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chasedbyatlantic · 2 months

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flawless, joel miller

masterlist summary: IN WHICH — joel miller comes to you hurt and in pain, after realizing that you are the only one that he can find peace with - you're there to welcome him with open arms.

warnings: post outbreak!joel, boston qz era!joel, gender neutral!reader, no use of y/n, frenemies to lovers type trope, angsty to fluff, mentions of blood/injuries/death (lightly mentioned), joel being so sappy i love it, swearing, cute ending. lmk if i missed anything!

wordcount: 2.9k

a/n: i hope u love this as much as i do. i've been meaning to write it for a while, and it's a bit of a diff style from my writing but i love how it turned out! make sure to reblog, like, comment and follow for more! xoxo

—

It had to have been three in the morning by now. When Joel said he was going to be at your place by seven, you believed him. He was a man of his word after all - or at least ninety nine percent of the time he was. He had told you this morning that he was heading outside of the walls after his shift at the "graveyard" (the nickname given to where the bodies of infected were burned), and he would be back just after sunset. You had protested to join him on his well-travelled route, but he had forbid you from going with him. Despite not going with him, he had promised to swing by your place once he was back and drop off any goods he may have scavenged while out.

You weren't sure why he wouldn't agree to let you come, it wasn't like he was your father, or brother, or boyfriend - you guys were friends. Sure, the two of you had hooked up every so often, but that gives him no right to make decisions for you, about what you can do or where you can go. It's the zombie apocalypse for Christ sake, you can do what you want when you want.

You had been up for an extra few hours, it was way past the time you would usually be asleep. You were waiting for that knock on the door, you were waiting for the bickers on why you were awake and waiting for his return, you were waiting for Joel. In all honesty, you weren't sure why you were up. Maybe it was the thought in the back of your head that he was dead, or stranded alone somewhere far outside of the walls.

You had to shake those gruesome thoughts out of your head as you were forced up and toward your window, having to close it due to the newly started rain. As soon as the window was shut, the sounds of pitter-patter were echoed through your entire apartment, the only thing it did was put you on edge. He was probably at home, you thought to yourself, thinking it was too late to bother you and that he would see you first thing tomorrow. You could only hope for that.

You had decided it would be best to go and sit down on your sofa, the one in front of the TV that hadn't worked for twenty something years. It wouldn't hurt you if you remained up for the next little bit, just in case. In case there would be a knock on your door, in case he showed up. You took a seat on the well weared in part of the sofa, kicking your shoes off and cuddling up to the blanket covering the arm. It wouldn't hurt you if you stayed up waiting with your eyes shut, would it?

It was a quarter to five when a few sets of knocks went off at your door. You had shot up from the light rest you had fallen into, mentally cursing yourself for not being able to stay up. Was it Joel? You really shouldn't be caring this much about him, or this situation. You were sure it wasn't anything serious, but this is what friends do for each other, right?

You had gotten up as quick as you could, tripping over your shoes and almost face planting on the ground. Without spending any time to worry about it, you moved over to the door. Whoever it was on the other side, Joel or not, mustn’t have heard you make your way over to the door since there was another set of desperate knocks. It felt like an eternity while you undid all four locks, before swinging it open.

Your eyes could only fall into the gaze of the grey ones in front of you. You weren't sure if he was crying, or if the paths under his eyes were extra watery from the torrential downpour happening outside (though, you wouldn't question him about it). Your eyes had scanned over his saddened face, to the puddle of water beneath his shoes. Your hand had automatically found its way to cup his cheek, your thumb running over his skin as gentle as possible, "Fuck, Joel."

You could feel him soften his muscles when you did this, despite his facial expression remaining neutral, "I gotta come in." He had mumbled, just loud enough for you to hear. You had immediately dropped your hand from his face, and moved out of the doorframe, allowing Joel to enter. It was only when the dull light from your candle lit lamp engulfed Joel that you could really see what had happened to him.

A black eye, a busted lip, small bruises littered around every masculine feature he had. You were going to kill whoever did this to him. "I got clothes that'll fit you, hold on." You had turned and shuffled your way into your room, digging through the drawers when you had reached them. You had a pair of black sweatpants that were too big on you, but would most likely fit Joel. Before leaving the room, you swiped a shirt that was laying in the pile of clean clothes off to the side.

You emerged not long after, seeing the barely-clothed man remove his last sock off his right foot. You two were past the point of being embarrassed in front of each other, you had learned to adapt due to the many years spent surviving together. As you walked past Joel, toward the kitchen, you shoved the clothes into his arms. You wanted to give him a little privacy, so he could hold onto his pride, if he managed to have any left.

Making your way into the kitchen, you immediately got out a mug from your tiny mug collection, and turned the gas-powered stove top on. Placing the mug beside the stove, you had brought over a little pot and dumped an entire bottle of water into it. It didn't take long for the water to boil, so once it was done, you immediately put it in the mug labeled "World's Best Boss" and started to scavenge. You hadn't opened the box of tea you were looking for, you wanted to save it for a special occasion. Tonight was special enough, right?

You had found it after a moment of searching, taking a packet out of the box and moving back over to the living room. Your eyes fell on the emptiness of the sofa, the man nowhere to be found. He couldn't have left, you didn't hear the door open or close. Just before you were going to call out for him, he walked out of the darkness (his limp more noticeable than before). "Put the clothes'n y'ur bath tub, didn't want the floor all wet for ya' to clean." His voice was hoarse.

You shot him an almost unapologetic look as you placed the mug down, dropping the tea bag inside. "Stop worryin' 'bout that, now sit down and let me help." For once in his life, Joel Miller kept quiet and did what you told him. You had wished it would be under different circumstances, but a win is a win. "Now," You began, "I know you like coffee, but this was all I could find."

It had to taken Joel a moment before he realized that there was a warm drink waiting for him, his nose too stuffed to have taken in the scent. It had been a while since Joel had something warm to drink, a while since someone's cared enough about him to make him something like that. Even though he despised any sort of drink other than coffee (and water, of course), he would not complain about this. Not now, not ever. He reached forward for the mug, carefully bringing it back to his lap. "Best boss, hm?"

You could only giggle as you were now opposite of Joel, instead of being on the couch, you had pushed it away and were digging on the floor. Months ago, you had figured out there were two layers of wood that divided you and the person who occupied the apartment below you. That space served as a cubby, so you figured why not use it for its purpose? "You're gonna be jumpin' with joy, Joel Miller." He looked puzzled, trying his best to ignore the immense pounding that came from everywhere in his body. That's when he caught glimpse of what you were holding, headache medicine.

Sure, headache medicine was some measly little thing that probably didn't work as well as it used to anymore, not many people would bat an eye at it before the apocalypse. But now, it was gold. People were sentenced to the firing squad if any guard in the QZ found out about medicine that wasn't recorded, since it was so scarce. "Why the fuck do you have that?" Was all Joel could say, forgetting about himself for a moment, and worrying about you. That's what friends do, right?

"For emergencies like this." You had gotten up from the floor, kicking the wooden plank back into its home before moving over to Joel. You had opened the cap, taking out four. Four would send you into the doctors office if you took them before they expired, but since they expired twenty years ago, they only worked half (if you were lucky) of what they usually would. You had reached out for Joel's hand and placed the pills in there, "Drink tea with'em to help them go down easier."

He listened to you, silent for a moment. After he had swallowed the mouthful (literally) of pills, he broke silence. "I don't want you runnin' 'round'n gettin' shit like that." He was referring to the pills, "You know what happens if ya' get caught." How could even talk this much with a busted lip, you thought to yourself. You repeated the 'if ya' get caught' part to him as you slipped away once more into the kitchen.

Joel called your name out a few times as you left, leaning farther back into the couch each time. By you talking to him, he was distracted. Distracted from the crushing headache, the horrible tension that rose to his lips every time words were escaping from his mouth, the pain throughout his body. He would tell you what happened, when you came back, but only if you asked.

You returned with a small bowl and a rag, something to clean up his face (and anywhere under the clothes he may want cleaned). You sat down beside Joel, on the sofa, "Lay down." He looked confused, not really understanding what you had meant. Not wanting to waste anymore time with those open wounds leaking every so often, you grabbed his shoulders and forcefully (yet carefully) brought him down so his head was rested in your lap.

You could tell that it hurt Joel when you did that by the small grunts he had managed to let escape his lips. You didn't mean to hurt him, not at all, but you couldn't deal with any bickering if he decided to start now. "So, Mister Miller," You began, dipping the rag into the bowl, "How did you get your shit rocked so badly?"

He wasn't impressed by the way you put it, shooting you a quick glare, "Runners." Was all he said. Runners? How could runners do this to him? A million thoughts ran through your head, but you quickly cut yourself short. "Are you-" Joel knew what you were asking, was he bit? "No." He responded, a bit too quick, before continuing his short, yet descriptive, story, "Was with a few people ya'dunno, came across Runners out in a building, they all turned on me'n tried to get out." He paused for a moment, "Four'o them plus two runners on me, would've killed 'em myself if the runners didn't get 'em first."

You could tell Joel was hesitant to tell you, thinking you would see him as weak. No, far from that actually. You could only think highly of the man laying in your lap, for he's how you were thriving in this apocalypse. You brought the dampened rag to the gash on his cheek, he jumped as it was alcohol, and not water, "Don't beat yourself up too much for it," Joel flinched at the stinging sensation, "Your secret's safe with me."

Joel had crossed his arms, his hands brushing past your thighs. You felt as if they lingered too long, maybe it wasn't a passing matter. He's comfortable with you, you know that. This is what friends do, right? You had assessed the other wounds on his face, almost all disinfected completely. The bowl of alcohol now having a slight red tone to it.

After a moment, Joel broke the comfortable silence the two of you were in, "I shouldn't have came. Wastin' all y'ur supplies'n all." This didn't impress you, so Joel had earned a slight slap on his shoulder. "Just let me take care of you, god dammit. How many times have you done it for me?" He was silent after that, knowing. Countless times, after roudy street fights for ration cards, Joel had cleaned you up. Cleaned the blood from your face and stitched the deep gashes that would appear. You were only returning the favour, because that's what friends do.

"Plus," You added now, "we can just scavenge more stuff the next time we take a vacation from this place." If you taking out medicine for him didn't piss him off, this sure as hell did. Without thinking, he reached forward and grabbed your wrist, the wrist that was cleaning up his purpled lip. "Ya' ain't goin' out there, not now, not ever." You had shooed his hand off from you, brushing the comment off, "Can't protect me forever, boss. What's a little fun anyway?" You shouldn't have had the playful grin on your face, but you couldn't help yourself.

Joel could only give you an unhappy look, knowing that you couldn't be stopped with it, as much as he might've tried. He wasn't in the mood to fight you, he wasn't ever really in the mood to fight you. Joel had sat up without a warning, almost causing whatever was left in the bowl to go flying. This earned a whack from you.

"Uhm, ow." He muttered, maybe you shouldn't have done that, added to his pain and all. "Gotta get goin', though." He didn't want to say that, you could tell. It was the tone that he said it in. You could only meet his gaze for a moment, "Stay the night." When someone was hurting like this, how could you say no. How could you turn your best friend away, and let him go home, when he wasn't okay?

You weren't expecting Joel to agree to stay, or at least not cave in without any convincing. It was strange, really, he was acting different. It had to have been the drugs that you had given him, you thought to yourself, maybe it had something that made you nicer to the people you're close with.

You had helped the man up, and left the dirty rag on the table. That was tomorrow (well, when you woke up)'s problem. You took his arm and wrapped it around your shoulders, helping him walk better. You would mother him about his limp and legs when he was recovered. Joel was holding onto you as he moved in sync with you to your room.

Once you got there, you had let go of him. He looked at you for a moment, before turning away. "Can ya', uh, help with my shirt?" He asked. You could only nod your head, maybe a bit too quick for your liking. "Yeah, o'course." Then, following what you just agreed to do, you grabbed the hems of the shirt Joel was wearing and helped to slide it off of him. This is what friends do, right?

You tried your best not to stare, you really did, but the marks on his chest pulled you in. After taking a moment longer to let your eyes linger, you pulled away and helped him under the comforter. "I'll take care'o those tomorrow." You had turned to make your way the door, to sleep on the couch, to give Joel as much space as he could. He grabbed your wrist, though, before you were able to get too far from him. "Can you, er, stay?"

Joel wasn't looking at you when he asked that, he was looking anywhere but. You wanted to stay, really did you, but you felt like you couldn't. "Listen, Joel, I want to, bu-" You were cut off by him interrupting you, "Please." Please. Joel Miller doesn't say please. This took you almost by shock, but you tried not to show it. You only nodded your head, and moved over to the other side of the bed.

You could feel Joel watching your every move, but you didn't care at this moment. You removed your pants, but kept your shirt undergarments on. You would call today a day of victories, not for Joel, but for you. He had listened to you so much, and didn't fight it. You wish it was under different circumstances, but a win is a win. You knew he wasn't up to his usual par, but it still counted.

It happened with a blink of an eye. First you were hesitant to get into the bed with him, not wanting any mixed signals to be sent at the current moment, next you were laying right beside him, and his current good arm wrapped around your waist. If Joel was happy, you were happy. The sounds of rain made it better, made it more peaceful for Joel. He could relax, and take his mind off of the pain he was feeling. This is what friends do for each other.

—

flawless, the neighbourhood

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ashwhowrites · 3 months

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Can you please write Older! Eddie x reader, where Eddie presents Reader with Wayne or his friends but they don't trust in reader, but then she proves them wrong, and they're like, she's good for Eddie or something like that? (Maybe Wayne will be more interesting to me personally bc he's Eddie's uncle, but I can completely see the Hellfire Club and Wayne all being like, we don't trust her!)

-🩷

I had most of this written in the beginning of the month but couldn't find the motivation to write the perfect ending. But! I just finished it and hopefully it's an ending that made the story worth it. Thank you for requesting and I hope you enjoy it 🫶🏻

Young girls and trust don't mix

Eddie was in his 40s and struggled to find anyone. He'd been single for years and never found out what falling in love was. He slept around and never had an empty bed, but there wasn't a spark or anything. He was a rockstar and his life was on the road. He prepared to never be tied down.

It was a shock to everyone when Eddie released to the world that he had a girlfriend, and more of a shock when they learned she was in her twenties. The headlines went crazy and girls were filled with envy. The most wanted bachelor was now off the roaster. And when Wayne heard the news, he was immediately concerned.

He wanted Eddie to find a nice girl and have a family. A young girl? Wayne didn't believe she was going to lead him into a marriage. She was too young for that and Wayne feared she was around for the fame and fun.

~~~

"Wayne, I don't want to talk about this again!" Eddie groaned, he sat on the small couch in his tour bus. Y/N's head rested on his lap as she skimmed through a magazine.

"Eddie, I'm just telling you! Dating a girl that young doesn't seem logical. Look into the future, like five years, do you think she'll still be around?"

"Yes," Eddie said without missing a beat.

"Edward, you met her after your show, right? She's a fan and you know how dangerous and manipulative a fangirl can be." Wayne warned. A conversation both men had over and over. Yet, none of it changed Eddie's mind.

"Night Wayne." Eddie sighed and hung up. He took a deep breath to calm his anger and chucked the phone across the bus.

"Still doesn't like me, huh?" Y/N said as she skimmed the magazine, but her eyes looked up to meet his.

She couldn't lie, it pained her that the most important person in Eddie's life didn't have positive thoughts about her. She understood Wayne's worries and she wished she found a way to prove him wrong. She knew she was young, but there wasn't a doubt in her mind that she'd walk down the aisle to Eddie. She wanted his hand in hers forever.

"I just don't get it! I've been with you for almost a year and he still fights me on it. He thinks you are a groupie since you go to all the shows with me."

"I know, babe," Y/N sighed, she sat up and cuddled into his lap. "but! He hasn't met me yet. Your last show is in Hawkins, then we'll have a few months for me to win him over. He might need to meet me to trust me. All he has is tabloids, of course, he's skeptical."

"But why isn't my word good enough?" Eddie groaned, his face in her neck as he breathed in her sweet scent.

"Because only idiots fall in love." She teased as she poked his side. "He just thinks you blinded, love."

"I'm going to make him love you. Just like I do." Eddie promised.

"Maybe not like you do is a good idea." She joked.

"Haha." Eddie faked a laugh as he nibbled at her neck. She giggled and squirmed.

Y/N vowed to make Wayne accept her.

~~~

After a few more days of sold-out shows and arguments over the phone with Wayne, Eddie's show in Hawkins arrived. Eddie was extra nervous about the show since Wayne would be there and Y/N was supposed to be meeting him. Eddie wasn't sure what he'd do if Wayne didn't change his mind about her. He didn't want to break up but he didn't want to live with the pit in his stomach of the two most important people in his life not getting along.

Y/N was focusing on Eddie's eyes as she applied the black eyeliner when Wayne was escorted into the dressing room.

"There the big rockstar!" Wayne joked, Y/N stepped back to allow Eddie to stand up and embrace the older man in a tight hug. She smiled at the moment as both refused to let go first. Y/N knew how important it was for Eddie to have Wayne here. To see him perform after years and years of not making it. Tonight was the first night Wayne would see Eddie as the rockstar he finally was.

Wayne pulled back with a smile, his eyes never looked to the right to see Y/N.

"I can't wait to see ya perform!" Wayne said the anxiety in Eddie's stomach tightened.

"This is the biggest crowd of the tour. I think I might barf." Eddie admitted. He was terrified. He hated coming back to Hawkins, to a town where he was nothing but scum. The rest of the world loved him, but what if home still didn't? What if he went out there and everyone hated him?

"Baby, you will do amazing," Y/N reassured him, her words caused their heads to turn. Both Wayne and Eddie looked at her with two different expressions. Eddie, who looked grateful and soft. Wayne, looked like he wished she didn't speak.

"Wayne, this is my girlfriend, Y/N." Eddie proudly said as he wrapped his arm around her waist. She smiled and held out her hand, Wayne stepped forward and shook it.

"Pleasure to meet you, Sir." She said as their hands released each other.

"Right, so Eddie! Where will I be sitting?"

"Next to my girl," Eddie said with a big smile

Y/N walked silently with Wayne as they were escorted into the front row of the stadium. People screaming as she passed through. She waved and smiled, being as polite as she could. Wayne tried to not roll his eyes as she soaked in the fame. Another thing Wayne was always telling Eddie about.

"So we'll sit and he gets about half an hour to do his vocal exercises then he'll be out," Y/N said, sitting down in the small chair. She tried to ignore how awkward the air felt. She took a minute to look at the crowd, and it truly was the biggest crowd she'd ever seen.

She and Wayne sat in silence as they waited for Eddie to come on. But Y/N couldn't help but notice the clock struck 8, and Eddie still wasn't on the stage. She tried not to worry and figured the stage management was running behind.

She stood up when Eddie's manager came rushing towards her.

"Y/N? Eddie is asking for you." Eddie's manager said as he whispered into her ear, she nodded and turned to Wayne. "I'll be right back!" And raced after his manager. Wayne didn't think twice about standing up and following behind her.

Eddie was panicking. He made the mistake of looking at the crowd, and now he couldn't feel his legs. He sat on the floor, hurdled up, and ate at his fingernails.

"Eds?" He heard Y/N call from outside the door, and she softly knocked. She waited a second before she opened the door, her heart cracked seeing a nervous Eddie huddled on the floor.

"What's wrong?" She asked as she sat on the floor. Eddie didn't speak but moved to be in her arms. It was like their bodies communicated as Eddie began to relax.

"It's okay to be nervous, but trust me, they will love you. They are your fans and here to support you." She encouraged them as she rubbed his hand.

"What if I'm not good enough to be something good in this town," Eddie confessed. He was too ashamed to look up at her and to see Wayne.

"Nonsense. You were always something good. They never learned who you were, because if they did, they'd love you. They'd see how sweet, creative, and funny you are. But this is their chance to treat you the way you always deserved. Go show them what they missed out on."

Wayne watched as Eddie jumped up with a new confidence, the atmosphere of the room lifting as he threw his guitar over his shoulder. He felt ashamed of the way he acted, it was easy to tell Y/N was the best thing that ever happened to Eddie. In a shitty town that only gave him hell and a family that was filled with betrayal. He still managed to find someone to bring his spirits up.

Maybe she deserved more credit than Wayne thought.

Wayne watched as Eddie performed his life. And he couldn't help but embrace the energetic energy Y/N brought. She sang every song, knew every lyric, and danced perfectly to every beat. It was clear that she had every part of his songs memorized. He also noticed how much Eddie looked back to her, his eyes landed on her every few minutes. Then a small smile appeared before his eyes moved on.

There was something really special about the relationship Wayne was seeing, and he knew he accepted it right then and there.

~~~

After the show, Wayne apologized for his actions and words. But Y/N didn't hold it against him. She understood where he came from and was happy to have changed his mind.

Eddie was grateful Wayne gave her the chance because the sight of them getting along was the best thing Eddie got to experience.

Tags!

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#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson request #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff x reader #eddie munson angst x reader #eddie munson fluff #older eddie munson #older eddie munson x female reader #older eddie munson x reader #older rockstar Eddie munson x reader #rockstar eddie munson angst #rockstar! eddie x reader #ashwhowrites

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whumpthemusical · 5 months

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Whump: The Musical Prompts!!

As stated before, this challenge will run from March 1- March 31, 2024. All fandoms are welcome to participate despite it being prompts based off of musicals. Once again, all types of media are allowed. This challenge has the standard "choose one for the day" style, but feel free to do all three prompts if that's what you want to do!! All types of whump are allowed, but please be respectful to your fellow audience members and properly tag it!! Some of these prompts are sensitive, so make sure you warn your readers correctly! There will be an ao3 collection and an FAQ post coming soon, so if you have any further questions or comments about this challenge, feel free to drop me a line. Happy writing, my beautiful ingénues, and enjoy the show :)))

The prompts will be listed under the cut for those who have difficulty reading fonts!!

Cats- Sabotage • Second Chances • "I Can Dream Of The Old Days."

Wicked- Mob Mentality • Propaganda • "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished."

Jesus Christ Superstar- Whipping • Betrayal • "Then I Was Inspired, Now I'm Sad And Tired."

Les Mis- Survivor's Guilt • Failure • "Drink With Me To Days Gone By."

Heathers- Poison • Reluctant Whumper • "Wanna fight for me?"

Newsies- Chronic Pain • Exploitation • "Let 'Em Laugh In My Face, I Don't Care."

The Last Five Years- Infidelity • Gaslighting • "I Will Not Lose Because You Can't WIn."

Hadestown- Deals • Doomed Narrative • "Doubt Comes In."

Sweeney Todd- False Imprisonment • Razors • "Have You Decided It's Safer In Cages?"

Rent- Substance Abuse • Poverty • "Feels Too Much Damn Like Home."

Bare: A Pop Opera- Outing • Religious Trauma • "Please, See Me."

Waitress- Unplanned Pregnancy • Abuse • "She Is Broken And Won't Ask For Help."

Tick Tick Boom- Atychiphobia • Working To Exhaustion • "Is This Real Life?"

Dear Evan Hansen- Deception • Broken Bone • "Words Fail."

West Side Story- Star-Crossed Lovers • Prejudices • "A Boy Who Kills Cannot Love."

Come From Away- Stranded • Aftermath • "Blankets And Bedding And Maybe Some Food."

Spring Awakening- Withheld Information • Suicide • "I Don't Scream, Though I Know It's Wrong."

Hamilton- Hurricane • Dueling • "I Will Kill Your Friends And Family To Remind You Of My Love."

Falsettos- Sickness • Identity Issues • "Death Is Not A Friend."

Into The Woods- Blame • Lost • "Nothing But A Vast Midnight."

The Great Comet- Abduction • Letters • "Did You Love That Bad Man?"

In The Heights- Grief • Homesickness • "I Know That I'm Letting You Down."

Be More Chill- Mind Manipulation • Panic Attack • "Everything About Me Makes Me Want To Die."

Moulin Rouge- Class Differences • Sex Work • "Come What May."

Chicago- Cold Blood • Trial • "He Had It Coming."

Six- Execution • Trauma Bonding • "Playtime's Over."

Ride The Cyclone- Unexpected Tragedy • Forgotten Whumpee • "I Hear The Anguish Of The Street."

The Rocky Horror Show- Obsession • Wrong Place, Wrong Time • "I've Seen Blue Skies Through The Tears."

Nerdy Prudes Must Die- Bullying • Ritual • "Who Will Pray For You?"

Jekyll And Hyde- Duality • Good Vs Evil • "If I Die, You'll Die."

Phantom Of The Opera- Disfiguration • Shunned • "My Power Over You Grows Stronger Yet."

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hillbillyoracle · 3 months

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So you can't get out of bed...

This is a resource list for all those who are having trouble getting out of bed. Whether that's because of injury, disability, or mental health, this collection of resources should help address some of the common pain points I've experienced over the years. Some will require modification if truly bedbound but my hope is this sparks ideas and gives you a place to start.

A warning: this is a *long* post. I went for thoroughness over brevity so people had options where possible.

Food

This video from Sarah McGlory of Adaptive Cleaning details her system.

It is excellent. I have a similar bin to her first in my room for high pain and low mood days. Prioritize high fiber and high protein shelf stable foods. Make sure electrolytes and water are within easy reach.

If grocery trips are too much, it's worth looking into pick up or delivery. In my experience, the delivery services through stores are better than Instacart and the like. The retailer who must not be named also has a great snack selections that hold up pretty well in transit.

Fruit + veggie pouches, baked chips, and RXBars are some of my favorites to keep on hand.

Clean Space

This video from KC Davis of Struggle Care details her "Five Things Tidying Method".

If you can't tidy your whole space, focus on the walkways. Make sure you have a walkway to your bedroom door, to your front door (or other way to leave your house), to the bathroom, and to the kitchen or where you store food.

Another tip from KC Davis - if you're struggling to get your plates back to the kitchen before they stick or attract bugs, get gallon sized plastic bags and seal the plates inside of them. You can always wash and reuse them once you've delivered it safely to your sink or dishwasher. When you're just surviving, it's just as okay to toss them after.

Bonus: This no-mess method of decluttering from Dana K. White is low energy friendly. You can stop whenever and your space is still better.

Hygiene

This post details my care kit that I use.

If you're unable to shower regularly, I'd add in some baby wipes. Yours probably won't look exactly like mine but I hope it can be a jumping off point. If I could only pick two items, it'd be the disposable toothbrushes and a good facial lotion (since it can also be used on the body). If you can't bare to change your clothes, just change your underwear. This helps prevent health issues down the road.

Movement

Arm Workout in Bed: [3 Min] [5 Min] [10 min]

Core Workout in Bed: [3 Min] [5 Min] [10 Min]

Leg Workout in Bed: [3 Min] [5 Min] [10 Min]

Yoga in Bed: [Morning] [Anytime] [Evening]

Stretching: [5 Min] [10 Min]

If you're able to stand + move but not up for leaving your room, then Rick Bhullar's walking workouts are great in a small space.

For a long time, I thought that you could only get exercise by getting dressed in specific clothes and going outside or to a gym. Now I know that there are lots of options for getting a little movement in bed. Even a short 3 min workout a day can help decrease muscle atrophy. Don't let perfect be the enemy of good enough.

Bonus: I also just walk laps around my room/apartment. You don't have to go outside. It can get a little boring sure. But quick 5-10 min walking breaks through out the day add up.

Spirituality

This is ultimately going to be specific to you and your tradition. Even if you are not religious at all taking a moment to think about your bigger picture values is important. Since my core spiritual path is Buddhism, here are some recommendations in that vein. I could not find good links for all of these. I don't necessarily do all of these everyday but I try to do a few.

Three Refuges by Plum Village

The Five Precepts by Access to Insight

The Five Remembrances on Wikipedia

Chanting Om Mani Padme Hum

Chanting Namo'valokiteshvara

Reciting the Heart Sutra

Bonus: A pagan practice I enjoy is reciting the hymns to the planet of the day. Offering water and incense is great but optional. Praying to and thanking ancestors and land spirits is also a great practice.

Alternatives to Social Media

It's easy to get stuck in the black hole of scrolling. It's good to have something enjoyable to pivot to.

Cozy Games

My favorites are Stardew Valley, Wingspan, and Animal Crossing. The first two aren't terribly expensive. A lower cost alternative to Animal Crossing would be Cozy Grove which regularly goes on sale. Sims can be cozy as well - minus any pool shenanigans.

Slowly

This is an app that allows you to send messages but delivers them on a delay based on how far away you are from someone. It makes it fairly easy to find penpals though, as with anything, it can be hit or miss. I've even convinced a few of my irl friends to try it and write them little letters on there. The delay makes receiving them more special. It's a great way to play letter writing rpgs with friends. I'm currently using it to play Grandpa's Farm with my partner.

750 Words

Ever wished you could do morning pages digitally? That's what 750 words started out as being but you can ultimately use it however you want. Some people use it to hit word counts on their writing projects. I'm a fan of using it to brain dump and then micro journal. It does cost a small fee after 30 days but it's by far been worth it to me.

FeederWatch

Getting outside - even if it's just for 5 minutes - once a day is a great goal. But if you can't, take a break and watch one of these feeder streams for a while. Even just seeing images of the outdoors, is calming. I sometime throw this up on one screen while I'm playing a cozy game or doing some non-screen activities.

Screen Breaks

We all know it's important to take screen breaks - but it's extra important to do it when you're in bed and you're screens are a big part of how you spend your day. Below are some of my favorite ways to take a break. 10 minutes every two hours or 20 minutes every three hours can make a big difference.

Postcrossing or writing letters to friends

Solo RPGs - here are some of mine, here's a D&D example

Free adult coloring pages

Read a Book - reading challenge, get personalized recommendations

Play a solitaire card game - there are so damn many now

Walk around for 5-10 minutes, bonus if it's outside.

Volunteer

One of the big feelings that come up for me when I'm mostly in bed is that I feel like a burden to others. Rather than trying to "be productive" I've found it's much better to try to positively contribute to others even if it's in small ways - sending a text to someone remembering/thanking them for something kind they did for me, ordering a little present for someone I know who's had a rough time, sending a card to someone who has a birthday coming up. The little stuff really helps people.

If you don't have many people in your life like that to help or you'd like to help some strangers too here are some other options.

Sigma Phi Eta

This is a 100% online and free greek service org I'm trying to get off the ground. 3 hours of service to become a pledge which count towards the 10 needed to become a member. 10 hours each year to stay active. We maintain an updated list of online/distanced volunteer opportunities as we find them. We have service awards for those who want to go above and beyond. Plus once you're a member you can wear our letters.

We're small right now but if you want a group of people to talk service and grow with - come join us!

Letters Against Isolation

LAI is probably my favorite charity I volunteer for. Volunteers write cards and letters to people in nursing homes, assisted living, and those connected to senior centers through Meals on Wheels and other programs. They're always adding new facilities so the need is always growing. They have facilities in multiple countries they write to and could use people who speak another language especially.

Warm Up America

Mostly for crocheters and knitters - this org accepts donations of all kinds of patterns and distributes them to smaller projects and charities who otherwise wouldn't be able to access these kind of goods at scale. I've made a few things for them - simple hats - and greatly enjoyed the process. Great use for your cheaper acrylic yarns.

7 Cups

I've had a mixed experience with 7 Cups. I really have enjoyed my experiences chatting with people on there but it can be really hit or miss as to whether I feel like I've helped people. There's also the usual people who try to use any chat service for sex. That aside, I still think their training is pretty good and it can feel meaningful when you're able to connect with someone who's not doing so hot.

Checklist

Have you cleaned yourself + changed clothes? [ ]

Have you tended to your spirituality? [ ]

Have you fed yourself? [ ] [ ] [ ]

Have you tended to your space? [ ]

Have you gotten some movement in? [ ]

Have you taken a social media break? [ ] [ ] [ ]

Have you taken a screen break? [ ] [ ] [ ]

Have you volunteered or done something nice for another person? [ ]

#self care #depression #disability #bedbound #harm reduction

512 notes · View notes

carolmunson · 11 months

Text

always something there to remind me (s.h.)

summary: ten years after the sealing of the upside-down, you and your fiance steve head to a cookout to unwind during memorial day weekend. with steve on edge after a rough half sleep full of night terrors, you hope the day can be salvaged by seeing the party and just relaxing, but a violent thunderstorm changes those plans for the worse. pairings: steve x reader, lumax, edancy. heavy on the steddie brotp tho.

tw: 18+ as always. this story deals with themes of mental illness and ptsd, it is only intended for mature audiences. descriptions of ptsd flashbacks, internal and external (please be advised they are dramatizations). partner violence (unintentional). drinking/smoking. discussions of mental illness. very moody steve but very soft steve. features some tense arguments. smut, like, very loving and passionate smut. this relationship is not perfect, it's also a depiction of a moment in time in 1997. the emotional load was very much a woman's job and i personally think steve would be 'too proud' to be 'too soft' about his stuff. so there are parts that seem kind of 'eh' but -- that's just how things were sorta. gif by @kingofscoops

His pill case sounded like a rattle when you took it from the medicine cabinet, taking it into the kitchen where he was shrugging on his freshly ironed polo. The ironing board and hot iron still set up by the counter. The black stone contrasted nicely against your cherry wood cabinets that he installed two summers ago. That was when you both thought he might be getting better: the night terrors were less and less frequent, the flashbacks far and few between, he was less tense, less irritable. Seeking you constantly for soft touches and kisses, any kind of affection he could pull from you he'd take willingly. Two years ago was your two year anniversary -- when he finally told you the real story. Why he had all those scars, why he can't sleep, why he wakes up in a cold sweat crying. Why you'd never been able to figure out which health care company was providing him with so much medication and therapy when he was working part time at the hospital -- it's because it was the FBI.

It was two years ago where they took you to an underground office where they told you everything. Steve sat next to you, gripping your hand so tightly you thought it might break. They reassured over and over that nothing was coming back, that everything was over, but that Steve and his friends will likely never recover emotionally and mentally from what they endured. Four years into things now, you were both his fiance and his nurse. You checked in monthly with his caseworking team, but in these last few months, they've had nothing but shaky reports. You wondered if maybe his mind just isn't as sharp as it used to be -- you both just entered your thirties, maybe things get knocked loose quicker when you've been to hell and back. "Here, honey," you say softly, putting his pill case on the table. He looks at them and sighs, amber eyes lingering on the 'Saturday' section of the pill box. "Let me get you some wa--" "You don't need to give me my pills every day," he says -- it's soft and sharp, "I know I have to take them. I've been takin' them for ten years."

You offer him a tight smile, "I know, Stevie..." You trail off. 'It's important that he feels in control of the situation, a lot of his role when he was in this situation was to protect others. Try not to baby him about it, he might be fragile, but he doesn't like to feel like he is.'

"It's just...I don't want a repeat of last year," you quietly remind him. He had gotten too sure of himself when he started to feel better -- missing days, stopping altogether, off and on.

He reaches for the pill case and pops open the Saturday square, tossing the main five pills into his palm and then into his mouth. Pain, anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, migraine, blood thinner. The heavy stuff sat in the cabinet above the fridge: Quaaludes, Oxycontin, Sumatriptan, Clozapine -- among others. Every day was a reminder to him that he didn't come out of this a stronger person. His dad let him know that at every visit, treating him like he had a son made of glass. "Don't," he says after he swallows, "Don't start with me."

Your eyes narrow in on the finger he puts up in warning and travels down to his big hand, a vein popping in his forearm and under the band of his watch. His bicep flexes against his polo, you follow it across the expanse of his chest and down the other arm, landing back on the pill case.

You knew last night what kind of day it would be this morning. Desperate reaches for you while he woke up from another nightmare, his damp chest up against yours while he hid his face in your neck. He hugs you so tightly to him so he doesn't float away, and you match his strength as best you can until he falls back asleep. Sometimes it takes hours of stroking his hair and soothing him before he feels safe enough to even close his eyes. In the years you've been together, he's been more and more embarrassed over these needier nights. 'It's just, baby -- I'm a man. I have to get over all this shit.'

"I'm not starting anyth--" "You are," he warns, eyes narrowing. He clenches his jaw, "Don't."

"M'sorry," you breath out. You take the pill case when he sets it back down and bring it back upstairs to the main bathroom. You refill the case before placing it back in the medicine cabinet with a sigh. When it closes you look at yourself in the mirror, no longer the fresh 26 year old he met at the hospital admin desk when he started his part time job as an assistant in the children's psych floor. Gaining hours towards getting his pediatric therapist licensure to help kids who were like him and his friends -- well, sort of. To some extent. You smooth over your button down dress, his favorite one in your closet -- navy blue with beige flowers littering the fabric. It flounces over you in dips and swoops, falling just under your knee. Another sigh and you grab your purse from the bedroom and slip on your sandals, clip clopping down the stairs where you hear him grab the keys. Another Saturday morning where the group gets together and just hangs out, even though Steve sees Eddie, Rob, and Dustin pretty often throughout the week. They've been doing it for years now, but the outside buzzed with the promise of summer, Memorial Day weekend making everyone feel more at ease. Everyone except Steve.

He slams the car door when he gets in the drivers seat, making you jump in the leather of his Lexus. He runs his hands over his jean clad thighs, having grown in size over the last six years with age and trips to the gym. 'I just wanna be in like, peak physical condition if anything tries to come back. I wanna be more ready than when I was a kid, y'know?' And while the muscle was certainly titilating, it made for a very wary you when things went left. "Don't be like that, Stevie," you say softly, your voice calm and gentle like it is with patients on the floor, "I promise I wasn't trying to get on your case. Do you -- I don't know, do you wanna just stay home?" "No," he snaps, looking ahead toward the road as he starts the car, "I didn't pack a cooler full of all the shit you made for this cook-out just the stay home." "Can you relax?" you ask a little harsher than you planned, "Are you even good to drive?" "I'm good. To drive," he says through gritted teeth, pulling down the street. "Are you sure? 'Cause -- Honey you -- you didn't sleep so good last night and I --" He hits the breaks hard, stopping short at a stop light turning to look at you, tilting his head a bit to glare at you down the slope of his straight nose.

"Drop it," he says, the tenseness in his voice sends a chill up your spine. "Stevie I'm not trying t --" "Drop. It." he warns again, "Don't make me raise my voice at you." "Don't talk to me like that," you say sharply while he pulls the car forward when the light turns green. "Then don't talk to me like I'm a fucking child," he snaps back. "Well maybe if you didn't have an attitude with me like one I wouldn't have to," you cross your arms over your seat belt and huff. He shakes his head slowly, tongue tight between his teeth. He thought he knew better than to fall in love with someone who had a tongue as sharp as his. "You're askin' for an argument when you say shit like that to me," he says lowly, the Lexus crunching over helicopter seeds while he navigates through the neighborhood. You see his shoulders rise and fall while he attempts to steady himself -- fuse lit and ready to blow. "I'm sorry," you follow up, a deep breath filling your chest. You uncross your arms to lean your elbow on the edge of the window, resting your cheek in your hand, "I didn't mean that." "You did," he responds, tight and frustrated, quiet. He hastily reaches into his back pocket with one hand, eyes still on the road. Steve pops a cigarette between his full lips and you sigh at the sound of the lighter flicking. “What’s wrong now, hm?” he asks while the cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, “What’s your problem?” “Nothing,” you say – it’s something. He takes a drag and blows the smoke out the open window, “It’s just that you bought that pack yesterday and it’s already half way gone. You always chain smoke when you –” “Give me a fucking break,” he snaps, voice raising with each word, “God, can you let me have fuckin’ anything?” “No Steve, I guess not. God forbid I look out for your heal–” you start sarcastically. “Look out for yourself, baby,” he says sharply into the rearview so you can see his glare, “I’m doin’ just fine without you on my back.” You bicker the rest of the way to Ed and Nancy’s house, he only raises his voice one more time.

Eddie and Nancy's wedding was one for the ages, something about the mixture of straight laced and all over the place that made sense when they tied the knot. The pair, you were told, seemed unlikely until Eddie was in recovery after being removed from the Upside Down. He was down there for six months, tested on for another six. The Party and the older kids would visit him every day, keeping him updated and fed and hydrated. They'd cheer him on when he made advances in his mobility -- but for the most part he just needed rest. Nancy was working a lot, throwing herself into journalism like she always wanted, so she'd come to the hospital late. She wasn't really one for small talk so instead, she'd just read. She'd read aloud while he was asleep, her voice slow and calm -- stoic. Keeping him lulled like still water, she didn't even know if he knew she was there. One night, she picked up where she left off on the first installment of Lord of the Rings, continuing in her soft stoic voice. She watched him lay there with his eyes closed, breath steady, the beeps of the hospital machines in quiet rhythm with him. She at frist felt silly before she started, but maybe in his dreams he could hear her, and maybe just maybe if she does something fun, he won't have nightmares tonight. So she tries it...she puts on a silly voice for Samwise, and she continues with her silly voices. Gruff and manly for Aragorn, gleeful for Sam, some weird form of Scottish for Gimli. She bites her lip, smiling as she tries each one, shaking her curly head at her ridiculousness and stops. Then she hears it...the low rumbling giggle from Eddie in his hospital bed. "Keep going, it's funny..." he said with a grin, eyes still closed. "You can hear me?" she asked, trying to stifle her giggle. "I can hear you every night," he said, eyes peering open slightly, "It's the best." "Do you want me to keep reading?" she asked with a blush. He nods, a soft grin pulling up on his lips while he eyes closes again, "Only if you do the voices."

When you park in the driveway it's clear that the rest of the group arrived before you, their cars already Tetris'd into their places. Steve lugs the cooler out of the back seat with a grunt, hoisting it to rest on his broad shoulder. You roll your eyes at his machismo, like someone is watching him at all times and he has something to prove. You both walk to the back, the sounds of music and conversation and laughter bubbling louder and louder as you get to the gate of the yard.

A symphony of 'Heeeyyy!' and 'There he is!' and 'Finally!' come from the group as he opens the gate and you follow in toe. Eddie comes over quickly to help with the cooler, his hair still as long as it was when he was 20 – the only real updates being his five o’clock shadow and the ring in his nose. A few more weary tired lines by his eyes. His home made Iron Maiden muscle tee had a small sweat mark by the neckline – they must’ve been out here getting ready all morning. “Hey man,” he grins when the cooler gets set down, pulling Steve in for a tight hug. “Hey,” Steve smiles, patting his back hard, savoring the hold. “You alright?” Eddie asks when he lets go, putting a hand to his face, “You feeling okay?” Steve smiles tightly and nods but Eddie only half buys it, returning his look before turning to you. He comes forward, kissing both your cheeks with his full lips, scruff scratching at your skin, “Hi, sweetheart.” “Hi Ed,” you grin, watching everyone else come up to say their hellos. “Where’s Nance?” Steve asks, but his question is answered when she waddles out of the sliding door of the kitchen with a pitcher of lemonade. From the back, you’d have no idea she was seven months pregnant, but from the side – let’s just say, it was gonna be a real big boy. “Honey, what did I say?” Eddie calls out, walking over to her and taking the pitcher. “It’s not even heavy,” she chides back with an exasperated eye roll. You giggle at their bickering, listening to their sweet back and forth with a gentle ache in your chest. You wonder if Steve will be the same way when you’re pregnant. You wonder if the back and forths will sound so sweet, so innocent, so soft. Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the cooler opening, turning to look and grab what you can to put in the fridge inside. Steve takes the meat out to put by the grill and a few appetizers that you put together last nice. You take the icebox cake and chocolate covered strawberries, hurrying with them through the sliding door into the kitchen. “I know, mommy just thinks she can do it all,” Eddie coos, resting his hands on Nancy’s stomach while she slices cheeseburger toppings on the counter, “She just won’t rest, are you gonna be like that too? You gonna run me ragged? You gonna be just like mommy?” Nancy laughs and it’s half airy, half from deep in her belly, “Look, it’s just better if I’m active so that I’m not surprised by it when he’s born.” “I know,” he says, kissing her cheek, “I know. You still love me, Wheeler?” “Love you always,” she grins, blushing when she sees you come in with desserts, “Oh! Oh my goodness, let me help you!” “I got it!” you say, “Just hope there’s room in the fridge!” When everything’s loaded up you give each other a hug, watching as Eddie and Steve have a mildly stern conversation about who is grilling what. ‘It’s my grill.’ ‘And? It’s my meat.’

“Do you think they should just kiss?” you ask while you watch them. “Honestly, I feel like they need to at this point," she laughs, "Go on outside, I’ll be out in a few,” Nancy encourages and you make your way back out into the very early summer heat – mugginess starting to soak the air around you. Before you know it, you’re already being pulled over to the picnic table to watch a game of Magic the Gathering between Lucas, Max, Dustin, Mike, and Will. El doesn’t come back to Hawkins very much,so you’ve been told – she’s the only person from the group you haven’t met. “So is this like D&D?” you ask, resting your cheek against your palm while you lean on the table. “Yes and no,” Max explains, looking at her options, “It’s like…” “Like poker but D&D,” Dustin says, making Mike, Will, and Lucas snort. “I think that’s the easiest way to explain it to you,” Mike says. “I trust that,” you laugh with them. You’ve been consistently hopeless with trying to learn the mechanics of Dungeons and Dragons but still enjoy watching, loving it more when Steve decides to join a campaign. He lets loose in ways you’ve never seen when he does, smiling and laughing, free like a child in the summertime. The sun beating on your back suddenly disappears when you hear Steve come up behind you with a hand on your shoulder, “Can I have my glasses, honey?” “They’re in the glove box,” you say, turning around, “Why do you need them?” “Oh, is Erica making you read her thesis outline?” Lucas asks, “Just tell her to buzz off. She already passed it in.” “Sinclair – don’t be an asshole,” Steve gives him a look that can only be described as ‘bitchy’, “She wants some assurance. We need another psychologist in the family, and she’s obviously the only one smart enough to get it done.” “Rude,” Max deadpans, flicking her eyes up at him. “You’re rude, twerp,” he says back, he turns back to you after sucking his teeth, "My glasses?"

“I just said, in the glovebox,” you repeat, a little sharper than you meant to. He lets out a huff through his nose, looking at you like he can’t believe you’d get snippy with him before stomping off toward the gate of the yard. “Is he alright?” Dustin asks quietly, “I saw him on Thursday he just…I don’t know, he seems a little tense.” “He had a bad night,” you explain, toying at a splinter in the wood, “He’ll be okay.” The sun disappears again but not from the expanse of your fiance’s shoulders and chest, but from a thick cloud moving slowly across the sky. The relief from the heat is almost welcomed until you feel the humidity raise a bit in the air – a little too tight, a little too suffocating for your taste.

The party is in full swing while Meredith Brooks’ ‘Bitch,’ blares from the boom box, Nancy and Max screaming the lyrics with abandon while the boys groan. You smile at how much fun they’re having, the afternoon going smoothly enough that you haven’t had time to notice how cloudy the sky had become. Your eyes linger on Steve, glasses on while looking at Erica’s thesis outline with her on the back porch. He had a pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other, the fifth one in the last hour and a half. "You got something here," he says to her, tapping his pen while continues reading, "Your argument's really strong -- especially about the rates of homelessness, it's almost always trauma related." "Well -- I am me," she says. He raises his brows and nods in agreement. "Can't spell America without Erica," he teases. You watch him, how gentle he is and how he taps through outline, asking her questions about how she feels about the finished thesis, where she got it bound, if the articles he sent over were helpful. They speak in words you don't understand, but it's okay -- he looks calmer, brows softened while they talk, so encouraging. "I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm a mother, I'm a sinner, I'm a saint, I do not feel ashamed --"

Eddie's rasp pierces the groups singing and conversation as he belts the lyrics next to his wife. Everyone looks up to watch him go, laughing as he does. "We should cover this," he grins, "Me and the guys, we gotta cover this at the next show." "So you can get boo'd off the stage?" Mike laughs. "So I can make sure your ass doesn't get in the bar?" he asks back. Mike scowls while Dustin laughs at him -- it's always smarter to not try it with Eddie, he'd always get you back ten fold. With a jolt, you feel something cold hit your hand, looking down to see a water drop splat against your skin. Then another, and another, and another. After the fourth or fifth, the rain starts to come down -- and then it starts to pour. "Alright!" Nancy calls, "Everyone grab something and head inside." The Party rises, wincing as the rain pellets down on them while everyone grabs a foil tray or covered Pyrex filled with food. You follow suit, hurrying inside with the undressed cheeseburgers and buns, laying them safe on the counter in the kitchen. Everyone else starts to file in, Steve and Eddie turning off the grill while the sky starts to darken significantly. The first rumble of thunder sends everyone's face to a flat line -- you wished Robin wasn't spending the weekend in New York City so that you'd have someone on the front lines with you and Nancy to keep everyone at ease. Nancy and Robin definitely had their moments but had a much tighter grasp on the world around them now.

A few flashes of lightening crack followed by deep rumbles of thunder. Boom, crack! Boom, crack, crack! You notice everyone resettle themselves around the kitchen table -- jittery, quiet. You sit down across from Steve while he looks down, following the woodgrain with his finger. You keep your gaze on his chest, watching for a tell -- he swallows the frustration he feels from having your eyes on him. "It's alright guys, just a storm," Nancy reminds everyone gently while she brings in the last of the food from outside. Eddie gets her seated before opening things back on the counter, the kitchen smelling like barbecue while he opens the foils. The conversations start around you again while you sit across from Steve, the tension sitting like a weighted stone in your chest. Another flash of lightning and that's when you notice it, the twitch of his hand. The thunder rumbles and he reaches up to rub his eyes with his thumb and forefinger under his glasses. Shit. "You okay, honey?" you ask him softly. He swallows, jaw clenching, "Mhm." "Okay," you nod, trying not to bring attention to it just yet, just incase it passes. The thunder booms again and he lets out a breath through his nose, he takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes more agressively. You tap your foot under the table and he can hear it, he can hear everything in the room -- the scrapes of foil on foil. The separate conversations. Eddie's laugh while he talks to Nancy. The clinks of silverware. Ice in cups. The drumming of fingers. Your tap. Tap. Tap. Tapping. Under the fucking table could you just stop tapping your fucking foot -- The next crack of lightening is so intense it shakes the house and everyone gets quiet. 'Just a storm', Nancy reminds, but her voice sounds far away. Thunder rumbles again in the distance and he swears when the lightening flashes through the windows it's red. He rubs his eyes again, a short burst of breath coming through his nose. 'Honey?' he hears you but its like he has cotton in his ears. The thunder rumbles again, the slick squelching of vines starts to creep into the sound of it. Another crack of lighting and the lights in the kitchen flicker. But when they turn back on Steve isn't with the group anymore. He's not even in the kitchen. He's back at the Creel House. 'Baby? Steve?' your voice is distant -- does Vecna have you? Did he find you? Is he taking you away from him? Steve whimpers, getting out of the chair, pulling at the roots of his light brown locks -- desperate to pull himself out of the memory, "Help, please..."

"I'm here, Steve," you say rounding the table while the rest of the group stands back, getting ready to help. Max grabs a boom box and Lucas runs to his car to grab his tapes with everyone's favorite songs on it -- just in case. Dustin approaches him slowly, hands out in front of him while Steve shrinks to the floor, back against the cabinets. "Steve, it's me, it's Dustin," he says calmly and slowly, "You're in Eddie's kitchen, Steve." But Steve only hears Dustin saying his name -- Dustin must be in trouble. "I'm coming," Steve says, eyes shut tight, falling further away. You watch as sweat grows on his hair line and neck, muttering a fuck under you breath. This was gonna be a bad one. "Honey, honey," you continue, kneeling down in front of him to ease his hands off of his hair, "You're okay, you're safe. I'm with you." 'Honey.' He hears your voice in the distance, searching for you in the blue black haze of the Upside Down, the thick particles of dust in his eyes. The slither of vines covers the walls and the floors while he ascends the stairs -- where are Nancy and Robin? Weren't they with him? "Nance?" You watch him call out for Nancy and she goes to get up but Eddie puts his hand delicately on her shoulder. He shakes his head no at her, "Just talk to him," he says to her. 'I'm here, Steve, it's okay!' 'It's okay!' But it's not Nancy's voice, it gets more an more deep, more gravelly, more like him. Steve flinches in front of you, soft 'no, no, no's slipping from his mouth. 'Stevie...' Where are you? Does he have you? 'S̷T̴E̶V̴I̷E̵.'

The sound of Vecna's voice booms in his ears, the thunder rumbling, the red lighting flashing to light up the house. You were never here -- Vecna tricked him. He breathes hard, looking around while the vines snake around, searching for him. "Okay, okay baby," you say hurriedly, watching him while he starts to hyperventilate. You raise your voice to get through to him, "Honey you gotta take some deep breaths for me, okay? Can you hear me?" Max and Lucas come back, smacking the tape into the radio and fastforwarding until Marc Cohn's Walking In Memphis crackles through the speakers. They both heave breaths while the song plays, leaning over the table to settle down from running. "You hear the song, honey?" you ask, "Can you hear it? Talk to me, Steve." You reach your hands up, sliding slowly up his chest to rest your hands by his jaw in a soothing touch. But for Steve in the Creel House, the vines have found him, slithering up his chest and around his neck, tighter and tighter against the wall. He tenses, big hands coming up and grabbing your wrists with a grip so tight you whimper. "No, shit, shit, shit! Fuck! STOP! NO! I CAN'T!" he panics, gasping for breath while his nails dig into your forearms and drag painfully downward why he tries to pull you away. "Ow, ow baby, hey, you're hurting me," you yelp out. He doesn't stop, eyes switching from tightly closed to open and unfocused while he reaches up to your biceps, clawing at them in defense. You reach out a final time. "Honey, honey, please, it's me," you say, tears balancing on your lower lashes while he rises, taking you with him. He handles you real rough, grabbing you by the shoulders and throwing you to the ground with a loud thud. And god does it hurt.

"HEY!" Eddie's voice booms out, gruff and loud like the rumbles of thunder outside. He gets behind Steve, pulling his arms close to his chest while Steve struggles against him. Erica and Mike hurry toward you to help you slowly up off the floor. You reel at first, wanting to run back to him. "Stay in front of her Wheeler," Ed warns, "You all stay right there." You stand behind Mike with Erica who takes your hand tightly in hers. You feel the pulse of pain in your arms when you look down -- gouges and deep scrapes, the blood shines in the line of the kitchen. You shake your head out of it and watch on as Eddie and Dustin do what they can to help -- the song continues to play in the background. "No, no," Steve whimpers, twisting his wrists in Eddie's grasp to break free, but in this state Eddie is stronger. He pulls him close, Steve back to his chest while they sink back down against the cabinets. "Shh," Eddie soothes, still holding him tight, "We got you, just listen -- you're in my kitchen. You hear the song playing?" Steve grunts, thrashing while Eddie hugs him tighter to him. "Steve, listen, listen to the song," Dustin says, "Focus on me and Eddie's voice, listen." Steve struggles, less intense than before, "Shh, shh, it's okay Harrington," Eddie soothes, rocking him slowly back and forth. "They need me," Steve cries weakly, breaths slowing while he pulls again at Eddie's hold, "Gotta save 'em..." "Steve," Dustin says again, getting closer. He rubs his shoulder slowly, pressing his thumb into the joint, "We're safe, all the kids are safe." "Safe..." he repeats back. Eddie sighs a little in apprehensive relief, letting go of one wrist to run a hand over his head, turning Steve's face into his chest and holding him close. "That's right, Steve," Eddie says softly, "Safe." 'Saw the ghost of Elvis, on Union Avenue, Followed him up to the Gates of Graceland And they watched him walk right through...' Steve can hear the lyrics, warbled and tinny in the Upside Down. 'Safe, safe, safe.' Echoing through the walls -- it gets dimmer. 'Now security they did not see him, They just hovered round his tomb...' Dimmer and dimmer. 'Almost over buddy, I can tell, we're right here. You feel Henderson?' A soft warm rub on his shoulder, the lyrics to the song, Eddie's voice. The sound of vines fade away, he hears the rain, it fades to black. "Walkin' in Memphis..." Steve whispers, half confused, while his eyes open and focus -- squinting in the light of the kitchen. Overwhelmed he looks around while the room tilts on it's axis. He grips Eddie's leg tightly to steady himself, he's breaths picking up again. "It's okay buddy, it's just us," Eddie says again, "You with me?" Steve nods, face cracking while he lets out a broken sob. You can only watch while Eddie flicks his eyes up at you in another warning to not come closer yet. Dustin let's go while Eddie starts to hoist him up, wrapping Steve's arm around his shoulder while he helps him to the guest room down the hall. "C'mon big boy," he says gently, "Let's get you some rest."

Things feel a little quiet after Eddie comes back from the guest room, he's tense -- no longer having fun the way he was before. His eyes are dark while he heads outside into the rain to have a cigarette. Lucas turns off the stereo and The Party sits back down at the kitchen table for a moment to decompress. They silently take out of the Magic the Gathering cards and start to set up again, Erica joins them seamlessly. When things seems a semblance of stable, Nancy gets up and takes your hand and leads you to the bathroom, "Let's check you out, alright?"

You sit on the toilet seat cover while Nancy takes out a first aid kit from under the sink. You listen while she hums the climax of Whitney's 'I Have Nothing' quietly, searching the medicine cabinet for some Bactine for your cuts.

"Are you okay?" she asks, taking both of your hands to outstretch your arms, she turns them to see the damage -- she tries to hide her face of disappointment but it's clear.

"I'll be fine," you say softly while she wipes down the gouges and scrapes, "I can take care of it Nance."

"No, you just -- just let me," she says softly. The Bactine stings -- so does the way she looks at you -- pitifully. You hear Eddie's boots clomp down the hallway before he shows up at the door frame of the bathroom.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks -- you wish people would stop asking. They only ask when they see him lose control. You do this all the time, you take care of him all the time.

"I'm okay," you repeat, "A little banged up, but y'know. It's okay."

"Does he do that alot?" Eddie asks, his jaw clenching, "Does he hurt you a lot?"

"This is one of maybe...I don't know -- four times he's gotten physical with me during an episode," you explain, "And you all know about them."

"Does he hurt you when he's here?" Eddie asks, tapping at his temple.

"No, Ed, don't be ridiculous," you sigh, exasperated that he'd even ask.

"Steve's not like that, Eddie," Nancy says, "We've been over this." "Well, here's the thing Nance," he starts, tense, "We're ten years out of this shit and no matter how bad my shit got I've never put a hand on you like that. Ever." "Eddie --" "No, no, listen," he says, "I don't like that, and I especially don't like that happening in my house in front of my pregnant wife." "And what would you like me to do about it, Ed?" you snap, "I can't -- fuck -- I can't fucking fix him for you." "I'm not asking you to fix him," he says back, a pain deep in his chest coming through with his voice, "I'm asking you to be sure that you still want to be a part of this -- your wedding's what -- October? You really wanna be worrying about this?" "For better or for worse, right?" you ask back, choking on the lump in your throat, "That's the promise." Eddie tucks his lips in, his own eyes getting teary while he scans the gouges that Nancy carefully puts bandaids over. "Ice your hip and shoulder for the first couple days," he mutters, biting the edge of his them, "After a fall like that. Then heat." You nod, quietly murmuring a thank you. "S'what my mom used to do," he says under his breath. Eddie scans you slowly one more time, swallowing hard before pushing off the door frame and walking back down the hall. You hear their bedroom door click closed in the distance. "You know how he gets," Nancy says, "Stuff like that y'know -- that's hard for him." "I know." She takes a washcloth, running it under cold water before squeezing it out. Droplets fall on the fabric of her light purple maternity shirt, leaving dark people marks on the top of her belly. She hands it to you. "Here, for his head," she says softly, "In case he's not all the way back yet."

You creep slowly into the guest room, seeing him laying on his stomach with half his face buried in the pillow. His sculpted arms tucked under it to give him something to hold. "Baby?" you ask quietly, "You awake?" He nods with his eyes closed and you look him over -- big hulking man who needs to be held. He hates it but you can't help but love him for knowing he needs it. You put the wet face cloth on the side table, sliding down next to him while he moves over to his side. In one swift motion you've replaced the pillow -- arms wrapping tight around your waist and up your back, one hand molding over your shoulder. He hides his face in your neck and you can feel his tears on his lashes and cheeks. His shoulders shake while he cries for a while, cold sweat damp on his shirt and the back of his neck. You never check how long he cries for – as long as he does. “I’m here,” you say softly, nails grazing his scalp in a steady swipe, “I’m right here.” You adjust a bit in his hold and you feel his grip tighten slightly, a soft whine of desperation leaking from his throat. “Don’t go, please,” he begs softly. “M’not going anywhere big guy,” you soothe, “This wedding’s already put us ten grand in the hole. Where would I even go, now?” You hear a soft ‘tsss’ come out of him, a tug of a smile against the skin of your neck where he hides.

“Oh, is that funny?” you joke, still coasting your fingers through his hair. He groans, letting his arms let go of you so he can sit up, you can see the tension in his body still. Steve looks down at you with tear stained cheeks and tired eyes, beckoning you forward with his fingers. You sit up for your thank you kiss, his warm palm cupping your cheek while he holds you gently in place. He kisses once slowly, then twice, three times – holding the last so you know he means it. When you break away he rests his forehead against yours, offering a few shallow breaths. You stand up off the bed while he sits off the edge of it, standing between his thighs.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks softly. He asks after every episode ever since he did hurt you back when you first started dating. A swift smack to the arm that stung for a solid twenty minutes afterward with the amount of power he put into it. It welted. He cried for hours. He wrote you love letters every day for a week.

You nod, showing him the scratches and bandages on your arms, "I think you thought I was a vine or something. You threw me. Like, to the ground. It was pretty hard."

His lower lip quivers, "No, no, no." “No, Steve,” you assure, trying to calm him, “It’s okay, you didn’t know. It’s alright, I’m alright. It was an accident.”

His face contorts while the tears start again, his big hands reach out to your waist, pulling you close to him, "It's not okay, it's not alright."

His voice raises an octave while he cries, "I'm sorry, baby."

"It's okay, Stevie, shh," you whisper to him, he pulls you in tighter, body shaking while pressing his nose against your cheek.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he cries, sniffling, "You know I didn't mean it."

"I know you didn't," you say back, your own cry getting caught in your throat. He sniffles again, leaning back to face you, both of his hands cupping your cheeks, his thumbs rubbing the apples.

"I love you," he says with a depth and intensity that makes the lump in your throat give way. You cry with him and it breaks his heart, "I love you so much honey, you know I’d never…"

You nod, trying to calm your cry the way he was able to calm his -- so used to swallowing it up even though you'd beg him not to.

"I – shit – I have to tell you something," he says softly, hands sliding from your cheeks back down to your waist and then your hips. He looks down at the small triangle of mattress between you and the apex of his thighs.

"What's up, Steve?" you ask, running your hands through his hair again soothingly, "What is it?"

He lifts his head up, eyes shutting at the comforting touch, but when he opens them he looks defeated -- guilty, "I haven't been taking my meds at night. I was -- was flushin’ them cause I just -- baby, I don't know. I can't keep depending on this shit."

"Steve."

"I know," he nods, "I know...That's why -- that's why my shit's getting worse."

"You're not just taking this stuff to take it," you say, cupping his cheeks, "It's to keep you here. It's to keep you with me."

"I know," he repeats, voice cracking again, "I'll call my shrink tomorrow I promise. I'll get back on track. Fuck -- I'm sorry -- and I'm -- I'm sorry I was so mean to you this morning."

"It's okay," you nod, pressing a kiss to his forehead. You drop your hands and rub his shoulder, "I think we should go home, alright? We can get on the couch for the night and just rest."

"Okay," he says quietly, nodding. He slowly gets up off the bed, a little dizzy, using you for support. You both slowly walk out of the bedroom, Nancy peeking around the end of the hall.

"Everything good?" she asks.

You smile at her, "Yeah, I think we're gonna head home."

She smiles tightly, heading into the kitchen where the rest of the group still sits, eating and talking. Their heads turn when you both come into view -- soft eyes and smiles.

"I'm okay, guys," Steve nods, barely able to meet their gazes, "It's fine."

Nancy approaches you with a few tupperwares filled with food and dessert, "We'll get the cooler back to you on Tuesday."

"Don't worry about it," you smile, gathering the tupperware in your arms. You watch as the group gets up one by one to give Steve a hug goodbye. Their movements are slow and controlled, warning touches on his shoulders beforehand to remind him ‘It’s just me, it’s just my arms, I’m hugging you’. Soft mumbled words of support, nothing too loud – don’t startle each other. Wraiths of the friendship they all shared earlier. Rehearsed reactions to all of their sensitive needs – if you’ve seen one episode, you’ve seen all of theirs. And you had, once or twice. “I’ll get a copy bound for you,” Erica says while she hugs him. “You make me so proud, Sinclair,” he smiles. Nancy walks you both to the door and you turn, “How’s Ed?” “He’ll call later,” she nods, a look behind her eyes that matches yours. You hug goodbye, share quick reminders about food for the baby shower and a few crafty decoration plans before heading to the car with a very tired Steve. The rain patters on the hood of the Lexus while you both sit in the leather interior, this time with you in the driver's seat. He rubs at his temples with his eyes closed while you rifle through your purse for a sandwich baggie of emergency migraine medicine. “Here,” you say, handing him the pill, “Before it starts to get bad.” “Hmm,” he grumbles in agreement, popping it in his dry mouth to suck it down. “We’ll be home soon, okay?” you say, hand coming down on his thigh reassuringly, “Just close your eyes for now.”

He takes the tupperwares when you get out of the car, fishing his keys out of his back pocket while he does. His strides are long while you hurry up behind him, following him into the house only to bump into his back while he’s stopped by the thermostat to turn on the air. “Sorry,” you say softly. “S’okay,” he replies back, barely above a whisper. He puts the food in the fridge while you head upstairs to start a shower, a ritual you’ve both come to learn well after days or nights like these. You take out the good soap, the shower oil, all the aroma therapy you can to get him to ease up. Anyone else watching you get things ready would assume it was about to be a very sexy time for you. On the same coin, these showers are probably the most intimate moments you have with each other. He comes in as the room starts to steam and you help him ease off his polo, you start on the buttons of your dress while he takes off his jeans and socks. He helps with your bra, both of you shedding your underwear at the same time before you step in. Steve soothes almost instantly, his muscles relaxing under the hot stream, sighing further while he gets soaped up. You don’t have to be in there with him, but you do. He needs you so close so he doesn’t float away. His favorite part comes near the end, sitting in the flow of the shower together while you wash his hair. His eyes flutter closed while your nails scratch and massage him – he swears his hair is even thicker than it was before with all the blood flow you encourage. You wash his hair twice, then deep condition, holding him to your chest while you wait the five minutes it takes to settle in. He leaves soft kisses on your collar bone, on all the marks he left on you in Nance and Eddie's kitchen. He holds your hand, so you can’t float away. You both end up on the couch afterward, the leather groaning beneath you both while you lay across the deep seat cushions, you lay on your back, he lays on his side against you. The heat of his bare chest warms you through your oversized sleep shirt. His soft sweat pants tangle up with your bare legs. You let whatever’s on TV play – reruns you guess, you’re thinking about too many other things. “How’s your head, baby?” you ask while his eyes shut, leaning on your shoulder. “S’fine, better,” he says, he lifts your hand and kisses your fingers before placing both his and your hand on your chest over your heart. The ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dum lulling him to sleep. You half watch TV for however long until your own eyelids get heavy. You click off the TV and opt to turn the stereo on low, just so he doesn’t get lost while he sleeps.

You wake up to oldies, music your parents would listen to on records in the living room growing up – songs that came out a few years before you were born. Oldies. It's dark outside but you can still hear the rain. Steve’s already awake, just watching you while his hand smooths back and forth over your sternum. “You snored,” he says. “Good,” you reply quietly. You both snort out breathy laughs, feeling the warmth of his lips as they smoosh against your cheek. “How you feeling?” he asks, hand coming up to rest on your cheek, sliding down the side of your neck. “A little banged up,” you say, “Might bruise.” “M’sorry,” he says again, a tinge of guilty pink tinging his ears. “It’s okay,” you repeat for what feels like the thousandth time in the past six hours. “You looked really pretty today,” Steve says gently, almost sheepish, “I should’ve told you.” “You looked really handsome,” you say back, “But you were kind of being an asshole so I didn’t want to tell you.” “You should’ve told me, it probably would’ve cured my PTSD,” he says seriously but sarcastically, “Could’ve saved the entire afternoon if you just said how good I looked. Prob’ly wouldn’t have had an episode.” “You’re such an ass,” you laugh, smiling. He leans in to kiss you and it’s the kind that makes you too weak to stand. That kiss got him a second date, it proved that they said about old King Steve in highschool. On the stereo, Sherry Baby bleeds into Unchained Melody.

His hand reaches up under your neck to tilt you up toward him, tasting your tongue with his, guiding you with his kiss, “Angel…” he murmurs. He breathes through his nose while he keeps his lips pressed to yours, desperate to stay here in this moment, attached to you. “Steve,” you say softly, breaking away, “Stevie…” “Please,” he whispers, nuzzling your nose slowly, “Please.” “Lemme take care of you.” “I…” your thoughts trail off while he kisses your neck, sucking and nibbling gently at the spot just by the hinge of your jaw. He waits for your soft sigh, the tilt of your hips towards him – your allowance. He grins when he hears the air pass your lips, the realignment of your spine beneath him while he settles between your squishy thighs. His hands travel south, pushing up the hem of your big t-shirt to your waist, holding you there for a moment while his kiss takes over your mouth again. He tugs your cotton panties down, breaking the kiss while he sits up on the couch to slide them off your ankles. Steve looks down at you with an expression that makes your breath catch in your chest, serious – with supple lips, needy eyes. He leads himself back down again, big hands sliding down the sides of your thighs over your hips to your waist again. Instinctively, your legs spring up to wrap around him while his hips align with yours, feeling his strained cock in his sweats against you. “Jesus…” he whispers again, eyes fluttering closed. He buries his face in your neck while you rock slowly against him, the pressure and friction against the underside of his erection sending low volts through his body. “Mm-mm,” he grunts, shaking his head ‘no’ while mumbling, “It’s supposed to be about you.” “Well stop dangling it in front of me then,” you giggle quietly, he giggles too. The smile sends you reeling, his pretty teeth, the way his nose scrunches. He leans forward again to kiss, he just can’t stop kissing, can’t stop tasting your lips, feeling you against him. Steve’s hand reaches down to pull himself out of his sweats, pushing the waistband to the tops of his thighs while he uses the other to push one thigh out off the couch. “You ready f’me?” he asks huskily, tip dragging slowly from the pool of slick at your opening up in between your folds. He lets his thumb run in slow circles over your clit while he waits for your answer, your slow nod while you lean your head back on the arm rest gives him the okay. He eases himself in slow, the tip pushing past your opening with some resistance. “Open up a lil’, honey,” he mumbles quietly while he guides the tip in again, “Open up for me.”

Your little gasps float out of you and into the fuzzy part of his brain, gliding down his spine. You angle your hips upward, one thigh up against the couch cushions and the other dangling over the edge, spread as wide as you can. He holds himself above you with one arm, the other aiding in pushing himself further in, the tip finally breaching your core. He keeps guiding, slow back and forths while you ease open for him – taking him in, inch by inch. “Oh yes, mhm,” he groans to himself softly, “Thass–hmm-that’s it, angel.” He let’s go when he’s three fourths in, crowding over you, forearms on each side of your head while he strokes slowly to start – getting you used to him, accommodating his size. “That’s good?” he breathes. “Ye-yeah,” you breathe back to him. His mouth latches to yours again, feeling him guide your hands up beside your head, lacing fingers while he presses you deeper into the couch cushions. He keeps his strokes slow and deliberate, feeling every ridge of you inside, how you suck him in and hug him tight in place – but how he feels isn’t nearly as important. It’s the way your brows contort, the way you bite your lip, your whines into his mouth while he kisses you. Each slow thrust makes you coat him in a new flow of slickness. “C’mere,” he says into your jawline, letting go of one hand to sneak behind you at the waist, pulling you flush to him. The new angle makes you let out a whine while he hits a spot deep inside you, he grunts at the reaction, the feeling of you taking him in. His pace picks up the smallest tick, face centimeters from yours – your noses brush, lips barely touching while his amber eyes keep steady on yours. You let out short huffs, little whimpers every time the head of his cock pushes deeper with every roll of your hips. “S’nice, hm?” he asks, brows slanting, softening. “Mhm,” you squeak back, “S-so good, honey.” Your legs pull in again, socked heels resting on the top of his butt while he sighs at the change in pressure. “Thassperfect, god,” he hisses out, head dropping down to your chest, pressing sloppy kisses above your breasts while he gathers himself. He groans into your neck while wet warmth tightens over him, soft velvet walls coaxing him closer and closer to the edge.

Steve’s shoulders flex while he balances on his forearms above you again, your forgotten hand taken by his, fingers interlocked. His face inches from yours while he looks at you, the way your eyes flutter, the soft parting of your lips, the high pitched ‘Uhn, uhn, uhn, uhn,’s coming out of them — you’re so beautiful.

“So pretty,” he says to you, huffing a breath into a smile, “So pretty, baby.”

You kiss him a thank you. You see him swallow when he breaks away, his eyes getting glassy.

“S’gonna be okay,” he assures, nodding down at you, nose to nose, “We’re gonna be okay.” Slow thrusts between statements.

“Gonna get married,” he says, a groan flowing right down into your mouth while he kisses you, “Gonna be just like Ed and Nance, right?”

You nod while his thrusts get more passionate, deeper.

“Yeah? That’s nice?” he asks, “Marry you? Take you just like this after the wedding?”

“Yeah,” you gasp back, “Yes, Stevie.”

“Give you a baby?” he asks in a low whisper into your skin, lips pressing against your cheek, his strong nose dragging against your cheek bone, “Give you so many babies. You want that?”

“I want that,” you nod, face pinching while you feel yourself building up and up in a slow churn.

“You want that?” he asks again, coming back to hover over you — tears in his eyes, “You want that with me?”

You nod to each other while he embraces you in an old movie kiss, wrapping himself around you, pressing him to his chest while his thrusts get purposeful, controlled.

“I love you,” he pants into your ear, “I’m yours, m’all yours.”

“I love you, too,” you rasp back, free’d fingers interlocking in his hair. He gets leverage on his knees, the leather of the couch squeaking under him while he repositions. Soft smacks of skin between you echo in the living room against the backdrop of the low stereo. “Oh my god, Steve,” you moan out, “You’re – oh god you’re so deep.” “So deep, angel, Christ–” he huffs, trying to make a mental note of this position so he can remember it for October – really make it stick. His thought process stifled when your nails drag down his back, making his passionate thrusts quicken – a signature cocky smirk flick across his lips. “Mmm, that feels good honey?” he asks – he knows the answer. Your mouth hangs open in a silent scream, tears glazing over your eyes while he feels you pulse over him. Thank god the couch was leather. Watching you bathe in the afterglow of your orgasm he works you toward the second with ease, chasing his pleasure with each soaking thrust into you – so nice like this, so pliant – his little ragdoll. When he cums it’s deliberate, spilling inside you with your eyes on each other. You give one another breathless kisses, bodies interlocked, sticking to the couch in new found exhaustion. The phone rings. Neither of you get up to answer it. ‘BEEP. You’ve reached the Harrington residence – Did you forget my last name isn’t Harr– If you’re calling before October 1997 then it’s not just the Harrington residence yet but – whatever you know what I mean. Leave a message, we might call ya back.’

“Hey Harrington it’s Munson, um, just making sure you’re okay, man. Sorry I disappeared for a little bit there. Love you, call me back when you can. Bye.”

thanks for reading. <3

#steve harrington x you #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fan fiction #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfic

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scary-lasagna · 26 days

Note

Hi! Could we get more of the creeps bumping into someone they used to know before their incidents?? I love your blog thank you!!

Decided to go a negative route for this one to make it spicy

tw: bullying, trauma mention,

Toby

He tried so hard.

Even after the double take, he still wasn't sure about the man five feet away from him.

But he still smelled the same, that irritating wet-dog smell mixed with a shitty watered-down body spray.

Toby balled his fists, attempting to focus on the words of the shirt in front of him.

Standing in line at the bank was not where he expected his next breakdown, yet here we are. He wasn't even in his hometown; he was a few cities west of his origin.

Toby was mentally prepared to glance at a few familiar faces, but never the main culprit of the Devil of his school years.

With the stress of the situation, his medication seemed to nullify, and a quick snap of his neck caused a few heads to turn toward him.

Toby's cheeks burned, and he glared at the marble flooring.

"Ticci Toby?"

Fuck.

Toby tightened his jaw and slowly looked over to the man in the next line over, a redhead with dirt clinging to his oily skin, along with that same spotty beard Toby remembered from his school-days.

Then again, Toby probably didn't look his best after work either, with sweat still clinging to his bangs and dirty, non-bank-worthy clothes.

"Rick." Toby managed a cringeworthy grimace of a smile, "How have you been?"

At the moment, Toby felt like that pathetic excuse for a teenager again. A pathetic excuse for a human.

The memories of being shoved against lockers and brick walls and returning home with more bruises than he cared about resurfaced in waves of pain.

"I've been good. Been working." Rick nodded. He sniffed and glanced away, "You disappeared off the map, everyone thought you killed your dad and died in the fire."

What a fucking opener for small talk.

"He was not my Dad," Toby said curtly. And I'm still alive." However, Toby definitely wished he wasn't at that moment.

The pain of embarrassment and uncomfortableness was enough to make the brunette keel over.

"I bet you wished Lyra was still here after all of that, huh?"

A beat passed, and despite how hard Toby glared at the man in front of him, the line did not budge. Rick continued to stare at Toby.

"You think you're too good to talk to me now?"

Toby breathed. He sighed and rolled his neck.

A verbal tic followed closely after, at the best moment to call Rick a Cunt.

Whatever manilla folder Rick held dropped from his hands and dully fell against the marble.

Toby allowed himself to react out of pure fear and instinct, punching Rick directly in the jaw before he could even lay hands on him.

And, with Toby being much stronger now as a grown man, Rick was not expecting such a hit. The pressure radiated from his jaw and rebounded to whatever brain cells were left in his empty skull.

Toby didn't know what happened between that moment and when he was running from security guards and into the nearest wooded area.

But his hands were covered in blood, and his knuckles had been scraped open.

After returning home, he apologized to Slender for not depositing the check and decided not to speak of anything else.

#creepypasta #creepypasta imagines #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta blog #ticci toby #toby rogers #ticci toby x reader #creepypasta x reader

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allidoishuynh · 1 month

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First post or maybe second. I think there's a picture of stuffed animals from like a decade ago. But let's see how this goes.

Jason is having his death day, Danny wants to help. (Xey and xeir are used as pronouns for an alien species for whom English can't really cut it)

The day sucked. It fucking sucked every single year. Every inch of his body ached and screamed in pain with each step, turn, and movement. He could hear the incessant, unending beeping wherever he went. Of course… it wasn't unending. It had very abruptly and very importantly ended, once upon a time. Which led him to the next reason this day, every single year, was so unbearably shitty: the sweats. It felt like he was boiling alive on the surface of the sun and no matter what he did, no matter how he distracted himself, he always remembered why. Why he had to feel this way every year and how each torment served as a memento of that day.

Jason continued walking down the street in the vain hope to clear his head when he heard a voice.

"Yeeeeesh!" A boy said, "I think I can taste that."

As Jason turned, he noticed the boy, thin, no older than 16, with stark white hair, was staring directly at him. Staring at him and slowly walking closer.

"Hey there man," he started, "believe me when I say: I know today sucks. I don't know how badly or what exactly you're dealing with, but I know it's bad."

The teen was now standing right in front of him and yet Jason felt glued to the spot, like something was keeping him there and that the very idea of brushing off this boy and continuing on his horrid stroll would be an act of blasphemy. The boy reached out a hand and placed it gently on Jason's shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. And to his utter shock, Jason didn't shrug it off. In fact, he liked it? For the briefest of moments the aches subsided, the heat receded long enough to feel the cool spring breeze, and the beeping faded into nothing. He could swear even the pits were calm. No wait, they weren't just calm; they were cooing? Pushing him to lean into the young man's touch.

"Mind if I join you?" The boy asked.

"Please…" Jason spoke, somewhere between a whisper and a prayer.

And they started back along the walkway. Jason couldn't help but feel like the world had stopped as they made their way through Crime Alley.

"You know," the stranger began, "there's nothing wrong with asking, 'GOD, why the fuck is this happening to me?'"

"Sure, you know WHY it's happening. But it seems pretty unfair, no? I mean, we go through this absolutely awful thing once, and then we have to deal with the shadows of it once every three-sixty-five for the rest of eternity? That's just brutal."

Jason knew he had trusted every word spoken to him so far, though he couldn't be sure why. But the small, rational voice in his head now confirmed exactly what the subject of their conversation was.

"Well the truth is," he continued "it's not some command by on high. No one made these rules. It's just how the universe operates. I've actually met quite a few others like us, but they didn't live on a rock rotating around a yellow star. One of them lived their whole life on a space station flying through eternity. And yet even they feel this once every so often."

"See, the thing is, humans operate on an annual time scale. We don't feel greatly connected to something that happened exactly 7 or 28 or 30 days ago. But three hundred and sixty five days… and six-ish hours puts us in basically the exact same spot in the universe. You can feel it, the same air blowing in your face, the same setting sun, even the same clothes you were wear-"

Jason collapsed. He felt the air ripped out of his lungs as he coughed and choked and desperately tried to restart his breathing. Everything hurt, everything was hot, and the GODDAMN BEEPING-

And then it was gone. The only thing he felt was a gentle hand rubbing circles into his back. He turned to look up at the… Spirit? God? "Boy" felt wrong now.

"Ope," he said with a look of concern, "so the clothes were a really important part. Starting to get a picture of what's going on here."

Jason gratefully received a second hand positioned on his chest as he was lifted back into a standing position. Then he turned back to his companion and urged him to continue with his eyes.

"Well," he started again, "basically, we live on a yearly timescale. We don't count months or decades nearly the same way. But that's just us, if we were turtles and the only big happening we saw was that every 23 years a squall split the bay we lived in, you and I would have much longer between our episodes. One of the ones I talked to said xey only experienced it once every 91 years when a certain comet makes its pass through the night sky on xeir planet."

"Anyway," he continued, "what I'm trying to say is that the universe is a fucked up place. But it has rules. Action-reaction and all that. So if you want, I can try and help you get through this as someone more familiar with those rules than you are."

"Please," Jason pleaded, "anything that'll help. I just, I just want it to be easier, I don't need it to be gone; I just want it to be bearable."

"Cool," he responded "glad we're operating on more reasonable expectations. But first things first, I'm gonna need to take a closer look at your core and it's not going to be a particularly comfortable experience. Is that okay?"

Jason nodded, though he wasn't quite sure what this being had meant by "core." He just couldn't help but trust it.

That trust felt slightly misplaced when a hand passed directly into his chest and the arm it was attached to shifted to several angles as if searching for something.

"Aha!" Came the exclamation as the hand retracted, now carrying a small red… was that a page? Like from a book?

"Well this looks cool," the being said, "jeez a bad boy with the heart of a poet. Jazz would have a field day. But let me see here… oh! A protection obsession, just like me. Put 'er there bud."

Jason felt a deep reverberation in his chest as he shook hands with the entity. But everything felt wrong, like his very being had been separated from him so quickly and quietly that he hadn't even noticed. It felt as though he might've gone on blissfully unaware if he hadn't seen the page come out of his chest. And then the world returned. The sounds of the city came to life and when Jason looked down, the page was gone and the hand that held it was pressed gently and flatly back against his chest. The spirit reached down to grab Jason's hand before turning to continue down the street.

After a few minutes, they came to a stop at a park.

"Why are we here?" Asked Jason.

"Dunno," came the reply, "but look closely and I'm sure you'll find the reason."

Jason scanned the park. The homeless resting in the bushes, the trees full of green leaves, several families playing, an old man feeding pigeons, and another walking his dog. His eyes suddenly snapped back to the families. One family. The mother. A young woman with a long, thin scar along her cheek.

He remembered those eyes, that hair. The scar was a fresh gushing wound when he had last seen it, but he remembered that too.

"Her," Jason said, knowing the one beside him understood, "I saved her. Or helped. Back when I was- back before I was- Fuck. Was that a decade ago? Jesus she has a ki-oh man kids. Wait, is she my age? Shit, she seemed so little then."

"Someone you protected," came the voice, "someone for whom you risked your life. Someone who looks at those kids and thanks the universe for putting you on her path every single day."

Jason felt a lump forming in his throat.

"See," the boy started, "I think that's what people forget. Not just other people but us too. It's not about carrying someone through the pouring rain to a hospital. It's definitely not about the praise or detractors or even seeing someone pull through in the end. It's about this. It's about-"

"Seeing them get the chance to flourish," Jason finishes, "watching the world step on them over and over and being there to help them back on their feet the one time it would've been too much on their own. And then knowing they thrived in the end."

"It's hard," the spirit said, "to remember where we really sit in the grand scheme. It can feel like we haven't done anything or that no matter what we do, we'll never be more than one single moment. The reason today sucks every year is important. But it doesn't define who you are or what you'll do. Go visit Mr. Friedrichson at 2:03 today. One of his old tenants is gonna visit and I think you'll enjoy the reminder of why your home is a place worth fighting for, even in spite of the name. Talk to Jenny and Liu. They'll be on 5th Street tonight and they'll talk your ear off about all the good you've done and what it really means to bleed Crime Alley. And can I make one actual request, even if you don't do the other stuff?"

"Of course," Jason replied, "anything."

"Enjoy yourself," the voice spoke, fading as if it was getting farther away. "He's gonna come by as per usual, bearing gifts. But I'm begging you, forgive yourself, even if just for today, and try to enjoy some time with your brother."

"Hey Jason!" Came a call from his other side, "I've been looking all over for you. I got your favorite."

Dick lifted a large brown bag, undoubtedly from the greatest Chinese restaurant in the world… if you asked Jason that is. Jason couldn't help but let a soft smile creep across his face, before quickly hiding behind a groan and a hand pressed into his forehead.

"I can't get one day's peace from you can I?" Jason said as he closed the distance and took the bag.

"Uhh," Dick said, stunned by the more playful remark. "I… I thought you might want some company and I had a free-"

"Thank you Dick," Jason cut in, "I know you take this day off every year and I know you spend it mostly with me screaming and throwing things at you."

"It's not-" he began.

"But this year," Jason continued, "let's do something better."

He lifted the bag to his face and deeply inhaled the fragrant smell of nostalgia and stir fried vegetables.

"You even remembered my special instructions," Jason said, "come on. I know a few places we can go to enjoy this."

Oh boy that was long. Uhh, I hope Tumblr does the whole button to expand this automatically. I kinda only got halfway through what I was gonna say and then burnt out so we skipped Mr. Friedrichson's moment. Anyway have a good one y'all. Oh right, Danny says "bud" and "ope" because he's Midwestern just like me. I don't take criticism (on the Midwestern thing).

#dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #dcxdp #batman #jason todd #red hood #danny phantom #danny fenton #dick grayson #jazz fenton #mentioned #ghost core #obsession

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ginnsbaker · 1 month

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (4/?)

Part summary: Getting to know Leigh Shaw comes with some hardships—literally.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 4.600 | Warnings/Tags: Pining | A/N: Still haven't decided how many parts will there be, but for now, enjoy reader's POV as her interest in Leigh grows :)

Masterlist | Part I Part II | Part III | Next

For some reason, you keep saying yes to Leigh Shaw.

Yes to providing your veterinary services for her.

Yes to divulging the private aspects of your relationship with Matt.

Yes to staying in her yoga class.

Yes to running very early in the morning, with a lung-busting pace that leaves you dehydrated and feeling queasy by the end of it.

As if to add insult to injury, Leigh Shaw doubles back to where you're lagging behind, barely hanging on for dear life. She flashes that cheeky grin, says, “Try to keep up,” and takes off again like it's nothing. You're left gasping for air, your heart screaming in agony as you attempt to match her pace, but Leigh's already a blur ahead.

She was right—your endurance is really nowhere to be seen. It's in these moments, as you're pushing past what you thought were your limits, that you start to get why Leigh's both a pain and a push that was kind of missing before in your life.

Leigh eventually vanishes around a corner, and consequently, you lose sight of her. You dig deep, pushing yourself to keep going, refusing to quit out of stubbornness and curiosity of what your body could do. By some miracle, you make it to the finish line, which turns out to be that park you've been to only once before with Matt. He had made it a special day with sandwiches and comics, while you got lost in a book he swore you’d love. You can’t shake off the feeling that this place is significant for Leigh and Matt too.

When you finally stumble in, there's Leigh, chilling on the grass, looking like she's lost in thought, her eyes dark with something you can't quite put your finger on. But then she spots you, and it's like someone flipped a switch. She’s back to the flippant Leigh—easygoing, as if nothing’s amiss.

“Was half expecting to find you passed out somewhere back there,” Leigh smirks up at you.

You can’t help but flop down next to her, letting the sun beat down on your face, feeling every bit of your skin that's exposed soaking up the warmth. Thirst claws at your throat, fierce and unforgiving. Gathering the little energy you have left, you manage to ask, “How long have you been waiting?”

Leigh glances at you, her casual ease belying the brief glimpse of concern you thought you'd seen earlier. “Oh, about five minutes,” she says, her tone light, as if the grueling run was nothing more than a leisurely stroll for her.

You pant out, “Why are you so fast, anyway?”

Leigh bursts into laughter, finding your question absurdly funny. “Fast? Me? That's hardly competitive speed, you're just... completely out of shape.”

You pout, feeling slightly offended but too exhausted to argue. Stretching out beside her, you let out a series of groans and pops, feeling your muscles protest and then slowly relax. “Feels like I'm a hundred years old,” you mutter with a heavy sigh.

Still chuckling, Leigh shakes her head. “I've been running for three years now. It's more of a hobby, really, but I need to stay active for my job at the Beautiful Beast. Or my mom will fire me.”

“Your family owns that place?”

Leigh corrects you quickly, “Not my family, just my mom. And being the owner's daughter doesn't give me a pass to slack off. I can't afford to be terrible at my job.”

Her distinction between “my family” and “my mom” sticks with you. It seems like a clue into her family dynamics. In the short time you've known her, Leigh comes across as straightforward, genuinely helpful, and yes, perhaps a bit quick-tempered, but overall...she's okay.

More than okay, actually. She must be incredible to those she truly cares about. So, what went wrong with her and Matt? How could he betray her like that? It’s even more baffling when you remember Leigh saying they were trying for a baby. That detail still turns your stomach, and you're endlessly grateful you never went down that path with him, despite once wishing things had gone differently.

Lost in your thoughts, you don't realize how intently you've been staring at Leigh until she calls you out on it. “What is it?” she asks, her voice pulling you back to the present.

Flustered, you find yourself asking the question that's been simmering in your mind, since you first pulled on your sneakers for that 5k this morning. “Why'd you bring me along for your run? Why are you even helping me?”

Leigh just gives an offhand shrug, says, “Well, you didn't have to show up, so you're actually helping yourself.”

“Fair enough,” you reply, but can't shake off a bit of disappointment. The truth is, you were hoping she'd say something that suggested she was up for being friends, or at least saw you as more than just another client of hers.

It's weird, really, why you keep wanting to be friends with Leigh Shaw.

Suddenly, Leigh glances at her watch and looks up at you. “Ready to go?” she asks, a bit impatiently.

“If I can still walk after this, sure,” you say, half-joking, half-serious, feeling the effects of the run in every muscle.

Leigh laughs at that, a genuine, hearty laugh that lights up her face. It's a sound that's real and unguarded, making you think that maybe, becoming friends with her isn't such a far-fetched idea after all.

Yoga sessions with Leigh stick to the script you first stumbled into. She's all business, only really tossing you a nod or a word when your form goes sideways. “Shoulders down, back straight,” she corrects you, her voice firm, yet not unkind. Outside of that, you might as well blend into the walls for all the personal attention she gives, just like anyone else there. Everyone gets the same treatment—tough love, dished out in equal measure.

Despite her imposing presence, there's something else, a depth to her that often seems just out of reach. You catch her sometimes, looking out the window with a distant gaze. But then she blinks, shakes it off, and is back, fully attentive and ready to guide the next pose.

“Focus on your breathing,” Leigh's voice snaps you out of your focus on her. “Inhale deeply, and as you exhale, sink deeper into the pose.”

Determined to excel, you pour all your effort into being the student Leigh doesn’t need to worry about. Ironically, your diligence only seems to make you more invisible to her. As you master the poses with less need for correction, Leigh's interactions with you dwindle further.

After class, you toy with the idea of approaching her. Maybe get some feedback, or even suggest grabbing dinner together so you don't have to eat alone. But as you're putting together what to say, you notice Leigh seems in a hurry. She exchanges a few quick words with another instructor who's just arrived, and before you can decide, she's excusing herself and heading out.

The moment to ask her has slipped away, leaving you to pack your yoga mat with a resigned sigh.

Another time, then, you think.

The next day, without another invite from Leigh for a run, you lace up your shoes and follow the same route you and Leigh took together. Just 20 minutes into the run, the solo effort feels more like a chore than the engaging challenge it was with company. You loop the route four times, hoping maybe to cross paths with Leigh purely by coincidence, but she’s nowhere to be found.

The studio had announced last night that Leigh’s yoga classes would be temporarily led by a different teacher, with her expected to return next week. This bit of news leaves you mulling about her absence, kind of hoping you might accidentally run into her to find out more. But as the week goes by without any such encounters, you realize you actually know very little about her daily routines or habits. Despite the nagging curiosity, you refrain from texting her, not wanting to intrude or anything.

Admittedly, your motivation to work out dipped slightly without Leigh being part of it.

When you finally talk yourself into visiting Matt’s grave, you do so just minutes before it could get really dark. You've chosen this time deliberately, betting on the common fear that keeps most people away from cemeteries as night approaches.

Your main concern isn't the general public, though; it's just Leigh. Past experiences have shown that encounters with her can happen unexpectedly and in the most random of places—like that night at the club when she ended up getting sick just a few inches away from you. You're not here out of a longing for Matt. Instead, you aim to properly close this chapter of your life, hoping to do so without running into his widow and giving her the wrong impression.

The air holds a chill that wasn't there when you left home, making you wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. It’s quiet, just the sound of your own footsteps crunching softly on the path. Being here as the day turns to night, watching shadows stretch out long and skinny, really gets you thinking about life, death, and everything else in-between. Maybe that's also why people avoid this place—it sort of forces you to face the music, making you curious if all the things you're wrapped up in are actually important or utterly pointless.

As for you, you haven't quite figured out where you stand on that yet. Lately, you've really come into your own in your career, especially now that you’re seeing the profits steadily rising each month. But that sense of achievement fades each evening as you return to your empty apartment. It's just you, night after night, pushing through the grind, pouring everything into your job. Yet, when you try to envision where you'll be in five years from now, the picture isn't clear. Will you be settling down with someone, or just picking up the pieces from another relationship that’s gone awry?

Finding Matt's grave takes a moment, but when you do, your heart clenches. It’s just a simple stone with his name, the years he was here, and a couple of words(you’re guessing it’s Leigh who wrote them) about him.

You kneel down, the grass cool and slightly damp beneath you, and lay the flowers you've brought on his grave. They look kind of bright against the dimming light. Like hope.

“Hey Matt,” you say, stepping into a silence that feels like it's hanging around, just waiting for you to fill it. Talking to a dead person feels ridiculous like they do in the movies, but it's not like anyone's around to hear you.

“You know, I met Leigh,” you begin. “Your wife you conveniently forgot to mention when you were busy asking me out.”

There's a sour edge to your voice, airing grievances to a guy who can't throw back excuses anymore. You can't help but chuckle, though it's more bitter than amused. You let your thoughts more freely now, like the barrier between you and Matt has thinned out with the honesty.

“Leigh is… beautiful, you know? Not in that runway or social media kind of way, but in a manner that's hard to just overlook.”

You could list a dozen more positive things about Leigh to tell Matt, but he already knew all that, didn't he?

“The first time I met her, I felt small, maybe even insecure. And now?” you shake your head, smiling slightly. “...I still do. But mostly, I'm just left thinking…” You pause. The next thought isn't really for Matt, not anymore.

It’s for you.

“I just can't wrap my head around why you'd want to be with me when you had her. I feel like the murder weapon that's trying to seek justice for its victim.” You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Not a great spot to be in, honestly. Makes me feel kind of helpless, you know?"

Sitting back, you take a moment, just looking at the headstone, at the name etched into the granite. The conversation, if you can call it that, feels like it's shifted something inside you. Not closure, exactly, but maybe the first step towards understanding—or at least accepting—that some things just don't make sense.

Standing up, you dust off your knees, taking one last look at the grave. “Anyway, Matt, I hope you've found peace. It looks like we're all searching for a little of that ourselves. Thanks for the book suggestions. Though, you might be a bit disappointed to hear Agatha Christie remains my top favorite.”

As you walk away from Matt's grave, it feels as though you're leaving a piece of yourself behind to rest with him. You decide then, as the cemetery gate closes behind you with a gentle click, that you won't let this page in your book define you. Maybe tomorrow, you'll try a new coffee shop, or take a different route to work. Small changes, but important ones.

Maybe you’ll even try that spin class that scares you so.

“Since when did you start living at the gym?” Suzie teases you from her spot across the desk, that signature playful, all-knowing arch to her eyebrow.

Suzie, who had originally come on board as a receptionist at your vet clinic with little more than enthusiasm and a genuine love for animals to her name, had quickly become much more than just a staff member. Her lack of relevant experience was initially a concern, but her dedication and the way she connected with both the animals and their owners made it clear she was a perfect fit. Over time, she evolved from being just the receptionist to a friend.

A friend who seems to enjoy teasing you, though.

“First off, it’s hardly the gym. It’s this fitness class I’ve been trying out—big distinction,” you clarify, eyes glued on your phone. The last half hour has been a slow crawl towards 5 PM, the magical hour when you can finally shut down and head to Leigh’s class at Beautiful Beast.

“Tomatoes, to-mah-toes,” she quips.

“Not the same thing,” you insist, still not fully engaged in the conversation, your focus on a food article you're reading.

Suzie just waves her hand dismissively. “Semantics. But seriously, you've been really into whatever this is. There's gotta be a guy making those sweat sessions worth it.”

You can't help but laugh, the idea so off base it circles back to being hilarious.

“Trust me, the allure isn't the sweat. It's those endorphins,” you say.

“Yeah, sure,” she drawls, unconvinced. “Come on. Who is it? I know you're not this amped to be all gross and sweaty for nothing.”

“There's no guy, Suzie.” Then, as if the thought just occurred to you, you add, “Or girl. But honestly, there's really no one.”

At that, Suzie's expression shifts from playful teasing to one of pleasant surprise and a touch of mock offense. “Hold up, you might be into girls? And here I was, shooting my shot in the dark this whole time!”

Your ears burn red at her blunt flirtation. “Suzie, come on,” you stammer.

“If I had known that was on the table, I would’ve upped my game ages ago,” she says, her wink sending your face from warm to inferno.

“You’re impossible,” you manage to say as you hurry to collect your things, ready to rush out the door.

“Impossibly into you,” she retorts saucily.

“I’m gonna have to fire you, you know,” you mutter jokingly, glancing at your watch. “Gotta run, bye!”

“Just so we're clear, the offer stands,” she adds, still grinning.

You feel a sense of relief seeing Leigh back in class.

Though the website clearly stated her schedule, you found yourself on edge until you could see Leigh with your own eyes. There's nothing noticeably different about her; Leigh seems just as composed and in control as ever. When she catches you looking, she offers a small, somewhat dismissive smile before turning her attention elsewhere.

You spend the whole session with your energy dialed up, partly because Leigh's presence just does that, and partly because you're already plotting. As soon as she calls time on the session, you're practically springing into action. Your belongings—a water bottle, towel, and the rest—land in a haphazard pile on the floor as you quickly stand up, eager to catch her before she disappears. You make your way toward her, determined not to let her slip away this time.

Leigh's busy packing up her own gear, her back to you as you close the distance. “Hey, Leigh,” you say, and it sounds like you've got this under control, even if your heart's hammering away in your chest. She turns, and there's a flicker of surprise in her expression. You’re hoping it’s the good kind of surprise.

“I'm really glad you're back,” you push on, hoping it doesn't sound as clumsy to her as it does in your head.

She takes a swig from her water bottle, giving you a once-over, and then says, “Thanks. Do you need anything?” There's an expectant look in her eyes, and in that moment, your confidence begins to wane, melting under her gaze. You're on the spot, scrambling for words, any words that don't involve asking her out for dinner, which suddenly seems like an insurmountable task.

“Uh, actually,” you start, your mind racing to find a safe topic, “I was wondering if you had any tips on improving my form?”

Leigh's expression softens, and she nods, setting her water bottle down. “Sure, I can show you a few things. Let's go back to the mats,” she suggests, leading the way. Despite feeling like your tank is on empty and your body crying for hydration, backing down doesn’t feel like an option.

Not when Leigh is already spreading her mat next to yours. She does so with a sort of blasé authority, and you can't help but think how this is Leigh all over—straight to the point, no fuss. You're tired, sure, and a part of you is suggesting that you're about to make a fool of yourself with your shaky legs and probably even shakier form. But then, Leigh starts talking, pointing out where you're going wrong and how to fix it, and suddenly, you're not thinking about dinner anymore. You’re too distracted now by the smell of her perfume mixed with the scent of her sweat.

The next few minutes turn into what feels like a whole new session under Leigh's watchful eyes. She's on you about everything—the angle of your arm, the set of your shoulders, even the way you're distributing your weight on your feet. Leigh's not mean about it, but she doesn't let anything slide. You're just trying to keep up, watching her move with that easy confidence. It's mesmerizing, really, how she can make something so complex look so simple.

By the time you're done, your muscles are burning, your breath is ragged, and you're pretty sure you've sweated out every last drop of water in your body. As you lie there, staring at the ceiling and asking yourself how a ten-minute guidance turned into an even harder session, you mentally kick yourself for not just admitting you wanted company for dinner. It was right there, and you were too scared to be rejected.

But why? Considering everything that's happened and the circumstances, Leigh turning you down seems like the more probable outcome anyway.

And then Leigh does something totally offbeat. She glances at the clock, then back at you, and out of nowhere, she's asking, “Want to grab something to eat?”

It's so unexpected, that for a moment, you're sure you misheard her. But Leigh's waiting for an answer, a slight smile playing on her lips, and suddenly, the fatigue feels a little less overwhelming. You sit up, a slow grin spreading across your face as you realize this is it—your chance, handed to you when you least expected it.

“Yeah,” you finally manage to say, almost tripping over your tongue. “Yeah, that'd be great.”

When Leigh mentioned grabbing something to eat, you expected a sit-down at some cozy restaurant serving healthy food. Instead, she pulls into the drive-thru of a fast-food joint, orders a mountain of fries and a couple of burgers, and parks the car in a secluded spot overlooking the city. It's laid-back, unpolished, and honestly, pretty perfect.

“So, how long have you been in town?” Leigh asks as she hands you a burger, the city lights twinkling below like a scattered deck of glowing cards.

“Just over a year,” you reply, taking a hearty bite of your burger. “Moved here for the business opportunity, but it’s been... you know, slow on the social front.”

Leigh nods, understandingly. “It can be tough, starting fresh somewhere. This place isn't the friendliest to newcomers.”

Your eyebrow lifts, curious whether she's speaking from her own experiences or perhaps someone else's.

“Yeah, most of my socializing happens online these days. My closest friends are scattered across different states,” you say.

Leigh just hums a bit, not really adding anything else. She doesn't go into details about her own friends, so you're left trying to think of something else to talk about. But everything that comes to mind feels too personal, like asking why she wasn't at the Beautiful Beast for a week, how she's dealing with being a widow, or questions about her family.

Small talk isn't really your thing, so the conversation fizzles out from here. Both of you just end up staring out at the city lights in silence. Leigh seems comfortable with it though, so you decide to just go with it and savor the quiet moment too.

After a while, Leigh breaks the silence. “I didn't think I'd be able to love another dog after Rogue,” she shares, not taking her eyes off the cityscape. “Matt and I had to put her down because she was sick. It was brutal. I swore off dogs after that.”

You look over at her and offer a soft, “I'm sorry.”

But there's no trace of sadness on her face. It’s so nonchalant, almost as if she’s just talking about the weather and not a painful memory.

“But then...I saw Visitor,” she goes on, a small smile cracking through. “I just knew he needed me. And, this might sound odd, but I realized I wanted to feel needed. When Matt—” She stumbles over his name, a rare falter, but she's quick to brush it off. “When he died, nobody needed me. And I struggled with that. Because being needed felt like a purpose.”

The idea of needing to be needed isn't something you've ever considered. Truth is, you've never really needed anyone. You've been a solo act for as long as you can remember, handling things on your own, relying solely on your own capabilities. And so, that also meant you couldn't imagine being on the other side of the spectrum—being needed by someone.

However, there's a part of you, unexpectedly, that feels a twinge of jealousy towards Leigh. To truly experience loss, there first has to be something meaningful to lose. You're not sure you've ever let yourself have that kind of bond with anyone. Not yet, anyway. It's a sobering thought, making you think about what you might be missing out on.

Leigh notices you're not saying much and says, “I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. I'm sorry.”

You shake your head slightly, “It's okay. I just... I don't think I've ever been in your shoes.”

Leigh looks a bit puzzled. “What do you mean? Are you talking about the dog thing, or…?”

“The other thing,” you clarify.

Leigh smirks. “Oh, I wish I was like that.”

You quickly realize how arrogant that must have sounded, so you rush to explain, “No, I'm not trying to brag or anything. It's just, I guess I've never really opened myself up to that kind of bond.”

“Not even with Matt?” she asks, and there it is—the topic of Matt you've been tiptoeing around. You're suddenly aware that Matt's shadow is something you'll have to get used to, just as Leigh apparently has, given the unceremonious way she alludes to your almost-affair with her late husband.

“No,” you whisper, looking straight into Leigh's eyes, hoping she’ll believe you. “We never needed each other like that.”

Leigh's eyes linger on yours a moment longer before she looks away. Eager to change the subject, you add, “Must've been rough, giving Visitor back to his real family.”

“Yeah. I mean, I shouldn't be, right? But part of me was actually angry at them for letting him get away like that. He could've been hit by a car or worse, all because they weren't careful. But at the end of the day,” she stops, a sigh escaping her, and that smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes comes back as she looks at you again. “He’s not mine.”

“Visitor really snuck into your heart, didn’t he?”

Leigh nods. “I wasn't expecting to care that much, you know?” Then, she offers a small, reflective chuckle. “Makes you think about the connections we allow ourselves to have, and the ones we avoid, doesn't it?”

You try to gauge whether she's still talking about Visitor while also trying to figure out where you stand—the connections she's chosen or the ones she sidesteps? Before you find the courage to ask, Leigh starts the car and presses down on the clutch, ready to switch gears.

“I need to head back to the studio, so I can only drop you off somewhere on the way,” Leigh says, signaling the end of your time together for now.

You quickly decide that being dropped off at the studio is fine. “The Beautiful Beast works for me,” you reply, hoping to extend the time you have left with her, even if it's just by a few minutes.

The ride is quiet, the earlier ease replaced by a thoughtful silence. You're watching her, the way she's all eyes on the road but clearly lost in her head. Leigh, as you’ve noticed, is someone hard to get to open up, her walls built high and strong. She's this fortress of a person, but tonight felt different, like she accidentally left a window open and you caught a glimpse inside.

It just makes you crave for more.

As the studio comes into view, it feels like you've both made some progress with Leigh and yet, somehow, not made any at all. Stepping out of the car, you’re met by Jules, another staff member at the Beautiful Beast whom you've heard Leigh refer to numerous times, approaches. You barely catch her saying, “Danny is waiting for you inside,” to Leigh. You miss the frown on Jules's face or how Leigh instantly seems on edge.

“Thanks for the ride—and for dinner,” you say, feeling a bit out of place now.

“Don't get used to it,” she says, the corners of her lips twisting into a reluctant smile. “Was nice talking, though. Thanks for not making it weird.”

As she's quickly pulled away by whatever's going on inside, you hover for a second, debating if you should go in for a goodbye hug. But before you know it, Leigh is tossing a quick “Bye” in your direction as she strides towards the studio.

You're left there, floating in the aftermath, wondering about everything and nothing all at once.

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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thelov3lybookworm · 8 months

Text

I Didn't Ask For This (Part 9)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Summary: Marriage had always been something sacred to little Y/n, something dream like, where her husband would come and whisk her away to a fairyland. At least, that's what she had always thought.

All her dreams would be shattered.

But maybe she can salvage them?

•○●⛦●○•

Tw: forced marriage, none more that I can think of, so let me know if I need to add anything.

A/n: I've been soo excited to write this part, especially the ending. Despite the almost whole thing being erased because I didnt save it, I like this part. Hope you do too.

Enjoy!

•○🌑○•

Y/n smiled softly as she stared at the Sidra, standing next to Azriel while leaning against the railing of the bridge.

"It's very peaceful." She murmured.

"That it is. It feels more so at night, because there's more chaos nearby." He offered. She nodded.

They had been walking around the city for a couple of hours now, and it was almost dinnertime. They had decided to rest for a few moments before continuing. She was so tired that she was sure that her legs would fall off if she took another step. Obviously, she hadn't considered the consequences when she promised to spend the whole day with him.

The whole morning and afternoon was spent with him pointing at shops and telling her of how he and his brothers terrorised Velaris in their younger years. Y/n's stomach hurt from how much she had laughed. From those stories, she knew that most of his five hundred years had brought him happiness. And that made her happy, for a reason she didnt want to think of.

He tilted his body so he faced her more. "Where do you want to eat?"

"I don't know...can't you decide?" She glanced at him, quickly turning back to the river, because she couldn't look at him for more than a moment without blushing. Especially with the intensity with which he looked at her. As if she was the only person in the world and if he didn't pay attention to every word she said, he'd die.

She could feel him smile as he straightened. "There is this place along the banks of Sidra. Its the inner circle's current favourite place to eat."

"Okay." She mumbled as she turned to him. "How far is it?"

"Don't worry. I'll carry you."

"Excuse me?"

He grinned, turning away from her and giving her instructions to wrap her arms around his neck, ignoring her protests. She finally relented, his hands going under her thighs to hoist her up. He couldn't look at her, which she was glad for, because all he would've seen was the redness in her face.

She clutched him tighter as he started walking, mindful of his wings. He again started telling her stories.

"There used to be a restaurant there." He pointed to a tailoring shop with a jerk of his head. "When we ate there for the first time, we were obsessed. We made plans all week to eat there on the weekend. When the day came, Cassian starved himself in hopes of being able to eat more. And, because he was so hungry, he gobbled down all the food without chewing. When we were leaving, he started feeling nauseous."

Y/n grinned and rested her head on his shoulder, having an inkling of where this was going.

"As soon as we stepped inside the town house, he threw up all over the threshold. After that he never even stepped foot in the general vicinity of the restaurant, as if it was somehow cursed."

Y/n laughed. "He is... a masterpiece."

"That he is." He agreed. Soon, they had reached the restaurant he was telling about and he helped her settle before he took seat.

As they ate, he managed to get Y/n to tell him about her life. And, because there were not really any happy or pleasant memories in her life, she told him of the less gruesome and painful ones. She watched as his anger grew with every word from her mouth.

When they were flying back, he stayed mostly quiet, as if lost in thought. Before they landed though, he turned to her.

"There is a family dinner tomorrow at the river House. I'd be happy if you came."

She considered it for a moment before nodding. "I'll come."

"Thank you." Quiet joy took over his face as he set her down, his lips twitching as if he was holding back a smile as he kissed her hand before flying away.

She stared at his form until she couldn't anymore, smiling.

Azriel had been extremely adorable today, and she would be lying if she said that she wasn't excited to see this side of him again.

•○🌑○•

The darkness was creeping in again as she stared at her abdomen in the mirror. Her shirt was stuck around her wrists as she clutched the cloth to her chest. The disgusting thoughts and vile ideas she had regarding the disgusting marks on her body swirled through her mind.

She hated herself for it.

She hated everyone who played a role in bringing her to this point.

Everyone who had a hand in turning the hopeful little soul she had been into the unoptimistic female she was today.

Somewhere deep in her she knew it was wrong to think about herself that way, but she didn't care. Her father and the other men's laughs were too loud for her to hear the rational thoughts.

This was the sole reason why she never looked at herself when she changed. It bought back those dark memories and thoughts. But today she couldn't help it.

She was getting ready to go to the dinner with the inner circle when she had peeked at herself, and now she couldn't stop thinking of how disgusting her body was.

She knew if someone came in from the door, they would have an unobstructed view of the map of horror on her back. But she couldn't bring herself to care at the moment.

While she was busy thinking of these things, she didn't hear the soft footfalls nearing her room. She didn't hear them until it was too late.

A knock sounded before her husband poked his head in, the smile on his face disappearing as she pulled the shirt back over her head. She gave him a shaky smile as she watched a muscle feather in her jaw.

"Az– Azriel. Did you need something?"

He didn't reply, entering the room fully, the door clicking shut behind him. He prowled closer, ignoring her questions and attempts at distraction. When he was close enough, he traced lines on her now clothed back, exactly where some of those scars were.

His eyes slowly lifted to meet hers in the mirror, his voice quiet and deadly as he spoke. "May I?" His hands brushed the hem of her shirt. She wanted to say no, but she nodded.

He slowly and gently lifted her shirt as she clutched the front of it so she didn't get completely naked in front of him. His eyes traced the marks on her back with a fierceness that would've sent people running.

"Who did this to you?" His voice sent shivers down her spine.

"My– my father and a few other men."

He met her eyes again, his eyes flashing before glancing down at her abdomen which had gotten exposed. He stepped closer, curling his arm around her around her to reach the scars. His face was murderous, but his hands were gentle. So gentle her knees nearly buckled.

He traced those scars, completely silent. The air was filled with tension as she watched his every move, her eyes prickling.

His eyes slowly lifted to hers again, his voice lower and more dangerous as he spoke. "Anywhere else?"

She knew he was asking if she had more scars. Which she did, so after a moment of consideration, she unclasped the few of the clasps at the top of the shirt and pulled the flaps aside.

A startled gasp full of horror left him as his eyes flew wide.

There, on her chest right above where her heart should be, was a nasty scar.

"How did you survive that!?" He questioned, his voice wobbling.

She smiled. "He wouldn't have let me die that easily." She turned to him. "Before the bargain between us was made, he wasn't that bad. Then he slowly started ignoring us. Mother wasn't talking to him, spending most of her days with me. But then, so deep in despair she was, she stopped taking care of herself. And that was the start of her slow and sure demise." She took a deep breath, tears gathering in her eyes.

"After she died, he only got worse. He started yelling at us, and then hitting us. It soon turned to whipping us." She searched Azriel's face before continuing. "After you left, the Camp Lord kicked us out of the camp, not wanting to share the power when he was no longer getting something out of it. We stayed nearby for a few years before father somehow convinced him to let us back into the camp.

"Later on, we found out that he had made a bargain that he would let the males in the camp beat us for their own sick pleasure. He–"

"What?" He had gone rigid.

She swallowed. "They started an event. It took place every year. The men who wanted to feel like they were great warriors would come and fight with the women, who had no experience. Seeing their opponent, especially a female, beaten and bruised, gave then satisfaction. Some of those scars are the result of this event. But it was stopped the moment Rhysand became High Lord.

"One day, father got so frustrated for something that I can't recall right now, and conveniently, I was nearby. He got a blunt knife that he was about to sharpen, ant stuck it in my chest. It hurt." A tear escaped her eye as she recalled the pain. "And becuase it was blunt, it took more force for it to pierce skin. When he was done and I was nearly dead, he got a healer to get me healed."

At this point, tears were streaming down her cheeks. He pulled her to his chest, his lips ghosting over her temple. He murmured things in her ear, but she couldn't make anything out over the sound of her sobs and her heart beating in her chest as she clutched onto Azriel as if he was the only thing keeping her alive.

He didn't complain, holding her back just as fiercely.

Sometime later, she decided to get dressed. So she pulled away and walked into the adjoining bathroom. When she came back out, Azriel smiled at her.

"I'll drop you off at the house. I have an important thing to do."

She nodded, despite wanting to ask him to not go.

Soon, she was sitting with the inner circle in the sitting room of the River House, glancing out the window continuously, hoping he came back soon.

•○🌑○•

It was somewhere near midnight when Azriel returned, smiling at her. She smiled back, a blush already creeping up her face. He sat next to her. He smelled and looked like he just taken a bath, his hair damp.

Almost an hour later, the High Lord left the sitting room, saying someone had brought some reports for him. Azriel watched him go, his jaw clenching. But when he found Y/n looking at him, he smiled again, relaxing.

It wasn't long before Rhysand burst back in, fuming. He walked straight to Azriel, who was already standing.

"What is this Azriel?" Rhysand waved some papers in front of her husbands face. Confused, everybody sat straighter, somber.

Unease started swirling in Y/n's stomach. If the High Lord was so mad, it must be something important.

Azriel glanced at the High Lord's hand before back at him, speaking calmly. "Those are papers Rhys. More specifically, they look like reports."

Rhysand looked on the verge of murdering someone. Y/n stood. "Tell me why, tell me fucking why, an Illyrian camp was burned to the ground. That too exactly while you were absent."

Her heart stopped as she stared at Azriel, his face void of any emotion or remorse. If anything, he looked proud.

What in the name of the cauldron did he do?

•○🌑○•

Taglist: @bubybubsters @maxxieluvs @bubbbllee @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @waytoomanyteenagefeels @tell-me-a-poem @the-lake-is-calling @spaxxxi @japanese-wonderland-blog @valeridarkness @moonlwghts @deadratio @esposadomd @harrystylesfan2686 @missusbarnes-rogers @whatthefuckshappeningrn @hyacinthoideshispanica @historygeekqueen @lizziesfirstwife @nastynesta @aroseinvelaris @nightless @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kodokunarisu-blog @selillusion @eos-princess @moonfawnx @a-court-of-milkandhoney @emilyo-218 @wannabewolf @ailyr92 @chronically-online-cheese @myheartfollower @hells-sluttiest-new-arrival @marina468 @menaosama @starryhiraeth @hereticdance @mali22 @valencia-rou @azrielsstarlight @marvelouslovely-barnes @luvmoo @starlight-hope @a-frog-with-a-laptop @fall-myriad @alt-ghost @elleofdragons @ruleroftides @5moremin @stargirl1714 @bunnymallowo @ivy-34

Part 10

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fever-fluff · 6 months

Text

Home

Azriel is lost, and cannot seem to find his way home, and it's tearing him apart

word count: 1.1k

Part II

Azriel is spiralling. He had convinced himself he was of equal standing with his brothers, but the past few years has proven otherwise. Three sisters for three brothers, that was what he had convinced himself of, and had seemed to be what Elain had wanted. But the bond he was so convinced was wrong, the bond he was so sure that would break apart as soon as the Cauldron had realised its mistake and weaved one between the two of them instead, never waivered.

And now, he sits opposite that of the woman he is so sure he loves, is the one from him, as she rips his already fractured heart in two. She's crying, and there's no part of Azriel that finds any satisfaction in it, no matter how much he wishes he could. She is the one doing this, choosing Lucien over her. But he cannot blame her.

For a time, they seemed to be happy, even if there were those around him that didn't approve. Lucien had accepted Elain's choice without anger or betrayal, and had wished she could find the happiness in Azriel that she could not seem to find in him.

It was Rhysand and Cassian, the males he called his brothers for centuries now, who had been angry for Lucien. Both of them understood a pain like that - both having to watch as their mates found solace outside their arms for a while.

it had taken weeks of coaxing from Nesta and Feyre for them to even look at him, but whether it was for their sister's benefit or his, he wasn't so sure.

Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, and Azriel found himself the happiest he had ever felt, but it seemed the ever observant spymaster began to miss details. He lost himself in that feeling, not realising the person he found it in was not following down the same path.

It had taken Elain five years to admit her mistake, nothing in the eyes of a fae's long lifespan, but to Azriel he felt like he'd lost centuries.

And now, he watches the world he so sorely craved crumble at his feet with a measly few words.

"I'm sorry, Azriel.... I've hurt so many people because of this. I wanted someone who never should have been mine, while carelessly leaving the male made for me behind."

Azriel had thought his heart had cracked all those years ago when he realised he'd never have Mor in the way he wanted to, but he felt it now. That large, hollow crack that vibrated down the very centre, tearing every string that had slowly began to knit itself together without caring if he could ever mend it again.

He couldn't hear the rest of what Elain said over the cotton in his ears, didn't rise to see her out as she got up and left through the door.

He knows, he knows Lucien hasn't done this, that this is purely Elain's choice. The youngest Vanserra hasn't been seen since Elain had chosen Azriel, off on the continent somewhere with no contact and no sign of ever coming back.

his shadows swirl around him, the thickest they'd been in months. They had never truly gotten used to Elain's presence, and her timidness towards them had Azriel sending them off without a care if it had made her more comfortable. Now, the wrap around him, twisting and turning as if trying to find the ache that their master seemingly has, but finding no open wound.

He takes whatever comfort he can find in them. His shadows have been the only thing that has ever truly been his, no fear of someone ever taking them away from him, being better than him. He is the Night court's Shadowsinger, there is no one else who can fill that role.

And so, Azriel grasps onto that thread and tugs so hard it will either break or rip his hand where it sits. Rhysand cannot find enough problems for him to fix, Cassian refuses to spar more than usual, and his spies have begun to disappear when he is around, leaving their findings in reports he pours over meticulously. He's barely eating, most definitely not sleeping, but he hasn't had to feel the affects of what had happened with Elain.

It's only a matter of time when it fails, Fae are strong, but not indefinitely. It isn't when everyone expects it though.

if not for Cassian, who had watched his brother go down like a rock does when dropped into a pool of water, steady and unmoving, no one would have seen the spymaster hit the treeline so hard they'd ripped his wings to shreds as they lay spread out and lax.

Had waking up been optional, Azriel would have decided against it. Rhysand looked at him with so much pity in his eyes that he had to turn away, Feyre sat at his window, refusing to even acknowledge he was awake.

"You're on leave indefinitely, you're no help to yourself, never mind the rest of us, in the state you're in." Rhysand's words had cut him deeply. His mind swirling as he realised he wasn't good enough to hold the position he'd cherished for centuries. But what could he say against it unless he tried to lie? So he remained silent, eyes downcast as Rhysand went on.

"I'm sending you to the continent, away from -" he didn't need to finish. "With Mor's work, we've made a few connections, and you can stay and figure out for yourself what you need to do."

Azriel looked to Feyre, who had finally moved from the window and stood close to the side of his bed, beside her mate. "Az, please understand, we're worried for you, and this could do you some good."

He scoffed. They had each other to lean on, he had no one - never had anyone to call home. And now they were sending him away from the one place he could pretend to feel like it was. He'd lost the female he loved, and had now lost everything that made him who he was. Why should he even bother...

But the look on Rhysand's face told him he'd order it if it came to it. His brother may always wish those he loved had a choice, but he was still High Lord first, and what Azriel was doing wasn't something he could let slip without repercussions.

He'd go to the continent, spend however long necessary it took to convince his family that he was fit to come back, and he'd hide the despair better. Hide from them all and spend whatever time he could with them before it consumed him whole.

#azriel shadowsinger #acotar #feyre archeron #rhysand #azriel angst #azriel spymaster #feysand #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #elain archeron #azriel acotar #azriel x reader

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thornsnvultures · 9 months

Text

bucky barnes x plus size!fem!reader

cw: smut (18+ minors dni), thigh riding, breast play, fluff, <1k words

-----

"Honey, I'm home!"

You don't turn from your book, too determined to finish the page you're on before Bucky bogarts your free time. You swear sometimes he's more needy than his precious cat, but really you can't complain.

His keys land in the bowl by the front door as he toes off his heavy boots. You have about five seconds from when they hit the ground to wrap things up before you get a lap full of boyfriend.

"Whatcha readin'?"

You finish just in time, reading the last line of the chapter and shutting the book, flinging your arms open so Bucky can dramatically settle his weight on top of where you're laying on the couch. He always acts like he hasn't seen you in years even if it's only been a day or two, but you wouldn't want to stop being the person he clings to for anything.

"Buck," you laugh, slapping his shoulder as he nuzzles into your neck. "It's too hot, you gotta get up!"

He's blocking the fan you had oscillating next to you while you read and between his body heat and the lack of air flow it feels like the room temperature went up about twenty degrees.

Bucky peels himself off of you, hovering over you with his forearms and biceps bulging. Yeah, it's definitely hotter now that he's here.

Your thighs squeeze together as he takes in your "it's too ungodly hot today" outfit of a tank top and barely-there panties. It's not fair how good he looks, his shaggy hair falling in his face, a light sheen of sweat making him glow. Unlike you, glued to the sofa as you are, feeling sticky from the heat. And he's wearing jeans! It's a crime.

"The a/c still not working, beautiful?" Bucky takes your book and places it on the floor. His knee nudges is way into the space between your legs and you forget what he just asked you. His lips feel too good on your neck, why would anything else matter?

"Y'know you should just move in with me. I've got that fancy central air, keeps the whole apartment cool."

Bucky smiles against your sweat slick skin when you laugh again. Sometimes you forget he's from a different time until he says stuff like that, like it's this new fangled invention that'll rock my socks off.

"You're right," you gasp, his thigh grinding into your core. Your breath stutters when he licks a stripe up from between your breasts where your tank top has ridden down.

"Of course I'm right," Bucky captures your parted, gasping lips in a kiss. Your eyes flutter shut and you melt even further into him, letting your hips grind against his denim clad thigh.

"Please," you whine. It's too hot. The air, his body enveloping yours, your molten core soaking a wet spot into his jeans. All of it. It's too much.

Bucky grips your hip with one hand, digging into the cushion of your flesh so he can help you move faster, harder. You can feel his cock, hard and heavy, pressing against the bulging zipper at the front of his jeans. It digs into the space where your hip and mound meet, thrusting against you in a teasing approximation of what it feels like when he's inside you. Fucking hell, you need him inside you. But right now you need to come, you're so, so close. Your panties are pulled tight between your pussy lips, soaked and dragging against your puffy clit.

"Please, Bucky, pl-aah!"

You cry out, gripping Bucky's biceps to the point of pain as your body seizes.

"That's it. That's it, beautiful. Make a fuckin' mess for me. Come all over me, baby. That's it." Bucky doesn't let you go, his hand on your hip, working you through your orgasm as you slow and twitch under him.

He presses kisses down your cheek, your jaw, down to your breast where he sucks a sensitive, peaked nipple through your thin top. You whine and shudder again, his dick twitching against your thigh. He doesn't seem in a rush to take care of his situation, fully engrossed in circling your nipples with his tongue just to watch your squirm.

"Bucky, what--it's too hot," you whine, trying to push him off now that you're even more sweaty than before.

"Move in with me then," he tosses out before returning to your breasts, happily nibbling and sucking marks into your skin.

You run your fingers through his hair, tugging when he bites a little to hard. Not that you'd want him to stop, he knows your limits.

"I don't know, Bucky." Would you love this kind of treatment every day, all day? Hell yes. Is the idea of taking the next step with this man whose life is constantly on the line, whom you may or may not...love absolutely terrifying? Uh, duh.

"Think about it," Bucky stops his errant tongue for a moment to press a kiss to your forehead. He cradles your face in his big hand and it's so hard to not melt like ice cream. It's a lot, sharing a space with someone, being alone in his home while he's away. It would be your home too, hopefully. Would he let your bring all your plants? Would Alpine eat your plants?

"I'll think about it. I promise," you whisper as you turn your head in his hand to kiss his metal palm. It's surprisingly cool to the touch. "Is not fair you made me come like that before you asked me."

Bucky chuckles and kisses your forehead again before sliding down your body. He gives your thick thighs a squeeze and kisses your mound. Your pussy flutters, clenching and begging for his touch. Bucky inhales deep and smiles at you from between your thighs.

"Oh I'm not done convincing you yet, beautiful. I got a key in my pocket with your name on it."

---

🖤

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x plus size!reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fan fiction #bucky barnes headcanon #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes imagines #my fics

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noramoons · 4 months

Text

what lies beneath | k.hj

pairing: kim hongjoong x g/n reader

genre: siren au, artist!reader

includes: angst, some fluff

rating: T/13+

warnings: language, slight horror themes, mentions/descriptions of food, Family Issues as a plot point (💀)

word count: 13.5k

summary: there’s a pair of eyes blinking up at you from below the pier. you think you know who (or what, really) they belong to—but you might be too afraid to admit it.

You had been sure of several things before you spent the summer at the beach with your cousins.

One, that you were not an "outside" person. You couldn't stand fishing, you hated lying underneath the sun to tan—you could swim well enough, you supposed, to keep yourself afloat—but that was it.

Two, that there was nothing more embarrassing than being a tourist in a town you'd practically grown up in.

And three, that sea monsters of any kind were absolutely, completely, 100% fictional.

It was fun to pretend as a child, sure—you remember plenty of summers playing in the ocean with your friends, or listening to your uncle tell scary stories to you and your siblings about the creatures he'd seen in his time in the navy or deep-sea fishing—but that was it. Pretending. You knew that just as well as the rest of them did.

Which is why it's now somewhat embarrassing to be back here—spending yet another summer with your extended family, and now seeing your younger cousins now running up and down the side of your uncle's small pontoon boat. "Fish-man!" one of them cries out, pointing towards the water. "I saw it! I swear!"

The other one nods. "He was huge!"

Your uncle laughs from the wheel behind you. "I bet he was! I always heard they like to catch the sides of the waves the boats make for speed—can't get too close, though, or they'll get chomped by the propellers!" He makes a chomping gesture by opening and closing his fist, and your cousins giggle.

"You heard?" you ask, turning around from the seat near the bow. "I thought you always said you'd seen those fish-men with your own two eyes back in the day, Uncle."

He smirks at you. "Those were the deep-sea days. I've never seen any creatures this close to shore, but who knows?" he shrugs, winning at you. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

Right. You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you turn back around, the spray of the saltwater coming up on either side refreshing enough to distract you from the stories your cousins are now hurriedly making up behind you.

The rest of the day is decidedly less painful; your uncle is considerate enough to let you stay on the boat when he anchors it on a nearby island, so you're able to at least attempt relaxing while your cousins run amuck on the shore. By the time you're finally pulling back in to the dock behind your uncle's house on the bay, you can already see the hues of pink and orange growing in the sky as the sun begins its descent beneath the horizon.

Your cousins make a mad dash for the house once they're within leaping distance of the dock, and you let out an exasperated sigh when you realize it's just you and your uncle left on the boat. You know exactly what that means—all the work's been left to you.

He grins at you. "You remember how to tie her to the dock, don't you?" As if this hasn't been your job on-and-off for the last ten years.

You offer a faint smile in response, but you keep yourself from saying anything negative while you pull out the ropes from beneath the seats, tying them into the knots you know from memory around the poles on the dock. You don't want to complain in front of your uncle—he's never been anything less than kind to you, especially letting you stay at his house this summer out of nowhere when you told him you needed a place to stay for a while, even when it's been over five years since your last summer here. No questions asked, although you're sure he's curious.

You might tell him the truth. Eventually.

His voice suddenly interrupts the stream of thoughts in your mind. "If you've got it covered, I'm gonna head inside and start on dinner."

You nod absentmindedly, tucking the last rope into the beginning of its knot. "What are we eating?"

He smiles at you. "Guess you'd better hurry up and find out."

You roll your eyes at him, but in your sudden rush to finish the knot, you don't complete it nearly as tightly as you should—and you can already feel the boat drifting to one side from the loose knot.

You sigh at your own impatience, but you start the knot over again anyway, pulling on the other ropes to line the boat up with the side of the dock again before you start, checking the angle into the water to make sure it'll be as close to perfect as possible so you can hurry up and go inside, and it's then that you see it.

There's a face in the water—and it isn't yours.

No. You're seeing things. After a long day in the sun, you know it's not unheard of for your eyes to play tricks on you looking into the water. You draw your focus back to completing the knot, shaking the unusual thoughts out of your head of what you know you couldn't have possibly seen.

When the knot's finally complete, you cast your gaze into the water beside the boat one final time—and you realize, in stunned horror, that you'd been right before. There is a face, a face you can just barely see in the water as you peer over the edge of the dock—and it isn't your reflection. No, the angles of the jawline, the cheekbones, the chin are all far too sharp and precise to be yours. To be human.

He blinks up at you, far too innocently for someone—something that has been holding its breath underwater for at least the past five minutes.

You don't know how long the two of you stare at each other. It could be minutes, hours—you really aren't sure. You're finding yourself practically lost in the eyes of the being before you, dark and abysmal and inviting all at the same time—this, you imagine, must be what drowning feels like. Completely helpless.

It's then that you realize your ankles are touching the water. That's strange—you'd been sitting atop the dock just a moment ago. When did you get in the water?

You feel as if you've just awoken from a dream. You don't know how you've gotten here so suddenly, but you've definitely moved—you've turned around to face the dock, and your arms are the only thing keeping you above the water, your legs submerged up to your knees.

You quickly scramble back out of the water and heave your body back onto the dock, making sure all your limbs are still attached before staring back into the bay beneath you, looking for that face beneath the water again—but it's gone. Whatever it was has completely vanished, leaving nothing but the soft lapping of the waves against the shore in its wake.

Your mind races to find an explanation. You've been in the sun for hours. You must not have had much sleep last night. Your cousins are driving you insane and they've finally pushed you past the brink. One of those, surely, has to be the answer for whatever the hell you've just seen.

It's all you can think about during dinner—you hardly touch the clam chowder your uncle had prepared. He notices the small helping you've poured for yourself when you sit down at the table, and you see him frown out of the corner of your eye. "Feeling alright, Y/N?"

You nod quickly. Too quickly. "I'm fine. Think I might've been out in the sun for too long today—I'll probably just get some water after dinner and head to bed."

He nods, visibly relaxing at your words. "Ah. That certainly can happen—I saw far too many colleagues faint back in the day after a long shift. It's brutal, that sun. That reminds me of one particular instance, actually—couldn't have been less than twenty years ago, I'll bet, when..."

He launches into another fishing anecdote, much to the delight of your cousins, while you continue to mentally spiral for the duration of dinner, locked in your own thoughts and what you know you couldn't have possibly seen. Your behavior, however, means your uncle doesn't mind at all when you go up to your room early—and when night finally falls and everyone else has gone to bed, no one notices you creeping back downstairs, either.

You have to know. You'll never be able to go to sleep tonight if you can't confirm whatever the hell you saw in the water earlier.

Your stomach interrupts your thoughts, piercing the quiet living room with an unfortunate grumble.

"Shit," you swear softly to yourself. You're hungry—it's no wonder. You barely ate dinner, and you only picked at a few snacks on the boat earlier. It certainly won't assuage your fears if you scare away whatever that thing was if your stomach growls the minute you step outside.

You quickly grab the first thing your eyes land on out of the first shelf in the refrigator—an apple, before finally striding over to the door and making your way back outside as quietly and nimbly as you can.

You practically run back to the edge of the dock, peering into the inky blackness of the water illuminated simply by the moonlight, only to find your own reflection staring back at you. There's nothing.

And you want to be reassured by that fact. You had to have been seeing things earlier, then—a result of the afternoon spent under the blistering sun, doing things to your eyes and your mind, and yet—

You have to check. You'll just dip a toe in, maybe—you're already barefoot, anyway. Nothing bites at your toe when you do, sitting down at the edge of the dock and letting the waves lap at your skin.

Well. You suppose to be really sure, you'll have to get in the water. It feels much better now than it did earlier today, you think as you lower yourself in up to your waist, still holding onto the dock with one hand, apple in the other. You don't remember the water ever feeling this good—this inviting. You wonder what it would feel like to go all the way up to your neck. Maybe even to go all the way underwater, to feel it enveloping every inch.

That last thought particularly entices you, so you let go of the dock, holding your hand (and the apple) above the water while you submerge the rest of your body beneath the waves. You wonder how long you can hold your breath underwater. Does it even matter, though? It wouldn't be so bad to stay here like this forever—

"...What is this?"

You're broken out of your thoughts by a muffled voice above you, piercing the silence and suddenly reminding you how long you've been underwater. Panic sets in almost immediately as you kick toward the surface, gasping for breath when your head breaches the waves again, breathing in sweet, fresh air as your arms attempt to tread water.

Well—arm. Singular. Someone else is holding on to your other arm, you realize far too late—the arm that's currently clutching that poor, stupid apple. A hand is wrapped around your wrist, and you feel dread sinking through your chest when your eyes follow the hand back to its owner. Perhaps that dread is why you aren't at all surprised when you once again lock eyes with the creature from earlier, this time his head and chest above water.

He looks at your sputtering form, unsurprised, before turning back to stare at the apple in your hand, head tilting to the side. "What is this?" you hear him repeat. His voice is incredibly raspy—as if he hasn't used it in years.

His lack of recognition towards you is almost irritating—as if he's disappointed that you exist. "...What?" you finally ask.

He brings another hand out of the water to tap at the apple. "This," he says. "I don't know what this is. Tell me."

You're still struggling for breath. "I...I'll tell you what it is if you let me back onto the dock."

He turns back to face you—quickly, head shifting far too quickly for something human. "No," he says, grip on your wrist unrelenting. "Tell me what it is."

Shit. "It's an apple," you say, frustration suddenly blooming in your chest. You're going to die because of an apple. Because you couldn't be bothered to eat your uncle's clam chowder for dinner. What the hell is wrong with you? If you ever get out of this, you swear on every god listening that you'll eat second helpings of every meal that man makes for the rest of your life. "You eat it."

Apparently you eat it to this creature means you can eat it—because he's lunging forward suddenly, bringing his teeth that look much more like that of a shark's than like the teeth in your own mouth onto the apple in your palm, tearing away a bite and swallowing it whole. God, you hope you aren't about to meet the same fate.

He makes a face, turning to look at you. "It's weird."

You heave a sigh. This is insane, you think. Maybe you really did lose your mind earlier on the boat—it's all your cousins' fault. Has to be. Hearing that constant, nonstop chatter about the overseas vacation they just went on (their third this year alone), and the toys the twins got for their birthdays, and the teacher at school they really don't like, has finally made you snap. "I don't know what to tell you," you say. "You said you'd never had it before. And you're stealing—I was going to eat that."

He lets go of your wrist from his damp grasp. "Hmm. You can have the rest of it, I guess."

He has let go of you. Every logical nerve in your body is screaming at you to start swimming, to pedal back up to the dock as fast as you can and scream for your uncle—but you don't. He let go of you. He had just wanted the apple.

You stare at him. You'd been right before—every feature of his is far too sharp to be human. The edge of his nose, the line of his jaw, the angles of his cheekbones—everything except his eyes. They're dark, as dark as the night sky behind you, but they're soft. They hold none of the sharpness of what you can see of the rest of his body.

You think back to the beginning of the day—to the stories of the fish-men your uncle had tried to spook your cousins with as you drove around the inlet. Damn him to hell—he was right.

You aren't sure who you're angrier at—him, for being correct about something so utterly insane, or you, for not being smart enough to realize he was telling the truth.

The creature in the water notices you staring at him. He blinks at you, tilting his head to the side. His gaze hasn't left you for a single instant, but there's something else spreading across his face now, tugging up the side of his lips in a faint smile.

"You aren't afraid," he says now, the rasp in his voice gradually beginning to ebb away.

You notice him watching your arms treading water now, apple bobbing beside you, but you don't say anything about it. You also don't say anything about how he isn't treading water but is still staying perfectly afloat—something else is propelling him to stay upright. And you think you may have an idea of what it is. "I...I don't know. I don't think so," is the only thing you can offer in response. "I don't know what you are."

He thinks for a moment. "A...a siren was what your people called us the last time we went to the surface."

A siren. You'll admit you didn't always pay constant attention in school, especially reading the Odyssey nearly three years ago, but you have a clear enough recollection of what these creatures were. Their entire purpose was to lure sailors to their deaths with their charms, wrecking their ships with a few words of a song.

"We couldn't come up to the surface very often then," he adds thoughtfully, remembering. "Too much of that black smoke in the air. That's what my father said, anyway."

Black smoke? You're confused for a moment before it dawns on you—you distinctly remember your uncle telling you that the railroad used to lie almost perfectly adjacent to the bay his house now resides on, back in the day before they'd decided to reroute the tracks to make room for the neighborhoods they were building. And if the trains the siren in front of you remembers were still billowing out black smoke...

Christ, how old is he, anyway?

"I'm supposed to drown you," he says plainly.

You furrow your brow at him. "You can try, I guess. I used to be pretty good at swimming."

He laughs at that too. The sound of his laugh is unbearably musical—light and gentle and not at all comparable to the rasp his voice had been at first, nor is it fitting for a creature who had just said he was here to kill you. "I almost did. That's how you ended up in the water—don't you see?"

Oh. Fuck. He must have been in your head, practically—convincing you to get in the water. It's what'd he done earlier in the day too, you realize—when you'd gotten in all the way up to your ankles without realizing. "How...how'd you do that?"

He shrugs. "I just hum. Some of my brothers are good at singing, but I think humming does the same thing at a much quieter rate. Harder to get caught that way."

"Does that happen to you often?" you ask. "Getting caught?"

He seems to ponder that for a moment. "No. I...I didn't have any plans on telling you this, but I've never actually drowned anyone before. You've been my first attempt."

You scoff at that. "I guess you're not a very good siren, then."

He stares at you, and you wonder for a split second if you've just made a fatal mistake by running your mouth, like you always do—but the edges of his lips quirk up in a strange smile. "That's not all we do, you know. We were the record-keepers of the ocean, back in the days before that fool Homer decided to only focus on our...occasional people-drowning habits. Once you become known for something, no one really cares what you used to do."

You blink at him. "Sorry, I...are you trying to make me feel bad for you? After you tried to drown me?"

His smile widens. "But I didn't drown you! I decided not to. Because I wanted to know what that was in your hand." He looks down at the apple bobbing in the water between the two of you. "Do you have anything else like this?"

You let out an incredulous laugh. "Why? Do you want to go through all the fruit in our fridge and take a single bite out of each one?"

He cocks his head slightly at you. "Why would I do that?"

Because it's what you just did, you want to yell at him—but you don't. Some semblance of common sense must be returning to you, now that you know you aren't in mortal danger.

He continues anyway. "I want to go back to our record-keeping ways. I like learning things. I've never spoken to a human before now—I've already learned so much. I know what an apple is. I know how easy it is to tell you to drown yourself."

You try to ignore the way your blood freezes cold for an instant at that last comment—and the way he gives you a knowing look after it leaves his lips. You think you may have a better understanding of what your situation is, now. "So you decided not to drown me because you wanted to know about the apple. You...you're only going to keep me alive if I keep bringing you things that you find interesting?"

But he shakes his head no. "You can go back up to the land now. I won't stop you. I was just suggesting that you'd think about doing me a favor, since I did one for you."

Deciding not to drown me isn't much of a favor—but you keep that to yourself. "You really wouldn't stop me if I went back up the dock? If I never set foot in the water again? Won't you...I don't know, get in trouble with the siren police or whoever you answer to?"

A bemused expression flashes across his face. "No, I don't answer to anyone. We used to travel in packs—and I think some still do, especially in the southern sects of the Pacific, but most of us are solitary, now. I do whatever I want."

“Must be nice," you reply before you can think to stop yourself.

He frowns a little at that. "What do you mean? You're the masters of the world as we know it, aren't you?" There may be a little edge of mocking at the end of that sentence, but neither of you comment on it.

Instead, you take one arm out of the water briefly to try to wave your words away, accidentally flicking a few drops of water on his face—but he doesn't even flinch. "Look—I shouldn't have said that,” you say.

"Who could possibly be telling you what to do?" he asks again. "I'm serious."

Now you do let a small laugh pass your lips. "You'd be surprised."

He just blinks. "Surprise me, then."

He did say he liked to learn. "Listen, I can't—" You cut off your own sentence when you see a light on the second story window flick on out of your peripheral vision. Shit. "I've got to go."

He casts his gaze upwards to the soft light emanating from the house. "I see," you hear him say as you plant your elbows on the edge of the dock, hauling your body back up to the wooden surface. Once you're out of the water, a sudden thought occurs to you—you never even asked the siren for his name.

Who cares? a voice in your head cries out. Your conscience, most likely—whatever scraps of common sense you have left. That thing was going to drown you. You don't need his name; you're never going to see him again.

Well—that you aren't entirely sure of, even if you may not be completely prepared to admit it. As much as you had apparently intrigued him, he had certainly kept your interest too. For crying out loud—he's a goddamn siren. How often did you get to have a sit-down conversation with a sea creature you had been perfectly convinced wasn't real an hour ago?

Even more intriguing, you think, was that air of freedom about him. I do whatever I want, he'd said. You can't imagine the last time anything like that left your mouth—or if anything like it ever had. You're drawn to that feeling of freedom—either out of jealousy or a desire to live vicariously through it, you aren't sure. But you do want to experience it again.

So you turn back around, the question of his name on the tip of your tongue—but it never gets any further. By the time you're looking back into the water below you, he's gone. Had you imagined the entire thing all along, you wonder for a brief instant?

But that thought shatters when you hear a splash to your right, at the very edge of the canal before it opens back up into the ocean, and you see the edge of a long, blue tail flicker in the moonlight before it disappears below the surface.

You let out a short laugh of disbelief at the sight. And the small smile that lingers on your lips—even as you hurry back towards the house, open the back door as quietly as possible, hurry back upstairs, throw your wet clothes in the bathroom, and jump back in your bed in a fresh pair of pajamas—doesn't fade away for quite some time.

Three days pass before you see him again.

You'd run out to the dock three nights in a row after everyone in the house had fallen asleep, peering into the water only to be met with the ripples of your own reflection staring back up at you. Disappointed, you had trudged back to the back porch and snuck back up to your room, lingering confusions about that damn siren swirling around in your head. You won't go check again tomorrow night. That entire meeting with him was apparently a one-time thing. It was a miracle that he'd let you live, anyway—a miracle that you aren't ever supposed to see again.

You still find yourself padding down to the dock on the fourth night—and this time, you aren't alone.

There's an apple sitting on the very last wooden plank on the end of the dock, water dripping off the edge and forming a small puddle around it. You almost let out a laugh at the sight, but it's swallowed by the yelp you accidentally let out when the siren's head emerges suddenly from beneath the surface. He stares at you, unblinking as he hauls his forearms onto the edge of the dock, propelling himself forward to look up at you.

"You're surprised," he says.

You take a breath to calm yourself before speaking. "You're observant."

He blinks once. Twice. "That's for you," he says, gesturing towards the singular fruit on the last plank of wood. "Since I ate the other one."

You look down at the apple, deciding you're safer not asking where he got this one—and then you look lower, peering down off the edge. The siren has pulled himself up to rest against the dock, which means he's only about halfway submerged into the water now. You see his arms, crossed on top of each other to support him resting on top of the dock. You see his chest, his abdomen, droplets of water still rolling down the toned muscles. And you swallow the gasp that threatens to escape you when you finally lock eyes on the dark blue tail that begins past his waist, swishing back and forth as it glistens with every beam of moonlight it reflects.

If he knows the cause of your sudden amazement, he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he speaks again. "I wasn't sure if you'd be back."

You manage to pull your eyes back up towards his. "I, um...I realized I never got your name the other night. I figured you didn't just go by 'siren.'"

He smirks. "No, I don't. But I've never had to say it out loud before, like this." He thinks about it for a moment. "Hongjoong."

Hongjoong. "Hongjoong," you repeat.

You aren't sure if it's the moonlight playing tricks on you, or if his cheeks really do twinge a shade pink at the repetition from your lips. "What's yours?"

Now it's your turn to smirk a little. "You won't, like...gain some kind of terrible power over me once you know my name, right?" You think you remember reading about the fae having that kind of ability in school, but that was ages ago. And at the time, you didn't think you'd ever need to remember information about creatures you were certain didn't exist.

The siren—Hongjoong—shakes his head. "Not that I know of. I can look into it in our historical records though, if you'd like."

You shake your head quickly. Probably better off not knowing.

But you do tell him your name, and he smiles too. "Pretty," he says, and you think you understand how someone like him could talk someone like you into walking off a boat—but the thought doesn't scare you the way it might have the other night. He's so beautiful, you're realizing—almost impossibly so. To hear him say he thinks you're pretty, or at least your name is, almost makes you want to laugh.

Hongjoong pulls you out of your thoughts when he taps the space on the dock next to the apple with one hand. "Well? Are you going to take it?"

Oh. "Oh!" you say, bending over to pick up the fruit. "Sure. Thank you for bringing this to me—" and then, before you can stop yourself from the most sudden and peculiar act of boldness in your entire life so far— "do you...I don't know, want anything in return for it?"

He seems taken aback by your proposition at first, but only a moment passes before that soft, self-assured grin appears across his features again. "What would you want to give me?"

Christ. Why did you say that? "Well—um..." You glance down at your shoes with wet sand still caked to the sides, the green charm on the end of one shoelace, the fraying ends of the jacket you'd hastily pulled over your shoulders before walking outside tonight, before you see—

You quickly work it off of your wrist and hand it over to him. "Here," you say, sitting down at the dock's edge and handing Hongjoong the bracelet you've been wearing since you came to your uncle's house this summer. "You can keep it."

Hongjoong takes the bracelet delicately from your outstretched hand. He peers at it in the moonlight. "What is it?"

"It's a bracelet," you explain. "You can just wear it on your wrist for decoration—it doesn't have to mean anything. This one, um...it was actually from my parents, but believe me—it doesn't mean anything," you finish, trying (and failing) not to let that all-too-familiar drip of malicious venom back into your voice at the mention of the people who raised you. Who bought you this bracelet—a week-late birthday gift from your mother who had missed it while she was on a 'girls trip' in Italy. And yet, you still turned out like this—

Hongjoong continues studying the bracelet, poring over each individual charm. If he notices your attitude about your parents, he doesn't say anything—but after that first conversation you'd had with him, you think he may understand what you mean anyway.

The silence is starting to make you drowsy, so you move to stand back up. "Look, Hongjoong, I'd better head back. It's late. Will I, um—" Why does he make you so nervous now? "Will I see—"

"What are you bringing next time?" Hongjoong interrupts.

You blink. "What?"

He taps the bracelet with one finger. "I'll bring something else the next time I see you, if you bring something too."

He had said he liked to learn. "Okay," you say. There's a sudden warmth in your chest at the thought of seeing him again, even despite the cool breeze suddenly drifting off from the sea. "When will you be back?"

Hongjoong tilts his head to one side, thinking. "The next half moon. It should be in a few nights. I'll need time to find something good for you," he says, grinning.

You can't fight the grin that tugs at your own lips. "I'll be here, then."

You think about how the first two weeks of your summer had dragged by. Every day had felt like an unending loop of babysitting your cousins while your uncle went to work, of making an effort to laugh at said uncle's intentionally not-funny jokes, of picking up groceries and running errands and getting lost in the monotony of the mundane—but the second half of your summer is the complete opposite.

Going out and meeting Hongjoong by the end of the dock goes from a once a week occurrence to a nightly routine. And it doesn't stop at just bringing each other different little trinkets and knick-knacks and snacks that you find—you and Hongjoong both discover that you're better conversationalists than you'd previously thought. The two of you find yourself talking for hours about anything you can think of; you learn that Hongjoong's family is several times larger than yours, and that sirens swim further south when the water gets cold in the winter ("the same as everything else in the sea with any sense," he points out). And you tell Hongjoong about you, about all the summers you spent here with your older siblings when you were all still children, about the nights you snuck out with them and went to the gas station for ice cream—both of you hanging on each other's every word.

You find yourself looking forward to seeing him all day. You're in far better spirits than you were at the beginning of the summer, your uncle teases on several occasions, but you can't find it in yourself to be bothered.

You probably could try to make it slightly less obvious, though. After nearly a month of spending almost all your nights with Hongjoong, you find yourself one midsummer day back on the pontoon boat with your cousins and uncle, looking for an island to go for a picnic on—just like you had been that day you'd first seen him. You still keep to yourself on the bow of the boat the same way you did at the beginning of the summer, but your thoughts are full of nothing but the siren, now. You'd found an unfinished scrapbook of you and your siblings from years ago in your uncle's garage last night, and you're practically beaming at the thought of showing it to Hongjoong tonight. You wonder if he'll be able to pick out which one is you in the photos if you don't tell him. Maybe you'll—

"There's something in the water!" one of your cousins cries out, pointing towards the right side of the boat.

You practically shoot out of your seat. "Where?" you ask, rushing over to her side of the boat.

She blinks up at you, caught off-guard by your sudden enthusiasm. "Um...right next to the boat." She points again with a shrug. "There was a face, but it's gone now. I swear I'm telling the truth."

You nod, giving her a knowing grin. "I believe you."

Her eyes widen, a smile growing across her own features. "You do?"

Your uncle laughs from the wheel of the boat behind you. "You mean your reflection, bub?"

Your cousin shakes her head quickly. "No, it wasn't. It was something else, I know it."

Your uncle looks back and forth between the two of you, landing his gaze firmly on you. "Well—if you see anything else, you just let me know. It's almost the end of the summer, you know," he points out. "I've kept you all under my watch this long—I don't want anything to happen to either of you."

The little girl next to you nods before going back to her seat with the rest of your cousins, but you stay planted at the side of the boat for a while with them.

It's almost the end of the summer, you know.

What's been wrong with you for the last several weeks? Befriending a siren, of all things—where did you think that was going to go? Did you think you'd get to pack him up in your suitcase with everything else and take him home? Stupid, you think—you've been completely, utterly stupid. It's the only explanation for it.

No—that isn't entirely true, either. You may have been foolish, thinking you could keep a friendship with a siren, but that wasn't the only place those feelings were coming from. You've been distracting yourself, you realize now. You're trying to run, still—from the very same thing that led you to stay with your uncle this summer for the first time in years.

Maybe you've had your fill of running. It may be time to try facing the thing you've been avoiding all summer before it's too late—which is how you find yourself alone in the kitchen later that night, holding on to your uncle's home phone with one hand while you read her number to yourself off of your own phone (you're fairly certain she won't answer if she recognizes your number on her caller ID).

You almost hesitate before punching in the last number to dial and sealing your fate, but your uncle's words float back to you again. It's almost the end of the summer. What do you have to lose now, anyway?

You finish dialing the number.

She picks up on the fourth ring. "Hello?" She sounds slightly out of breath, as if she'd ran to catch the phone before it stopped ringing. The thought gives you a momentary sense of hope—maybe she won't hang up on you immediately once she realizes who's calling.

You take a deep breath before answering. "Hi, Mom," you say, slowly. "It's me."

She's silent for a long, long time—but she doesn't hang up. "...Oh," is the first thing your mother says. "I thought this was your uncle calling." You hear her take a breath, hesitating on saying what you know she's about to say. "I guess that's why you called from his phone, huh?"

You know there's no point answering that. "Mom, I...I wanted to talk to you, since the summer's almost over. I thought we could possibly talk about, um...about me staying at home for a little bit before school starts—or maybe coming home during winter break."

There's another long period of silence—and like the fool you are, you allow yourself to hope, for a brief moment, that she won't say exactly what you've known she was going to say the minute you dialed her number. "Hmm...no, Y/N, I don't really think that's a good idea." Your heart sinks, but she continues to push the dagger (that you practically handed her by making this call) further into your chest. "You know what—it's not really a good time right now, anyway. I'll talk to you some other time, alright?"

"Listen, Mom, I'm—"

Click.

She's hung up.

You told yourself earlier you wouldn't cry if she did this (you knew she was going to). And yet—you still can't fight those tears brimming at the edge of your eyelids, threatening to spill over. As you try to blink them away, your gaze is drawn towards the back window—towards the head of blue hair you can just barely see at the end of the dock, waiting expectantly for you already.

God. You cannot talk to Hongjoong right now—but you can't just blow him off entirely, either. You'll make something up, tell him you've gotten sick and can't see him for a few days, and hope he'll just forget about you and find some other human to trade apples for bracelets with.

You pad as quickly as you can down the end of the beach to the dock, peering over the edge to see Hongjoong's dark eyes looking up at you. "I can't talk tonight," you say sharply. "I'm sorry."

Hongjoong frowns. "What's wrong? Did you forget to bring something? It's okay, you know. I don't mind just talking to you. If you want."

Of course that's what he's concerned about. "No," you say, somewhat shakily. "I just can't, alright?"

You move to turn around, but the siren is a step ahead of you like always. He lunges forward onto the dock, grabbing ahold of your ankle with a strength you hadn't known he'd had. You think, for a moment, that if he had really wanted to drown you that day—he could have. "That's not good enough," he replies firmly, but his gaze softens the minute he sees your face closer. "I want to know what's wrong. Please."

It doesn't take much pleading from him for you to succumb to his wishes, so you relent, turning back around and sitting down on the edge of the dock. Hongjoong props himself up with his forearms before pushing the rest of his body up onto the dock, sitting upright and facing the sea beside you, just like you—something he's never done before. Only the last few scales on the edge of his tail just barely brush the water. "Tell me," he asks again, gentler this time.

So you do.

"It's my mother," you tell him, slowly. "Both my parents, really—they planned out me and my brothers' lives from the moment we were born. We were all supposed to be doctors, or lawyers, or scientists—something to make a ridiculous amount of money for them, just like they did for their parents. It was the only way to make them proud. They sent us to private schools and paid for expensive tutoring for years to ensure it, and they only spoke to us when we did well. They didn't want children—they wanted trophies. Things they could show off to their friends who were just as selfish and conceited as them. And they got them with my brothers—they did exactly what they were supposed to. Graduated law school or got their doctorates or PhDs, and now do nothing except work and get filthy rich. I'm the last one to fulfill what my parents had planned out for us. But I guess things don't always work out the way you planned," you add, somewhat bitterly.

Hongjoong keeps his gaze fixed on you. "No," he says, as gently as the water lapping at your ankles. "They don't. And...you don't want to do what they want you to."

You nod. "That's right. I don't. I think I should get a choice in what I make of my life, not slaving away forever at something someone else picked out for me. To do something of my own volition. And I told them so—and they told me I'd be on my own, forever, because of it."

"What do you want, then?" he asks.

You feel tears brushing against the edges of your eyelashes again. "It doesn't matter," you say, trying to keep your voice as steady as you can. "I'm screwed as it is. I have enough money saved for this semester of college, but they've cut me off entirely. I tried to call and make an attempt to patch things up tonight, but she wouldn't even listen to me. I'll be coming here every other semester to work, save up for the next semester, and stay with my uncle. I'm extremely grateful to at least have him on my side, to have someone who will allow me to stay with them—but I don't know if I'll ever get to see my parents or my brothers again. And I knew that would happen," you admit, voice definitely shaking now.

"I knew that was the choice I was making when I told them I didn't want to just be a stupid trophy for them to display, that I wanted to make something worthwhile, that I deemed worthwhile with my life. I knew it wouldn't be easy and that I was taking the harder route, but I thought I'd be able to just cut ties with them. Go no contact, and all that, but it...it's hard, Hongjoong," you tell him, tears rolling down your cheeks. "So fucking hard. And it's so stupid. Even after all this, after she's told me she doesn't want anything to do with me, now that I've chosen to 'waste my life away' and she 'doesn't know who I am anymore—' I still care what she thinks of me, for some stupid reason. She's still my mother—God, what am I supposed to do?"

Hongjoong turns to you almost instantly, cupping your face in both hands, and the sudden touch alone almost makes your tears stop falling. "Nothing stops the flow of the sea," he says, quietly. You want to move your gaze, to move your head away so your eyes aren't locked onto Hongjoong's so intensely, but he keeps you there anyway. "You just have to keep moving through it. With it. I think it's the same with your mother. It won't immediately be better tomorrow, just like how the sea isn't immediately perfectly calm after a typhoon—but it will be better, eventually. A little bit every day, as the waves return back to their normal rolling patterns."

"You don't think it's stupid?" you ask, quietly. "That I'm still so desperate to hold on to my mother, even if she's practically already thrown me away?"

Hongjoong shrugs. "Nonsensical, maybe. But not stupid. I don't think there's anything stupid about reaching out for someone who's taken care of you. My family has always been spread across the oceans—no matter where I go, it seems, I can find someone. I think it would be a much harder life if I was told none of them wanted to see me ever again. I'd feel stranded. And I haven't lived the same life as you, so I don't know what the exact circumstances are like, but I don't think it's a stupid aspiration. Just slightly nonsensical—but I think I'm realizing that a lot of things you do—that humans do," he corrects, "are that way."

That makes you laugh, even as his words settle into your ears and you begin to feel a kind of lightness in your chest. His world is so different from yours, you think. You're almost jealous of it, in a way.

And still, when he says things will be easier, eventually—you believe him.

"What is it that you want with your life?" he asks.

You laugh a little again. "It's cliché."

Hongjoong doesn't hesitate. "How would I know what your clichés are?" His hands are still firmly cupped against your cheeks.

Now the smile that ghosts across your face is real. Genuine. "Art," you say, quietly—as if you're afraid of admitting the truth even to him. "I love drawing—always have. It's all I've ever wanted to do. It used to be my escape when I came here in the summers with my family; I'd sneak away from everyone and paint on the beach for hours until my uncle would call for dinner. I begged for paint sets as a kid for birthday presents—even stole a set of charcoal pencils from the art room in middle school once. The teacher let me keep them even after finding out," you add, laughing a little. You bare your soul to Hongjoong, the parts of you that you've tried to squash for years but have failed to completely erase—like charcoal marks on a piece of paper that just won't quite go away.

He seems to ponder this for a moment. "Could you draw me?"

You laugh, feeling like a dam of relief is beginning to break within within you. He knows what has practically been your deepest, darkest secret for your entire life, and he doesn't want to shun you forever for it. "You know, I've always heard that's the one thing you aren't supposed to ask an artist."

Hongjoong blinks. "I didn't know that." There's only a single beat of silence before he asks, "Can you draw me anyway?"

"It won't be very good," you say with a shrug, smirk still tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I've never been very good at portraits. Landscapes and still life are easier for me."

He moves one hand to wrap around your wrist. "Try anyway."

The tenderness of the action coupled with his words—blunt as always, but reassuring in a way you've never known from him, never known from anyone—is enough to cause tears to prickle at the corners of your eyes again.

This time, Hongjoong notices, moving his free hand up your cheek to gently brush them away before they ever have a chance to cascade past your lashes. You see him sniff once, then look back up at you—realization dawning on his face.

"Salt," Hongjoong whispers in awe. "There's a piece of the sea in you, too."

That dam inside you breaks.

You meet his eyes, dark as the bottom of the ocean—feel the cool grip of his hand wrapped around your wrist and his fingers resting gently on your cheek, and you feel the pull towards him like the magnetism of the Earth's core.

When your lips land on his, it doesn't surprise either of you. It's a chaste, careful kiss at first. Hongjoong takes only a moment to breathe, forehead touching yours so lightly you almost wouldn't know he was there, before pulling you back to him and pressing his lips against yours again.

You've never experienced anything like it before—the tenderness of his hands on your skin, the softness of his lips on yours, his warm breath skating across your jaw. It's like he's everywhere, taking over every sensation—but not at all like that first time he had met you and influenced your thoughts. You feel fully in control right now. You're the one who's let him in.

If this is what drowning feels like, you think, you'd never complain.

You taste salt on your lips when you wake in the morning, and the sensation immediately sends a flurry of butterflies through your chest. A smile tugs at your mouth before you can even think to hide it from yourself.

Had last night even been real? Hongjoong reassuring you, kissing you so gently that you thought you might melt right into the water below the two of you—God, how could it not have been real? You could never have dreamed something like it.

If your uncle and cousins notice your uncharacteristically chipper mood at breakfast, a stark contrast to your melancholy behavior at dinner the night before, they don't say anything—but your uncle does look surprised when you offer to help load the cooler and towels onto the boat for the day.

"I've enjoyed having you here for the summer," your uncle tells you later that afternoon, when you've dropped anchor on a nearby island and your cousins are eating their lunches peacefully—the only time of the day you find that they're quiet. "Reminded me of the old days, with your brothers. It's been good to have you here."

You smile at him. "I've enjoyed being here," you admit, even if he doesn't know all the reasons why. "Thank you for letting me stay the summer. I really, um...really appreciate knowing there's someone who has my back."

His eyes crinkle in a soft smile. "Listen, Y/N. I know it's hasn't been easy after what happened with your mother—I don't know the whole story, but I'm not old and senile enough yet to not know something's up. But you'll always have a place to stay here. I want you to know that."

Your heart jumps. "Thank you, Uncle," you say. "You've always gone out of your way to make this feel like home for me, and you did the same when my brothers were here too. I can never thank you enough for that. And I—"

He just waves your words away. "That's what family does, you know? I've always felt like a bit of a black sheep living out here—compared to my sister, anyway. She always had big plans for all of you. But I've wanted this to feel like a good place for you, and your brothers, and now your cousins too—no matter what. Even when you all would sneak out for late-night gas station runs back in the day...or whatever it is you're doing now," your uncle adds, pointedly.

Your stomach twists. "I've...been taking moonlit strolls. It's helped me relax, with everything going on."

He doesn't seem convinced, however. "Honey...you know, you can always—"

But he's interrupted by one of your cousins shouting. "Jay won't give me the binoculars back!"

Your uncle frowns. "Jay, let your sister have a turn. Only fair, you know."

Jay crosses his arms, tucking the binoculars under one elbow. "No way! Every time Bianca uses these, she keeps telling me she sees somebody staring at her in the water."

Bianca scowls, lunging for him. "And I did! Just because you didn't see him doesn't mean I didn't."

Him.

After what your uncle had just said about your moonlit strolls, you restrain yourself from running over to the edge of the boat immediately like the other day—but your eyes still scan over the water ahead of you hurriedly.

You can see your uncle's gaze flicker back to you out of the corner of your eye, hesitating for a moment too long, before turning his attention back to the twins. "You guys have seen more stuff on the horizon in the past month than I saw in twenty years on the sea," he quips, forcing a tight laugh. "Might need to get you kids back to living in the city soon if you're seeing this many things in the water—not everyone's made for the sea life," he adds.

The knot of worry tightens itself a little tighter in your gut, and not for the last time this summer.

You still smuggle your sketchbook down to the pier once night falls, slipping out the back door with it tucked securely under your arm.

Hongjoong, of course, is waiting expectantly for you, peering up at you from the edge of the dock. "Is that for drawing?" he asks, and you can hear the twinge of excitement in his voice.

Your heart does a little backflip in your chest. "Yes," you admit, a little more sheepishly than you'd meant to. "Do you know how you want to pose for it?"

He thinks for a moment. "Can I sit up here with you? I want to be close to you for it."

Oh—now there are serious acrobatics going on within your chest. "Sure," you say, grinning as you sit on the far edge and watch him scoot up to sit beside you, leaning on the support beam at the very edge of the dock.

You gaze at him for a moment after flipping open your sketchbook and finding an empty page. His tail practically shines in the darkness around the two of you, moonlight reflecting off of each dark blue scale. His torso looks practically sculpted by the gods—arms and chest full of just as much unearthly beauty as his face, jawline sharper than the tip of the pencil you're sketching him with.

Not for the first time, you think to yourself how beautiful he is.

Hongjoong's cheeks turn the fairest shade of pink as you continue to stare at him, but he doesn't say a word as you begin your initial sketch. You find it slightly difficult to get the right shape of the tail flicking against the edge of the water beneath you. "Can I ask you a question?" you say instead, putting down your pencil for a moment.

Hongjoong blinks. "You've asked me questions for weeks, now."

You laugh. "This is a different one. I...I think one of my cousins saw something in the water today. When we were on my uncle's pontoon boat. Any chance you might know something about that?"

His cheeks turn pinker than before, but he doesn't flinch. "I suppose I might."

You can't bite back a grin. "Are you...following me, Hongjoong?"

Hongjoong frowns a little. "I wouldn't call it that. I've...just been in the area. Keeping an eye on things. Not just you."

"Just at the same time as me."

"Right," he says, clearly relieved. "Exactly."

Your grin widens.

Hongjoong points at your sketchpad. "Are you finished with the drawing?"

You laugh a little, picking your pencil back up from beside you on the dock. "No, not even close. I've never drawn anything like you before—but I love a good challenge."

He seems somewhat pleased with this admission. "Will you show it to me once it's done?"

“Of course," you tell him, and he beams. That smile—God. You only hope you can put even a fraction of the way it makes you feel back onto the paper in your palms.

Your uncle corners you in the kitchen after breakfast the next morning. You feel yourself panicking inwardly at first, thinking he's going to continue pressing you on your "moonlit strolls" conversation from yesterday—but he just informs you that he's planning on a big seafood broil for dinner tomorrow night, as a send-off for the summer. And more importantly, he wants you to pick up a few pounds of shrimp from the seafood store in town today.

It's been a while since you ventured that far back into town—God, probably since the very first week of summer. And now your uncle is preparing a feast for the end of the season. You've never known time could pass you by this quickly.

That thought lingers as you ride your uncle's bike down the boardwalk and across the bridge, gradually making your way onto the mainland. You've put off thinking about what will happen once the summer comes to a close since that night you called your mother—but it's an inevitable fact that you'll have to leave, obviously sooner than you think. How can you even begin to bring that up to Hongjoong? Does he know, already, somehow? Will he be disappointed that he can't obtain any more knowledge from you and dip back into the sea, never to be seen again?

Your racing mind quiets somewhat when you realize you've made it to the seafood store—or shack, as it's always been affectionately known. You gaze for a moment at the neon sign outside, realizing that "THE CRAB SHACK" only has a few lights that actually work. "T E CR B S H C K" is what the sign displays now.

You remember that the lights didn't work when you were here years ago, either. The whole bottom row of neon was always out, meaning that the sign only read "T E CRB." You wonder if there's a meaning in that—that the sign was broken then and broken now, just showing it in different ways.

Or maybe it's just a neon sign for a seafood shack, and your suddenly gloomy mind is searching for meaning where there is none.

You roll your eyes at your own thoughts, park your bike, and make your way inside. The smell of seafood is nearly overpowering the minute you step through the door and doesn't fade for an instant, even after you've collected your pounds of shrimp in bags and make your way to the register in the very back. You wonder if the employee behind the counter even smells the seafood anymore, or if he's completely accustomed to it now.

He clears his throat awkwardly. Oh, God—how long have you been standing here? "Are you ready to check out?"

"Yes! Yes," you say hurriedly, laughing at yourself. "Sorry. In my own head this morning."

The cashier laughs good-naturedly in reply. "It happens." He looks down at the bags of shrimp after weighing and typing them in. "You visiting a friend here or something? That's quite a few pounds of shrimp—and I don't think I've seen you in here before."

You nod. "I'm staying with some family on the other side of the bridge. We're doing an end-of-summer broil tomorrow night."

He grins at you. "Can I come by if I only charge you for one of these?"

"If there's any leftovers," you reply coolly. "My cousins are pretty ravenous."

The cashier just laughs again, handing you the bags. "Fair enough. You have a good day, now."

"Same to you," you tell him absentmindedly—because you've noticed something in the open door behind the cashier. It's probably not meant to always be open, as it leads to a boardwalk out to the sea. Another Crab Shack employee is lining up a few crates of stock not yet loaded into the store. A couple canisters of fruit, three or four crates of sodas—and at the very end of the boardwalk, you think you might just see a head of blue hair peeking out of the water.

Shit.

You wonder as you quickly make your way out of the store, as you duck under the Sea You Later! sign at the exit, as you pedal the whole ride back over the bridge and back onto your uncle's property—a trick of the light, maybe? (When has that ever been the case this summer?) Will Hongjoong even say anything about it tonight, if it was him?

He does, of course. When evening falls and you make your way down to the dock, you haven't even taken your pencils out of your drawing bag before Hongjoong is pulling himself up beside you, gazing at you intently.

"What was so funny?" he asks, in a tone so innocent you almost think he's being genuine. "I want to know."

You make an exasperated face. "I don't know what you're talking about, Hongjoong."

"The man in the store today," he answers plainly. "In the apron. You laughed at something he said."

"Nothing," you say. "I was being polite—I promise. He was the one trying to make jokes about inviting himself over. Not nearly as funny as he thought he was."

He isn't quite satisfied with that. "Did you know him before?"

"No," you tell him. "I was just in there getting shrimp for my uncle to cook tomorrow."

Hongjoong frowns. "I could've gotten you shrimp. There's plenty around that cove near the bridge."

You laugh. "I appreciate the offer—but where would I have told my uncle several pounds of live shrimp came from?"

He frowns, thinking for a moment. "The apron man wasn't too bright, I think," Hongjoong says. "I saw him come out onto the boardwalk not too long after you left—almost fell over trying to help the other apron man pick up those boxes."

His words hang in the air for a beat. Then two. "What would you have done if he had?" you ask, partially teasing and partially serious. "Drown him?"

Hongjoong ponders that. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

"For what? Talking to me?" you ask, somewhat incredulously. "What were you doing watching me in the middle of the day, anyway? Just 'in the area' again?"

He crosses his arms indignantly. "I didn't plan to. I heard your laugh when I came up for air, so I wanted to know what was funny." He seems to pause on that for a moment. "You're almost a siren yourself, in that way."

Now that makes your heart stop��maybe more than he had intended it to. You have to hide the smile that threatens to creep up the edges of your mouth. "So you really aren't going to drown that poor cashier? Or me, for talking to him?" you ask, still only partially teasingly.

Hongjoong's face softens slightly at that. "I don't think I ever really intended to. Not from the moment I saw you."

You wonder, for a split second, if he can hear your heart thundering in your chest—if he has any idea what kind of effect he has on you, siren abilities or not.

He seems to have an idea of your thoughts, either way—because he reaches for your hand, intertwining it with his. "I want to show you something."

You stare at him for an instant too long. "Where?" you ask, nervous laughter accidentally escaping you. "In the water?"

He nods, as if that should have been obvious. "Of course."

You give him a look. "Hongjoong—I don't know how far this is, but you know I'm not nearly as good at holding my breath as you are."

Hongjoong laughs a little at that—that bright, airy, musical laugh that almost instantly sets you at ease, reminding whatever sane parts of you are left that he's still a siren. "Don't worry," he says plainly. "I'll make sure you can breathe."

Just as always, there's no malice in his tone, no hint of a hidden plot behind his eyes, although you wonder if you would even know if there was, skillful siren that he is. Regardless, you squeeze his hand in yours and let him lead you off the dock and beneath the waves, taking one last gasping breath before your head slips underneath.

Hongjoong keeps your hand in his, tail swishing as he leads the two of you further beneath the surface—the scales across it continue to reflect moonlight as brightly as if you were still above the water, giving you just as much visibility in the dark water as if you had a flashlight with you.

What's a flashlight?

You nearly let out a yelp before you remember the two of you are underwater. That was Hongjoong's voice, no doubt about it—and it was in your head.

You can talk to me this way too, you know.

It's like he's invaded your head—his thoughts are suddenly yours. Can you always hear my thoughts? you wonder. If that's been the case all along—

But you can just barely see Hongjoong shake his head in front of you through the darkness. No, you hear him say. Only when we're here, like this. Do you need air?

God, you definitely, definitely do—the shock of Hongjoong's voice in your mind had completely distracted you for a brief moment from the lack of air in your lungs. It's nothing at all, though, compared to the shock you feel when Hongjoong cups your cheeks between his hands and presses his mouth to yours.

He's kissing you.

No—he's not, you realize suddenly. He's breathing into you, pushing air down your lungs and filling them up until you feel like you can breathe again, despite being completely submerged beneath the water.

Hongjoong pulls away after a moment. Good? he asks.

You nod—you're slightly embarrassed now, especially now that you know he could hear your confusion in your head.

And especially considering the smirk you can see on his lips right before he turns back around to push the two of you further through the water. He's well aware of the confusion he's caused.

Hongjoong only has to give you air two more times before you finally arrive at what he had wanted to show you—and it nearly takes your breath away once more.

It's a shipwreck. A massive one, sitting completely undisturbed at the bottom of the bay. The ship has three broken masts, some of the sails slightly submerged in the sand with several of the cannon openings peeking out at you, which you know can mean only one thing.

This ship is hundreds of years old. One that had clearly gone down in a fight.

Hongjoong beams at you taking in the scene. My cousins did this, you hear him say, and you nearly laugh at the clear pride in that declaration.

You think about your own cousins, playing pirates on the beach while they throw buckets of water at each other, stomping over sandcastles and leaving childlike destruction in their wake. Yeah? you finally ask. Sounds like something my cousins would do.

Hongjoong stares at you thoughtfully for a long time after that—you wonder, for a brief moment, if you shouldn't have compared your family to his in this way. You're just about to formulate a thought to apologize when you feel his lips on yours again, one hand on the back of your head while the other cups your cheek gently.

You stare at him, confused once more when he pulls back. I didn't need air, you tell him, eyebrows knit together in confusion.

He stares right back. I know.

Hongjoong waits to see the realization on your face before he touches you again, clasping your chin between two fingers gingerly. He's giving you a chance to push him away, if that's what you want.

It isn't.

You hold his face in your hands when you press your lips to his this time, and you can practically feel the relief emanating from him in your own mind. He wraps one arm around your waist and the other around your shoulders, holding you as close to him as he can. Everything else—all your fearful thoughts about the end of the summer from today, your suspicions about your uncle, your constant stress about your mother—all fades away past the point of existence, and in that moment, there is nothing but you and Hongjoong at the bottom of the ocean.

"Sure you don't want to go out on the boat today?" your uncle asks the next morning. "It's your last chance for this summer."

But you shake your head again. "I got pretty sunburned across my back yesterday," you fib. "I'll watch the house here until you all get back. Do you need me to run any errands for you while you're gone?"

He doesn't quite stop himself from narrowing his eyes at you. You've been out in the sun enough times this summer that the half hour you spent in the backyard watching your cousins' impromptu performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream yesterday shouldn't have burned you at all. And you know he's fully aware of this. "...Don't know how many times I've told you kids to wear sunscreen," he says after a moment. "And reapply."

"I know," you wince. "I'm sorry. I'll put some lotion on it after breakfast."

"There's some in the closet upstairs with aloe," he informs you. "That usually speeds up the healing process for me."

"Good to know," you tell him. In truth, the only thing you plan to do while everyone is out of the house is work on your drawing of Hongjoong. You've solidified the outline, gone over it with an ink pen, but you're still trying to decide how to place the shading. You want to show the finished product to Hongjoong tonight—your last night of summer. You've put off that dreaded conversation with him until the very last minute—but you know you two will have to talk about what happens two nights from now when you're across the country, moving into your dorm room for your first night at college.

At least—you think you will be. There's a mad fantasy, of course, of staying here, of sneaking out to see Hongjoong every night for as long as you can, of running away with him somehow to some island where no one will ever bother the two of you—but it's just that, a fantasy, and you know it. Even if the entire summer has felt like a fantasy in its own way.

You don't know how that conversation will go tonight. But you want to at least be able to give this piece to him, regardless of what happens.

You're hunched over your sketchpad for hours, messing with the combination of paints for your watercolors until they're just right (or at least as satisfactory as you can get them). The scales on his tail are the hardest—you want so badly to show how ethereal they look with the moonlight reflecting off them, making him look like he's glowing from the waist down. You lay down a base color first and paint over it with different shades of blue and green, creating several different layers until you're pleased with the color's result.

Your work on the contours of his face and torso comes much easier, and the full painting is almost completely dry by the time you're heading back outside, moon high in the sky to greet you as you step onto the dock.

Hongjoong is waiting for you too, forearms resting at the edge of the pier. You roll the painting into a cylinder shape as you walk down to meet him, but you know he knows exactly what it is.

He grins. "I've been thinking about this all day," he admits, immediately, and you feel an entire enclosure of butterflies fluttering through your chest at the statement.

But you steel yourself. Take a breath. "Before I show it to you," you say, "I want to talk."

Hongjoong nods. "The end of the summer. Right?"

You raise one eyebrow at him. "How'd you know?"

"I heard you talking about it. With your uncle, that first time that your cousin spotted me from the boat." He grins a little at the recollection. "I heard him say there wasn't long until the end of summer, when you'd be leaving, so—I imagined this conversation would happen soon."

You exhale, slightly relieved. At least you wouldn't have to break the news of your sudden departure to him. "And how did you imagine this conversation?"

He takes a breath now. "I know I can't ask you to stay here. That's not fair to what you want—to the choices you've made with your own family for being able to make your own life. But I was thinking—"

"Y/N!" You hear a voice cry out from behind you.

You'd recognize the sound of your uncle anywhere—and you feel your blood practically freeze over in your veins. "Get back here. Now!"

You turn around quickly, trying to block the view of Hongjoong from your uncle—but it's too late. And as you turn to face him, you see that he's come prepared for this exact situation—a shotgun raised to his shoulder now, eyes peering down the barrel pointed at you, and a long fishing spear beside him on the dock.

"Uncle," you say, as calmly as you can. "Put that down. Please."

"Get back here, Y/N," he says, voice trembling with barely contained rage. "Get away from that thing right this minute and get out of my way."

You take a shaky breath. "Uncle, please let me explain. He's—"

"I know exactly what that is!" your uncle spits, pulling back the safety on the shotgun with a loud click. "A goddamn monster. You have no idea what those things do," he says, voice cracking. "I've seen men—good men, my friends taken from me, by its kind. Yanked right off our ship's railing and into their waiting mouths. It's nothing but a bloodthirsty animal that—"

"Stop!" you interrupt him with a shout, surprising yourself with the tenacity in your voice. You feel Hongjoong's hand wrap around your ankle, probably trying to tell you to stop—but you can't. You won't. "He's not a single thing like that. His name is Hongjoong. He's never even drowned anyone, let anyone killed and eaten anyone, Uncle. You have—"

"It's got you under it's spell," your uncle says, horrified. "Oh, my poor Y/N. I'll kill this nasty beast and free you from this trap."

You practically scream the next time you open your mouth. "No! You can't!" There's tears streaming down your face now, and the intensity of your emotions must be a surprise to your uncle, if the look of shock on his face is anything to go by. "Uncle—I'm begging you," you plead, sobbing. "I'll do anything. Please, please don't hurt him. He's my friend."

Something strange flickers over your uncle's features. He drops the barrel ever so slightly from being pointed at you. "Your friend, huh?"

You nod as you choke back another sob. "I love him." It's the first time you've admitted it—to yourself, let alone out loud—but you know it's the truth. Has been for longer than you've been aware, most likely.

That admission causes your uncle to drop the barrel entirely, holding the shotgun down in one hand and letting his other arm rest at his side. "My Y/N," he says, after a moment with a sigh.

"I've always wanted the best for you. I lived with your mother for eighteen years growing up, up until she met your father and had you and your brothers. I know how...how demanding she can be," he says with a laugh, one you don't reciprocate. "I know her tendencies all too well. She's my sister, and she'll always be my sister—but that doesn't mean I think she's a good person. I've tried to show you that there's a different path in life. That you don't have to do things her way. This...isn't what I thought you'd do," he says, laughing emptily again. "But I would never want to do anything that would hurt you on any level close to what I know she's caused you."

Your uncle swallows. Takes a breath. "I swore an oath," he says, steadier now. "In the navy. When I see anything like this, when any of us do—I'm honor-bound to report it. The local unit will be over here in under half an hour. Maybe even sooner."

You feel yourself holding your breath.

"So," he says, sighing as he meets your gaze down the dock. "You two...had just better not be here by the time they show up."

Before you can say anything in response—or perhaps before he can change his mind, your uncle turns on his heel and walks back towards the house.

You turn back around to face Hongjoong, sinking to your knees—and the minute you do, you feel tears streaming back down your face again.

He immediately pushes himself up onto the dock, grabbing hold of your face and brushing away the tears the instant they fall. "Y/N," he whispers. "You didn't have to do that. I...I love you. I would've gladly taken a bullet from your uncle if it meant you'd be safe."

Your eyes well with tears again, a shaky laugh leaving you. "Shit," you whisper back. "I don't—I don't know what to do, I just...just wanted to show you this stupid drawing," you say, laughing shakily. "And now I've ruined both of our lives. I'll never see you again."

"No. You haven't," Hongjoong says firmly, squeezing your cheeks in his hands.

You grab hold of his wrists. "Hongjoong—you have to get out of here. You...you said you have family everywhere, right? Go anywhere else. Please."

"No," Hongjoong says suddenly, straightening up the instant your hands wrap around his wrists. "Where did you say that school you were going to for your art was?"

You tell him. "It's on the coast, but it's not nearly as close to the sea as we are here, I—"

He interrupts you again. "I'll find you."

You let out an unbelieving laugh. "Hongjoong, there's no way—"

"I'll find you," he repeats, hands still cupping your face firmly. "On the name of the full moon that night you found me—on that stupid apple that led me to you. I'll find you. And then, you can let me see that drawing."

He leans forward, his lips pressing against yours in a messy kiss—all teeth and salty tears and hands squeezing too tight, or maybe not tight enough—before he lets go of you, pushing himself off the dock and into the water. You see one flick of his tail before he descends deep beneath the surface, and it's not long at all as you sit there, chest heaving and cheeks stained, before the waves are gone and the sea stills, and it's like Hongjoong was never there at all.

Fall semester has left you busier than you could have ever dreamed. You've never done this many sketches in a week, never tried this many different techniques at once, never spent this many all-nighters on a single project—but you'd be lying if you said you weren't still enjoying every second of it.

Your job keeps you plenty busy, too—your roommate had been kind enough to put in a good word at the campus library and gotten you a job in the coffee shop on the first floor. You're taking as many shifts as you can, but the pay isn't bad, all things considered. You may not have to take a semester off after all.

But the diving club keeps you almost busier than both your work and assignments combined. You've already logged more hours than any of the other freshman, and some of the upperclassmen, too. If the club captain has noticed how you're always late packing up after a dive, she hasn't reprimanded you. Maybe she's noticed the unique shells you seem to always come back with, or the skip in your step as you pack up your scuba gear, rolling a shiny bracelet over your wrist—or maybe she's noticed something else, entirely.

After all—last summer, you had been so sure that there was nothing like Hongjoong living below the water's surface. Of course, that didn't mean other people didn't already believe otherwise.

a/n: happy holidays !! i hope everyone is staying warm and healthy and having a lovely week so far <3

and finally…this title escapes my wip list 😭 y’all. i have been working on this on and off since late 2021—sometimes you can have an idea, have absolutely no inspo to write past halfway through, and then write 5k in one night. 💀 no such thing as a perfect project ofc but i do hope you enjoyed this oneshot! feedback is always welcome through reblogs, comments, and messages 🫶🫶 thank you sm for reading!

taglist: @petrichor-han @kangroo-chan @ot7lonelylover @lilacdreams-00 @mainexiii @awkwardnesshabitat @lotus-dly @elizabeth11moreno @nerdysl-t @seung-scrittore @fireheaurt

#hongjoong x reader #kim hongjoong x reader #ateez oneshot #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #ateez angst #hongjoong fic #hongjoong fluff #hongjoong angst #hongjoong x gender neutral reader #hongjoong oneshot #ateez fic #beck writes ✍️

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