was the only good thing left in his life destroys him.

But when he looks at their toothbrush next to his, their shared crinkled tube of toothpaste, he comes back down.

He doesn’t know how he managed to keep them. Somehow, they’re here to stay, and they’re going to be at The Beef for family in half an hour.

“Corner,” he shouts, breezing through the kitchen with a container and shallots and garlic. He still needs to finish mincing them for family this afternoon—lemon chicken piccata. At least he’s prepped the rest of the ingredients already, along with the plates and utensils.

The peace in the morning was momentary, because of course it was. There’s a tangled yarn ball of anxiety knotting itself over and over inside him at the thought of them having family with him and everyone else. He pondered on his commute this morning if inviting them was the right thing. If it was an overstep, either with them or at The Beef, but then he remembers the way their face lit up when he asked, and the anxiety grows quiet. Well, quieter.

And as it grows quiet, it opens up the space for his excitement to be the loudest voice in his head.

“Lemon chicken piccata?” Sydney observes the prepped chicken, lemons, capers. As she looks, her fingers fiddle with the small golden hoops in her ear.

“Yeah. Thought this’d be a good way to have everyone try it again, get a better feel for it.” He cuts the shallot into thin slices before cutting into them again, mincing it into tiny pieces. He notes a distinctly ugly slice of shallot and tosses it. This dish needs to be perfect.

“Heard.” Sydney traces a finger over the edges of the stacked plates before stopping. “Uh, chef, I think you got an extra plate here.”

Carmy stops, looks up from the cutting board. Quickly counts the plates again. Looks back down.

“No, I got it,” he reassures her. When she raises an eyebrow at him, he adds, “I, uh, invited someone. My…roommate.”

“Oh.” Sydney doesn’t even try to hide the surprise on her face, or maybe she’s just so shocked she couldn’t. “That’s—that’s great!”

“Sorry I didn’t, um, give a heads up. Or something. Uh…” He pauses, looking at her, trying to search for more words.

“No, it’s fine! I’m just surprised.” She shakes her head, seemingly to herself. “But now that you mention it, yeah, a heads up next time could be cool.”

“Next time,” Carmy promises with a nod. Next time, he thinks wistfully to himself. Maybe there could be a next time.

“So…I’m guessing no one else knows that you invited someone,” Sydney says, harmlessly, just as Tina and Marcus decide to come back into the kitchen.

“Carmy invited someone?” Marcus makes his way back into the kitchen, a sack of flour in one hand and a tin of cocoa powder in the other. They slam onto the counter at the baking station, resounding with a dull thud. “Lemme guess. Is it the roommate?”

“It's the roommate,” Carmy confirms, before anyone else can get a word in. Now, onto mincing the garlic.

“Jeff!” Tina exclaims, aghast. “Why didn't you say something earlier?” She’s walking some extra vegetables to her station to prep. “Way to surprise us!”

“Who’s surprising us? With what?” Carmy raises his head, and when he sees who's just come back through the front entrance, he lowers his head with an aggravated sigh. Richie. The last thing he needs right now.

“Carmy's bringing a date to family,” Tina tattles helpfully. Although Carmy begrudgingly acknowledges that he would've had to bring it up eventually.

“Not a date, just my roommate,” he mutters. Not that anyone's listening.

“Carmen, Carmen, Carmen.” Richie makes a drama production of swinging the door open into the kitchen, stepping through it with arms outstretched. An overpowering scent of pine cologne accompanies him. “So you do listen to your cousin when he talks, huh?”

“I have no idea what he's talking about,” Carmy tells Sydney, who just shrugs.

“I'm proud of you, cousin. Really proud.” Richie slaps him way too hard on the back, jerking Carmy forward.

“Don't do that when I'm using a knife, you asshole!” Carmy snaps, elbowing Richie out of the way. “Stupid fuckin’ idiot.”

“Jesus, fine, fine, I'll get out of your way!” Getting cursed at did little to deter Richie's smug demeanor. “Fuckin’ princess. If anyone needs me, I'll be in the back.”

“We won't,” Carmy says, and Richie flips him off as he walks away.

“Carmy's bringing his roommate, who he is not dating, to family,” Marcus projects to the rest of the kitchen, and Carmy resists a groan.

“It’s not a big deal.” Carmy slams his knife onto another clove of garlic, crushing it. “I don't see why you guys have to make such a fuss about it.”

“Because it's fun,” Marcus replies with a broad grin. “Sorry, chef.”

“Let us have our fun. We never get to poke fun at you,” Tina says.

“That is just not true,” Carmy groans, and everyone’s laugh resounds into a mismatched chorus.

They tease him relentlessly for a couple more minutes until it dissolves into sparse chatter, for which Carmy is grateful. Peaceful lulls in the kitchen are rare, especially in this particular one. He takes it while he can get it, honing in, oiling the pan, pressing the chicken into the bubbling surface until it's golden. The others gradually filter out as he cooks, leaving him to cook on his own.

Then comes the familiar chime of the front door.

Carmy turns the stove off, takes the pan off the heat to check to see who it is. Surely enough, it’s the guest of honor.

“Hey Carmy!” They’re looking cute as ever today, maybe even a bit more dressed up than usual. Part of Carmy thinks that maybe they dressed up for him, and another part of Carmy strangles the other one to death. “Hope I’m not too early.”

“Hey, you’re fine. I’m just about to finish up.” He guides them into the kitchen with him.

“Smells incredible in here,” they comment. “Also, before I forget. Is there somewhere I could put my coat? Break room or somethin?”

“Yeah, we can put it in my office.”

Upon entering, Carmy becomes acutely aware of exactly how messy his office is. It's not like he didn't know. He created the mess, after all, but having someone new bear witness to his stacks of papers and stuffed file folders is…embarrassing, to put it plainly. To Carmy's benefit and luck, though, they're much too polite of a person to comment.

“So this is where you're holed up.” Their head turns to look at all the posters and papers hung up on the wall, still largely unchanged from Michael's time.

“Yep. It's all bookkeeping, along with more bookkeeping,” he informs dryly. “Here, you can hang that on my chair.”

“Thanks.” They drape their jacket on the back of his chair, and Carmy is suddenly struck with the impression that it feels odd to see it there. “Oh!” They exclaim, looking at something on his desk.

He follows their gaze to the papaya pills and ginger candies sitting in the corner.

“Ah, yeah.” Why does he feel embarrassed? “I really need to thank you again for that.”

“No need, but I’ll take it. I hope they actually helped.”

“They did. I actually, uh…” He digs around in his apron pocket and fishes out a candy. “I’ve been keeping them on me.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.” They beam at him, visibly brightening. It’s infectious, and he feels himself smiling a little back.

A period of silence falls between them. This sort of thing keeps happening as recent. It leaves them looking at one another, and it should be awkward. Yet it’s not. It’s strange and peaceful, and then because Carmy is Carmy, his heart starts squeezing and telling him he needs to get out of here.

“Did you sleep alright? After, uh, last night.” He’s not sure why he’s asking that now.

“Yeah, I was fine. You?”

“Okay,” he replies instinctually. “Sorta,” he amends. “I’m doin’ better.”

“That’s good. Better is good.”

“Yeah.” He exhales out his nose, runs a hand through his hair.

There’s the muffled sound of laughter in the distance, and it reminds Carmy that they’re not quite alone. That he still has dishes he needs to finish cooking.

“I need to finish back in the kitchen. Let me show you where we’re sitting.”

Minus a few faces, everyone’s already seated at the table for family. There’s some idle chatter floating in the air, but it drops to the floor as soon as Carmy enters. Makes him feel like a deer in headlights.

“Everyone, this is my, uh—“ Something in Carmy’s brain buffers. “My friend,” he finally decides. He introduces them to the four that're seated already, those of which being Sydney, Marcus, Tina, and Ebra. There’s a mix of enthusiastic hellos and simple nods in response. He turns back to his roommate—friend—whatever—and they’re waving back. “I'll be back soon. Sit wherever you want.”

“Sure thing,” they reply easily, and it makes Carmy feel a little less guilty about abandoning them.

To his credit, he does try to finish cooking quickly. All he had left was the sauce, and he already prepped all the ingredients. Between the aromatic browned onions, emulsifying the sauce with wine, and dousing the chicken in it, he couldn't have taken more than 15 minutes.

He wasn't sure what to expect upon returning. The worst possible scenario would be complete silence. Or screaming, but that was unlikely. On his walk there, though, plates in hand, he hears pleasant chatter.

“The coffee down the street is overpriced,” Carmy hears his roommate saying. There’s a murmur of agreement. When he walks in, he sees all the seats at the table are full. “Don’t get me wrong, it's not bad, but you'd get coffee just as good one block down the other way at—”

“At Ironclad?” Marcus guesses hopefully, leaning in.

“At Ironclad,” they confirm, and there's a mix of cheers and boos.

“Grit is better,” Sydney challenges. “More espresso bean options.”

“You make a compelling point,” they reply. “A latte for $4 though? In this economy? Just try and beat that.”

“It's less at 7-Eleven,” Richie chimes in, and everyone boos. “It's one of the pillars of the working class! Admit it!”

They're not like him, Carmy remembers. They're actually socially competent, and they can do well for themself in a group of strangers. Seemingly with little effort, they’ve already assimilated themself.

“Family's up,” Carmy announces, sliding plates into the table. “Lemon chicken piccata and caramelized rosemary potatoes.”

“Jeff, didn't you show us this last week?” Tina asks. She leans in to waft the savory smell towards her nose, and she hums in approval.

“Yeah, I did. I just thought it'd be good to make it for you guys.” He finishes getting the rest of the plates from the kitchen, making sure everyone has a plate of food in front of them. He can tell who's started eating by the pleased expressions on their faces. Other than the fact that their food has a dent in it, of course.

“Carmy. This is on fire,” Ebra praises, nodding in approval towards him.

“Ebra, it's ‘this is fire’, not ‘this is on fire’,” Gary corrects, amused. “But I agree.”

“Good, good,” Carmy says. He settles into his seat at the front of the table, which is…weird, actually. He doesn't remember the last time he's actually sat and had family with everyone.

“Actually eating with us for once, Carmen?” Richie points out. He says it like a jab, because that's always how he speaks, but it lacks the fight that it usually does. Carmy can hear what he's really expressing—I'm glad you're joining us.

“I am,” Carmy responds evenly. He feels his roommate's curious gaze to his right, but they don't say anything. That's when he notices that they haven't started eating yet. His mind supplies a million different reasons at once. None of them sound sane, so they'll go unspoken. “Not hungry?” he asks instead.

“No, I just wanted to wait until you were here.” They say it like it's not a big deal. “I always did it with my family growing up. Just a habit, I guess.” Now that they're saying it, some of Carmy's memories start to make more sense. He suddenly remembers sitting with them at home, and he had to take a call right before they were about to start their dinner. When he came back, their food was still untouched. He didn't think much of it then, but now…

“Oh, cool. That's…” In the time he's searching for a word, they've taken a bite. “How is it?” He asks instead.

“Fuck.” They're shaking their head like something's wrong, but it's obvious from the gigantic smile on their face that it's anything but. “Carmy. Carmy. You're crazy.”

“Am I, now?” He knows he's probably got a stupid expression on his face.

“So crazy. This is incredible.” They slice themself another piece of chicken. “These capers too, man. You actually made me like capers.”

“The capers made you like capers,” Carmy jokes, and they snort.

“No, that's severely underplaying your part in all this. Seriously, this is delicious.” They always get this glowing smile when they're eating good food. He's witnessed it in their shared kitchen, whether it's food from their mutually favorite joint or their own two hands. He's never seen them smile like this, though. It's a joy that's possibly unique to Carmy's own cooking.

Carmy doesn't know how to handle that. Not even a little bit.

“Glad to hear it,” he says instead, ignoring the fullness in his heart, and he starts eating.

“I’mma start this week,” Marcus begins. “I'm grateful for the fact that my roommate Chester actually managed not to spoil the episode I missed of this show we’re watching this past week. He’s still a jackass, though.”

“You can say it’s The Bachelor, we all already know,” Sydney teases. Marcus huffs, but he’s smiling.

“Just for that, you’re goin’ now,” he replies, motioning towards her with a fork.

“Sure, sure. Yeah, um, I’m grateful for my dad’s good health.” Sydney shrugs, nonchalant when there’s a group of “aww”s. “I am! He had this, ugh, awful case of bronchitis, but he's good now. It was scary. Tina?”

“Hm…” Tina chews thoughtfully as she thinks. “Oh! My dumbass son actually passed his finals. Even with some A’s!” She claps her hands excitedly and clasps them to rest under her chin. That gets a variety of cheers. “If he actually tries, he can be so smart. But not without stressing me the fuck out first. What about you, Rich?”

“Easy. I found that pine cologne that Marcus hates,” Richie says, smug.

“I noticed,” Marcus replies mildly. “Everyone hates it, by the way.”

“I smell like the fuckin’ forest! It's majestic as shit.” Richie makes a show of sniffing his shirt amongst all the booing mixed with laughter. That's when he looks to Carmy’s roommate, who's been politely listening and eating. “You wanna have a go of it, guest of honor?”

“Oh, sure. Something I'm grateful for, right?” They put down their utensils and thoughtfully rub their index finger across their chin. “Well…I’m feeling pretty grateful to be eating this delicious food. It's not often I get to eat food this good.” It's not that good, Carmy wants to say to combat the fluttering in his stomach, but it's far too contradictory. He made sure to make it good since they were going to be eating it. “How about you, Carmy?”

“Huh?” Carmy's been on autopilot, comfortable to watch everyone else. He's not much of a participant. Now everyone's got their eyes on him. “I'm grateful for, uh…”

I'm grateful for that smile you get when you eat my cooking, he wants to say. I'm grateful to have someone like you.

“I'm grateful to be in good company,” Carmy says. That receives a round of hearty reactions, including a look from his roommate that he can only describe as affectionate. He pointedly looks back down at his half-eaten plate when he feels his ears getting warm.

“Aw, you softie,” Richie snickers. “What, are we embarrassin’ you?”

“Shut it,” he mutters, but there's barely any heat behind it. His reaction only creates more laughter around the table. “Ebra, you go next.”

Little does Richie know what he's really embarrassed about. Everyone's teasing isn't helping, sure, but it's not his fellow chefs, it's them. It's their stupid smile that he keeps looking back at. It's that he knows it's from the food he made for them, it's that he doesn't know what to do with all these feelings taking up residence in his heart.

Between the energetic chatter and the cleaned off plates, Carmy realizes that a part of what he's feeling is happiness. It's an odd sensation, which says a lot about the type of person that he is. It's the truth, though. He's just cooked a good meal for people he cares a lot about, and the happiness that has come with that is weird.

Not bad weird, though. Good weird.

If anyone noticed how strange he looked smiling with a fork in his mouth, they didn't mention it.

Family goes by faster than Carmy is used to. That's what happens when you actually join in for once, he supposes. He just wasn't expecting it to wrap up so quickly. Or, it's more accurate to say he didn't want to see them go already.

“Guess you guys have to get ready for service now, right?” They've returned to his office to grab their jacket, giving the two of them a brief moment of privacy.

“Yeah. Service starts at 3.” He sighs, and they sympathetically return his sigh.

“Right. Well, I really enjoyed eating with everyone. And the food? Seriously, it was so good. You knocked it out of the park. I’m sure you get this all the time, but you’re seriously incredible at what you do.”

“I don’t hear that so much anymore,” he admits. “Not like I used to. Um…” He clears his throat, shakes his head. “I’m just glad you enjoyed it. I should really cook more outside of this place. Maybe cook for us in our kitchen for once.”

“You know I’m here for that. I could have your cooking any time,” they gush, like it doesn’t make Carmy’s heart palpitate. “I get it, through. You spend all day cooking here, I get that you don’t wanna come home and cook.”

“Yeah, but…it's different.” It's different because it’s for you, he wants to say, but as expected, he doesn’t.

“W-What?” Suddenly, their cheeks go pink. “Well, if you put it like that…”

“...” The realization buffers in his head before fully forming. He actually said that aloud after all. Too late to take it back. “Uh, yeah, I mean, I just think, I should give you a break from making leftovers for the week,” he stutters in a weak attempt to cover his accidental affection. “And, um, I just want to, because I…”

“Because…?” He’s taking way too fucking long to finish this sentence. Their face doesn’t betray any impatience, though. It never does, and seeing that makes him relax.

“Because I—like that you like my cooking.”

“I love your cooking,” they correct, their smile teasing.

“Um, right—you love—” he tries to fix his words again, but this one’s far too much to say. The butterflies in his stomach feel similar to nausea. The conflict must show on his face in an insane way, because their smile turns into a wide grin full of amusement.

“It was a good attempt.” That makes him laugh a little. “Hey, if you’re saying I get to bring your cooking to work this next week, I’m not objecting.”

“I’ll try my best.” His eyes catch the clock on the wall. He needs to wrap this up. “I’m not trying to kick you out, but I really gotta get back now.”

“It’s cool. I should be heading out anyway. I’ll see you at home?”

“Yeah,” he says, poorly hiding the affection in it, “I’ll see you at home. And, uh—thanks. For coming.”

“Of course. I had fun,” they say with a smile. “See ya.”

He watches them leave through the entrance, hearing that familiar sound of the ringing bell, and they're gone.

Carmy is left standing there with an odd warmth in his chest. It doesn't overwhelm him, doesn't suffocate him, just sits there. It's a strange, but nice feeling.

This is what happiness feels like, he realizes, and in this moment, fear is nowhere to be found.

. . . . .

The dinner rush is fine. It's just fine. It's just another thing for Carmy to get through, and he does. Just another obstacle between him and getting home.

A wishful part of him always hopes that they'll be able to close before 10, but it is a very lofty wish to make, especially on a Saturday. With great regret, he puts his car into park at 10:44 pm. The night air is frigid and awful against his brittle dry skin and cracked lips. He can't get to his front door fast enough.

Opening the front door sends warm gusts of heated air across his face. He can't help his relieved sigh, especially not when he sees them sitting on the couch. They’re dressed in a loose t-shirt and bike shorts, a combo that makes his heart pulse.

“Hey, welcome back.” They give him a little wave. He finds it surprisingly easy to smile and wave back. This strange joy keeps finding new ways to pop up. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Fine,” he says, because it was. It was fine. “Busy, but normal. You know how it is. Weekends.” They hum in agreement. He kicks his shoes off by the door, walks over to where they're seated. This is when he notices the laundry basket on the floor with stacks of folded clothes. They grab a sweater from the pile of clothes on the coffee table and lay it out on their lap. “Doin’ laundry?”

“Yeah. I'm trying to be responsible.” They smooth out the sweater, working out the creases in the collar with their fingers. “I think some of your socks ended up in the wash with my stuff.” They motion to a neat stack of miscellaneous white socks sitting on the coffee table.

“Oh, yeah. These are mine.” He picks them up, turns them around in his hand. “Sorry, guess I missed them when I was last doing laundry.”

“It's fine. They're just extra clean now.”

“And folded.” He does his best to put his socks down just as they were even though he’ll have to move them anyway. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” They pull up another piece of clothing from their basket. Carmy immediately recognizes it as they throw it over to him. It’s his boxers.

“Shit, sorry,” he apologizes on reflex, heating up with embarrassment. He crumples it up in his hand.

“It’s chill. Besides, didn’t you get one of my bras once?”

“Ah, yeah. I forgot,” he says, like he needed a moment to remember it. It’s all a facade. He couldn’t get that moment out of his memories he tried. It was very lacy, and it made him more nervous than someone his age should’ve been.

“Oh, I forgot to mention when I saw you earlier. I paid the water bill today. It was 48 something.” They lean forward to grab a white envelope. The monthly payment from the water company. They flip it open and scan the paper again. “It was—48 dollars and 19 cents, to be exact.”

“Lower than last month.” He is grateful to be discussing the water bill instead of their underwear. “Much lower, actually.”

“I’ve been trying to cut back on my 30 minute showers, and I’d like to think that’s why.”

“Good job,” he says jokingly, and they pretend to bow like they’ve won an award. “I still think 30 minutes is just a little too long,” he teases after. This is a familiar conversation.

“Maybe to you, Mr. 5 minute showers,” they scoff. They kindly don’t mention how little he actually showers. “I have a lot of serious business to attend to in there! Lots of meetings, lots of calls…” They snicker, and he makes a dismissive noise, but he’s smiling. He's never been good at hiding his amusement around them. “So, yeah. Just venmo me when you get the chance.”

“Already on it,” he says. As soon as he sends it, their phone dings with the notification.

“Thank you, thank you. And, ah, not to bombard you with more housekeeping, but I'm gonna try and go grocery shopping this monday. Wanted to ask if you need me to pick up anything.”

“Uh…” Detergent, coffee, soap, peanut butter, bread, chips, he notes in his head, rattling off a list. “I need a lot of stuff, so don't worry about it. Actually—” He turns to look at them, and they look up from their laundry with a curious look. “When were you thinking about going?”

“It's my day off, so anytime. What, wanna join me?”

“If you don't mind going in the morning, then yeah.” It feels weird, asking for accommodations like this. When you're running a business that keeps you until 10 pm everyday, though, you don't have a choice. “Like, 9 am?”

“Not earlier?” They smile knowingly. “I don't mind. We can do 8 am, if you want.”

“I wouldn't wanna make you wake up any earlier than you already have to on your day off.”

“It's no different to me, really. Besides, I'm offering.”

“Right. Uh…” I shouldn't push it, he thinks to himself with near certainty, but he stops. Takes a moment. They're offering. “Sure, then. 8 am.”

“8 am,” they reply easily. A wistful smile appears on their face. “When's the last time we've gone grocery shopping together?”

“I can't remember, so at least over a month.” That's also the last time I properly went grocery shopping, he remembers, but he doesn't want to share that.

“Way too long.” They shake their head. “It's just hard to line our schedules up. You think it'd be easier since we live together.”

“Y'think,” he echoes tiredly. “Not like I’m makin’ it any easier, being at The Beef everyday and all.”

“Well…yeah, I suppose not. It is a little scary how long you go without a day off.” They make a face. “When's the last day you've had a day off?”

“Dunno. Just got a lot to do…all the time.”

“All the time.” They sigh. “Is that really how it's supposed to be? Being a business owner?”

“When your business is fucked, yeah.” The growing distress on their face makes the corners of his mouth twitch in an amused smile. “Scraping by from week to week.”

“Damn.” They raise their eyebrows, shake their head. “I don't know how you do it.”

“I'm used to it.” It's the truth. The longer he thinks about it, though, the festering dread starts to creep out from the hole he's kicked it in. So he changes the subject before it can come out and choke him to death. “Mind if I crack open the window for a smoke?”

“Only if you don't let me join you,” they reply with a wide grin, and he laughs.

After changing out of his work clothes into a tank top and gray sweatpants, he sits himself at their designated window. He cracks it open just a smidge—it's too cold tonight. The cars are quiet, at least. He pulls his pack from his pocket and places a cigarette into his mouth.

“You want a cig?” Carmy asks when they take the empty seat across from him. Their smoking device of choice today is their water pipe. It looks like a juicebox from the packaging, shape, and the plastic straw arching out of it.

“Can I just take a hit off yours instead? Not really in the mood for a whole cig right now.” He wordlessly passes his lit cig to them. They take a slow hit, the orange glow creeping up it. They look down at it and frown. “Sorry, I got a little lip gloss on it. I didn't realize I still had some on.”

“It's fine.” He takes it back and inspects it. Little oily pink smudges lay in a messy circle on the filter. “As long as it's not like that other lipstick.”

“God, no.” They drag a hand over their face. “I know I keep saying it, but I'm so sorry about that. That was mortifying.”

“Don't worry about it. Dust under the rug.” When he brings his mouth back around his cig, a faint stickiness clings to his lips. He bulldozes through the jittery feeling it brings with it.

They sit there smoking side by side for a minute. His gaze flickers between the moving city scenery out the window and the sight of them smoking from their bubbler. Clearly one is more captivating than the other. He watches the translucent smoke fill the glass, go up the straw, and out of their lips.

They catch him staring. His only saving grace is that he doesn't flinch.

“You want some?” They ask, turning the bubbler towards him. So that's what they thought he was doing. He can live with that.

“Sure, if you're offering.”

“Yeah, I am. This one's real sleepy shit, just so you know.”

“Good. I need that tonight.” The taste of the weed is strangely floral as it goes down, but he can't place what it is. “Did you mix this with something?”

“Not this time. Tastes weird though, right? It's kinda…detergent-y. One of my friends says it tastes like dryer sheets.”

“So am I smoking laundromat weed? Tide pod weed?” It's a stupid joke, but Carmy finds that the dumber the joke, the harder it makes them laugh.

“Laundromat weed,” they wheeze. “No, it's not tide pod weed. I can't afford name brand.”

“Equate weed, then?”

“Kroger brand, actually,” they say, “but I hear Up & Up is pretty good, too.”

“I'm sure it's just as good as name-brand shit.”

“Most of the time.”

Carmy clears the rest of the chamber of the excess smoke before sliding it back across the table to them.

“Thanks.” The buzz is setting in. The mix of cannabis and nicotine always feels a little weird, but in a thrilling way. “I really just need to get my own shit, stop mooching off you.”

“I steal enough of your cigs, so don't worry about it.” This is when he notices that their eyes have gone a little pink from the weed. He also notes to himself that he shouldn't be looking so closely. “So, did something good happen today?”

“Good?”

“Yeah. You just seem to be in a particularly good mood, is all.”

“Oh.” He immediately knows why. Surely he can't just be honest with them, but the high's lowered his barriers, and he decides to just let himself say it. “Yeah, something good did happen, now that you mention it.”

“That's good,” they say, like it has nothing to do with them. “It's nice to see you with a little less stress on you. What happened?”

“You don't already know?” He asks, because there's no way they don't know. From the look on their face, though, they really don't. “It was you.”

“...” Their face colors. “Oh,” they say, just like he did a second ago. He likes seeing them smile with a blush to match. “I mean, I thought, maybe, I just didn't wanna assume…”

“It was nice. Having you there with everyone, I mean.”

“They're really cool. You've got some great coworkers.”

“I do,” he replies quietly, faintly. It's true, even when he wants to let The Beef catch on fire. “Everyone really liked you.”

“Really?” The surprise is clear on their face.

“Yeah, really.” Throughout the rest of the day, the others had come up to him expressing some sort of approval. Not that he needed their approval. It felt nice, though. How'd you find someone so…nice? Marcus had asked, entirely genuine, and all Carmy could do was shrug. It was a good question.

How was a person like him allowed to have anything good in his life?

“Am I allowed to ask what they said?”

“You're allowed,” he says, amused. “Marcus said you were really nice. So did Syd. Seems you hit it off with them.”

“I think I did, too.” They sit with his reply for a moment, staring out the window and idly tapping their fingers on the bubbler. “Feels weird.”

“Weird?”

“A good weird,” they clarify. “You ever get weirded out by the fact that people talk about you when you're not there? And it's like, good things they're saying, too?”

“Constantly,” he admits. “I don't know if I'll ever get used to it.”

“Yeah.” Their hands are fiddling with the ends of their hair. “I guess I just have a hard time believing that people will think the best of me when I'm not around. Like…like, I don't know, just…”

“No, I understand.” Carmy's feels acutely more alert now. “It's like, uh, object permanence, kinda. But with—with people.”

“That's exactly it!” They exclaim, and then they deflate again. “It's stupid, but I just…”

“It's not stupid,” he assures them, and their lips quirk in a tiny smile. “If it helps, I…I don't think the worst of you when you're not around.”

“Hearing you say it aloud makes me realize how crazy it is for me to think like that,” they murmur, “but thank you. That does…that does make me feel better, actually.”

“Sure.” It's better if you don't know the details, he thinks to himself, reminiscing on naked dreams and daydreams around their bright smile.

He really shouldn’t sit on the couch with them. It’s late, and he needs to be in his own bed at this time of night. Unfortunately, logic isn’t at the forefront when he sees them. He’s high and wants to stick to them like glue, so he does. They’ve turned on these HD videos of people making drinks. It’s like sensory videos for babies, except for adults, they told him, and that got the two of them giggling.

It’s nice. Far too nice than what Carmy’s used to. But this time, he doesn’t want to let it go, and he’s not afraid of that, either.

I want this to last, he thinks, unafraid, and he falls asleep listening to their voice.

. . . . .

Carmy wakes up by jolting up from the couch. He’s hunched and heaving for air, and all he can think about is that he needs to see Michael.

“Mike,” he calls out. His voice is raspy and shaken. His body feels like a piece of stretched twine. He’s about to call out for Mike again until he lifts his head to see his roommate who is definitely not Michael.

Fuck.

“Hey. Are you okay?” Their expression is alert, but gentle. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just keeps his mouth shut and breathes heavily through his nose. He manages a nod. He imagines it doesn’t look very convincing.

“Just need a second,” he gets out. God, he sounds awful.

“You’re fine. You don’t need to explain anything, just…take your time.”

“I thought today was going to be a good day,” he gets out between gritted teeth. “Stupid. Fuckin’ stupid of me. Fuck. Mi—” He cuts himself off. That indescribable fear he thought was far has resurfaced, pushing in between the cracks in his ribs, desperate in the space it’s vying for.

Why the fuck are his eyes hot? He shouldn’t cry. Not over this. Not over anything.

“Who’s—?” They stop themself, mouth closing in a thin line. “Sorry. I don’t need to ask.” The question starts and ends there, but he knows what they’re asking.

Who’s Mike?

It feels like two knives sharpening each other, the tinny sound of steel against steel. It pierces him once, twisting, turning into a dull, painful ache. Like an old wound that hasn’t had enough time to heal, an old throbbing scar.

Michael.

“He...” Carmy starts, but it’s too much. It’s too much, and his hands are trembling, shaking terribly. It’s gonna happen again. He can’t do this.

Softer hands hold his, thumbs rubbing soft circles on the back of his dry hands. With each rotation on his skin, with each lap, Carmy slows down. He returns.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” they whisper. Their hands are so gentle. “I didn’t mean to ask, it just sorta popped out.”

“No, it’s okay,” he responds without thinking, surprising even himself. Even though it’s not really okay, even though he doesn’t really wanna talk about it, maybe he does, because he hasn’t gone completely silent yet. “He was my brother.”

“Ah...” Realization sets in their voice. “I see.”

“He was a drug addict,” he explains, pretending like saying it doesn’t feel like crumbling dough, like sugar dissolving into boiling water. “Killed himself.”

The grip on his hands tighten. He appreciates the feeling.

This is the mark you’ve left, Carmy thinks suddenly. How fucked up is that, Mike? The first thing I tell people is the last thing you ever did. When did you stop being my best friend and start being my older brother who killed himself?

“I’m sorry,” they say quietly, because of course they do. That’s all anyone can think to say. Carmy’s too tired to feel angry about that anymore. “When did he pass away?”

“Last February,” he answers like it’s a quiz question, like it doesn’t mean anything. “It’ll be a year in a couple months.”

“I see.” Their hands are holding his gently again. Carmy finds he prefers this. “That must’ve been really hard. Still is, I’m sure.”

“...Still is, yeah. Especially with the restaurant. It was his,” he explains, when he sees the confusion beginning in their eyes. “He was the previous owner, and he left it. To me.”

“So that’s why you’re here and not in New York?” They ask. He nods.

“I’m trying to fix it.” He doesn’t say I’m fixing it, because that would mean he’s made progress.

“I don’t know how it was before, but it seems like you are fixing it. I know I’ve barely been there, you know it a million times better than I do, it just...it seems like people are happy there.”

“Happy,” he muses. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Everyone seems to really like you,” they go on. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“It is. Doesn’t fix the debt, but...” He shrugs half-heartedly. No, not even half. Quarter-heartedly. “It’s somethin’.”

“I had no clue.” There’s something regretful, rueful in their words. “This whole time, you’ve just been...”

“Don’t,” he interrupts.

“...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, I’m sorry,” he backtracks. “I just mean...don’t give me your pity,” he mutters. It’s a bitter thing to say. Luckily, he’s so drained it comes out without any of the venom. It’s better that way. They don’t deserve his poison.

“It’s not pity,” they argue, their reply so instant it sobers him. “It’s...respect, I guess.”

“Respect?”

“Yeah. You’ve got a lot on your plate. I couldn’t handle all the stuff you do, but you’re doing great.”

“I barely sleep most nights,” he says suddenly. He’s unsure why. It’s like he has to prove something. “When I do, there’s nightmares. You saw that tonight and yesterday. I almost burned down the house. My stomach’s still fucked. I’m not...” His eyes feel hot again. Breathing suddenly feels different. There’s ringing, static clogging his ears. “I’m not doing great,” he realizes with stunning, raw clarity, and the pain of it knocks the wind out of him.

“You’re doing great,” they say again. “Look at me, Carmy.”

He looks at them. Their eyes are warm.

"I,” he starts, but he’s having an awful time trying to breathe. When he inhales, he feels like he’s splintering, a unified whole breaking into jagged, drifting parts.

Dread overtakes him in the blink of an eye. He doesn’t want them to see him like this. Hasn’t he already done enough?

“Breathe in with me.” They inhale, slowly, counting to 8. He counts with them like a lifeline, which it partially is. His breaths come out staggered, but he claws forward. Tries his best to keep his eyes interlocked with theirs. “And exhale...”

He clings onto every beat in their voice, every circle their thumbs make. Their words wrap around him, bringing the broken pieces back together, clicking them into place again. They restore his sense of gravity, returning his feet to solid ground with every breath.

“You’re okay,” they say softly. One of their hands moves up to brush back hair from his face. The feeling of their fingers tucking hair behind his ear makes his eyes flutter briefly shut.

“I’m okay,” he whispers back. It doesn’t sound very convincing. Fake it until you make it, he reminds himself.

“You’re okay.” They take one last deep breath with him, and when he exhales, his head feels clear again.

“Sorry. That was...” He shakes his head. “I don’t usually...”

“Never gotten one of those before?”

“No, it’s not that. I’ve had tons of panic attacks before, just...not in front of anyone else,” he finishes awkwardly.

“Yeah?” Carmy finds himself looking down at their conjoined hands instead of their eyes. “Well, you certainly don’t have to apologize. I get them too, from time to time.”

“Thank you. For...calming me down.” He takes another deep breath to steady himself. “It helped a lot.”

“No problem.” There’s that glowing smile he can’t get enough of. “How’re you feeling now?”

“I…” He tries to pinpoint something in all the noise. It’s proving difficult. “I’m calmer,” he notices.

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, uh, I don’t know what to, how to, explain my…feelings.” The words are so haphazardly put together that he stammers as they tumble on the way out of his mouth.

“Don’t worry, you’re doing great.” From anyone, the sentiment would make him shut down even more, turn his head the other way. From them, though…

“I’m okay,” he says, and it’s the truth. “I think, um, just a lot hit me all at once.”

“I get it. It often happens like that, doesn’t it?”

“It does. I just...” He briefly shuts his eyes, and there’s a flash of Michael. “It’s hard. Doing all this without him.” They nod. “I never wanted to. Not on my own.”

“He must’ve been a great guy.”

“He was,” he starts, and his throat closes up. They seem to understand, because they don’t say anything else. He doesn’t say it, but he’s glad for it. This is all he can bear.

It’s hard to put into words, the way Carmy feels right now. He’s never been great at describing how he feels, even when he was a kid. Sometimes he’d cry about the wrong things, and he wouldn’t cry at the right things. But there wasn’t quite any right or wrong way to feel. It just was. It just is.

The grief comes in waves. It always has, and it always will. Each wave is a natural disaster on its own, a tsunami that fills his lungs with water, leaving nothing in its wake. But something about this one just washed slowly over him, leaving just droplets of water in his hair. If anything, he just feels...lighter.

He supposes this is what really trusting someone feels like.

The moment of peace is eventually ruined by his stomach growling. Loudly.

“Hungry?” They say first with an amused grin.

“I guess.” He hadn’t realized. “I didn’t eat much today.”

“Hm, I do suppose you had a late lunch, too, if that matters.”

“Sure. That’s also all I had to eat today.” He doesn’t know why he lets that slip, but he does.

“Oh no!” That makes them jump up, detaching their hands from his. He tries not to mourn the loss for too long. “No wonder you’re hungry.”

“It’s fine. It’s like this sometimes,” he says, like it’s a normal and healthy thing to be doing. “Just one of those days.” They frown.

“What do you do when your stomach gets like this? What do you eat?”

“I don’t eat,” he answers honestly, and they gasp.

“Carmy! That is not the answer. I mean, like, don’t force it down, but is there really nothing you can stomach?”

“If I start chewing, I just feel worse. I’ll usually just have some water and a cigarette. If I have time, coffee.”

“You can’t be having that French girl breakfast. You just can’t.” That gets a laugh out of him. “You’re becoming a French girl, and you’re laughing. Carmy! This is serious.” That only makes him laugh harder.

“Do all French girls also have stomach issues?” He wheezes out. That sets off their laughter.

“I don’t know. You tell me, Ms. France.”

“Wait, stop, I don’t wanna be in a beauty pageant.”

“Then stop following their diet! Look—” They try to speak again, and they cut themself off with more laughter. “Okay. No. I’m fine. I’m not laughing. You, you need to eat. No skipping meals.”

“I usually end up having lunch,” he argues.

“Y’know, as someone whose whole life is food, I would expect you to know the importance of breakfast more.”

“Just because I know it’s important doesn’t mean I’m gonna have it.”

“Hm. I don’t love your reasoning. Stop laughing! I’m mad at you. I’m so mad I’m gonna give you homework.”

“Homework? Just so you know, I wasn’t a good student.”

“It’s okay, I grade on a curve. Here’s your homework—you are going to use my protein powder that is sitting in the cabinet to the right of the fridge, and you’re going to put it in some milk. And then you’re gonna drink that shit. That’s what I have when I wake up nauseous.”

“I think I can try that.” His cheeks hurt from smiling. “Do you accept late work?” That makes them sigh dramatically, making a show of it.

“I suppose. Just don’t make it a habit! I won’t be this lenient every time.”

“Yeah, you will,” Carmy says without thinking. They gasp.

“No, I won’t! I can be mean.”

“I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body.”

“That’s actually a really nice thing to say, but keep this up and you’ll see my mean side!”

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but he does. That just ruffles them up further.

“You just don’t seem real, sometimes,” he admits. “It scares me.”

“It does?” He has to commend them for their calm reaction.

“Good things scare me, I think. I know that's…fucked up, but…”

“No, it makes sense. It shouldn't, but…it does to me.” He can't place their expression. It's some mixture of nostalgic and haunted. Or maybe just plain haunted.

“Yeah?” They nod. “That's not good,” he mumbles, and the beauty of their shared, awful truth makes them both smile.

“Well.” Their cheeks are less flushed, but there's still a dusting of color, like faint cocoa powder on cake. “I promise that I am, in fact, very real.”

“Pinky promise?” Carmy doesn't know where that comes from. They have a habit of bringing a strange silliness out of him.

“Pinky promise. I'll even prove it to you.”

“How do you plan on doing that, exactly?”

“Easy.” They outstretch their arms, and it clicks in his head with a rush. “Unless you're the sort of person that's not into hugging.”

“No, I am.” The words rush out, as if they're desperate to keep the offer on the table. “I mean, I hug my family when I see ‘em.”

“I'll admit, I'm a hugger. I give my friends hugs all the time. I just didn't know if you minded that sort of thing.”

“I don't mind. I like them, um…just don't usually initiate ‘em, I guess.” The anticipation is speeding up the beat of his heart like a coach on the sidelines.

“Then bring it in, big guy,” they say, and he leans in.

The last time they hugged each other, Carmy was sleep-deprived and they were half-lucid from alcohol. This time is different. It's purposeful, tight, and all-encompassing. Their arms go over his shoulders and link around his neck to bring him in close. His arms naturally slot underneath theirs, meeting in the middle of their back.

He can feel their hair tickling his neck. His heartbeat is in his ears, and he prays they can't hear it. They squeeze him, light, and his eyes flutter shut.

“This is better,” Carmy whispers. He doesn't know why he's whispering. He supposes his mouth being so close to their ear makes him quiet.

“Better than what?” Their voice has gone soft to match his. The vibrations next to his ear send a slim shiver up his spine.

“Than the first time we hugged.” He pauses. “Unless you don't remember.”

“I remember.” They laugh, breathy and shy. “God. Sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”

“It didn't.” He tightens his hold on them. He doesn't know if they meant for the hug to last this long, but they're warm and perfect to hold. They smell like smoke and a flower he can't place.

“Good.” He feels them turning their head, shifting their face into his hair, and he thinks his heart is going to explode, turning into a red jam inside of him. “So, am I real or what?”

“Mm, you're real. You've convinced me.” He thinks he could fall asleep like this. Sadly, as soon as he says that, they take it as the cue to unlink their bodies.

Their hair's messy from where it was pressed up against the side of his head. He notices how cold he feels without them.

“If you need reminding, just let me know.” Their cheeks are rosy again. Cute. “Like I said, I'm a hugger, so…”

“I wouldn't be opposed.” I think I need that, actually, he thinks to himself.

“Okay. Good to know.”

“Um.” Awkwardness is suddenly his primary emotion. “Shit, I didn't even think to check the time. What time is it?”

“Lemme check.” They pull out their phone from their pocket. “12:40 am.”

Carmy sighs.

“Better than I thought.” When he stands up off the couch, he feels every aching muscle protesting in disapproval. “I should sleep in my actual bed. But, um…” He fidgets with his hands, anxious. “Thank you. For staying with me. And talking to me about stuff.”

“You don't have to thank me. Thank you for trusting me with all that.” They cock their head to the side as they look up at him. Cute, he thinks again, unbearably. “I feel like I know you a lot better.”

“Mm.” Carmy feels his face getting hot, meaning he has to change the topic as quickly as possible. “It feels nice. Being known by you. I…” He thinks about that night he held their hair behind them as they cried into the toilet. I want to know you, Carmy, they whispered, beautifully genuine even in their drunken stupor. “I want to know you, too,” he finally allows himself to say, and he knows by the full feeling in his chest that it's the truth.

They get that shy smile he's seen so much of today. Carmy realizes he likes that he's the one that keeps making them smile like that.

“Okay, then. I wouldn't mind that.” They stand up from the couch next, and they stretch their arms far above their head. “Maybe another night, though. It's late.”

“Right. I didn't mean…”

“Hey, if we didn't both have work tomorrow, I'd love to keep talking.” There goes their uncanny ability to wash his anxieties away so easily, a washcloth dissolving dirt. They start walking down the hallway to their bedrooms, and he trails behind them on instinct. “But I think we've kept each other up late too many nights recently.”

“I think so, yeah.” Without context, that'd make his stomach squirm with the implications. Their bedroom's first down the hall, so they move to hover in their doorway. “Um,” he starts, a sudden unspeakable urge gripping him, “just one more thing.”

“What is it?”

Fuck it, Carmy thinks. Fuck it.

With only minimal hesitation, he leans down and pulls them into a hug. They make a small noise of surprise, but they reciprocate almost instantly.

“Just wanted to double check,” he mumbles. He keeps the hug short this time, because he knows if he doesn't, he won't be able to let go.

“Still real, right?”

“Still real.”

“Good idea, to double check.” They step backwards, one hand on their door. “G'night, Carmy. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“G'night,” he murmurs back. “See you.”

I'm fucked, Carmy realizes once the door shuts. The hallway is dark, and there is an unusual amount of good in his life. I'm so fucked.

@zorrasucia @carmenberzattosgf @carmenbrzatto

#carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #the bear #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #the bear fx #jeremy allen white #carmy berzatto x you #carmen berzatto x you #the bear fanfiction #my fics #OKAYY this ones a big one. i had a LOT of fun with the prose in this. i can rly feel myself improving which is awesome #was gonna make it shorter but then i just kept playing around with the dialogue and! well here we are #also thanks again everyone that's actually stuck with this fic. i still have a hard time believe ppl rly read this with how long it is #carmy is on the verge of snapping soon.... i have a feeling next ch is gonna be a big one folks #alexithymia fic

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writeforfandoms · 3 months

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A Lonely Place - 3

Find my Soap masterlist

The last part of this fic, and my last entry for Soap It Up hosted by the amazing @glitterypirateduck

Let's see if you guys can find which prompt I used this chapter.

Discoveries are made, scarves are knit, and somehow things work out.

Warnings: Swearing, Feels, seriously more Feels, bit of anxiety, nameless characters, a familiar face shows up (if you read Gaz's zombie au fic).

Word count: 2.1k

Days passed easily with them - you helped out in the kitchen, learned how to chop firewood, and met several other members of the little community.

It was very different from anything you'd experienced before. It really was a community - everybody knew everyone else. It was common to see at least one of the four protectors out and about.

But you saw the most of Soap. Johnny, he offered, after a few weeks. He was funny, and kind of sweet, and very competent.

He even showed you how to use the knife to protect yourself.

It wasn't long until you were missing him when he was gone. Until you debated inviting yourself over to the house.

But you always talked yourself out of it.

The weather turned colder, making you glad for the heavy coat you'd picked up, and for the sweater you were finally almost done knitting.

Somehow (you suspected the MacTavishes), word got out that you could knit. The first request came from a woman a little older than you with two children.

“Could ye make scarves?” She asked, reaching out without looking to grab the younger of her two children. “Something warm.”

You shrugged, absently scratching the back of your neck. “Yeah, should be able to,” you agreed, looking between the two. “I've got enough yarn.”

She grinned at you. “How long?”

You shrugged. “How soon do you need them? I can have them ready in a week, if you're in a rush.”

“Perfect. What do ye want in return?”

That stumped you, and you shrugged again. “Not sure, really.”

She harrumphed but nodded. “Ah'll bring ye somethin’ good,” she promised before she strode away, little ones in tow, leaving you blinking after her.

Well. Guess you'd better get to work on those scarves.

You pulled out all your remaining yarn, frowning down at the spread on your bed. You already had the yarn set aside to finish your sweater, thankfully. Which left you with a few skeins. Not a huge selection, but you'd make it work.

At least it all felt like wool, rather than synthetics.

“Runnin’ out?”

You jumped at the question, not having heard Mrs. MacTavish coming. “Oh, uh, yeah. I suppose so.” You shrugged.

“Hmm.” She leaned a bit to one side to look around you and clucked disapprovingly. But she was bustling off before you could ask, muttering to herself too fast for you to parse what she was saying.

Leaving you bewildered, blinking after her.

Then you shrugged and picked out one of the remaining skeins. Fortunately it had already been wound into a ball, so you didn't have to worry about that.

Without any pattern books or your usual online resources, it would be pretty plain, but it would be a warm scarf at least.

It was only two days later that Johnny and Gaz stopped by the house. You'd finished your chores already and had settled comfortably on the couch to try and finish up the first scarf. The door opening caught your attention, and you looked over just as the two tromped inside.

“There ye are!” Johnny hopped over the back of the couch to drop down near you (though not on top of your yarn, thankfully). “Doin’ alright?”

“Same as two days ago,” you agreed with a little laugh, shaking your head. “Which is when you last saw me.”

Johnny pouted, exaggerated and over the top. “Ah cannae even check on my favorite knitter?”

“I'm the only knitter,” you pointed out dryly, though you were trying to hide your amusement.

“Tha's beside the point, bonnie.” Johnny grinned at you, reaching over to tug playfully at the end of the scarf. “And what's this, then?”

“A scarf for one of the kids,” you answered, swatting at his hand but not trying very hard to hit him. “One of the moms asked for her two, so I guess I'm taking commissions now.”

“Brilliant idea.” He sat up straighter, eyes bright. “Be a big help, too.”

You snorted. “For these two kids, sure. I'll have enough yarn after that to maybe make a few hats, but that's it.”

He blinked, just once, and then nodded. “Ah see,” he murmured, something calculating in his gaze. “Good thing she asked first then, aye?”

“I suppose,” you said slowly, eyeing him. You weren't sure you liked that look. “What brought you over, by the way?”

“Oh, that.” He reclined again, arms spread along the back of the couch. “We'll be goin’ on a supply run. Wanted ta see if there's anything ye need.”

You shook your head. “No, I've got things, I'm fine.”

“Ye sure? We find all kinds ‘a things,” he wheedled, leaning a little closer to you.

You just shrugged, because you couldn't think of anything you needed, except yarn. And that was a long shot. Better to ask for nothing, so you wouldn't be disappointed. “I'm okay.”

Johnny looked like he wanted to argue more with you, but the back door opened and the other three came in. So he simply sighed through his nose and stood, offering you a hand up.

Dinner was lively with the two additional people. It helped that Gaz and Johnny played off each other beautifully, keeping the entire table entertained.

After dinner, Johnny pulled you out front with him while Gaz was still chatting with his parents.

“Gotta be somethin’ you want,” Johnny wheedled, still holding your hand from when he'd pulled you out the door. You didn't mind, heart fluttering at the gentle press of his thumb against the back of your hand.

Your lips twisted and you looked down at your linked hands. “It doesn't matter what I want.”

“Course it does.” Johnny leaned closer, tugging your hand gently to pull you in closer. “Anythin’ ye want, promise ah'll find it for ye.”

Your lips parted at the sincerity in those blue eyes, mouth going dry at the promise.

But you didn't have a chance to respond. Gaz stepped out the door and nodded to you.

That was enough for you to smile and pull back, shielding yourself again. “Stay safe,” you said instead of giving him anything else. “Come back bite-free or I'll be very upset.”

Far from being deterred, Johnny's head tipped, gaze laser-focused on you. “That what ye want?” He asked softly but no less intense.

“Yes.” You met his gaze and didn't back down this time, briefly squeezing his hand.

He nodded decisively, a brilliant smile breaking like sunlight across his face. “See ye in a few days,” he promised. He darted forward to press a kiss to your cheek, warm and fleeting, before he walked away. Gaz grinned at you, eyes warm, before he jogged after Johnny.

You pressed a hand to your cheek and tried to deny the warmth blossoming in your chest.

It didn't work.

You spent the next five days thinking about him in between your work. Chopping wood? You wondered where Johnny was, how far they'd traveled. Knitting? You hoped they were staying safe and avoiding the infected as much as possible.

You couldn't deny that you wanted him to come back safely. You wanted to see him.

Even if you couldn't yet admit to yourself why.

The fifth night, someone new came over for dinner. She introduced herself as Kyle's partner. (It took you an embarrassingly long time to realize she meant Gaz.)

The best part was that she brought fresh bread and cookies with her. The cookies were the best you'd tasted, and you told her as much.

You walked her outside, shivering briefly at the chill in the air.

“They're fine, you know.”

“Hmm?” You blinked at her, half-turning to her.

“I worried the first few times they went out, too.” Her smile was soft and a little embarrassed. “I still worry, honestly. But they take care of each other.”

You nodded slowly, though you eyed her curiously. “Why are you telling me this?”

She rolled her eyes at you. “Oh, come on. We both know you're worrying about Johnny.”

“I'm not–! I mean, not that much.” You floundered for a moment, looking away even as your heart stuttered in your chest.

She clucked her tongue. “Honestly, you're not really fooling anyone,” she chided gently. “You care for him, we can see that much. And he's a good man, he deserves someone to fuss over him.”

You huffed. “He's sweet,” you muttered, still looking away. “And he's a good friend.”

She laughed, stepping forward and patting your shoulder. “Keep telling yourself that,” she said with a cheeky grin and a wink. “Get back inside before you freeze. I'll see you soon.”

“Stay warm,” you replied, stuffing your hands in your pockets and watching her take the first few steps away. Only when you saw her flashlight beam moving steadily away did you go back inside.

You tossed and turned all night, unable to stop thinking about your conversation with her. Were you really so transparent about your feelings? Your… regard?

Just thinking that made you feel too much like a Victorian novelist. You snorted and rolled over to your other side.

Clearly, you were not as subtle as you thought. You smothered your groan in your pillow. It was fine. It would be fine.

It had to be fine.

You delivered the two completed scarves by midday the next day, taking more fresh bread back with you, with the promise of some kind of sausage to come.

Idly, you kicked a rock down the dirt road, debating what else you could do. You could make a few more hats - probably one each for the MacTavishes, to make sure they stayed warm enough. Beyond that? You'd have to wait and see.

“Bonnie!” The cheerful call yanked you from your thoughts, and you blinked a few times as your gaze focused on Johnny. Hole and hale and safe, standing in the doorway. He positively beamed at you as he jogged the distance to you.

“You're back.” You blinked at him once more, your brain still rebooting a little, even as your heart fluttered and swooped.

“Aye, safe n’ sound, as promised.” He stopped in front of you, taking one of your hands in his. “Are ye busy?”

“Right now? No.”

“Good.” Johnny wasted no time in pulling you along with him, ignoring your little yelp. You gave in, laughing a little, and let him tug you back to the other house. He chattered the entire walk, telling you about where they'd been, some of the things they'd seen. It was comforting, having him near, holding your hand, talking your ear off.

You had a brief glimpse of the others in the kitchen, mugs on the table, supplies scattered around in various stages of packing or unpacking. But Johnny didn't give you time to do more than wave with your free hand before he was tugging you up the stairs.

“Johnny,” you half-protested, laughing a little. “What are you doing?”

“Ye'll see.” He let go of you only to put a hand in front of you. “Closer yer eyes.”

“What?” You blinked at him, startled.

“Eyes closed.” He wiggled his fingers at your face height.

With a huff, you gave in, closing your eyes. The door clicked as it opened, and for a moment you stood with no indication of what was going on.

“Gonna guide ye forward,” Johnny murmured just before one big hand landed on your shoulder, the other taking your hand again. You moved cautiously, hand holding tight to his, uncertain but willing to trust him. But he guided you true - you didn't so much as bump into anything.

“Okay,” he murmured, keeping hold of your hand. “Open yer eyes.”

You opened your eyes and gasped. The entire bed was covered in yarn. Skeins, balls, balled remnants, in all colors and sizes. It was more yarn than you'd seen in ages. “This is… incredible.”

“Ah found more, but Price wouldnae let me fill the car with yarn.” Johnny shrugged when you looked at him, his cheeks pink, even as he continued talking. “But is close enough we could get the rest another time, aye?”

You stared at the yarn for a moment longer, and then turned your gaze to Johnny. He'd brought all of this back. For you. Just for you.

You tugged your hand free, but only so you could cup his cheeks, cutting off his nervous rambling. You kissed him.

Johnny made a noise, something startled that you thought of as a squeak. And then he was kissing you back, eager hands cupping the back of your head and your back, pulling you in closer.

When the two of you parted, neither of you went far, both of your lips shiny.

“Thank you,” you whispered to him, fingers scratching through the longer hairs at the back of his head. “For all of this.”

Johnny just smiled, bright and besotted and incandescently happy, and kissed you again.

#soapitup #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x you #f!reader

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lovehypegirl · 1 month

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CHILD OF THE DARK KNIGHT HERO

synopsis: Master Diluc and the one who's learned his trade pairing: platonic!diluc x gn!reader, slight angst to lots of fluff notes: reader has a Vision at one point, may be ooc wc: 0.4K warnings.ᐟ slightly dark at the beginning, mentions of kidnapping, child neglect and abandonment, child labor and human trafficking

✦ As a child, your mother had abandoned you and your father was never present

✦ Inevitably she found a way to get rid of you by leaving you in the woods and 'promising' that she'd some back - which she never did

✦ Eventually, the Treasure Hoarders snatched you off the side of the road and brought you to their camp and forced you to work

✦ They made you carry their heavy stuff or work with the miners

✦ Soon, there were some 'dirty' Fatui who were doing more than patrolling the area, they were buying children for labor...and you were one of them

✦ You had managed to get out of the establishment and run far off and out of their clutches

✦ When Diluc was returning from a business venture, he found you hidden behind a large tree

✦ He coaxed you into his carriage to bring you to his home. It took quite a while but he didn't give up on you

✦ It took forever for you to allow the maids to clean you up but Diluc told them to follow your pace and flow

✦ The maids were happy to do so since Diluc had no children and they were excited to care for a cute little kid

✦ You received your own room and your meals were brought to you until your injuries healed

✦ Diluc made sure that you received the best clothes made from the best fabrics, the most nourishing food, and he always gave you a hot water bottle that was wrapped in a thick cable knit yarn to ensure you were warm when you slept

✦ After a while, you were well enough to wander around the manor, Diluc stayed out of his office more to make sure that you would feel safe in his home

✦ Sometimes he would leave for a long period of time but he would always come back with lots and lots of gifts - he loves to spoil you, he feels as if you deserve such treatment

✦ It took about a year for you to warm up to him but it happened and after your child brain had gone through, he understood that all you needed was the reassurance that he would protect you

✦ You began to get closer to him and would join him in his office at times, you ate meals with him, and would follow him around in the vineyards

✦ He would sit at your bedside and read you stories after he tucks you into bed

✦ A few times as a child you've climbed into his bed to hide from nightmares and he always welcomed you

✦ He had no problem playing dress up and would gladly be the princess

✦ As you grew, he hired the best private tutors to teach you and give you the best possible education that any child in Mondstat could receive

✦ After you saw him practicing with his claymore in the training grounds, you pestered him to teach you how to use the same type of weapon

✦ At first he was unsure given your weak state but you followed him around for two months with a promise to be careful

✦ This spiraled into you wanting to become a knight and he was a little hesitant due to the possible influence from Kaeya but he agreed and thus began your training

✦ On a side note, your education began to turn to commerce, economy, and business

✦ Since, y'know, he planned to have you inherit the winery

✦ You had begun to join him on charity events in the other nations, galas/balls, business meetings and the like

✦ He tries to keep you away from Kaeya's antics but that didn't work out when Kaeya tried to give you a sip of wine at the dinner table

✦ On the topic of Kaeya he loves you

✦ He brings you to Mondstat with him with Diluc is busy (much to Diluc's chagrin)

✦ With Diluc's guidance, you graduated at the top of your class as a knight and was inducted straight into the Calvary

✦He was so proud of you when you received your Vision

✦ He slowly begins to pass his work onto you to prepare you to take control of the winery

✦ He gives you a position at Angel's Share as a bartender when you become a teenager

✦ Kaeya always gives you a very generous tip when he comes to the tavern. He's tipping 80% instead of 20%

✦ Weekend evenings are spent in the fields surrounding Dawn Winery having picnics or on the water behind the manor

✦ He teaches you how to mix simple drinks and pats your head when you get it right

✦ Additionally, he lets you braid his hair while he does his work

✦ Just you standing on a chair behind him with his hair full of clips and braids

✦ There are little touches of you all around the manor - the portrait of you and him that hangs above the mantle in the sitting room, the vases of flowers that you picked on your adventures outside, the books that now occupy once empty surfaces, a smaller jacket next to his by the front door, the stuffed toys that are sometimes left in the sitting room on accident, and wooden swords that are left by the stairs or in the hallway

✦ Compared to when he first found you, it's like you're a family now

✦ He really did raise you well

#hypegirlwhispers #genshin impact x reader #platonic genshin impact #genshin x reader #platonic genshin x reader #diluc #diluc x reader #platonic diluc #platonic diluc x reader #genshin #genshin impact

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batmanrogues-scenarios · 6 months

Note

How about some road trip headcanons for Riddler, Harley Quinn, Anarky and Mad Hatter?

Road Trip

Riddler

He's the guy who refuses to use map when GPS takes you into weird directions.

"Everything is fine, I created it."

Refuses to ask for directions.

Very peculiar about stopping in between the destination because he doesn't want to waste time on something boring.

Absolutely asks S/O riddles during the ride and S/O does the same. Also some fun facts.

If something happens to the car, he might know how to fix it but I hope it's not tire. It will take an hour with his strength.

Harley Quinn

Most chaotic trip you have ever experienced.

She back whatever she thinks will be fun to in the meantime of driving, like bazooka, board games. If she sees yellow car S/O should be ready for a punch.

Her hyenas are going with her, there's no discussion. Unless it's a romantic trip, then maybe she leaves them with Ivy.

Radio is on full blast and there will be singing.

Pretty fun experience.

Arkham! Anarky

He wasn't outside of Gotham really so it's pretty exciting.

Makes preparation, so nothing if forgotten. Water, food, something for entertainment.

He doesn't have a license to drive, so either S/O drives or they're hiding from cops.

Honesty, he's calmer now that out of Gotham where crime isn't committed all the time. But also sour. Why can't Gotham be like this?

When he comes back, he is even more fired up about cleaning the city.

Mad Hatter

So happy! He probably brings more than needed and S/O has to clean it.

"Of course we need tea set! What if we got thristy?

Cannot sleep noght before so S/O drives the car first while she sleeps in backseat. At least he brought pillows.

Definitely talks through the ride about whatever topics got into his head.

Might listen to podcasts if his voice throat gets tired.

He sees biggest ball of yarn advertised? He stops and gets a photo there. A dinner? Food would be nice.

If S/O doesn't stop him the trip is gonna take longer than they thought.

But it's never gonna be boring. And the memories from photos will remind them off that.

#riddler x reader #mad hatter x reader #edward nygma x reader #jervis tetch x reader #arkham anarky #harley quinn x reader #harleen quinzel x reader #500 milestone #500 prompts

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stevieschrodinger · 6 months

Text

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Eddie's working on a practice square when he hears nocking on the trailer door. Wayne's home, so he doesn't move to get it.

He does move when he hears Steve's voice though.

He hides in his doorway at the end of the hall, listening as Steve introduces himself. Wayne invites Steve in, and Eddie shuts the door nearly closed, just in case. "Respectfully sir, I have come to ask for Eddie's next heat."

Well. That's very traditional. Nice even, that Steve's taking the time to ask. What's even nicer is that he asked Eddie first. Steve could have just gone around Eddie and asked Wayne regardless, but he hasn't.

Eddie knows Wayne wouldn't actually force him, but in Wayne's mind, Eddie spending his next heat with an Alpha could be life or death, so he isn't even slightly surprised when he hears Wayne agree. Eddie shuts the door and sits back on his bed, fiddling with his yarn, trying to make it as obvious as possible that he hasn't moved at all. Wayne knocks on his door not two minutes after, "Eds, Steve's here."

Eddie slips off the bed and follows Wayne into the lounge, Steve standing near the door waiting. He has a bag in his hand which he immediately hands to Eddie, and then steps in closer before Eddie can even look inside, "can I see how you're doing?" Steve asks quietly, and Eddie's head is tilting before he consciously makes the decision to let Steve in. His breath is warm on Eddie's skin where he's dragging air across his tongue, not actually touching anywhere but still, fucking close. "I should pick you up tomorrow." Steve tells him, stepping away, Eddie can't help rubbing his neck where it feels cold without Steve.

"That soon?". Eddie hasn't been in touch with his body or his Omega for a long time, but hearing it from Steve is surprising.

"You can't feel it?"

Eddie just shakes his head, and Steve frowns, clearly concerned, "tomorrow. You'll feel better, after, promise."

Eddie agrees, and Steve leaves. Eddie finds himself staring at the closed door when Wayne's voice makes him jump, "seems like a good lad."

"You'd think Hitler was a good lad if he agreed to fuck me," Eddie answers, absently.

"Maybe, but Hitler ain't here and he hasn't brought you a bag of heat gifts, so."

Eddie had forgotten he was even holding the bag, he takes it back to his room, hoarding his treasure like a little squirrel.

There's another ball of yarn. Eddie holds it for ages before forcing himself to put it down.

Fancy shower soap and hair treatment things. All scentless. Chocolates, nice ones. Fruit.

Chamomile tea.

It's a perfect day in a bag. At least Eddie imagines that's what it is. What Omega with Alphas spend the day before their heat doing. Relaxing. Eating. Taking care of themselves.

Eddie decides in that moment to just embrace it; Wayne watches him knowingly while he makes himself a cup of tea.

Part Four

#eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington #steddie #ao3 writer #alpha steve harrington #omega eddie because he's so pretty

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catnaplovesnaptime · 3 months

Text

Hihi!

This is a roleplay blog for CatNap from Poppy Playtime :3

I saw my s/o make a poppy playtime blog so why not?

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Facts about my version of CatNap!

• He has autism

• He doesn't really talk much, unless he's around his friends

• He's Bisexual and Asexual

• He's Nonbinary

• He goes by He/Him and They/Them pronouns

• He's dating both Bobby Bearhug and DogDay

• He can be rather protective over his friends

• He likes to play with balls of yarn :3

• He sleeps for almost the entire day

• He likes to hide in places like in trees, or in high up places in the factory.

• He's ticklish

• He may or may not have trauma-

• Very stubborn, doesn't really want to open up to people cause he can't really explain how he feels sometimes.

Trigger warnings under the cut

This blog will sometimes contain things like depression, self doubt, mental breakdowns, panic attacks, violence, swearing, mental health issues, and other stuff. Please look away if any of this triggers you.

Some official Catnap art :)

That's everything! Thank you for visiting my blog! ^^

Other smiling critters blogs. Go check them out!

Bobby: @bobbybearhugs-blog and @bearhugs-from-bobby

Hoppy: @hoppyhopscotch1

DogDay: @that-sunny-pup (big and small), @dogday-shines-bright

Kickin': @the-cool-chicken @kickinchicken-thecoolkid

Bubba: @bubba-bubbaphant

Picky: @picky-and-corrupted-picky

Crafty: @the-crafty-unicorn

Peggysis: @peggysiswritingcorner (:O)

Bigger CatNap: @acat-foryournap

Okay bye :p

#mod talks #poppy playtime #poppy playtime chapter 3 #poppy playtime catnap #sfw tk community #poppy playtime roleplay blog

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arachine · 2 years

Text

– 𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

+ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x hybrid! fem! reader

+ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: mature

+ 𝐜𝐰: dark content, hybrid!reader, reader w/ oral fixation, oral sex (m receiving), very tame face fucking, mentions of gagging & choking, female masturbation, cum swallowing, dacryphilia (kinda), biting, bunting (basically when cats mark you with their scent), explicit language, a little angsty but i swear i didn’t mean to !!

+ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was a request for kitty!reader having an oral fixation and how’d they prevent it but i got carried away and did my own thing…sorry (not really) + everyone pls thank my sweet baby angel @cocoamoonmalfoy for beta’ing this for me !! this shit was hot garbage before lol :3

+ 𝐰𝐜: 3.5k

+ 𝐝𝐭: my lovelies @snowflakeicicles @ringpop-poppy

trying to control your oral fixation was probably the most difficult thing they ever had to endure in their lives—apart from, you know, saving the world from man-eating monsters, battling evil scientists, and fighting crazy russians—but they still somehow managed to lessen the severity of it.

at first, when it was really bad, you’d nip at almost everything. clothes, shoes, the legs of a table, hands—fingers, especially fingers. those were your favorite to play with. it had gotten to the point where their hands would be absolutely littered in cuts and scratches, and it had become quite troublesome having to explain to their parents how they had gotten them.

so, that’s when they took it upon themselves to invest in some toys. they tried feathers, stuffed animals, fake mice, lasers, balls of yarn—but nothing seemed to ever work. eventually, they’d settle on just indulging you, coming up with more lies, more excuses, more nonsense to silence their parents’ ever-growing curiosity.

“you’re trouble, you know that?” mike scolds, running his fingers over your silky coat. you merely purr in response, the tip of your tail swaying side to side as you continue to suck, bite, and rough up his digits.

“thank god it’s steve’s turn tonight,” he throws his head back against the couch, “because i don’t think my hands can take anymore of this torture.”

“yeah, my mom thinks i’m getting into fights,” dustin pipes, “i mean come on, look at this face. does this look like the kinda face to be getting into fights?”

that’s right, it was steve’s turn today. your favorite chew toy, how could you forget? your mind wanders back to the last time you stayed at his house. how you’d played, slept, cuddled—kissed…and how he’d let you nip and suck on other places, too. just thinking about it was enough to trigger your human form, skin and flesh appearing in mike’s lap.

“mike, mike, when will steve be here!?” you beam, pouncing on his chest. unintentionally, you pierces him with the tip of your claws, the excitement of seeing steve rendering your brain to complete and utter mush.

“jesus, you just poked me,” the boy rubs his chest, “and why are you so excited to see him anyway?” there’s a beat. silence. it was a simple question, actually. could be answered with a ‘no reason’ or a ‘just excited ’s all’—but you choke, and mike finds this strange. odd. he takes notice of the way you avoid meeting his eyes, a tell-tale sign that you were hiding something, but before he can ask about it, heavy feet make their way down the stairs.

“hey, guys.” everyone averts their attention to where the voice is coming from, a chorus of tepid ‘hey’s filling the room.

there it was, that familiar scent. the one that belonged to…

“steve!” you leap from mike’s lap to embrace the brunet, wrapping the length of your legs around his torso. his hands settle on the curve of your lower back, and he smooths over the area soothingly, a soft expression gracing his face.

“ready to go?” you nod enthusiastically, ears shooting up with a quick flutter.

“alright, you know the drill,” steve points to his backpack, gesturing for you to transform and slip inside.

the drive to steve’s is quiet. and it’s even quieter as the two of you trek and traverse through the house and up the stairs to his room. the only time there’s anything but silence is when steve utters a ‘watch your step’, followed by the eerie sound of the wooden floorboards creaking and cracking under weight.

“just us?” you query, falling into step behind him as you enter his bedroom. the door creates a faint draft, and immediately, your nose is flooded with his scent—it’s strong, intense, pleasant. you can smell him everywhere.

“yeahhh, just us.”

nobody’s home, just like all the other times. you never really poked or prodded, but kind of gathered that this wasn’t unusual for him growing up. coming to his house was always a drastic change in environment, it was just so much different than all the others—which was probably because they were kids, and had siblings of their own, and parents who liked them. silence and tranquility was not something they had the privilege of knowing.

steve didn’t mind it, though. actually, he preferred it. with his dad frequently away for work, and his mother accompanying him, it more often than not, left him with an empty house—an empty house that provided him ample opportunity to do whatever the hell he wanted…which sometimes allowed for drinking, throwing parties, and well, bringing home girls. but more specifically, bringing home you.

“blew out the main light, so it’s a little dark in here, sorry about that,” his fingers point up. he ambles over to his desk to turn on the lamp sitting atop it. it’s tiny and only illuminates a portion of the room, but it’s enough to just barely make out the wanes and curves of his face.

your eyes follow him intently as he moves from one corner of the room to another, a piece of his uniform falling to the floor with every step, creating a trail towards his dresser. he’d always changed in front of you, never thought anything about it. and you never thought anything about it either—that is, until recently.

steve had always been just steve. the one who doted on you, the one who tended to your wounds, the one who dedicated almost (if not all) of his time to ensure that you were well and taken care of. but now? now it was different, and you couldn’t quite articulate why.

bare skin was just skin, and limbs were just limbs, but the sight of steve’s chest and abdomen perfectly outlined by the golden dim of the light, was making your stomach all knotted up. it felt like the feeling you got when you played with the others; when you laughed, and cuddled, and kissed them—but it was more intense, scary. in the way that you’d hoped he only ever did this with you—and no one else.

“what is it?” he raises a suspicious brow. you don’t answer. instead, you let your feet trudge across the carpeted floor until you stand in front of him, until you’re so close, he can feel the heat of your breath fan his face.

you stand there, studying him, trailing your claws lightly over the places his abs concave and dip. he doesn’t know what you’re doing at first, just gazes down to where you stand before him, a look of perplexity etched into the crinkles between his brows.

your hand wanders lower, and the boy releases a deep exhale through his nose. you can hear the pace of his heart quicken as you run your fingers through the trail of hair that starts at his navel and disappears under his briefs. experimentally, you ghost your hand over the bulge in his underwear, looking up to him with inquisitive eyes before placing a firm palm on his front.

he swallows thickly this time, holds the spit in the cavity of his throat, and it burns as it trickles down. you had not the slightest clue what you did to him—the effect you had on people. he wonders if you think this is a game, if the things you do when you’re alone are fully of your own volition—if you actually feel the way he does. and you have to, right? a part of him wants to believe it, that your heart beats for him the way his does for you.

“stevie…” his heart squeezes, and his eyes soften. god, you were the very incarnation of calamity, the thing that started wars and killed many a men.

“yeah?” his voice is breathy, wanting. his eyes flicker across the expanse of your face, stopping briefly to glance down at your lips, then back up to your eyes.

letting your impatience guide you, you pull him down by the shoulders and kiss him. it’s unrhythmic, inexperienced, and wet but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he melts into it. lets you explore his mouth, and peck at the plush of his lips. lets you taste him with your tongue, and run your teeth over the crevice of his neck, watching with bated breath as you go down, down, down…

“slow down there, kitty,” steve jests, “what’s the rush?”

what’s the rush? doesn’t he know that you waited all day for him? to play with him, touch him—taste him? to see him twitch and writhe as you work him with your hands, tongue, and mouth? to hear him call you a good girl—his pretty girl?

“been waiting for you all day, stevie,” you confess, rubbing your cheek against his crotch. it’s so warm, you can practically feel the heat seeping through the fabric of his briefs, and the groan that emits from his throat makes your ears flutter. you wanna hear it again, and again, and...

“all day, hm?”

“all day, everyday. you’re all i think about,” your hands find the elastic of his briefs, “my favorite chew toy.”

steve scoffs at this, because of fucking course. how could he ever be so stupid to believe that you felt the same way he did? he has half a mind to pull you off of him and let all of this, whatever this was, end here. but the other half wants to continue, wants to see the tears stream from your eyes and coalesce at the base of your chin because he’s too big—too much. he wants to be selfish, wants to hear the sounds you make when you choke and gag around the thickness of his cock, feelings be damned.

“figured as much…hey, we should—you should stop,” his hand reaches to push you away but your tail wraps around his wrist, halting his movements.

“no!” a beat. a transient silence that feels almost deafening, just eyes staring back into eyes, hearts thumping unruly. he’s taken aback by your outburst, doesn’t seem to catch the glass-like droplet ribboning down the fat of your cheek.

your eyes depart from his face and fix themselves on the floor, ears following not too far behind with a sad flop. he only picks up on your dejection when you open your mouth to speak and the words come out in a tremble.

“’s not like that…you…you’re different. this is different,” you confess, “you make my stomach feel fuzzy and my head all dizzy! ’s not like that with the others…” the brunet doesn’t know what to say; actually, he does, he’d been fantasizing about this day for as long as he could remember, but the words leave him the second you tilt your head up jut those pretty little lips. he wants to kiss the pout off of you.

“really?”

“mhm, you’re special t’me, stevie. i wanna show you.” your fingers hook under the elastic of his underwear, and you pull it down teasingly, eyeing him as you take the flesh into your hand. “can i…?”

“fuck, yeah, yeah. ’s all yours.”

with a purr, you lean forward and leave a soft kiss on the tip of his cock, flicking your tongue over the spot before taking him into the heat of your mouth. you love this, you think. love seeing the expressions you can pull from him, love seeing how pliant he becomes in the palm of your hand, and the honey sweet praises he mutters only for you. it makes you feel useful, to be able to make him feel good, and take care of him like all the countless times he’s taken care of you.

you’d been waiting to hear these sounds all week, the sharp intakes of breath, the heavy breathing, the drawn groans and expletives. so much so, that you’d find your hands wandering down into your pajama shorts many a nights, thoughts of the boy before you, and how it’d feel for his hands, mouth, fingers to be on you—and how it’d feel for his fingers to stuff your little cunt full.

yeah, you’d spent many nights like that in the dark of mike’s basement, sweaty and fucked out as you brought yourself to climax over, and over, and over. the thought alone had your panties sodden with slick, and you could feel it begin to pool and settle. you were so unbearably wet, so touch-starved, you needed to feel some sort of relief. and right now, your hand was the closest thing to provide that.

steve watches with wide eyes as your fingers dip down the waistband of your skirt, and into the confines of your panties. the tips of your digits roll the nub of flesh first, then gather at your core before sheathing themselves inside. a series of moans vacate your throat and vibrate around him, coaxing him to press a firm hand to the back of your head. teasingly, you do it again, humming beguilingly to get him to replicate the reaction.

“shit,” he drawls, placing emphasis on the ’t’, “feels so good, kitty.” your tail wiggles in response to the honest adulation, and so, you take him deeper, using the back of his thighs to force yourself down.

he’s big. thick. and the stretch that comes along with taking him in your mouth is always a plaguing reminder. but you don’t mind it too much, you like when he’s all deep down there, and you can feel the tip of him hot and heavy in the back of your throat. it always makes you gag, and choke, and sometimes your eyes get too cloudy with tears to the point you can’t see, but it’s worth it. it’s worth it because every time, without fail, he calls you—

“good girl.” that. he calls you that. his ‘good girl’, not ‘kitty’ or ‘good kitty’—but girl. makes you feel all high and mighty, like you’re one of the others, like he sees you as something else other than just a hybrid that he’s been saddled with the burden of caring for. you know he loves you, at least you think he does. he hasn’t right out said it, but judging by his disposition earlier, you couldn’t be too far off.

you keep your nose pressed into the skin of his pelvis until you physically can’t, pulling off of him with a loud pop. your cheek is wet with tears, and your chin is slick with spit, the two coalescing at the apex into a sticky mess.

the sight makes him twitch in your hand, because this is what he’s been thinking about all day. this was his selfish wish, to see you below him with this expression. eyes all doe-eyed and desperate, hands still working yourself to orgasm. he can’t help but to reach out and rub the callused pad of his thumb over your parting lips, pressing the salty digit flat against your tongue, and retreating it in the same breath to hook it around your cheek. he adores you.

“i lo—“ a pause, hesitance. your ears perk up. “you’re so pretty, y'know that?”

oh. you feel like a dagger dipped in poison just punctured your heart and cut it into smithereens. it hurts, terribly so, but you brush the disappointment off of your face before he can notice and reacquaint yourself with his cock, stroking the length of him languidly, then increasing your pace, going back and forth between the two speeds.

even if he doesn’t say it, those three silly words, the ones you so desperately want him to say—to you and no one else—you think you’ll be fine. all you care about in the moment is making him feel good, making sure that your spot as his girl, his good girl, is solidified and impenetrable. that when another girl goes down on him, they taste you. smell you.

“wanna taste you, mmf. gimme something, stevie.” your eyes flicker up to his, hand still pumping slowly inside your kitten cunt, jaw slack and waiting. fuck, you were so unbelievable. such a sweet little thing, but if he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were one of those high school sluts he brought in and out of here during his ‘king of hawkins’ phase.

“jesus, lemme use ya,” he hisses, hands already coming down to rest on the sides of your head. “can i?” you nod your head, relaxing the column of your throat so that he can slip in and out with ease. the first thrust is experimental, slow. like he’s testing the waters. then, he does it again, pulls all the way out until only the mushroomy head of his cock is sheathed inside.

all you can do is kneel there, breathe in and out through your nose while he builds up a steady rhythm. he decides now that he’s never gonna fuck another girl after you. because how could he? you were his, mouth molded only for him. heart beating only for him.

nothing or nobody could ever compare after you, and he wishes he could boast to the world about how good you are for him, and how much he loves you, but he could never do that, not without consequences. he wants to keep you all to himself, away from evil, and anyone who’d ever inflict harm onto you.

a string of profanities leave his lips. he’s close, and you can tell by the way he begins to fuck into your face with unparalleled ferocity. to guide him there, you begin to hollow your cheeks and narrow your throat, using a single hand to massage and pet his balls.

yeah, he was gonna cum, could practically feel the white hot liquid traveling up from his balls and to his shaft. he can feel you start to get antsy, and when you start to scratch and claw at his thighs for air, that does it for him. with a final, lazy thrust, he releases the entirety of his load down your throat, keeping you pressed down on him until he’s sure every last drop has been emptied into your mouth.

you push off of him so that you can swallow it down properly. it’s thick, and much warmer than what you can remember from last time, but swallow it. and when you do, a proud, cheshire grin creeps onto your face. before you stand up, you kiss the inside of his thigh, then bite down onto it, leaving a mark. a reminder.

“i love you.” steve’s mouth moves on its own accord. and at first, he’s not even sure if he said it, but then he sees your little ears flutter, signaling that you did, in fact, hear his untimely confession of love. panic starts to set in, but then you rise from your knees and pounce on him, the two of you stumbling back into his unmade bed.

“say it again, stevie,” the pupils of your eyes widen into saucers, tail swaying side to side as you hold your breath in pure, unfettered anticipation.

“i love you, kitty. and not in that way.” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “…in the way that nance and jonathan love each other, and hopper and joyce. understand?”

your lips part to speak, to reciprocate his feelings, but your excitement is so uncontrollable that you end up biting down into his shoulder. the boy soothes the affliction and mouths an ow before breaking into a fit of laughter.

“not sure what to make of that, is it something good?” steve smirks coyly.

“yeah, ’s good,” your head finds solace in the barrow of his neck. “i…i love you, too. always have. meant it when i said you’re special to me, stevie.”

for a brief second, time seems to stand still, and the only way steve knows how to respond is with a kiss. a slow, passionate, sweet kiss that he pours the pining, desperation and patience of two years into, just hoping that you receive the message.

and you do. loud and clear. you rub the skin of your neck against his, and you do it until every last pore on body is touched by your scent. until you can’t smell him from you, and you from him.

“what’re you doing,” he chuckles, encasing you into a bear hug.

“’s nothing, don’t worry about it!” you lie, but he knows. you left your mark. he was yours, and you were his.

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