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#shit its that one neighborhood kid
tonycries · 4 days
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Great With Kids? (You Can Have Mine) - C.K.
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Synopsis. When your younger brother gets a new babysitter, only two questions linger on your mind: 1. How come your parents didn’t trust you in charge? 2. How dare the sexy babysitter be so perfect - it made you want some attention too.
Pairings. Choso Kamo x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! reader, babysitter! Choso, male masturbation, voyeurism (from reader), Choso with nipple piercings and eyeliner hngh, unprotected, 69, choking, overstim, oral (male + female receiving), creampie, dirty talk, friends-to-lovers, Choso is down BAD and always has been, mentioned younger brother, swearing. 
Word count. 9.0k
A/N. Gojo longfic next time because I miss my pretty blue-eyed princess.
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Your younger brother’s new babysitter was hot.
With a capital h. 
Scarily hot, in fact, that it made you wonder why the hell people stopped having babysitters past the age of 14.
Ah, Choso Kamo, the ever-elusive eldest son of the Itadori’s from next door. You still remember the first time you met him - well, mostly. 
The world was rocking gently at exactly 12:34AM after a night out with your old high school friends. And so were you, stumbling tipsily into your driveway, soaking up the warm summer air. 
Fumbling with the doorbell, you fully expected your parents to still be away on that extravagant couples’ cruise they’d won - one that probably cost more than your tuition.
Which also meant you expected the old lady from down the street to be babysitting tonight. Still wide awake and absolutely bursting at the seams to give you a detailed rundown about the neighborhood tea - who’s divorcing who, and her top suspects for who stole her prized garden gnome. 
What you certainly did not expect was for that door to swing open and to find yourself face-to-face with the most ridiculously attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on. Shirtless.
Dazed, your eyes involuntarily sweep his figure from head to toe - taking in every inch of those dark, sleep-mussed locks falling effortlessly around his slightly smudged eyeliner, all the way down to the chiseled- oh god, were those nipple piercings?
Alas, the universe isn’t on your side, and you don’t get to confirm, because suddenly the door slams right in your face, almost rattling off its hinges at the force. The sound echoes in your ears as you blink in disbelief at what the fuck that was. Was that real - was he real? 
You double check the address you’ve known for years - just in case - because, hell, if you were dreaming then this was a damn good one. Taking a deep breath, you try to focus on something that won’t make your head spin before reaching for the door again.
But before your finger could even graze the doorbell, it cracks open once more. The same mysterious man towered before you, this time - you note, with a tinge of disappointment - wearing a snug t-shirt that still doesn’t do much to hide that godly physique. 
“Not that m’complaining, but who’re you and why’re ya in my house?” you manage to slur out, voice betraying the shiver that runs down your spine at his intense gaze. He simply leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and expression unreadable. 
“Choso,” he drawls lightly, eyes never leaving your face. Shit, even his voice was hot. 
You nod slowly, mind racing as you blearily try to remember just where you’d heard that name before. Some family friend? Nah, you’d know him if that was the case. An actor? God, he sure had the looks. 
Mercifully sensing your struggle, he clears his throat, snapping you out of your drunken reverie. “Not surprised you haven’t seen me around, sweetheart, but my parents live next door.” he offers, tone laced with amusement and something else you can’t place. “M’babysitting your brother for tonight.”
You almost don’t hear the second part of his explanation, because it hits you like a ton of bricks - oh shit, this was Choso? Choso either-a-hallucination-or-a-vampire Kamo? 
In all your years of having the Itadoris as your neighbors, you’d only seen fleeting glimpses of their eldest son - a flash of black hair at the window, or a sculpted, tattooed arm waving off Yuji at the doorway. And, well, you didn’t know what exactly you’d anticipated. You just didn’t expect him to be so…hot. Or stand half-naked in front of you.
God, he made you more dizzy than the alcohol. 
“Damn,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than anything. Yet Choso still hears, quirking an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Everything alright there?” he hums, the hint of a tease in his tone. Smug bastard.
You nod your head, clutching onto the doorframe for support as you lean in closer. “Mhm, perfect.” Wait- was that a blush dusting his face? Damn, this dream just keeps getting better and better.
Liquid courage coursing through you, you bat your lashes, too tipsy to even attempt a wink, “Well, Choso, let me know if ya need any help babysitting, jus’ know I’m always down to-” 
And then - perhaps to save you from the embarrassment of an awful pickup line - that’s when the universe decides to remind you of exactly how many kamikaze shots you’ve downed. The world lurches beneath you. Your hands scramble for something - anything - solid.
Ah, falling down really does feel good, especially when the ground is so warm, and soft. Smelling faintly of vanilla, with a hint of sunshine. 
And then it’s all black. 
To match his eyes.
---
The smell of vanilla still lingers in your mind as you slowly pry your eyes open, squinting against the harsh morning sunlight streaming in through your window. Groaning, you feel as though you’ve been run over by a truck. Five of them, in fact. 
Trying to will away the pounding headache, you bury yourself deeper into the snug covers of…your bed…that you’ve been tucked into? 
Oh shit. Sitting up with a gasp, you hastily try to rub away the sleep from your pointedly makeup-less eyes, remnants of last night now flooding back to you with a surge of embarrassment. 
Choso. Shirtless. Babysitting. Shirtless. But most importantly - your awful display of drunken flirting. The man appears once in a blue moon and you hit on him? Perfect. Great. Wonderful. 
And just as you’re entertaining the idea of convincing your parents to move neighborhoods, you realize with a jolt that he must’ve been the one that carried you up here and took care of you. Even after all of that. 
With a sigh, you rub your temples, wincing as it throbs at the laughter carrying from downstairs - one of them so decidedly Choso. Deep voice ringing in your ears, you can almost feel the lingering traces of his strong arms holding you flush against his chest, or the warm hands gently wiping off your eye shadow.
And it seems Choso had a penchant for interrupting your barely-lucid thoughts, because the door creaks open, ripping through the heavy silence in your room. Heart in your throat, you startle as Choso carefully steps into your room, a soft smile playing on his lips.
“G’morning,” he says, voice so gentle that some small, strange part of you thinks you could listen to it forever. “Feeling any better?”
You offer him a sheepish grin, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks at the memory of your drunken antics. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks for... well, everything.”
Chuckling softly, his gaze softens as he steps closer, taking in your slightly-disheveled appearance. “It was the least I could do, sweetheart. Now, c’mon, your brother and I are making pancakes.” 
You fidget nervously under his gaze, suddenly feeling self-conscious even as he turns to leave the room at your silence. Say it, you idiot. Say it. 
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to... y’know, act like a Victorian man seeing a woman’s ankles for the first time-” 
“It’s al-”
 “I swear I’ve seen ankles-”
A large hand cradling your cheek, his thick rings searingly cold against your chin as he tilts your chin up to meet his warm gaze - and those suspiciously red cheeks. “S’alright, sweetheart. I didn’t mind.” 
And, well, if this was his way of shutting you up then by God was it effective. Because you didn’t trust yourself to speak even as Choso gives you an easy smile. Even as he withdraws his hand, the air thick with something you were too hungover to overthink about. 
Not until he turns back to the door, flashing you a teasing smile, “Besides, it was kinda cute.”
And with that, Choso steps through the door with the audacity of someone that hadn’t uttered words that sent your mind reeling. 
As the creak of the door echoes behind him, Choso’s warm touch still sears into your skin. Something hot and prickly pooling in your stomach. Only one thought rings clear in your hazy, still-hungover mind - one that makes your cheeks flare: this was going to be a very interesting summer.
You just didn’t realize how interesting it would be. Not until two weeks, four days, and sixteen hours after you first met Choso. 
It starts out innocently enough, taking the early shift at your internship, volunteering to help with the chores - you find yourself subconsciously making excuses to be around him whenever he’s scheduled to babysit.
You’ve probably learned everything there is to know about the man by now - from the way he likes his eggs (sunny side up) to that time he accidentally dyed his brother’s hair neon pink while trying out a recipe for homemade hair dye. 
Likewise, Choso happens to be the only one who knows that you were the one that accidentally caused that flood in your dorm that required five floors and two plumbers to resolve. 
At this point, Choso’s at your house more often than not - where Choso is, there is you, and where you are, there is Choso. And your brother…and sometimes Yuji, but semantics.
“Semantics” are probably why you find yourself rushing home straight from your internship, ignoring every invitation for an after-work drink - to see your brother, of course. No other reason - definitely not because of the way Choso will inevitably be there too. Or because of the way his smile makes something strange coil in your stomach. Or-
Okay, maybe you speedwalked up your driveway faster than usual a little bit because of Choso. But as you’ve said - semantics.
Yet, sometimes you even think there’s a familiar flicker of something more in those dark eyes.
Nahhh. 
Stepping into the yard, the air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the deafening sounds of splashing, a smile tugs at your lips at the awfully wholesome view that greets you.
Your brother and Yuji are locked in a fierce battle, water guns being brandished like the most seasoned warriors.
And Choso - towering over everyone else - was at the epicenter of the chaos, his laughter booming over the commotion. Shirtless. Again. 
His bare, tattooed torso gleams in the light, muscles flexing with each movement as if sculpted by the gods themselves. Droplets of water glistening on his dark hair like diamonds in the fading light.
Traitorously, your cheeks burn as you step closer, desperately trying to rip your gaze from the milky abs peeking out and the tantalizing glint of metal winking so sinfully at you under the sun.
So he does have nipple piercings.
God, you have to get your mind out of the gutter.
As you approach, Choso’s grin widens, a playful sparkle dancing in his eyes. Without hesitation, he scoops up a large water balloon and takes aim, launching it with frightening accuracy in your direction.
The icy water hits you before the realization, and you squeal in surprise as the balloon connects right with your chest, seeping into your shirt. Glancing down with a startled laugh, you realize a moment too late that your once-pristine white shirt is now completely see-through. 
Heat rushes to your cheeks, but the damage has been done. Smug bastard, you think, glancing up at Choso, slightly red-faced yet wearing a sly grin as he surveys the aftermath of his well-aimed shot.
“Shoulda just told me if you wanted a peak, you lecher. This shirt was expensive, y’know.” you call out, mock-glaring at the man that stood so infuriatingly beautifully in front of you.
Choso throws his head back in a laugh that makes something tingle all the way down from your toes to your burning cheeks. “Maybe you shoulda just kept your guard up, sweetheart,” 
You scoff, “Maybe you should stop being a distraction then.”
His grin widens, reaching for another nearby water balloon, “S’not my fault you’re so easily distracted. No need to be a sore loser.”
“Oh, it’s on now.”
“Well, well, looks like we have a new contender in the water war,” Choso remarks mischievously to the kids, gesturing towards you. Yeah, really smug bastard.
Ah, what the hell. This shirt was on sale anyway.
---
Now, Choso knows you’re hot - always has.
Ever since that first day he moved in next door, when he stumbled upon you sunbathing in your backyard wearing that sinful bikini. And, well, after hours of moving boxes upon boxes of Yuji’s dumbbells, the mere sight of you was like the gates of heaven spread wide open for him. 
But, especially now - all drenched and disheveled. Your shirt sticking to your curves like a second skin in all the ways that should be illegal - and also makes some strange part of him slightly jealous. Beaming smile directed right at him - shit, this might as well just be the final nail on his coffin. Death by you.
Amidst the chaos and confusion, you're a force to be reckoned with. Choso can barely tear his eyes off of you, breathless and victorious in pure adrenaline-fueled bravado, declaring “Beg for mercy and I’ll let you off easy, Choso.”
“Kinky, but absolutely not, sweetheart.”
Clutching a particularly large water balloon, raising your hand high high high - hurtling it straight at him with an unapologetic smirk, “Then, better run for your life.”
Oh? Maybe Choso was a masochi- what was that- 
A flash of his favorite lacy pink, your poor buttons faltering at the sheer force of your throw. Choso doesn’t even feel the cold splash! square on his chest as he’s drenched icily from head to toe. Too transfixed.
Too focused on trying not to make it obvious he’s mentally calculating the chances of your shirt coming off altogether…
Eyes locked on the sliver of soft skin peeking out at him. Only registering you and the traitorous rush of heat flooding his cheeks - and his cock - as he averts his gaze, internally smacking himself for letting his thoughts wander into such dangerous territory. 
Both thanking and cursing the gods above, Choso realizes with a pang that he’s not just screwed, he’s absolutely twisted, tangled, and tied up in knots.
So utterly screwed, in fact, that he probably needs to make a quick run to the bathroom now.
Like, right now.
Shit. 
With a muttered excuse of a bathroom break, each step more urgent than the last, Choso can’t help but wonder if the water balloon incident was some sort of cosmic punishment for his wandering thoughts. Some divine intervention from his ancestors for being such a pussy around you all these years.
And as he slams that bathroom door closed, bunches his pants bunched underneath his heavy balls, and takes his throbbing cock in his hands, Choso thinks he might just see the gates of heaven - well, at least he’ll be able to give his ancestors a piece of his mind there.
With a groan, he leans against the closed door, eyes scrunching shut as he takes his swollen cock in his fist. Leaking hot precum and glistening in the dim bathroom light. He grips the base tightly, pulsing and achingly hard for you. 
Cold rings searing against his skin, Choso wastes no time - wanting to get this over with and join you again more than anything - starting up a hasty, desperate pace up and down his length that makes his knees buckle. Tighter on the base, just teasing his furiously flushed tip. Pink. Pink to match your bra.
With you so sinfully soaked through, wearing that goddamn lacy bra out there, Choso wasn’t as strong a man to possibly get you out of his mind. He can’t help but imagine your sultry smile, how it would look wrapped around his cock. 
Arm straining now, a shiver runs down his spine - all the way to his throbbing erection. “Shit.” he breathes, “J-jus’ like that, sweetheart.” 
Head only filled with you, and your lips and you-
He milks his base tighter - would you take him all in one go? Look up at him with those beautiful, teary eyes as you choke around his cock? 
One hand pulls in urgent, jerky little moves that have his hips bucking into his fist. The other reaches up muffle the fucked out moans leaving his swollen lips. God, it would take everything it had in him to not fuck up into your pretty lil’ mouth. Watch you cock-drunk and taking him so well. 
Or maybe…
Eyes rolling to the back of his head, Choso fights back a groan as he reaches a hand up to teasingly thumb under his slit. Delicate beads of precum dripping onto the cold tile with a deafening drip! drip! drip! Smearing at the way he rubs maddening little circles under that one spot, grazing his sensitive veins. 
Maybe you’d be a a fucking tease - run your tongue under his pulsing head so agonizingly slow. Knowing you, you’d probably pull away as soon as he bucks his hips into your mouth. Lips swollen and glossed prettily with his precum as you whisper, “Now now, baby. If you don’t act like a good boy then you won’t get to cum~”
“Sh-shit, hah-” Choso thinks he’s going insane, he can practically hear your hums as you kiss along his length, tongue darting out to trace his throbbing veins so obscenely. Flicking at his sensitive head. Eyes sparkling - ready to positively devour him. 
All for him. 
It’s too much. 
“Ah- Ngh, fuck.” he moans hoarsely, letting out a low, fucked-out little call of your name. “More. Need m-more, sweetheart.” 
Body shuddering violently, sweat dripping from his brow, Choso’s thighs quiver as he fucks his fist at an almost-animalistic pace. Chasing his release with reckless abandon. 
Choso’s heart pounds wildly in his chest as he tries - and fails - to maintain control. Raspy whines of your name escape through the crevices of his fingers, cracking ever-so-slightly in a way he knows he’d be embarrassed about if he was in a better state of mind. 
Giving up his futile attempt, long fingers snake down below to cradle his balls in a way he knows you’d do better. Tugging and pulling at a jerky rhythm that matches his hand. 
Some tiny, practical part of his brain hopes - prays - that you won’t call off the water fight early and come up to check on him. He knows he should hurry up, he knows he’s fucked if you ever found out. Shit, he should bake you apology cookies tomorrow.
But fuck are so you perfect for him. Voice so pretty and eyes so warm as you turn your gaze to his undeserving self. He’d kill to see if you still look at him that way when - if - he absolutely ruins you.
Would you be able to take all of him? Would you pout adorably until he shoves his dick down your throat? Gagging as he hits the back of your throat over and over - oh how Choso would love to mess up your mascara. He’d fucking tattoo your lipstick stains on his dick if he could. 
“Cum f’me, baby.” you’d mewl, and shit would he burn down this entire world to hear you call him that. “Mm, fill me up with your cum, wan’ taste you, baby-”
“Fuck,” he curses again, voice thick with need, and tight balls twitching so sensitively. “Fuck...fuck fuck fuck. M’gonna cum- shit- gonna cum, sweetheart.”
You - all see-through white shirts and lacy bras that drive him wild. Giggling with the audacity of someone who isn’t making him slowly lose his sanity. You with prettily lips painted white with his seed. Cum and saliva mixing into a lewd pool on the sterile tile as you suck the soul out of him. 
You. 
And then he’s cumming. 
A raw, drawled-out keen of your name and he’s spilling into his fist. Thick, hot spurts of cum that paint his palms white in a way he wishes he could do to you. And behind his closed eyes all he sees is you - you you you-
You, dragging out his orgasm so torturously, lips decorated with his seed, dribbling down to your lacy pink bra, gushing so lewdly down your ready throat. You with your eyes dazed, lips swollen and quirking up into a fucked-out smile as he does so well for you - cumming, all for you.
You, with your wide eyes and disgust on your face as you realize just what he’d been doing on this suspiciously long “bathroom break”.
Shit.
Body still twitching with the shockwaves of probably one of the Top 5 orgasms of his life, Choso all but collapses against the bathroom door, panting heavily, utterly spent. For a moment, he lies there, wondering if this is what heaven truly felt like.
But as the euphoria of his high ebbs away into nothing but mere tingles, a slight wave of nausea crashes over him. 
Sighing, Choso reaches for the paper towels, ready to clean up his mess. If only you were there to milk him dry then he wouldn’t have to-
God, he was definitely baking you apology cookies tomorrow. 
Now, when it started drizzling shortly after Choso left, you took it upon yourself to usher the kids back home and hand over his t-shirt personally like the good samaritan you are - out of the goodness of your heart, of course. 
Not for any reason whatsoever because you were hoping to get at least one more glimpse of those sinful nipple piercings up-close.
Okay, perhaps there was a slight ulterior motive involved. 
Either way, what you’d expected was for a flash of silver as you handed over his drenched t-shirt. Or maybe that familiar easy smile to warm you up from the icy water.
Literally anything but to find yourself frozen outside the bathroom door, cunt dripping, and ears ringing with the muffled echoes of his pornographic groans.
At first, completely mortified, your fight or flight instinct had kicked in as you realized just what those rhythmic, fucked-out little grunts meant. Only for you to choose neither option - staying rooted to your spot with the utterance of one, simple, word - your name.
Confusion whirls in your mind almost as much as the throbbing in your cunt, knees weakening. Heart thumping louder and louder in your ears at each whine of your name. Shivers running down your spine - all the way to your wet cunt as it really sets in that this was Choso. And he was fucking his fist in your bathroom. To you.
And you didn’t mind?
In fact, you find yourself leaning against the door, thighs squeezing together - mere inches away from where you imagined him slumped against it. Soft strands sticking to his forehead, cock hot and heavy, aching for release. Ragged breathing as if caught off guard by the intensity of his own pleasure. Broken whispers of your name leaving him over and over-
Really, you know you should give him your privacy. But if the white-hot ropes of pleasure running up your spine are anything to go by then, well, is it really that bad?
You have half the mind to just reach down down down - just a little release. Almost jealous of Choso-
Click!
You’re sure you could rival Usain Bolt with the way you ran down those stairs. Cheeks flaring, his damp t-shirt still clutched tightly in your hand. Mind racing with only one thought - this little fuck wanted you just as badly as you wanted him.
---
You can barely remember what transpired after your little discovery. You couldn’t decide who looked more dazed - you or Yuji, who was being practically dragged out that front door as Choso exited hastily with vague mentions of baking and cookies
And in the ringing silence that followed after that front door slammed, you couldn’t help the smirk that found itself onto your face. This was going to be fun.
But if there’s anything you’ve learned about Choso - it’s that even after twenty-something years on planet Earth, that man can not take a hint.
You somewhat had an inkling after the fifth time you decided to sunbathe in just a skimpy bikini at exactly when you knew he’d be watching. Well, you might not have gotten any reaction other than an extremely flushed face at the window, but at least you knew he’d have more very fun bathroom breaks.
Hell, one time you even bought ice lollies for the whole house - but especially Choso. Making sure those dark eyes followed every lick and trail of it dripping down your fingers under the scorching summer sun. Ultimately resulting in nothing more but a heavy gulp and for his ice lolly to hit the grass faster than it could even begin to melt. 
Ugh, should you get your brother to start another water fight? That went down well last time. 
It’s only after another failed attempt at trying to get him alone and a few hours of deliberating whether you should ship your interrupting brother off on a cruise too that you realize you have to get out the big guns.
“The big guns” being stealthily organizing a sleepover for your brother at the Itadoris, then inviting Choso over for a movie night. Simple, right? And, well, if anyone asked, you could just say the movie just so happened to be rated R. 
It wasn’t too hard to convince your brother that a sleepover with Yuji would be the best thing since sliced bread. The excitement in his voice palpable as he agreed, not suspecting a thing.
You just didn’t think it would be even easier to convince Choso to come over with a simple playful text of “Netflix no chill. Haha jk…unless?” But then again, when has Choso not surprised you?
And that night, as your brother eagerly headed off to Yuji’s place, you couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of guilt - but, hey, it was for a good cause, right? 
It’s a win-win either way - your brother gets to spend the night with a friend and you get to be here, so achingly close to Choso on that couch. So close that you could feel the heat radiating off of him, stealing glances at his sharp profile as the conversation flows easily about the movie playing on screen.
Shifting ever-so-slightly closer, electricity crackling between you two was palpable. You smile in anticipation, after all - you weren’t lying about the movie being rated R.
Now, Choso certainly didn’t come over to your house tonight expecting a wholesome rerun of Cars 2. However, he also wasn’t expecting the blockbuster action movie to suddenly unfold into something so steamy.
Goddamn lecherous directors and their goddamn pervy movies.
Eyes firmly trained on the ground, instead of the actress currently fake-moaning dramatically onscreen, Choso tries to ignore the subtle shift of your hips or the way the temperature in the room has currently increased by about 10 degrees. Or the way your moans would sound a million times prettier in his ears.
Alas, Choso was not a strong man, and he especially tries to will away the blood rushing straight to his cock right now - but how could he? You were such a vision of temptation, so close and warm and close to him on the couch.
This was absolute torture. 
“God, this is so painfully fake. Don’t you think so?” your voice rips through the deafening silence between you two, tone careful and balanced, startling Choso out of his little reverie.
His eyes flicker hastily to meet yours, and for a moment, he seems caught off guard by your sudden interruption. “Oh, yeah.” voice rough with a hint of nervousness. “I’ve seen better performances in middle school plays.”
You nod, the tension between you thickening as you lock eyes. “I mean, who even writes this stuff?” you continue, leaning in even closer to Choso, words positively dripping in sarcasm. “It’s like they’ve never actually had sex before.”
Choso lets out a shaky laugh, the sound strained as he shifts subtly in his seat - but not subtly enough. Because you catch the way he desperately tries to adjust his now-uncomfortably tight pants. Success. 
“Yeah, exactly,” he clears his throat, ripping his gaze away from yours.
You study him for a moment under the dim lighting, noting the way his hands clench and unclench in his lap, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he struggles to control his breathing. He was nervous. Nervous and horny - exactly where you wanted him. 
A sudden rush of adrenaline courses through your veins, and you lean even closer to the man. Not even a hair’s breadth between you two - you relish in his strangled gasp as your tits press so enticingly against his arm. 
“Choso, just a thought.” you hum casually, lips mere inches from his ear. “Wanna recreate the scene better?”
His breath hitches at your words, muscles rippling so deliciously beneath your touch. “Do you know what you’re saying?” he rumbles, lowly. Eyes darkened and unreadable.
You smile, heart pounding against your chest as your lips brush against his earlobe. “Absolutely.”
It was like something snapped.
Because then he’s kissing you. And you’re kissing him. Because goddammit you haven’t spent the last month sneaking glances at those pretty lips for nothing.
Movie completely forgotten, Choso is warm under your touch - all sculpted chest and urgent pulses as his lips kiss you dizzyingly. Groaning lowly as your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.
He breathes you in with an infectious desperation that bleeds into his hands, wandering every inch of your skin - as if he didn’t have enough time. And he probably didn’t. Distantly, Choso thinks that no time in the world would be enough to absolutely fucking wreck you the way he wanted to.
Large, hurried hands grope your chest, squeezing so teasingly in a way that almost made you think he was trying to feel out what bra you were wearing - lacy pink. His favorite, of course.
You minx.
Urgently tugging the hem of your tight shirt over your arms, Choso tosses it god-knows-where. Mouth watering as he pulls away to greedily take in the heavenly view of your heaving chest - the same one he’s shamelessly fucked his fist to for too long.
God, you were perfect. With a soft, little oh! Choso leans down to leave hot, open-mouthed kisses on every bit of exposed skin he could reach. Nipping, and tugging lightly. Relishing in the way you whine for his lips again.
Threading a hand through his soft hair, you lightly pull him back to you. Breath fanning his face, lips ghosting over his own.
“Kiss me, you fool.”
And, well, Choso didn’t have to be asked twice. Molding his mouth against yours once more. Letting your lips part, you intertwine your tongue so sinfully with his. He tastes just like he looks - so intoxicatingly delicious.
With a breathy sigh, he lightly taps the curve of your ass. Hands lingering for far longer than necessary, kneading the flesh in a way that has your skin searing. 
You get the signal. Urgently, you loop your legs around his waist. “Choso- bed.” you whisper, muffled in-between kisses. “Now.”
Shivers run down your spine at the way he chuckles darkly, “Honestly, sweetheart. I don’t even hah- know if we’ll make it there.” Mumbling against your lips, “Would you kill me if I take you right here right now?”
“I’ll kill you if you don’t fucking do something.” you hiss, words dripping in desperation. Ah, but Choso, ever the merciful man, shuts up whatever other retort on the tip of your tongue with his own. Kissing you with almost-bruising intensity as he gets up from his seat. Strong arms securely wrapped underneath you, holding you flush against his warm skin.
Choso doesn’t pull away even once as he hastily makes the route to your room. And honestly, with the speed at which your back hits the soft mattress, bouncing at the sheer force at which you two fell on top, you wouldn’t even be surprised if he teleported there.
Now safely in the confines of your room, you all but rip off Choso’s snug t-shirt. Those familiar obscene nipple piercings winking at you under the dim lighting in greeting. 
“Always wanted to do this.” you murmur, surging forward as if on autopilot. Lips latching delicately onto the pretty pink nipples, tasting the cold metal on your tongue. 
“Oh- oh, fuck. A-always knew you had a thing hah- f’my piercings, sweetheart.” Choso breathes out, letting you have your fun. His favorite bra now at the foot of your bed. Fingers deftly sneaking under your skirt, blood rushes straight to his cock as he feels the positively soaked state of your panties - if you could even call them that. 
Sanity snapping, he immediately flings off your skirt. Throwing it somewhere across the room with no care or concern for where it ends up. All so he could look down at oh-
Oh god, if you had to describe Choso’s face as he takes in the sight before him - it would be absolutely losing his sanity. Your pussy dripping and clenching around nothing - all for him.
Strings of slick trail down your thighs as Choso hooks one, long finger under your slutty g-string, tugging impatiently.
You keen as the cold air hits your dripping cunt. Yet Choso’s eyes stay locked hungrily on the sticky fabric intertwined around his fingers “Guess you were expecting this, huh?” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. 
Scoffing, you buck your hips up for something - anything. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you since that first night I hit on you, y’know,” you admit, the heady air of your room melting away any reservations you had previously. 
And that seems to snap Choso out of his trance - eyes flickering over to you, darkened with something so carnal that it makes your cunt throb. “Oh yeah?” he mumbles, swiftly stuffing the g-string in his pocket before leaning down, hot breath hitting your ear. “Now, what was that pick-up line you were gonna say that night?” 
You gasp in embarrassment, heat flooding to your cheeks at the memory. “Wha- that doesn’t matter. I was drunk and-”
Smack!
The delicious sting on your ass hits you before the realization that Choso smacked you. He smacked you. Even later do you realize that you like it - slick beading so obscenely at your sloppy hole.
“What was it, sweetheart?”
You shudder at the tone that leaves no room for argument. The words tumbling out of you as Choso caresses soothingly over the handprint on your ass. “I- it’s stupid. I was gonna say that I’m down to sit on your face, baby.”
“Thought so,” he grins, pulling away from the dizzying proximity. Shifting - well, more like manhandling - you to flip positions. 
God, you could almost sink into his muscles as he lays back on your bed. Voice low and dangerous as he utters words that go straight to your dripping pussy, “Now, sit on m’face.”
And before you know it, you find yourself hastily straddling Choso’s pretty face. Hands snaking down his milky abs, lips kissing along his tattoos, catching purposefully on his sensitive nipples. 
Warm breath fanning your quivering cunt, he reaches up to cup your ass, nudging your needy core to his mouth. Kneading. Groping. 
Not stopping his ministrations even when your slick oozes slowly, torturously through your swollen folds and onto his awaiting tongue. A maddening drip! drip! drip! ringing in your ears above your thundering heartbeat.
Choso groans at the mouthwatering sight above him. You - spread so shamefully open for him and clenching around nothing. 
“Luckily for you, sweetheart, wanted you to sit on m’face ever since I saw you.” sweet juices flowing down his throat, words muffled against your throbbing lips. 
He barely even gets the words out before he’s surging forward. Licking a long, languid stripe up your heated folds. Again. And again. Faster at the pretty moans that spill from your lips.
Pushing his tongue in between your slit, past that first, tight ring of muscle. Bullying it deeper and deeper. Chin pressing against your throbbing clit, ravaged at each movement of his face. 
He caresses your warm walls, relishing so filthily at the way you clamp down on him in surprise. “Hngh- oh shit, baby. Ah-”
Your sweet moans are music in his ears and shit - you called him “baby”. It’s as if every wet dream he’s ever had has come to life as Choso dips in and out at a ruthless pace. Pulling out to tease your dripping entrance, pushing past mercilessly into your plushy walls. In and out in and out in and out-
His cock strains so painfully against his pants at the way your sloppy hole sucks his tongue in so obscenely - almost as if it hurts to part. Tongue fucking you the way he wishes he could with his cock right now.
“Oh- Hah- Choso! Fuck, baby. S’good.” your body arches into his absolutely depraved tongue. 
Desperate whines spilling incessantly from your mouth at the way he quirks his tongue up just right to graze that spot he knew would have you grinding down on him for more. “Ah! Right there - jus’ like that!”
As if he knew exactly how to drive you wild. Exactly how to break you. You almost don’t notice the mindless, shallow little thrusts of his hips into your open palm. Almost.
Eyes snapping open at the tremors, you reach a hand across his quivering thighs. All the way down towards the very obvious dark patch on his pants - right where his furiously hard tip was leaking thick, relentless precum that made your mouth water. 
Oh, how you’d kill to taste him - see if the rest of him is as intoxicating as his mouth is.
So you do. 
Choso was so pussy-drunk in-between your thighs that you think he barely notices the way you fumble with his belt. Shakily pulling those pants down just enough to glimpse the rock-hard erection that those boxers do nothing to hide. 
“Shit,” you whisper, voice strained with need. 
You always imagined Choso had a big cock - but this was ridiculous. Your pussy clenches in both nervousness and anticipation as you imagined the delicious stretch of him splitting you apart on it. Breaking you. 
And that’s probably when Choso notices - you clamping down so filthily on his tongue. 
“Oh?” he rasps, voice sending white-hot vibrations of pleasure right up your spine. “Didn’t think you were so desperate for my cock, sweetheart. Gon’ make me cum, hm?”
Now, you’ve always thought of yourself as a woman of action rather than empty words. Which is probably why you urgently pull down his boxers. Choso’s painfully hard erection springs out, hitting his lower abs. 
You take a moment to admire the long, heavy cock in your hands - a deliciously pretty pink on top, furiously leaking glistening precum. Saliva pooling in your mouth - you shove it as far down your throat as you possibly could. 
Oh, how many times in his life has Choso imagined this moment right here. In the shower, right before bed, right after waking up too. You’re really a dream come to life. 
A startled, strangled moan of your name leaves Choso’s kiss-bitten lips as you take him all in one go. Only to pull back and spit once- twice on his throbbing cock. The steady stream of spit cool - followed so maddeningly by the warm heat of your mouth once more. You start up a torturous, filthy pace bobbing your head up and down on his cock.
He strains his head to catch a glimpse - even just one - of your nose pressed against his pelvis. Breathing in the heady scent at the tufts of hair at the bottom, already wet with precum and spit. His dirty girl. 
Popping off with a lewd squelch, “Feels good, baby?”
“Feels perfect.”
But he wasn’t gonna fall far behind.
Immediately attaching his lips with yours once more, Choso dives nose-deep in your dripping cunt. Rolling your throbbing clit in between his lips. Flicking his tongue along the sensitive bud in a way that makes your head feel so light. He alternates between a slow, languid torture on your clit and fucking into you unforgivingly.
Your movements stutter as you teasingly lick at his sensitive slit. The salty flavor of his precum is probably your favorite taste now. That bastard.
Reaching down, you cup his heavy balls, massaging the tender flesh in harsh, hasty circles that match your mouth down his length - up and down up and down up and-
Muffled moans and lewd squelching filling the heated room. A rhythmic, sinful cadence that both of you were losing your sanity to. Movements more frantic now. Desperate to make the other cum. Desperate to be first.
Letting out soft, raw grunts, Choso fucks up his throbbing erection into your mouth. Your eyes water as his tip abuses the back of your throat. And it makes you wish you could see how messy he looked right now. All smudged eyeliner and slick-glossed lips. 
Gagging around him, a mixture of drool and precum drips sinfully down the corner of your mouth as you increase your pace, pooling messily on his lower abs. Sloppy - so sloppy.
So it only made sense that your orgasms were the same. 
Pleasure dizzyingly overwhelming, you gush around Choso’s mouth with a stifled squeal. Stars behind your eyes, vision blurring, mind blanking - the only things you register being the languid tongue lapping up at your sweet juices and the guttural groan of what sounds like your name as Choso shoots thick, hot spurts of his cum down your throat. 
Throat burning as the salty taste fills your senses, you milk his cock for more more more- his dick pulsing and stuttering in your mouth. Cum staining the fresh sheets below - a problem for later. 
Right now all you were focused on was riding out your high, grinding almost animalistically on Choso’s pretty face. 
You’ve barely removed yourself from him with a lewd pop! before Choso’s wrestling you back onto the mattress. Two fingers squishing your cheeks into an embarrassing pout, cold rings digging into your skin. The other hand snaking in between your thighs to play with your still-twitching cunt. 
“Didn’t say we were done yet, sweetheart.” he mutters. You weren’t done - no, far from it. Because fuck a refractory period - both of you were going to take all you could get.
And before you can think of anything else, Choso is leaning down, hand prying your lips apart for him into a brutal kiss. Teeth clashing, lips bruising. He forces his tongue down your throat. Tasting himself before you barely get a chance to taste him as well. 
“Hah- fuck-” you flinch as he swears into your bruised lips. “So fuckin’ sweet. You taste so good sweetheart.” The sheer debauchery and ache of his cock too much for him. 
Tasting him. Tasting you. Both a heady flavor that leaves you yearning for more. 
You bite down on his bottom lip in retaliation, relishing in the drawn-out groan that rumbles into your mouth at this. The kiss is feral. It’s animalistic. It leaves you feeling so fucking dirty. 
And you barely recognise the dazed, predatory glint in Choso’s eyes as he pulls away, his mind clearly miles away as he spits once. Twice. Three times on your face.
The wads of saliva and cum hit your face with a warm, wet jolt. You whine at the way it seeps into your skin, dripping down your cheeks so fucking obscenely. Pooling at the sheets below in a way that makes you feel sorry for whoever had a shift at the laundromat tomorrow.
“Now, what do we say, sweetheart?”
A fucked-out, delirious smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you realize - yeah, you wouldn’t have it any other way. “Thank you.”
Not even when Choso lets out a dark chuckle, throwing your legs over his sculpted shoulders and manhandling you so that you’re splayed out so shamefully for him. Dripping cunt spread for his greedy gaze and clenching around nothing - aching for him. Begging for him.
Not even when he lines up his still-rock hard cock at your entrance, tip - angry and red - weeping so desperately as he nudges at your sloppy hole. Dragging his head along your folds collecting every bead of slick, just grazing your pulsing clit. Every muscle in your body trembling and anticipating what was to come.
You mewl at the stretch as he presses in - deliciously painful, boderling insane, and exactly what you wanted right now. Splitting you apart on his throbbing cock. 
And especially not when he bottoms out inside you in one, harsh thrust. Burying himself inside your sloppy walls till his twitching balls smack against your ass. 
“Ah- hngh- oh fuckkk.” you keen in both pain and pleasure - broken, raw moans leaving you uncontrollably. But not for long, because suddenly Choso’s shoving two ringed fingers in your mouth, bullying their way inside till you’re gagging and moaning around them. 
Pressing right at that spot on the back of your tongue that makes your eyes tear up so prettily. Hey, if he couldn’t see you choking on his cock properly, the least he could do is see you choking on his fingers, right?
“Now now, wouldn’t want anyone else to hear, hm? Our brother’s would get worried.” he chuckles. Pure, dark amusement in his eyes as he takes in your swollen lips, the teartracks down your cheeks, how utterly beautiful and debauched you look underneath him. So much better than any lust-hazed imagination of his.
And yet, even when you’re being gagged and split apart on his cock, you find it in yourself to be mouthy. Words muffled around his thick fingers as you raise a brow. “There’s no one else home, though?.”
The corners of Choso’s lips lift into a devilish grin, “The neighbors, sweetheart.”
His tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness that sends a chill down your spine. He’s just joking, right? Right?
“Wha-”
And probably because he was losing his patience - and partly to shut you up - Choso begins to move.
Pushing past the resistance, beginning to fuck into you in shallow, uncontrollable movements of his hips. Just little motions to get him off, groaning at how sinfully tight you were - the way you were sucking him up so good.
Next time, Choso thinks, reaching down a hand to draw tight, little circles on your poor, abused clit - next time he’ll fuck you right. Hours upon hours of teasing you so you don’t know what it feels like when you’re empty without him. 
But fuck does he think he could just about pass out right now.
There’s no going back now. Choso fucks you in a way that makes you feel so deliciously filthy. Plunging into your heated cunt with no restraint. Thrusts positively savage.
Pulling all the way back so that his leaking tip just barely kisses your sloppy entrance, slamming down down down, Choso fucks you at a merciless pace. Relishing the delicious stretch of your cunt as he thrusts into you with a desperation that surpasses the need for reason. 
“Sh-shit, sweetheart. God, s’tight. better than I ever could’ve imagined.” he moans breathlessly, brows furrowing, eyes rolling to the back of his head, the feeling of you milking the absolute soul out of him just too much.
“Oh, yeah- wanted this for so long-”
You yelp every time he rams his cock into you, the smacking of his toned pelvis against your thighs stinging almost as deliciously as his tip kissing your cervix. The obscene slapping of skin on skin makes your cheeks burn - both pairs as his heavy balls smack against your ass each time he shoves his throbbing cock into you.
And because you can’t leave him alone, of course, you find your nails digging harshly into his muscled shoulders. 
Pulling him impossibly closer. You want more. You need more. 
Maybe you say those words out loud - you don’t even know anymore, too delirious and cock-drunk from Choso and your last orgasm and Choso - because his eyes widen ever-so-slightly, mouth falling open into a small oh. Your cunt twitches at the surprised, fucked-out little laugh that leaves him,  “More? My sweetheart wants more?”
And, as you’ve come to learn with Choso - anything you want, you will get. 
“Then fucking- take it.” he grunts lowly, each word punctuated by a harsh thrust of into your plush walls that sends both of you spiraling deeper and deeper into insanity.
And God does he make you take it. Every inch of him fills you, stretching you beyond your limits - both your cunt and your senses as he leans down to bury his head into your neck, hips moving so sloppily, hiking your leg further up his shoulder. The change in angle making you see stars.
Your hips buck up in tandem with his, uncontrollable little ah! ah! ah! leaving you at each thrust. You whimper in pleasure and overstimulation into the heady room, “Yes. Yes yes yes- wan’ cum. Need more. Need you-”
“Fuck- Hngh-” is all he manages to gasp out, pleasure overwhelming his sensitive cock. Choso’s balls twitch almost painfully as they keep smacking your ass. Brain still not keeping up with his body because shit, this is all he’s wanted for years, the least he could do is make you cum before him.
“Sh-shit, sweetheart.” he rasps into your heated skin, “So close- m’ so close.”
You all but sob at his words, “M’too- hngh- ah, m’gonna cum, baby.”
You didn’t expect the petname to be what breaks him, but then again you didn’t think there was anything more left to break. Because Choso groans gutturally, cock twitching inside you “Shit, you’re driving m’crazy, y’know that?”
“I know.” you mewl, voice breaking at the way he increases his frenzied pace on your clit. You could barely even call them circles, just filthy little movements to get you closer and closer to the edge. So close. You writhe beneath him, desperate for release.
And what you didn’t expect was for Choso to connect his sweaty forehead with yours. You take a second to admire just how beautiful he is - all smudged eyeliner, tousled hair, your release still shining on the lower half of his face, and yours. All yours. You could probably stare at the sight forever.
Choso’s hot breath fans your face as he moans breathlessly against your lips, words slurring together as he ruts into you mindlessly, “Always did, y’know?”
“I know.”
“No- y’don’t hah- understand, I- for so long fuck- I-”
“Choso, just kiss me.”
And then you’re kissing him. And he’s kissing you like you’re the most precious thing on Earth. A slow, tender little dance that doesn’t match the way he rams his cock inside you. 
And then you’re cumming. Stars behind your eyes - or maybe those were tears - clamping down desperately on the harsh, jerky movements of his glistening cock that fuck you so sinfully like his little slut. 
White-hot pleasure runs down your spine, or maybe that was Choso - painting your insides the prettiest white you’ve ever seen. Shooting thick, hot ropes of his seed into your waiting pussy. A creamy ring forming around his base as he spills his cum into your snug cunt as he moans against your lips.
It’s messy. It’s sloppy. And as Choso fills you to the brim, hips still unforgiving, seed dribbling out of your dripping pussy at the way it was so overfilled - you think that it’s all you could ever want. 
As his cock twitches finally, exhaustedly - and you distantly wonder how the fuck it isn’t seizing up - Choso collapses onto you, thoroughly fucked-out. Finally pulling out with an obscene squelch, you hiss lowly at the pool of cum that forms beneath you. Gushing out of you sinfully. 
A weighty silence in the air as you both try to catch your breaths.
In the haze of your orgasm you realize that even after all that transpired, he still isn’t laying his full bodyweight on you.
Too afraid to break you.
To break whatever this tender little understanding in the air was.
And it makes some part of your heart clench so delightfully. Subconsciously, you thread a hand through his damp hair, breathing in that familiar smell of vanilla and sunshine - and the heady scent of something so Choso. It makes you intertwine your body so impossibly close with his, not knowing where one of you ends and the other starts.
“My parents are coming home tomorrow.” you start, casually. 
“Mhm. But I’ll still be around here, sweetheart.” Choso rumbles into the crook of your neck. Kissing soothingly over the marks he’d made in the heat of the moment - some carnal little part of him proud of the way you looked like you were fucking thrown to a pack of wolves. 
Words hiding a tense little fear beneath them as you probe further. Something prickly and scared rolling around in your stomach. “For babysitting?”
“Nope.”
Settling deeper into the covers, basking in the afterglow of him. You know you should get up and clean, but right now this was all you wanted. And maybe no other words were needed. 
“God, am I glad your parents aren’t home.” 
Except maybe those. 
You chuckle as you pull back to stare into those deep, dark eyes. Cheeks flaring at the tender little warmth in them much more than they had when he was fucking you so sinfully. A devious idea coming to mind - because now that you got a taste, you were absolutely hooked.
Choso Kamo was absolutely intoxicating.
“Well, we still have time so how about-”
A distant click!
“Honey, we’re home~!”
Shit.
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A/N. Fun fact this was originally supposed to be called Timeout! but it was giving too much me during beep test.
Plagiarism not authorized.
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reasonsforhope · 5 months
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Legit though, we should start turning ecosystem restoration and work to make our world more tolerant to the effects of climate change into annual holidays and festivals
Like how just about every culture used to have festivals to celebrate the beginning of the harvest or its end, or the beginning of planting, or how whole communities used to host barn raisings and quilting bees - everyone coming together at once to turn the work of months or years into the work of a few days
Humble suggestions for festival types:
Goat festival
Besides controlled burns (which you can't do if there's too much dead brush), the fastest, most effective, and most cost-efficient way to clear brush before fire season - esp really heavy dead brush - is to just. Put a bunch of goats on your land for a few days!
Remember that Shark Tank competitor who wanted to start a goat rental company, and everyone was like wtf? There was even a whole John Oliver bit making fun of the idea? Well THAT JUST PROVES THEY'RE FROM NICE WET PLACES, because goat rental companies are totally a thing, and they're great.
So like. Why don't we have a weekend where everyone with goats just takes those goats to the nearest land that needs a ton of clearing? Public officials could put up maps of where on public lands grazing is needed, and where it definitely shouldn't happen. Farmers and people/groups with a lot of acres that need clearing can post Goat Requests.
Little kids can make goat-themed crafts and give the goats lots of pets or treats at the end of the day for doing such a good job. Volunteers can help wrangle things so goats don't get where they're not supposed to (and everyone fences off land nowadays anyway, mostly). And the goats, of course, would be in fucking banquet paradise.
Planting Festival and Harvest Festival
Why mess with success??? Bring these back where they've disappeared!!! Time to swarm the community gardens and help everyone near you with a farm make sure that all of their seeds are sown and none of the food goes to waste in the fields, decaying and unpicked.
And then set up distribution parts of the festival so all the extra food gets where it needs to be! Boxes of free lemons in front of your house because you have 80 goddamned lemons are great, but you know what else would be great? An organized effort to take that shit to food pantries (which SUPER rarely get fresh produce, because they can't hold anything perishable for long at all) and community/farmer's markets
Rain Capture Festival
The "water year" - how we track annual rainfall and precipitation - is offset from the regular calendar year because, like, that's just when water cycles through the ecosystems (e.g. meltwater). At least in the US, the water year is October 1st through September 30th of the next year, because October 1st is around when all the snowmelt from last year is gone, and a new cycle is starting as rain begins to fall again in earnest.
So why don't we all have a big barn raising equivalent every September to build rain capture infrastructure?
Team up with some neighbors to turn one of those little grass strips on the sidewalk into a rain-garden with fall-planting plants. Go down to your local church and help them install some gutters and rain barrels. Help deculvert rivers so they run through the dirt again, and make sure all the storm drains in your neighborhood are nice and clear.
Even better, all of this - ESPECIALLY the rain gardens - will also help a ton with flood control!
I'm so serious about how cool this could be, yall.
And people who can't or don't want to do physical stuff for any of these festivals could volunteer to watch children or cook food for the festival or whatever else might need to be done!
Parties afterward to celebrate all the good work done! Community building and direct local improvements to help protect ourselves from climate change!
The possibilities are literally endless, so not to sound like an influencer or some shit, but please DO comment or reply or put it in the notes if you have thoughts, esp on other things we could hold festivals like this for.
Canning festivals. "Dig your elderly neighbors out of the snow" festivals. Endangered species nesting count festival. Plant fruit trees on public land and parks festival. All of the things that I don't know anywhere near enough to think of. Especially in more niche or extreme ecosystems, there are so many possibilities that could do a lot of good
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hedgehogcryptid · 3 months
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I’ve realized that the main reason I don’t give a fuck about Red Hood’s actual canon crimes is not that I think they’re justified, or reasonable, or even just funny. He has been shown doing very fucked up shit that at times has very little, if anything, to do with any reasonable moral code. But the reason I don’t care is that I’ve steadily become very critical of villain framing. It’s so very common to have a villain say something very reasonable like “poor people shouldn’t die” and then complement it with “and I will kill babies about it.” If the first statement is reasonable, and the narrative does not provide a reason that justifies the balls-to-the-wall batshit “solution” the character came up with, then I assume the author is either deliberately or subconsciously villainizing a specific group of people for no reason, and I don’t vibe with that. At that time I no longer care about what the author/narrative actually has to say and my reaction becomes “the narrator is actually a biased witness and anything they say about this person’s actions should be taken as exaggeration”. Oh, so Jason is an indiscriminate killer who thinks every petty criminal deserves to die? Wrong. They’re exaggerating and taking the facts out of context. So he killed a hundred people in prison with barely any provocation? It probably wasn’t that many and the ones he did were trying to kill him to begin with, with no intervention from the guards, so it was self defense. He attempted to kill a child? Wrong, that was a two-sided fight between two teenagers, he just won so the other one’s bitter. Like, I don’t care how much made up context I need to stuff in there to make it make sense, I will do it because the narrative decided to frame the homeless kid from a poor neighborhood as the villain against the nice and kindhearted humanitarian billionaire so its logic is fucked from the get-go
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zeldasnotes · 5 months
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SpOoKy NoTeS 👻
Its spooky time until christmas and everyone knows it. Dont even try to deny it. And you better believe I have some spooky observations for yall. And I advice all sensitive people to not read these. Here is a bottle of formula for yall instead 🍼
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⚠️ Achilles(588) shows your weak spot. Working on your achilles will help you so much in life. Because just like with Chiron if you dont work on this weakness people might use this weakness against you.
⚠️ You know that girl your boyfriend always talks shit about? I bet your boyfriends Venus is in that girls 1st house or his planets in her 8th house. I dare you to check.
⚠️ If you have Saturn in the 10th house there is a risk of getting your karma back for stuff you have done very publicly. It might take a while but it will happen. For example Ellen Degeneres.
⚠️ People with Lilith in the 3rd house can say the most cruel things when angry. Sometimes might not even control it and afterwards find themselves wondering what the hell they just said. Can also experience issues with lying especially in their younger years.
⚠️ Lie(26955) conjunct Moon might have had a lot of women make up lies about them. Might be surrounded by women who lie or even a family of habitual liars.
⚠️ Men with Lilith in the 10th house = false assault accusations or snitch accusations. If you are a man with this placement and you are thinking about joining a gang just know there is a 90% chance that if the police catch someone in the gang YOU will be accused of being the one of who snitched.
⚠️ Moon/Pluto women yes women hate on you but you are sneaky yourself and other women pick up on that.
⚠️ The moon really is where we are the most sensitive. Attacking someones moon can really make someone explode. Ive noticed that most times when someone throw a fit in my comments or asks its because of something I wrote about their moon.
⚠️ Fama(408) in Cancer/Conjunct Moon can do ANYTHING and will still be seen as a good mom. They have the ”supermom” image. Trying to expose someone with this placement might fail unless Fama is very afflicted.
⚠️ Someone with Peitho(118) conjunct personal planets can talk people into anything. Peitho was the goddess of persuasion, seduction and charming speech.
⚠️ If you have Moon conjunct Uranus you might have some very ”unique” children so be prepared for shock. Kate Gosselin from Kate plus 8 have this and she first gave birth to twins and then she had sextuplets(!!!!)
⚠️ People with Juno(3) conjunct Fama(408) can be cloutchasers.
⚠️ Moon/Venus harshly aspecting Neptune can idealize women a lot, especially beautiful women. People with these aspects can start copying someone they look up to and if Pluto is involved it can get scary. I know someone with this who would copy every outfit, makeup, behaviour, way of talking & way of walking of another girl in our class.
⚠️ Aquarius Moons sometimes take their need to be unpredictable and unique way too far and might do weird or mean things to show it. They can be just as attention seeking as their sister sign.
⚠️ Lilith in the 7th house people might think they are the controlling one in the relationship but they dont even know half of what their partner is doing behind the scenes. Can also be the opposite tho.
⚠️ If you have Sun conjunct Lilith you probably represent something your dad dislikes about himself. He sees his shadow self in you/the part of himself he denies.
⚠️ Chiron shows stuff you are attacked for. Ascendant = appearance, the way you assert yourself/dont assert yourself. Moon = Your sensitivity, a sensitivity thats very visible to others. Venus = looks, attacked by romantic interests and women. Mars = By men, for not being assertive enough. 9th house=For your background/religion, attacked by students at school. 3rd house = siblings, kids in the neighborhood, early schoolyears.
⚠️ Mars Square Pluto attract people who can feel an obsessive anger towards them or an obsessive need to put them in their place. The kind of people to have others making revenge plans on them. Also masculine energies become obsessed with them.
⚠️ When you have Lilith/Asc people attack like hyenas. With this placement there is a risk of people not showing you empathy, you see sides of people that others dont see because you are a walking threath. This doesnt always mean they hate you, this can be something very subconscious that they dont even are aware of themselves, you just awake a fear in them that they cant explain.
⚠️ A Narcissists worst nightmare is a person with Neptune conjunct personal planets. Narcissists feed on emotional reactions from others and people with Neptune on the Sun or Ascendant dont show emotional reactions because their mind is always focused on having the proper reaction and to read the situation to create their personality around their surroundings. So in a way you will never get a ”real” reaction from a Neptunian.
⚠️ Venus 1st house synastry can make Venus VERY hateful and mean towards the house person. They can have a hard time feeling bad for the house person because of the jealousy. Ive noticed the same with Venus 2nd house synastry.
⚠️ If Toro(1685) conjunct a planet in your chart dont only check that planet also check what house is ruled by that planet. Example: If you have Toro conjunct Venus and your 4th house is in Libra. Toro is conjunct your 4th house ruler so your mother/family could be your bully.
LAST YEARS SPOOKY NOTES🎃
©️ 2023 Zeldas Notes
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casuallyimagining · 5 months
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Set Me Free || myg
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min yoongi x female reader
Summary: Tired of being told how to live his life and unsure of where he stands in the world, Yoongi--your soulmate--yearns to be free. When you give him what he wants, it causes a rift in your relationship that seems irreparable. 12 years later, you find him back in your life. Can you mend your relationship? Do you even want to? Word Count: 14,377 Genre: friends to enemies to lovers, supernatural au, witch & familiar au, soulmate au, angst, fluff Warnings: death of a parent (brief mention), alcohol, soulmate breakup, smooching
Notes: banner by @itaeewon. thank you to @daechwitatamic and @oddinary4bts for beta-ing and listening to me struggle my way through this. as always. and extra thanks to ella for helping me write Yoongi's letters and to my friend tanya for giving me a super helpful base for the ending.
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It’s cold. The late autumn wind rustles through amber-brown-orange-yellow leaves, swirling the fallen ones into little tornadoes that scuttle across the pavement. The cold doesn’t bother Yoongi, necessarily. It’s been a while since he’s been here, in this town, on this street, but even after so much time, his body remembers the chill of November in the same way his feet remember the way to his destination. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and pauses at the street corner.
It’s strange being back here. He’d once known this neighborhood so intimately, he could map it in his sleep. Not much has changed in the almost 13 years he’s been gone. The park on the corner is the same. The playground, massive to an eight-year-old with a near-infinite imagination, stands resolute, its plastic and paint sun-faded and weathered. Further up the block is the head of the trail that snakes its way through the forest, where he’d spent countless hours playing pirates as a kid and exploring as a teen. And there, at the end of the street, is his destination.
The closer he gets, the more his stomach roils with nerves. Thirteen years since he’d walked down this sidewalk. Thirteen years since he’d walked onto that front porch. Or rather, 12 years, 5 months, and 11 days. 
But who’s counting?
There’s a light on in the front room of the house, he can see it through the big window despite the shades being pulled closed. He hesitates. He’s spent days–no, weeks–playing out in his head how this was going to go. In a moment, he’ll know if any of those scenarios were correct. And frankly, right now, he’s terrified. 
What if you start to cry? What if you slam the door in his face? What if you hug him? What if you yell at him? What if you don’t answer? What if you want to talk? What if you never want to see him again? What if you invite him in? What if you have someone over?
He takes a deep breath and knocks.
It takes a second. He can hear shuffling around on the other side of the door, so he knows his knock was heard. But the longer it takes, the sweatier his hands get, and the more he considers turning and running away. The door opens before he can make a move.
You stand in the doorway, bathed in the warm light of the living room lamp behind you. And shit, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. In many ways, you haven’t changed since the last time he saw you, but at the same time, you look so different. He can see in your eyes the moment the realization hits, and your expression changes drastically. You looked tired–and Yoongi can sense that it goes deeper than just physical exhaustion–and you were slouching, but now, you’re standing ramrod straight, and there’s a hard look in your eyes. One he knows all too well.
“Hey.” He raises a hand, offers a wave that, in hindsight, is rather pathetic. You stare at him, unblinking, and slowly, he lowers his hand. “I uh… I heard about your parents,” he says softly, scuffing his shoe against the wood of the porch. “I’m sorry you have to go through it.”
“Brave of you to show up.” You sound almost bored, but Yoongi knows–he senses, in that kind of primal, gut feeling he gets when it comes to you–that it’s an act. “You know I could turn you into a bug and squash you if I wanted to.”
“I know.”
There’s a tense moment where you stare at each other, the scowl you wear pulling your lips downward and creasing your brow. But then you heave an exhausted sigh.
“Why are you here, Yoongi?”
“I…” 
I want to apologize. 
I’m so sorry.
I miss you.
It all catches in his throat. He coughs in a meager attempt to entice something–anything–to come out of his mouth. “I wanted you to have this.”
He holds out his hands, and in an instant, he’s holding a box. It’s full but not heavy, and he thrusts it out in front of him in your direction.
“A 10-year-old shoebox?” You do nothing to mask your surprise. 
“Letters,” he corrects. “You don’t have to read them but… I wanted you to have them.” He pushes the box into your arms, leaving you no choice but to take it. Then, he steps away and nods his head. “Thank you for not turning me into a bug. I am sorry about your parents. I… guess I’ll go.”
Without another word, he trots down the porch steps. And then, in a blink, he’s gone. Disappeared into the night.
You sigh and shut the door, the box he’d given you cradled in the crook of your arm. You don’t have the energy for this right now. Honestly, you aren’t sure that you’ll ever have the energy for it, but certainly not the day before your parents’ funeral.
Whoever had decided that witches and their familiars die together clearly never thought of the ones left behind.
You collapse onto the couch, placing the box beside you. This would be easier if you weren’t alone. It would be easier with Yoongi, your brain supplies less than helpfully. You curse yourself. You curse him. After all these years, you thought you were over it, over the abandonment, over the betrayal. But all it takes is for him to show his stupid face, and you can feel it all bubbling up anew. Angrily, you push the box off the couch. It explodes when it hits the floor, what seems like thousands of pieces of paper tumble out and scatter from the force.
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The forest was almost silent as you stalked the trail. Not even the birds were happy that day. Twigs snapped under your feet. You weren’t even paying attention to where you were going, your feet carrying you along the path that you’d hiked countless times before. You needed to get away, to escape, to calm down. But you couldn’t, because what you were running away from was hot on your heels.
“Would you slow down?” You could hear the frustration in Yoongi’s voice as he followed you. You ignored him. “Goddamnit,” he breathed, picking up his pace. “Will you at least listen to me?”
Quite frankly, you didn’t care what he had to say in that moment.
“It wouldn’t be a permanent thing,” he continued. “I just… I don’t know. I need to do this.”
You stopped, sliding a little on the damp new growth below your feet. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’re not being oppressed, Yoongi. No one’s stopping you from going out and exploring the world.”
“Maybe this way of life isn’t for everyone. Maybe not everyone wants their whole existence to be predetermined at birth. Maybe not everyone wants the universe to choose who they’re supposed to be with and how they’re supposed to live.”
His words stung, and until then, you weren’t quite sure why. Rejection. Not just of how you lived, and who he was, and how things had always been. But of you. Yoongi was your familiar, you were destined to be together in some way since you were six years old and the bond gem first appeared. Not all witches and familiars were in romantic relationships–your parents were, sure, and Yoongi’s parents–but plenty of them had other partners, lives separate from each other. Platonic soulmates navigating the world together.
Until a few months before, you’d been content with that. There was no doubt you’d been best friends from the jump. You’d been practically inseparable through school. Then, months before, he’d kissed you at the winter market. Right there in the park, under the aurora. Before that, you hadn’t thought of him as any more than your best friend. But the kiss had unlocked something inside you. And now…
Now he wanted you gone. 
“You want to be free that badly?” By some miracle, your voice sounded positively venomous, even though you felt like you could crumble at any moment. “Fine.”
“Wh-”
There’s a saying your mother told you once, back when you were a child. You and Yoongi had found a turtle in the woods, stuck in the mud. His little turtle leg had been hurt, and you’d rushed it to your mother immediately. Familiars were excellent with animals, and she was no exception, healing the turtle in days when it should have taken weeks. You and Yoongi had both cried when you had to release it back into the wild–you’d both so wanted it to be your friend. ‘If you love something, set it free,’ your mother had said, ‘Sometimes it’s the kindest option.’
Kinder for whom?
The chain around your wrist snapped easily when you wrapped your fingers around it. The incantation meant to keep the bond gem safe became meaningless as soon as you wanted it gone. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been without it around your wrist. You loved it, with its gem of swirling, inky black and navy blue. It reminded you so much of Yoongi, deep and calm and unwavering. 
Without a word, you tossed the bracelet to the ground. Yoongi’s eyes widened as it hit and the gem cracked. For good measure, you stepped on it, crushed it into dust. There was a pitiful swirl of blue magic that puffed up from the dirt. When you moved your foot, there was nothing left of the bond gem or its chain.
“What the fuck?” Yoongi’s eyes were glassy when you finally looked at him. He looked almost as crushed as you felt. “What the fuck?”
“You’re free.” And this time, you couldn’t hide your sadness behind your anger. 
He didn’t follow you as you walked away, and honestly, it was for the best. It was faint, but you could still feel his emotions, and you weren’t sure you could handle that kind of heartache in person.
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There is paper everywhere. Hundreds of pieces, folded neatly in thirds. You have no idea how Yoongi had fit them all into the shoebox. He must’ve enchanted it. Groaning, you start to pick them up. 
Letters, he’d said. You flip through some as you gather them up. Now that they’re on the floor, they aren’t in any particular order, but it quickly becomes clear that these letters span years. There are some from 12 years ago, written shortly after he’d left. Some are more recent. You stare at one, from December of the year he left. Glancing through it, you expect it to unearth your anger, your rage. But it doesn’t. Just like seeing him again, all Yoongi’s letter brings is sadness. Grief.
You’d spent the past 12 years grieving. Sure, he hadn’t died, but when he left, you’d lost the closest relationship you would ever have. In 17 years, you’d grown so accustomed to having him there, that when he was gone, there was a Yoongi-sized hole left in your life that you had to learn to fill. And you did your best, sewing yourself back together and moving on. But it wasn’t the same.
Glancing through his letter, it seems you weren’t the only one struggling. You aren’t sure if that’s a comfort or not.
It’s been almost a year since the night market–one year since everything started crumbling around us. I still remember it like it was yesterday. It felt right in the moment, didn’t it? I really thought you would understand.
I’ve tried to figure out where things went wrong. But shit, I can’t wrap my head around it. Why did you react like that when I told you I just wanted to be free?
At the end of the day, I guess we didn’t understand each other as much as I thought we did. As much as this bond brings us together, I guess it doesn’t reveal everything. But… that night I just wanted to kiss you, and so I did. Maybe it was selfish. Sometimes I wish the bond didn’t exist, that we could just be free to choose things for ourselves. That we weren't forced into what the universe wants from us… Maybe that’s selfish, too.
Why couldn’t you understand? I just wish I could turn back time and make you understand. Maybe then you wouldn’t hate me, and maybe then I’d stop hating myself too.
Because watching you destroy the gem nearly killed me, but it wasn’t half as bad as watching you walk away. Should I have run after you? 
Would you still be there if I had?
You sigh and lean back against your couch. That damn night market. You hadn’t been back to it since the year he’d kissed you. It’s silly, but a part of you blames it for everything that happened. Because Yoongi’s letter is right. It had marked the beginning of everything going wrong. It wouldn’t change anything, but there’s a part of you that won’t listen to logic, that refuses to believe that maybe, if he hadn’t kissed you–if you hadn’t kissed him back–he wouldn’t have left. 
The night market was beautiful. It always was, but that year was particularly beautiful. The park had been decorated in all of its sparkling, winter glory. Candles twinkled in the trees, suspended by sheer force of will. Through some magic you weren’t familiar with, they’d enchanted the sky, and an aurora shimmered far above, slowly swirling in greens and blues and purples. Snow fell gently, and you weren’t sure if it was natural, or if it was also magic. 
You browsed the various tents and tables, going from one to the other to see the different things people were selling. Some had crafts, others baked goods, and some were even selling things like potion ingredients and spellbooks. There were a few tables dedicated to familiars–books on shifting and specialty items and insets and jewelry for bond gems.
Yoongi followed you closely, clutching a hot chocolate. You knew he wasn’t cold, the temperature was nowhere near low enough for either of you to be uncomfortable, but the way his fingers tapped against the paper cup, you knew something was up. You could sense his anxiety, could feel it in the pit of your own stomach.
“Want to go sit?” you asked softly, gesturing over to the picnic tables they’d set up under one of the sparkling trees. 
His eyes widened. “No, that’s okay. You’re looking.”
“I’m done. Let’s go sit.”
“I-” He deflated a little and didn’t argue further, allowing you to lead him over to one of the tables. 
You sat side by side on the bench, backs against the table, and watched the snow fall around you. The night was peaceful, quiet for the most part except for the occasional laughter that bubbled up. Most of the older crowd had left, leaving only the teens and young adults to explore the market. You watched the other festival goers in silence, Yoongi’s arm pressed against your own.
“You okay?” you asked softly, bumping your shoulder into his own.
Yoongi being quiet was nothing new. He was an observer, a listener, he took in information like a sponge. Which wasn’t to say that he was never loud and boisterous, that he didn’t talk incessantly to the people he cared about. But he was absolutely the calmest presence you’d ever been around, even compared to the adults in your life.
But you could sense what he was feeling, could feel his nerves and unease and conflict. And you knew that he’d rather explode than burden anyone with his feelings. So you prodded. Ever so gently. Because he was your best friend, and when he was suffering, you were too. 
He stayed quiet, and when you turned to look at him, he was much closer than you were expecting. A moment passed. You shared a look. You’d always thought that Yoongi’s eyes were pretty, but in the twinkling light of the candles above, they were deep pools of warm, dark cedar and flecks of honey. Slowly, subtly, he leaned in–or maybe you did, you weren’t sure– as though some mysterious force was drawing you together. An emotion flashed in his eyes, but you couldn’t quite take the time to consider what it may have been because he was kissing you. Lips chapped from the bitter wind moulded against your own for the shortest of moments. It was tentative and delicate and brief, but as he pulled away, your mind reeled. 
That day had affected you in ways you never would have expected. Before, you’d never considered Yoongi as anything more than your best friend, the platonic other half of yourself. And then the kiss, and suddenly, it was like you’d been awakened. For as long as you could remember, your thoughts had been filled with Yoongi. Of the things he liked, the things he didn’t, of spending time with him, of the academy (with him). Suddenly, you were suspecting that maybe there was more to that, more than just the bond of a witch and their familiar.
You sigh. The letters are all finally back in the box, though nowhere near as nicely as they’d been before you’d kicked it and it had exploded. You should get up. You should go to bed. You have to be up fairly early for the funeral. But you stay seated, the box of letters in your lap.
Seeing him again was hard. You’re willing to admit that. You’d spent 12 years convincing yourself that you were fine, harboring anger and resentment and frustration, all for it to melt away the second you saw him. The bond makes it tough to stay mad at him, but it doesn’t let you forget the betrayal.
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You stand out of the way, looking out over the funeral attendees in the park. Your parents didn’t have a lot of friends, but there are enough people here that you’d officially call it a crowd. They’re all mingling–you’d bought beer and wine, and if you didn’t know any better, it could maybe be a party and not a wake. You tighten your fist around the bond gem in your hand. For as long as you could remember, your dad had worn it around his neck, tucked under his shirt. The gem is like your mother–bright pink, fiery orange, deep yellow–and when you were a child, you’d loved to look at it, mesmerized by the swirling, glittering colors. 
The gems have always been a gift from a familiar to their witch, given to symbolize the soulmate-like bonds between them. Most witches–especially those who were romantically involved with their familiars–wear them as jewelry. They don’t really do anything, though some people claim it made their magic stronger (you aren’t really sure about that, seeing as most gems appear in childhood).
As a child, you hadn’t been particularly close with your parents. Especially as a teen, you would have much rather hung out with Yoongi than them. But they were kind, and supportive, and for the most part, they left you to do your own thing. They’d been almost as devastated as you when you’d crushed your bond gem.
Days after your fight with Yoongi, the doorbell rang. Your mother had opened the door. You were upstairs. You’d stayed home from school that day–sick, but not in the way the administrators would have accepted. For a few brief moments, you’d ignored whatever visitor was downstairs. But then-
“She’s not here.” Your mother’s voice drifted up to you. She sounded disappointed.
“Please.” It was Yoongi, you’d recognize his baritone from miles away.
Quietly, you’d slipped out of your room and crept down the hall, sitting at the top of the stairs. You could hear your mother sigh, could see her shift her weight from one foot to the other. Your father appeared from the kitchen and joined your mother at the door.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned against the doorknob, pulling it a little more shut in the process so it blocked you completely from the door’s sight.
A long moment of silence passed before your mother called, “Yoongi?” You couldn’t hear his response–he must have already gone down the porch steps. Your mother continued, “It can be scary, and you’re both still young. Give it time.”
The door shut quietly, and both of your parents looked to where you were sitting. You could see it in both of their eyes. Sadness, but something else. Something that looked a little close to pity.
A laugh draws your attention, and you smile sadly as you watch your mother’s coworkers laugh at some memory. But then you notice, just behind them, a shadow close to the ground and suddenly, you’re distracted all over again. Because there, half-hidden by a bush, sits a black cat. Cedar and honey eyes watch you intently, its dark fur swirling and shining like a thousand galaxies. Your hand tightens around your parents’ bond gem, the chain pressing sharply into the flesh of your hand.
He doesn’t move, just sits there patiently. Watching. He’s there as people approach you, offering condolences and hugs that you don’t particularly want; he’s there when people start trickling out. And he’s there when you’re the last one left, all alone under the large oak tree in the center of the park. 
It’s quiet as you stand there, staring down at the bond gem in your hands. This is the part you’ve been dreading. Because you don’t want to keep the damn thing–you could if you wanted to, but there’s also tradition to think about. But it’s also weird to give up the one thing that is so emblematic of your parents. You wonder if they’d felt like this when your grandparents had died. 
At least they’d had each other during it.
You can sense him approach, even though his steps are completely silent. And though he comes closer, he keeps his distance. On one hand, you appreciate it. On the other…
“If you’re going to be here, the least you could do is be here,” you say quietly, looking down at the gem in your hand. It sparkles a little in the light.
Thankfully, he doesn’t ask you to explain. He takes a few slow steps forward until he’s standing beside you. It’s weird, having him this close again. You’d been too overwhelmed last night to actually observe, but now, you’re exhausted, yet alert. 
His hair is longer–as a teen, he’d kept it short, but the ends curl and sit just above his shoulders now. He’s filled out and put on some muscle, and though he’s still a little on the lankier side, his shoulders have broadened. He wears cologne now, the scent light, like lavender, citrus, and sage. So much has changed, and yet it’s the same eyes that watch you with a soft curiosity.
You look up to the tree, watch its branches wave in the wind. You used to think that the centenarian boughs touched the sky, and even still, it towers above everything else in the park. The leaves sparkle, their iridescence catching the light to make the tree look like something out of a fairy tale. You sigh and tighten your fist around your parents’ bond gem one more time before opening your hand.
At first, nothing happens, but then the gem glistens and rises out of your grasp. It joins the other leaves close to the top of the tree, becoming just another sparkle in the prism. 
For a while, not even the birds make a noise. You just stand there, looking up at the tree that has stood sentinel over most of your life. The wind rustles the leaves, and they shimmer as they move. You have no idea how many leaves are up there, how many bond gems have been placed over time. Thousands–maybe hundreds of thousands–of witches and their familiars, most forgotten to the annals of time.
It’s strange, knowing that you would never be memorialized by the tree.
“Let me buy you a coffee,” Yoongi whispers from beside you, husky baritone cutting through the silence.
Yoongi isn’t sure why you say yes, but soon enough, you’re walking into the Green Bean just behind him. He’s uncomfortable, people have been watching you since the park, and their stares are starting to burn holes in his back. He says nothing about it until you’re in line at the cafe.
“What are they staring at?” he whispers, leaning close so that only you can hear in the semi-busy cafe. He chooses to ignore how you tense up ever so slightly.
“You’ve been gone for 12 years, what did you expect?”
Right. He supposes he should have expected their animosity. But it’s not just him they’re watching. He doesn’t miss the way people stare at you, watch you warily as you simply exist. His mind races. Was that his fault? Did his absence cause so many unintended consequences?
You order a coffee and choose a table in the far corner of the cafe, away from everyone but still near the window. He sits in the chair across from you, the hard metal shockingly comfortable despite its harsh lines. An awkward silence settles over you both, but Yoongi’s not sure what to say, so he lets it linger. He watches you stare out the window. Which is a little weird, right? But he can’t bring himself to drag his gaze away. It’s like after 12 years of being away, he just wants to look at you.
The barista calls out your orders and Yoongi stands to grab both of them from the counter. He places one oversized ceramic mug down in front of you, and the other, he wraps his hands around. It’s warm, almost hot, and he dares not take a drink yet. You stare down at the foam on top of your drink, one finger hooked around the handle of the cup.
“What happened to them?” he asks softly. When you look up, surprised, he clarifies. “Your parents, I mean. I… didn’t hear how they…”
You sigh, tap your mug. He can sense the deep sadness you struggle with and is just about to tell you to forget he asked when you speak. “I always kind of thought it would be dad who’d go first.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “He was always so frail when we were kids. But mom got sick last year and…” You shrug. “One of the neighbors found them.”
“I’m so sorry.” You wave him off. “No. Honestly. They were nice.”
“Thanks.”
He nods, and silence settles again. But then something you said pops into his mind, striking him as strange. “You aren’t living here anymore?” Mentally, he slaps himself. Why did it come out like he’s surprised? He supposes that he’s always just kind of pictured you still… here, in town.
“I’m over in Ashland,” you say, generally gesturing west, toward the city. “I work at the library at the university.”
“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. “How’s that?”
You shrug. “Mostly good. It’s a job. The library’s usually pretty quiet, so…”
“That’s really cool.”
Ashland is big, much bigger than here in square feet and at least 10 times the people. It’s a real city, with skyscrapers and functioning public transportation and one of the country’s top medical universities. He’s proud of you, he realizes. You’d always planned to leave for the city, too constrained by life in such a small town. For the longest time, he’d planned on going with you. And then, of course, he’d ruined it. It stings a little to know that you’d gone without him like that, that your life had continued as planned, that maybe he hadn’t meant that much in the grand scheme of things.
But then your eyes meet, and he’s confronted by the anxiety and sadness you’re feeling, and he knows he’s just being stupid. Again.
“So, uh…” He feels a wave of nerves wash over him–they aren’t his own. You tap your half-empty mug. “What have you been up to?”
If he’s honest, Yoongi wasn’t expecting you to ask about him. He’s shocked enough that you’d even agreed to be here, let alone that you were interested in his life. “I was traveling,” he starts cautiously, gauging your reaction. You blink slowly, watching his every move. If you can sense his apprehension, you don’t react. “But now I’m up north in Ulmae. I’ve got a pretty good thing going at this restaurant on the North Shore.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, uh…” He chuckles, a little nervous. “They’ve got me bartending on the weekends and let me do music during the week.”
Your eyes widen a little, and you lean forward. “They let you play?”
“It’s only like an hour a night-”
“No, shut up. That’s amazing!” You grin, big and genuine, but Yoongi can sense a tinge of sadness in it. 
He’s disappointed when you both finish your coffees and you stand up to put your cup in the little tub by the counter. It’s starting to get late, the sun is starting to set and the streetlights have turned on. It was nice, catching up with you, short though it may have been. It’s not lost on him how strange it is, having to catch up with someone that was once practically a part of him. 
Together, you stand outside in the chilly early evening air, looking down the street toward the park. Over the roofs of the shops and houses, Yoongi can just barely see the centinel tree with its sparkling leaves. People walk past–people he recognizes but couldn’t possibly name–some are more subtle about it, but others practically break their necks to stare at the two of you. Suddenly, Yoongi feels exposed outside the cafe, like there are eyes everywhere. He hates this, hates feeling like he’s doing something wrong just for wanting to talk to you more.
You sigh, scuff your shoe against the concrete of the sidewalk, shove your hands deep into the pockets of your dark jeans. “I… probably shouldn’t even ask,” you start warily. “But do you want to come back for a drink?”
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The house is the same, yet somehow also different, like one of those spot the difference puzzles come to life. The layout of the living room is the same, but the couch is a different style and color. There’s a blanket folded the same way under the coffee table, but it’s clearly a different pattern than he remembers. Most of the photos are the same, but there are 12 years’ worth of more of them. 
Apparently, the stash of alcohol your father kept in the built in cabinet beside the television hasn’t changed.
You pull out a bottle of whisky and two glasses, setting them on the coffee table with a gentle ‘clink.” The shoebox he’d given you sits on the floor. The lid is off, the letters contained within are a mess. Have you read them, or did they spill out? There’s no way for him to really know. 
Silently, you hand him a glass and sit on the other side of the couch, grabbing one of the throw pillows to hug in your lap. You sip at the double in your glass stoically, and for a moment, you stare at him. He has to resist the urge to squirm under your gaze. There’s something different about how you’re sitting, something in your aura that he didn’t notice in the cafe. Maybe you’d been saving it for private, but he can sense that you’re reining your emotions in. 
But then finally, after what feels like an eternity, you turn over your hand. Two pieces of paper sit in your palm. “I’m going to need you to explain these.” The two letters float over to him and open themselves in front of him.
The first is dated only a few years after he’d left.
I’ve been struck by a thought. I had tacos earlier, and I just know you would have loved them. Which made me realize that there’s still part of me that thinks about you at every turn. Your friendship was such an integral part of my life, and not having it anymore feels like there’s a piece missing. Last week it was a song on the radio. Before that, a stray cat I saw that I know for certain you would have loved. Everything reminds me of you, everything leads back to you. You’re everywhere and nowhere, and…
I would like to see you again. Someday. 
How have you been doing? Where has your life taken you? I can only hope it’s treated you kindly. It’s what you deserve.
The other is from the day he turned 25.
A quarter of a century, and for some reason I feel incredibly old. With it comes some realizations, things I didn’t understand before. Maybe I was too young, too blinded by my own need to feel free… but it never was about being free from you. I can’t even begin to imagine how hurtful it must have been for you…
I never wanted to make you feel like I was giving up on you, like I didn’t want you. I never wanted to make you feel rejected, because it wasn’t you I was trying to be free from.
I was so scared of having my whole life laid out in front of me. I never took the time to think what my life could be with the bond–I only ever thought about what the bond meant for my life. All of the expectations, what comes with being a familiar, our roles in society and the universe…
I realize now that I could have–should have–communicated it all better. If only so that I wouldn’t have lost you. So that it wouldn’t have led to me making you feel like I was rejecting you. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered; at the end of the day I was still walking away from you. But at least maybe I could have made it more clear that it was never you that I wanted to be free from.
I’m sorry. I feel like it’s useless to say, but I am so sorry for not realizing any of this before.
Wherever you are, I hope you’ll understand. Take care until I see you again.
I hope I see you again.
Yoongi sighs. The letters–all of them, not just these two–tended to be rambling diatribes, a snapshot of his thoughts as he worked through his feelings about his own life and everything and you. He’d been an idiot when he left–he was 17 and full of himself and terrified of the world but too proud to admit it–and it had taken him far too long to realize a lot of important things.
For a moment, it’s quiet as he thinks of what to say. How should he even begin? But apparently, he’s quiet for too long, because you wave your hand and the letters fold themselves back up and float back down to the shoebox. When you speak, you sound exhausted. “Why are you here, Yoongi?”
“I-”
“Because if the roles were reversed, I don’t know that I’d have the balls to come back. On one hand, I’m impressed. On the other…” You trail off and shrug.
He’s quiet, not sure how to respond. He’s got lots of thoughts, lots of feelings–of course he does–but right now, you’re a wall, and he’s not sure how to read the situation. He’s not sure what you need to hear right now. So he says nothing.
You laugh, but there’s no humor in it, and you look down at the glass in your hand, stare into the dregs of the amber whisky you’ve nearly finished. “I’m running on like two hours’ sleep,” you admit. “But fuck, Yoongi, I… I was so convinced that I’d never see you again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.” Then, softer. “I’m still not sure.”
“Why?” It’s out of his mouth before he can even think and god, he just wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.
It takes a second for you to process his absolute trash heap of an asinine question. But when you do, your face contorts into somewhere between anger, disappointment, and heartbreak. “What do you mean, ‘why’?” You practically spit the question at him. “You… you… Do you know what it’s like to have the most important person in your life tell you that he wants rid of you?”
“I never said-”
“You wanted to be free. From all of it. From me.” You pick at the corner of the pillow in your lap. “And then you just come back out of the blue like nothing happened and drop this damn shoebox at my feet-” from where it sits on the floor, the shoebox explodes, letters flying everywhere, “-and you just… What did you expect, Yoongi? What do you want?”
“I don’t know!” He sounds a little desperate when he says it, and he hates that, hates how pathetic it makes him sound. So he shrugs, takes a deep breath, leans back a little. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “I just… I missed you. And then mom told me about your parents, and…” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and out of his eyes. “And then I was on a train.”
You stare at him for a moment, a little gobsmacked. You have no idea how to respond. What do you say to that? Where do you even start? There are a hundred things you could say. You’ve played this scenario out a thousand times in your head over the years–what would you do if he came back?–but somehow, it never played out like this. In your mind, he’d never told you that he missed you.
You’d never considered that he would miss you.
But you should say something, right? It’s weird that you’re sitting there, just staring at him in complete silence. Has your jaw been clenched the whole time? Does he think you’re angry with him? Quickly, you school your face into something a little more neutral and say the first thing that comes to mind.
“How long are you here for?”
Truthfully, you probably should have asked sooner. You’ve been wondering since he showed up on your doorstep last night, but it never seemed like a great time to ask.
He sighs. “‘Till tomorrow.”
You nod, probably longer than it makes sense to, but it takes you a bit to process. Tomorrow. He’s back in your life for two days, and then he’s gone again. That’s not even enough time to catch up, let alone actually talk with him. And that’s… you aren’t sure how to feel. 
Yoongi watches you quietly and takes a sip of his drink. He’s barely touched it. “Maybe…” he says after a moment, leaning forward to put his glass on the coffee table. “Maybe I should go?”
Part of you wants to tell him no, to ask him to stay, to tell you more about his gig working at the bar. Anything to keep him here and talking to you. But there’s a more logical part of you that’s overwhelmed, that needs some time to think. He’s offering to go, which means that he’s either uncomfortable or his train leaves early in the morning. Or both. He stands, thanks you for the drink, and you follow him to the door. He hesitates just outside, opens his mouth as if to say something and closes it almost as quickly.
You say nothing. And for the second time in as many days, you watch him leave without another word.
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The playground was almost empty. Mama said it was supposed to rain, but she’d also said that you would go anyway, for a little bit. You were trying to learn how to swing on your own, and plus Yoongi and his mom were going to be there, and he’d said he’d bring his trucks to play in the sand. 
But he wasn’t there yet, so you were on the swing. Mama pushed you, her hand firm on your back, and you closed your eyes. You were flying, wind in your face as you launched forward into the air. And then, just as suddenly, you were falling, swinging backward.
“Remember what I said,” mama said softly. “Kick your legs.”
You weren’t quite sure what she meant by that. Your legs were little, and when you kicked out, you felt more like you were going to slide out of the swing seat than anything. You heard her laugh a little, but her hand was on your back once again, propelling you forward. 
A few minutes passed in a blur of forwards and backwards. You still didn’t quite understand the whole swinging on your own thing, but mama’s rhythmic pushes kept you going. But then, a small voice at the edge of the playground yelled your name, and you heard excited footsteps in the wood chips. Mama helped you slow to a stop, and you jumped off the swing.
A little boy, his dark hair cut short by his own mom, ran toward you. He was carrying an armful of small cars and larger trucks. He skidded to a stop in front of you, a wide, gummy grin engulfing his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“I brought all my trucks!” he announced, looking down at the toys in his arms. “You can be the green one. Here.” He tried to hand it to you, and another fell in the process.
You picked it up and took the green truck from him. It was bright green–the same shade as the lime popsicles Yoongi’s mom usually bought–and it had big wheels. You followed him to the sandbox and you both plopped down. It didn’t take long to have a whole city constructed. Granted, it was all made from rocks and wood chips and other small things you found around the sandbox. But it was a city and it was beautiful.
Yoongi drove his truck over a bump, making engine noises as he pushed it toward you. As he drove the truck down another sand hill, bumping and bouncing it over sticks and rocks, something fell out of the sleeve of his jacket. It was perfectly round, and it rolled to a stop in front of you. You picked it up and inspected it. It was some kind of rock, hard and shiny, but it was also colorful, and you were pretty sure rocks couldn’t be blue. 
One look at the rock and he frowned, calling for his mom. She came over immediately and crouched down to see what he was so concerned about. Your mama followed her, and she was the one that saw the rock in your hand first.
“Oh,” she said, her hand gently smoothing down your hair. “You two have found your gem.”
“Wha’s that mean?” Yoongi asked, looking up at his mom. 
She smiled and sat in the sand beside him, pulling him into her lap. She held out her arm, twisted her bracelet around so that he could see it. “You know how I have this from your dad? It’s like that.”
“But-”
“Your friendship is special,” she continued, pinching his cheek. Yoongi laughed. “It means you’ve gotta look out for each other now.”
For a moment, he was quiet. But then he nodded, just once. “Okay!” He held out his hand to you, tiny palm face up. “Can I have it?”
“It’s not yours anymore,” his mom said softly, brushing his short hair back. “It’s a gift.”
You looked to your mama and she nodded. “Take care of it,” she told you. “You only get one.”
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Middle school was the worst. Everything was difficult. Social situations, interactions with your parents, school. At the time, it all seemed like it was unfairly hard. Making it worse, of course, was getting sick. As a kid, you were never sick that often. Yoongi was a different story. For whatever reason, familiars were just more susceptible to illness, and when he got sick, he got sick. 
It was the middle of the semester, and Yoongi hadn’t been to school in days. Your teachers hadn’t even asked, they’d just started giving you packets–homework and printouts of their lessons and extra materials–so he wouldn’t fall behind. So you stopped by his house after school. His mom let you in, offering you some of the snacks she was making for Yoongi before you headed up the stairs to his room. 
You knocked gently before entering. The knock was a politeness–you were close enough with him and familiar enough with his room at this point in your life that you could just barge in without warning and you knew he wouldn’t mind. He looked like hell, stuck in his bed buried in blankets. It was clear he’d had a fever at some point, because his hair looked damp and sweaty. 
But he sat up when you walked in, coughing deeply before speaking. “You’re going to get sick, too,” he protested weakly. 
You waved him off. “Everyone’s sick.” You pulled over his desk chair to the side of his bed and started to go through your bag. “Ms. Miller gave me your math homework, but if you understand it, you’ll have to explain it to me because I have no idea what she’s talking about.” He giggled at that, gummy smile soon hidden by his hand as he coughed. “Here’s the novel for Brown’s class. She said she’d talk to you about making up the paper when you’re back.”
It took a surprisingly long time to go through eight classes’ worth of homework and assignments, but you’d put sticky notes at the front of each packet explaining things, too, so the fact that he was half-asleep for most of your explanation didn’t really matter. 
“Will you stay?” he asked when you were done. “Help me with some of this?”
“What happened to not wanting me to get sick?” you teased.
“I mean, you don’t have to. If you want to go home, that’s fine, too. I just-” He coughed, burying his face in his blankets. 
“You staying for dinner, hon?” Yoongi’s mom called from the bottom of the stairs.
“Yes please!” you responded, shuffling through the stack of packets you’d brought for Yoongi. “Wanna take a stab at math?”
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Halfway through the fall of your senior year, Yoongi started to get… weird. Cagey. Like he was trying to hide something and figure out particle physics at the same time. You’d tried asking him about it a few times, only for him to wave you off with a quiet “just thinking about some things.” After that, he’d be back to normal for a few days. But every time, like clockwork, he would fall back into it.
Finally, on the third day of the new year, he pulled you aside. Tucked back into the dormant foliage of the park, away from prying eyes, he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was nervous, you could feel it deep inside you, but to be honest, you didn’t really need your bond to tell you what was plain to see. 
“I…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. His brows furrowed in thought, and after a moment, he motioned for you to sit. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay?” You sat on the edge of a big rock, confused.
“I…” he started again, sitting beside you. You could feel a spike of nerves, and he took a breath to steady himself. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think… fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be.”
“You can just say it,” you told him. “It’s just me.”
He nodded and mumbled something that sounded a lot like ‘that’s the problem,’ but after a moment, he continued. “I need to be free of all of this.”
“What?”
“Haven’t you ever thought that maybe the universe doesn’t know what it’s talking about? That maybe you’d be happier if you chose things for yourself?” He frowned. “There’s rules for gifts. We’re only good at certain types of magic because of how we were born. We have to celebrate holidays certain ways, we have to do specific things on our birthdays-”
“-and we get told who we’re to bond to.”
He recoiled at your words. “That’s not-”
“But it’s true, right?” Your gaze fell from him to your hands. “It’s just one more thing you don’t get to control.”
Yoongi sighed. “I just… want to be able to choose for myself.”
Suddenly, you were sick to your stomach. This was the last thing you’d expected. You didn’t particularly like all of the traditions, either, but you were 17. What the hell were you going to do about it? But this felt like he was saying he didn’t want you. You hadn’t yet talked about the kiss at the night market a few weeks prior, but you’d never guessed that he’d do such a sudden about-face. 
“Right,” you said softly.
“Just… think about it?” he asked, dark eyes pleading. 
You didn’t like where this was going, didn’t like how it made you feel. But you nodded anyway. Maybe he would change his mind.
Days gave way to weeks and months, and before you knew it, spring had come. Yoongi hadn’t changed his mind. If anything, he’d gotten more insistent. 
“I want to find myself,” he’d told you once. “I need to make sure this is how I want to live my life.”
“I just need to get away,” he’d said one day while you were doing homework together. “Start fresh somewhere new.”
And then, on the way home from school one day, he’d said, “I need to be free of it all.” 
And you’d snapped. Three months of hearing him talk about it, three months of him basically saying that your entire way of life was wrong and that he was chafing to get away. You couldn’t help it.
“Fuck off,” you’d told him, taking the trail behind the houses at a faster pace. Despite being so attuned with nature thanks to his familiar genes, he’d had trouble keeping up with you.
“Would you slow down?” You could hear the frustration in Yoongi’s voice as he followed you. You ignored him. “Goddamnit,” he breathed, picking up his pace. “Will you at least listen to me?”
He’d pushed. And eventually, you’d given in. Because despite everything, you’d loved him, and if he was unhappy, you wanted to fix that. And now…
Now you’re sitting alone at the train station at ass o’clock in the morning. The train station has just barely opened, and already you’re inside, clutching a cup of coffee. There are a few other people here, milling around, waiting for their early trains to god knows where. You can feel them watching you, can feel them trying to make it subtle that they’re staring. At this point, you’re used to it. Word travels fast in small towns, especially when that word is as earth-shattering as a broken bond gem and a falling out between a witch and their familiar. 
You try to ignore them, focus on your coffee and the posters across the waiting area from you. 
Report any unattended or suspicious luggage to National Rail personnel.
Bags larger than this poster must be checked into the train’s luggage car.
Please remain seated until your train is announced and National Rail personnel give authorization to enter the platform.
You scroll through the news on your phone. Read the posters again. Stare out the window at the coffee shop across the street. And wait. A train arrives, and the couple that had been staring at you leaves. You sigh and stand to throw out your now empty cup.
Just as you do, the door to the train station opens. You turn to look, and there stands Yoongi. He’s wearing a black shirt, a bag slung across his body. His hair is pushed back off his face and he’s wearing his glasses. He’s clutching an absolutely massive travel mug and his phone in one hand, the other rolls a small suitcase behind him. He looks sleepy, but the second his dark eyes land on you, he jolts a little, as if electrocuted into being awake and alert.
“Hey,” he says cautiously, approaching you.
“Hey.” You wave slightly–awkwardly.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is soft, still a little gruff from sleep. You get the sense that maybe he hasn’t said much of anything to anyone this morning.
You sigh and gesture for him to follow you to a bench. The next train–his, you presume–isn’t due for another 20 minutes. You have time, but not much.
“I didn’t like how we left things,” you admit. “I… I wasn't sure if you were serious.”
“Serious?” His head falls to the side slightly, confused. But then, it seems, he understands, and he nods. “I did miss you–I do. I spent the entire ride here thinking about how seeing you again was going to go.”
“Were you right?”
He chuckles. “Not exactly.”
You hum and nod, and for the briefest of moments, silence settles over you. The stationmaster types away at his computer, the clacking of the keyboard the only sound in the entire station. But then you force yourself to say something that’s been on your mind since he showed up on your doorstep two days ago.
“It’s been good seeing you again,” you say, and even though you mean it, you can’t bring yourself to look at him. “I… think in a way, after so long, I made you the villain in my head. It’s good to see that you’re… not that.”
“I am sorry,” he whispers. “That was the worst thing I have ever done, and I just…”
“I get it.”
“What?”
“I think I kind of always did, but… it just hurt too much to think that you were including me in everything that you wanted to get away from, and I just-”
“You were the last thing I wanted to get away from.” Maybe it’s the waver in his voice, maybe it’s the way he ducks his head to make sure he makes eye contact, but you believe him. He sits his mug down on the bench beside him and gathers your hands in his. “I was so fucking dumb. I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat, but god I was too stupid and selfish to take ten minutes to think.”
“I thought maybe I’d done something,” you admit quietly. “I thought that maybe after the night market-”
“No! Oh my god, no,” he exclaims, his hands tightening around your own. “You’re my best friend! I lo-”
“Train 49–the Northern Limited–will be arriving on the platform in five minutes,” the stationmaster announces, not even bothering to use the building’s intercom. “I’ll take you over to the platform when you’re ready.”
Yoongi groans.
“Here.” You pull your hands away from him and immediately miss the warmth of him. But you reach into your pocket, unlocking your phone and shoving it into his hands in one motion. “Put your number in.”
For a moment, he stares at you, dumbfounded. But then the stationmaster opens the door to his office, and the noise jolts Yoongi into action. He types quickly and hands you your phone. You don’t even look at it, just lock it and shove it into your pocket. He hands you his phone and you enter your own contact information before giving it back.
You stand at the same time, and for one brief, quiet moment, you worry that maybe he’s just going to leave it at that. But then he rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the stationmaster.
“I’ll text you,” he promises.
You nod, almost mechanically. You weren’t expecting it to hurt this much to see him leave again. As he turns to gather his things, something comes over you.
“I- Can we-” You sigh, take a deep breath. “Can I have a hug?”
He makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a squeak, and it takes almost no time for the pink to start blossoming on his cheeks. He sputters for a second, and you can feel his shock. But then he opens his arms, and you find yourself taking a small step forward.
It’s shockingly easy to fall back into him, to step into his arms. He’s warm, and solid, but still also somehow soft. His cologne lingers on his clothes, all lavender-y and citrus-y and sage-y. Your arms fit around his waist, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this is normal, that nothing ever happened and that he isn’t leaving. But you hear the train horn in the distance and you pull away. You kiss his cheek as you part, and his eyes go wide in shock.
“Text me,” you tell him firmly, reaching down to grab his coffee mug and hand it to him.
“I will. I promise.”
And with one last, fleeting look, he steps onto the elevator with the stationmaster to go over to the platform. 
You stand outside the station long after the train departs, feeling very much like you did when he’d left the first time. You should be feeling optimistic–for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe there’s hope. For you, for your friendship, for… whatever comes next. But it’s hard to feel any sort of positive when he’s on a train back to a city seven hours away, and you have to go home in the exact opposite direction in a few short days.
As you’re walking back to your car in the lot down the street, your phone dings. When you unlock it, you get the sudden feeling that you’re flying, like a horde of butterflies have erupted within you. It’s nerves and it’s excitement and maybe, it’s also a little bit of hope.
Yoongi 💙: thanks again for not turning me into a bug
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“I’ve been thinking,” Yoongi says one late night, his deep, sleep-deprived voice distorted ever so slightly by the distance and the speakers of your phone. You can barely see him–there’s a dim light that just slightly illuminates his face, but the rest of the room is dark.
“Dangerous,” you joke.
“Rude.” He nuzzles down further into his pillow. “I’d like to come visit,” he admits softly.
For a moment, your mind goes blank. There’s a fluttering in your stomach, hundreds of butterflies trying to escape at once. He’d kept his word after the train station, texting and calling you frequently over the past couple weeks. You’d text throughout the week–little messages about bad days and delicious lunches and cute dogs–and then on the weekends, one of you would inevitably end up calling each other. You’d spend hours on the phone, sometimes talking, sometimes just existing in the silence between you. 
The video calls were a recent development. Since they began, you’d watched him cook dinner, he’d played piano while you worked on a spreadsheet for work, and one early morning, he’d called you on his way home after bartending so he wouldn’t fall asleep on the train.
“What do you mean?” You laugh a little. Maybe it was a little obvious what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it.
He groans a little, stretches one arm up before covering his eyes with it. He peeks out at you through the cook in his elbow, one singular, dark eye sparkling, even in the poor quality of the video. “I miss you,” he mumbles, and you almost don’t catch it, it’s so muffled by his arm and your phone’s speaker.
You hum. The butterflies in your stomach make themselves known again. “I guess you could come.”
“I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.”
“Hey now. It’s against the rules to take something like that back.”
He laughs. “What rules?”
“You know. The rules.” You gesture vaguely before pulling your blanket up a little further on your body. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the rules?” He grunts. “Being away for so long has rotted your brain, I’m afraid.”
“So rude.” His arm is still obscuring his face slightly, but you can see his big, gummy smile as he laughs. “No, but seriously. Are you busy next weekend?”
You frown. You’d been trying to forget about next weekend. “Normally I’d go home for the new year,” you say softly.
“Why don’t,” he begins, stifling a yawn. You’re a little surprised he’s made it this long without seeming tired. It’s almost 3am. “Why don’t I come hang out? We can do new year’s stuff together.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course.”
“What about work?”
He shifts, the arm that was over his face now supporting his head under his pillow. “I make the schedule. They’ll deal with it.”
“Yoongi.”
He continues on, ignoring you. “I can work the day shift and get a train right after work on Friday, but I wouldn’t get there until late, is that okay?”
You sigh. It would be nice to not spend the holiday alone. And it would be nice to see him again. Sure, you’ve been talking to him in one way or another, but it’s different than having him in person. You finally agree, and he shoots you a smug, sleepy smile.
The week passes at a glacial pace. Work is slow because of the break in classes for the upcoming holiday, and spending time in an empty library is infinitely less entertaining than you’d expect it to be. Most of your coworkers have taken off, so you’re mostly alone with your thoughts. You fill the time with paperwork, completing literature loan requests for the University’s faculty and doing intake for the newly released journals the library has subscriptions for. 
In the small handful of weeks since you’d seen him last, you’d replayed things in your mind. But mostly, you’ve been stuck on how nice it is to have him in your life again. You aren’t fooling yourself. You haven’t forgotten. But there’s a part of you–a large part, if you’re honest with yourself–that hopes that this is a step forward, that you can be close again. Maybe not how you were, but something that resembles a friendship.
After an eternity, it’s Friday. You sit outside of the train station in your car, parked in one of the pick up spots just outside of the main door. The trickle of people into and out of the station has slowed significantly now that it’s dark out–you’ve never seen it this dead. It’s late, the station is getting ready to close, but there’s one last train that has yet to come in. There’s another car parked a few spaces to your left, and you wonder briefly about who they’re waiting to pick up, but it’s fleeting. 
The door to the station opens automatically, and out steps Yoongi. He rolls a suitcase beside him, a messenger bag slung across his body, his other hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. He looks around, confused, his gaze going back and forth between your car and the one to your left. You turn on the dome light and wave and he nods.
He gives you a quick greeting as he opens the back door, shoving his bags in the back seat. When he finally climbs into the passenger seat, he sighs deeply, resting his head against the headrest for a moment before turning to you.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey. How was the train?”
He groans. “Long.”
You hum. He’d worked a short, early shift so he could catch the last train from Ulmae to Ashland. He looks and sounds exhausted. But he’s here. He’s not a face on a screen, he’s in your car. You resist the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s strange. You’d been without him for nearly 13 years. It’s only been a few short weeks since you’d seen him last, but you’re giddy, practically bursting with excitement at the fact that, for the next two and a half days, he’s here. With you.
You drive in relative silence, willing the lights to be green more for Yoongi’s sake than your own. The radio plays a soft hip-hop song, and you vaguely recognize it as one of the bands he’d been obsessed with in high school, but you don’t turn it up. You’re fairly certain that he’s fallen asleep, his head lolled slightly to the side so that he’s facing the window.
It’s a damn miracle that there’s an open spot in front of your building, but you gladly take it. There are people in your building who don’t know how to parallel park—who refuse to do it—but you’d taught yourself just for instances like this. For a moment, you think you’re going to have to wake Yoongi up, but just as you cut the engine, he unbuckles his seat belt and stretches.
Your apartment isn’t large, but it’s bigger than most for what you pay for it. You’re on the seventh floor, the top floor of the building, and your bedroom has a lovely view of the building beside you. But if you lean a little to one side and press your face up against the glass, you can see out into the city beyond, and the university campus in the far distance.
He sits his bags down in your living room and plops down on the couch. You’ve already set out some blankets and a couple pillows for him. The clock on your microwave says 11:05.
“You’re probably exhausted,” you say. “I’ll let you get settled.”
Immediately, he picks his head up from the back cushion of the couch. “’m not tired.” Ever defiant. But you can tell he’s lying. You can see it in his eyes how groggy he is. Normally, he’s up much later than this–you know, because sometimes, he calls you–but between working an early shift and the six-hour train ride, you don’t blame him for being a little sleepy.
“I put some towels out in the bathroom,” you tell him, gesturing down the hall. “It’s the door on the left. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thanks.”
And with that, you leave him there in your living room. You can hear him unzipping his bag as you retreat into your room.
An hour later, you find that you can’t sleep. Not that you’ve even tried. You aren’t even sure why you’re so wired. But you’re sitting in your bed, legs covered by a sheet, in the dim light of your bedside lamp. You’ve had friends stay over before. But this… you feel like you did as a kid, having your first sleepover. Except back then you were wired on soda and sugary snacks and it was a treat to stay up late. Now, you’re just…
You hear the bathroom door open and shut, and after a moment, Yoongi stands in the doorway to your room.
“You have the softest towels in the world,” he says, hair hanging in damp strands in front of his eyes. He pats and scrunches it dry with one of the fluffy grey towels you’d set out for him. 
“Would you believe I got them on clearance?”
“I’ll just have to stuff one in my bag, then.”
“I charge a 5% fee for any towels that leave the premises.”
At that, he laughs, a groggy, squeaky sound that shakes his shoulders and crinkles his eyes and leaves a wide, gummy smile in its wake.
“So… what’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“I haven’t really thought about it.” He shoots you a look that says he doesn’t believe you, and you relent. “Well,” you pat the bed beside you, inviting him to sit, “There’s this thing every year in the park to watch the meteors,” you say as Yoongi eases himself onto the mattress. “But it doesn’t start until late.” He hums. “Was there something you wanted to do?” 
“No, just-” He stifles a yawn. “Curious.” He leans back against the headboard, settling in.
Just like that, you fall easily into conversation. It’s comfortable, calm. Just two old friends chatting. He likes your apartment, thinks the tile in your bathroom is really nice. He asks about your job, nods along as you tell him about working in the library and your coworkers. 
And slowly, his reactions become slower, delayed, until he finally doesn’t respond at all. You look over, and his chin is tucked against his chest, his breathing gentle. Asleep.
For a moment, you consider going out to the couch. It would be weird, right, to stay here with him? But as you’re about to kick the blanket off, you pause. 
We’re adults. Adults can share a bed. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You’re mature enough to let this just be two people sleeping in the same space. 
At least, you think you are. 
But as you settle in yourself, snuggling down into your blankets and turning off the light, you’re suddenly faced with the quiet peacefulness of his face. He’d always been handsome, and now that you’re both older, you can appreciate just how beautiful he really is. He sighs and slides down a little, his hand brushing against your arm as he gets more comfortable. 
Oh no. 
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You sit on the floor of your living room, a box of pizza on the coffee table that you’ve shoved out of the way. Yoongi’s beside you, your backs against the couch as you watch some anime he’d been trying to convince you to watch back in high school. You’re three episodes in, and you don’t have the heart to tell him that you don’t really care for the basketball-themed show. Part of you is still afraid that if you say something wrong, he’ll be gone again. 
His arm rests casually behind you on the cushions, far enough away that it’s more a comfortable way to sit than any sort of advance, but that doesn’t stop the smallest of butterflies from making itself known in your stomach. This Yoongi is so different from the Yoongi you knew—the one who, as a kid, got excited by construction equipment and the concept of ice cream, and as a teen spent his free time hiding from his parents, playing the piano and hanging out with you (though neither were mutually exclusive). He’s quiet, comfortable in the silence, comfortable with letting things linger. 
You’re a little jealous of it, to be honest. 
Yoongi leans forward slightly, and a piece of pizza meets him halfway, floating gently into his grasp. “Do you remember,” he begins, settling back in against the couch, “when we were 16 and we went camping?” You hum an affirmative. “We spent most of the week playing old board games with my parents.”
You smile at the memory. If anyone had asked back then, you would have told them it was lame that you’d had to spend the whole time with Yoongi’s parents. But now? That was one of the more fun summers you’d ever had. “What made you think of that?”
He shrugs, mouth full of pizza. “I dunno. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently. Things were so much simpler then…” 
You nod and hum softly, but ultimately, you say nothing. Much simpler indeed. 
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“You know,” Yoongi begins, zipping his coat up to his chin, “when you said ‘park’, I was kind of expecting it to be in the city.”
“I think technically it is.” You lock your car and meet him at the front of it.
“We drove for an hour!”
You shrug. “Big city.”
He laughs and shakes his head, incredulous. He can’t tell if you’re being serious or not, but there was a sign on the way in with the university logo on it, so he supposes that whether it’s part of the city or not, it doesn’t really matter. There’s a well-lit trail that runs from the shale parking lot up a hill slightly to a clearing that overlooks the city and the rest of the park. It’s busy–people mill about around the parking lot, and he can see a steady stream of visitors on the trail up to the clearing. 
He adjusts his coat–it’s cold, and both his shoulder and his senses ache with the impending snow–and when he’s ready, the two of you start walking toward the trail. It’s astonishingly busy, and as you weave your way through the crowd, leading him up the hill, he grabs your hand. 
So we don’t get separated, he tells himself. For a moment, he expects you to pull away. Not maliciously, he’s not expecting you to scoff and throw his hand away. But what he isn’t expecting is for you to tighten your grip on him and tug him this way and that as you get closer to the clearing. His hand is warm where your skin touches his, like he’s holding a candle a little too close to the flame.
The clearing is massive, mostly flat but not entirely, with gentle rolling slopes that provide some extra elevation here and there. On one of the little hills, a few food trucks are set up, though how they got there, Yoongi isn’t really sure. Someone must have magicked them through the path or up the hill or something. There are picnic tables scattered around, mostly near the food trucks, but throughout the clearing, as well. Towards the edge of the clearing, there’s a cliff with an overlook that has a spectacular view of the city vista below. People are everywhere. Of course, there are a lot of college-aged kids hanging out in big and small groups. But there’s also a shocking amount of people that are Yoongi’s age and older–professors, he assumes, and university staff here to enjoy the evening. Almost all of them are holding drinks, and just about every one of them seems to be paired with someone.
It’s subtle sometimes, seeing bonded witches and familiars. Of course, the ones who are romantically involved tend to be more obvious, but the ones that are just friends are just as easy to spot once you know what to look for. It’s the people who stand so close together they’re almost touching, the ones who lean in a little extra close to whisper something. And the clearing is full of pairs standing in each other’s personal spaces.
You tug on his hand to direct him off to the left and he blindly follows, squeezing your fingers ever so gently as a response. 
There’s a pair of people at one of the tables by the food trucks. They spot you almost immediately, and one of them stands to greet you. He’s a little taller than you are, made even more obvious when he gives you an awkward, one-armed hug over the picnic table’s bench. The other one–a woman–remains seated, eyeing Yoongi.
For a hot minute, it’s weird, as he stands there in silence while you chat with the man and woman. It’s not even the side-eye that the woman’s shooting him. The man is handsome–Yoongi’s not blind–and you are friendly with him. But there’s a moment, the briefest of moments, where you gesture somewhere off to your left. And when your body moves, Yoongi’s arm moves, too, and a little part of him, a silly, childish, hopeful part, soars.
You’re still holding his hand.
Eventually, you introduce him to the two. Alice works the reference desk in your library while she’s doing a doctorate program in linguistics. Her partner is gone in the winter, fighting fires in the far south. Despite her harsh side-eye, she greets Yoongi with a smile and a polite handshake. Jihwan, on the other hand, is the head baseball coach at the university. How the two of you met, Yoongi can only guess, but you make no mention of Jihwan’s partner, and Yoongi doesn’t see a gem anywhere. He almost–almost–starts to feel bad for the guy, but then he opens his mouth.
You ask a simple question, gesturing with your head to the food trucks. “What do they have good?”
“The pierogi guy from last year is back-”
Jihwan interrupts Alice. “Too much butter.”
It’s not even what he says. It’s how he says it. Like you and Alice are toddlers, like you can’t be trusted not to drown yourselves in carbs. But you roll your eyes and Alice scoffs playfully, and Yoongi realizes that this is not the first time Jihwan has done something like this. And suddenly, Yoongi hates this guy. 
“Apparently, he’s got a new flavor this year,” Alice says, continuing like Jihwan never interrupted. “But the taco guy is also back-”
“Is the popcorn guy back?” you ask. laughing. “Because I kind of want a front-row seat to that.” Yoongi must look confused, because you explain. “Pierogi guy’s daughter was engaged to taco guy’s daughter. But last year, pierogi guy and taco guy just started yelling at each other-”
“-It was amazing,” Alice adds.
“It was ridiculous,” Jihwan mumbles.
You push him.  “It was a little like having our own little telenovela here.”
Cautiously, Yoongi asks, “Why were they fighting?”
“No one knows.” You shrug. “But it launched a campus-wide food war. Everyone was choosing sides. It was like the year the Moondance tried to change its logo.”
Jihwan and Alice look at you, a little confused. But Yoongi knows exactly what you’re talking about. Somewhere around when you were preteens, the owners of the Moondance diner decided that its logo was outdated and wanted to update it. The whole town had been in an uproar, whole neighborhoods entering into a Cold War-esque stand-off over their preferences. People who had been friends for 50 years were suddenly in an unsolvable, unending argument. All over a color palette swap and a slightly newer font. Yoongi hadn’t cared much one way or the other–all businesses change their logos at some point, right?–and he always suspected that you didn’t either, but you’d both gotten swept up in the chaos of it all. It was stupid, ridiculous fun, and he’s pretty sure that his parents still have the buttons you’d made somewhere in their house.
You finally let go of Yoongi’s hand when you’re standing in line at the taco truck, and he’s painfully aware of how empty it feels now. You don’t go far, though, standing close enough that your elbow brushes against his every once in a while. You’re scrolling through your phone, reading some news article to pass the time. It’s gotten darker since you’ve been there, and looking up, he can just barely make out a couple pinpricks of stars in the sky. The clearing is fairly bright, with little flickering balls of light criss-crossing the space like bistro lighting, and the lights from the city below don’t help to make the night sky visible. 
You pay for his tacos–”I get an employee discount,” you say, brandishing your university id like it’s a black card–and Yoongi doesn’t think that you were in line that long, but when you return to the table, Alice and Jihwan are gone. 
“Where’d-” He’s not even asked the question, but you’re already shrugging.
“Alice’s probably off calling her fiance,” you say it like you’re back in high school, all singsong-y and mockingly, “and who knows where Jihwan got to. Probably trying to take someone home tonight.”
“He seems…”
You sigh. “Yeah.”
“How’d you meet him?”
A pang of… something hits him. Your expression falls, ever so slightly, and he regrets asking. But after a brief moment, you clear your throat. “He and I are the only two on campus without gems.”
Oh. 
Well.
That makes sense.
“So they…”
You pick a piece of red cabbage off your taco and eat it. “Yeah, they know.”
Which explains Alice’s side-eye earlier. The weird emotion he’d gotten from you is gone now, and you seem to have just brushed right past the awkward feelings. 
He hums, not really sure what to say. What’s there to say? So instead of saying anything dumb, he does the safe thing. He changes the subject.
“No wonder they didn’t kick the taco guy out of the festival this year.” He takes another bite of his taco. “This is the best al pastor I’ve ever had.”
“His chimichangas are amazing, but he only makes them on special days.”
“More special than…?” He gestures vaguely. Around you, the lights have started to dim. Yoongi isn’t really sure when that started, but things are definitely less bright.
You laugh, and something inside of him warms.
He hasn’t even finished his tacos yet, but the vibe in the clearing starts to dramatically change. The crowd gathers tighter, a palpable buzz in the air. Alice has returned and stands alone near the head of the table. She’s looking up at the sky, and when Yoongi looks up, he sees why. There’s an aurora in the sky, gentle waves of effervescent greens and blues swirling through the heavens, just like the night market all those years ago. It has to be magic of some sort–the city isn’t far enough north for it to be natural–but he can’t tell who’s doing it.
A hand on his shoulder pulls his focus back to the ground. You’re there behind him, bathed in the dim glow of the floating lights around you. By now, it’s almost dark, but even in the low light and deep shadows, you’re beautiful. 
“Come on,” you say softly. “Let’s get a good spot closer to the lookout.”
He follows you through the crowd, weaving around the bodies to get closer to the edge of the clearing. It’s tight, and you grab his hand so you don’t get separated. Normally, Yoongi isn’t a huge fan of crowds like this. You’re a small island in a sea of people, and he barely has room to turn in a circle without bumping into someone. You stand close–close enough that he can feel your warmth through the chill of the night.
The city spans the valley below, a forest of metal and windows and concrete. A bright spot in the middle of an otherwise dark night. But then, individually at first and then more, the buildings’ lights begin to flicker out.
“They’ve been doing this festival since before the city got public electricity,” you explain, answering his question before he could even ask. “It’s kind of a big deal.”
With the lights of the city mostly out, the stars above are much brighter. He can almost see them twinkling and winking as they burn, millions of billions of lightyears away. The night sky is beautiful, and his eyes drift around to locate the constellations he’d learned as a child. Almost immediately, he finds Perseus, right beside his wife Andromeda. You’d loved the myth of Perseus slaying Medusa when you were kids, and even though he hadn’t looked for the constellation in over a decade, finding it is still ingrained in him. 
He nudges you slightly, pointing up to the constellation. But just as he does, a pinprick of light streaks across the sky. You squeeze his hand as more streaks start to appear and the gathered crowd buzzes with ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s. The meteors are all sizes. Big and bright. Small and thin. They aren’t constant, only a few show up every minute, but it’s beautiful to watch. 
There’s a strange sensation growing in his chest, something warm and fluttering and all-encompassing. You lean a little closer and the feeling grows. You must sense something–he’s never really been sure what his emotions feel like for you–because you look up at him. For a moment, you look confused.
Yoongi isn’t really sure how it happens, but what he does know is that suddenly, your face is centimeters from his own. He thinks that maybe someone bumped you and you took a step closer, but maybe that’s just his brain trying to fill in the gaps. He also knows that he’s the one that closes the space between you, leans in and brushes his lips against yours. It’s quick, a little impulsive, and truthfully, it feels a little forbidden. 
He pulls away, not far enough to make it seem like he’s made a mistake, but enough that it gives you an out, if you want it. His brain starts making all these calculations–what he should do if you back away, what he should do if you slap him, what if you don’t react.
But then you whisper, “Why’d you stop?” and your hand slides up his chest to grip the lapel of his coat. You tug with a surprising amount of force, and when your lips connect, he feels himself soaring. 
His entire world narrows to the points where your bodies connect. The firm touch of your knuckles against his shirt, the way your leg presses against his, but mostly the heat from your lips as he deepens the kiss. You fit against him perfectly, as if you were made for each other. He’d only kissed you that one time, but somehow, he’d missed it, missed you. 
When you finally pull away, you stay close, pressed against his chest–though whether that’s fully your choice or because of the crowd tightening around you is anyone’s guess. He can feel your heart pounding, and when you shoot him a small smirk, he’s pretty sure that you can feel the pace of his own pulse. Your grip loosens on the collar of his coat and you smooth it down coolly before your arm wraps around his back. Without a word, you cozy in, pressed close as your gaze returns to the sky and to the stars.
For a moment, he stands there, unmoving, mind empty. But then it’s like he snaps out of a trance, and he snakes an arm around your waist, holding you tightly. His focus shifts to the shooting stars above, catching one just as it streaks across the sky. As he stands there, staring at the heavens and feeling your steady breathing, his mind begins to wander.
12 years, 7 months, and 3 days. He’d spent most of that time wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t left. If, after he’d kissed you at the night market, he’d been satisfied with whatever life had come after that. He’d been so scared back then, of losing control, of his life not being his own. But now, none of that matters.
Now, he’d give up almost anything to stay here, in this moment, in your arms. 
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okay so like... what do we think? how are we feeling? I was originally planning on having this be much longer, but I was so stressed out from grad school, I just wanted to get it out now. I'm so excited to hear your thoughts! and let me know if you want to see a part 2 (and if so, what you might want to see in it!!)
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sp0o0kylights · 7 months
Text
Part One / Part Two
A03
It ain’t much.” Wayne started, half-curious if the sight of his trailer would be the thing to offend Steve’s (so far lacking) born-rich sensibilities. 
Of course turning to look at the kid proved he was in his own head about this more than Steve was, because Steve had his eyes closed and looked two seconds away from puking. 
Right. 
Pain management. 
“I’ll get your stuff.” Wayne said as he guided the truck to its usual parking spot. 
Steve’s quiet ‘okay’ had him hustling a little bit, and the fact he had to gently guide the kid’s hand off his bag handle told him it was the right choice. 
The nailbat could wait in the car for the moment he figured, as he led Harrington in. He’d get it sorted once he’d fished out the pain pills and gotten Steve settled a bit. 
"Eds--he's my nephew that I told you about--has the bedroom, so you and I get to share out here." Wayne explained as he loaded Steve up on Tylenol and put a bag of frozen peas in his hand, not bothering to give a tour of the trailer. 
It was pretty damn clear which door led to the bathroom and which didn’t, given Ed’s door was wide open. 
Steve peeked at the absolute chaos strewn about beyond the doorframe but didn’t say nothing of it. 
Didn’t, in fact, even look too long, instead sitting at the table as directed. 
Seemed to sink a little into it, leaning an elbow on the cheap wood to help keep his head up. 
"The couch is a pull out, but I'll warn you the bar across the middle is nasty. I usually sleep on the cot over there," Wayne nodded to where it was rolled neatly against the opposite wall, "but given the state of you, I'll let ya have your pick." 
Steve blinked (or winked, not like Wayne could tell since the peas were pressed against half of his face) finally seeming to perk up a bit. "I can't take your bed." 
"I'm not going to fight you for it, I'm just offering." Wayne responded, now focused on trying to locate the bandages in his ancient medical kit. 
The one on Steve's hand was falling apart, and he didn't like the look of the injury he could see under it. 
Yeah, Wayne was absolutely going to need to make a run to the store. 
“Lemme see.” He asked as he finally got what he wanted. 
It seemed to take Harrington a minute to process what Wayne wanted, but he finally held out his injured hand, watching as Wayne unwrapped the bandages.
"I'll take the couch." Steve said stubbornly, but Wayne was past it, too busy frowning at the kid's hand. 
It took him a moment, once he'd gotten it all off, to properly realize what he was seeing--that the mottled bruising on Steve's wrist was separate from the cut across his palm.
In fact, it looked a hell of a lot like…
Wayne paused, then pretended to fuss with the dirty bandages for a moment while his eyes sought out Steve's other wrist.
Sure enough, matching bruises.
Someone had tied the kid up--and it hadn’t been the feds, because these bruises were partially healed. 
Wayne had initially thought of Steve as having been tortured in the same way roving bands of neighborhood kids tortured their peers. The kind of hurt that came when it was an unfair fight; four on one and wielding knives, so you had to take what you were given and pray you didn't get stabbed. 
He was not thinking actual, honest to God torture. 
Yet here the evidence was, plain as day.
'What the hell went down in that mall.' 
Someone as young as Steve shouldn't have been caught up in it, and it made a deep part of Wayne ache for the poor kid across from him.  
All this shit, and his parents still couldn't be bothered to come home.Just left him on his own, as if it was another Tuesday. 
Did they even know? Wayne wondered as he got to work. Had Steve, or Hopper, or anyone tried to call them about the mallfire? Let them know their son got hurt?
Jim said he hadn’t bothered to reach out regarding the spooks, but that had been a week or so later past the fire. 
Wayne couldn’t even imagine it. 
Getting a call that Eddie been involved in such a thing would have him off the couch in an instant, and the image that played on the news, the ones all the reporters talked over of a gurney being wheeled out of Starcourt’s on fire front doors…
He’d have been a wreck until he had his kid in his sights. 
‘Nothing you can do for that,’ Wayne figured silently, ‘but you can help him now.’
Wayne wasn't exactly an expert when it came to wound care, but like many people who just couldn't afford to go to a doctor he'd gotten by.
Learned a lot of home remedies. Figured out pretty quick when something needed to be seen by an expert and when you could hold off.
Made friends with some of the local nurses on the night shift down at the Red Barn, well enough that a few well baked treats and dishes could sometimes be traded for looking over a potentially broken arm or two. 
It had come in handy plenty, given Ed’s ability to attract trouble, but thankfully he’d never managed to hurt himself like this. 
He’d never even gotten caught in a bad fight. 
A black eye or two sure, but the kid had adapted his “scary” act not too long after Wayne had gotten him, and it seemed to work as intended. It was half the reason Wayne never said anything about it (and hell, even let Eddie take his ancient leather motorcycle jacket.) .
All of that was to say that he could tell Harrington's hand needed cleaning before it could be rebandaged, but didn't appear to need stitches. 
Course pouring alcohol all over an injury like this wasn't exactly going to be fun, and he told Steve as such.
"I know." Steve replied, with a grimace. The kid’s injuries seemed to be getting to him, and Wayne anticipated he was going to drop here the second Wayne was done looking him over. 
He hoped Harrington could get in a few hours--particularly before Eddie came home. 
Wayne gently wiped it clean, noting how well Steve sat given the amount of pain he had to be in.
Tylenol, even given the more than recommended amount he'd given Steve, just wasn't going to cut it. 
Not in general, and definitely not for this. 
What could help was likely something Eds had, which was yet another conversation Wayne wasn't looking forward to having.
Particularly given that Eds had sworn off selling hard drugs after his last encounter with Hopper, and Wayne knew damn well that had only lasted until the damn kid caught sight of an overdue bill. 
Too smart for his own good, Eddie was.
"I can give you something to bite down on, if you like." Wayne said to Steve, getting the alcohol and bandages ready to go. 
He got a tight smile in response. "So long as you don't use a needle, I'm good." 
And Wayne figured it was just teenager talk--a young man who didn't really know how bad this was going to be, and prepared himself to hold Steve's arm down accordingly so they wouldn't have to do it twice.
"Four." Wayne counted down. "Three. Two."
He poured on two.
Better that than Steve clenching up in anticipation.
Steve hissed, arm jerking, but stilled it under his own power as Wayne began dabbing his hand with some of the medkit’s wipes. 
He felt his eyebrow raise as Harrington froze himself in place, breathing in a way that felt practiced. 
This, Wayne decided, was not Steve's first rodeo. 
"Almost done." He promised softly as he finished wrapping the wound back up, this time in the pattern he'd been shown long ago. 
"Thanks." Steve said, blinking rapidly. 
The kid's eyes were wet, but he didn't let a tear fall, and that perked Wayne's attention more than anything. 
Some men felt they weren't allowed to cry--and pushed the same ideals on their sons. 
It wouldn't surprise him any if Richard Harrington was one of them. 
"I know you got hit more than just your hands and face kid." Wayne said, after letting Steve have a moment to recover. "You bleeding under that shirt?"
"Not bleeding." Steve murmured, looking more and more like he was struggling to stay upright now that the worst part was over. "I think my hand got the worst of it."
"Do I want to know what happened there?" Wayne asked, keeping his voice calm and non judgemental. 
Like they were back to talking sports.
"I fell back into a broken window.” Steve responded, and now that Wayne had seen the kid lie, it was easy to see when he was telling the truth. 
"Ouch." Wayne said flatly. Which made that hint of a smile flash across Steve's face. 
"I'll cut you a deal. I taped last weekend's game, but haven't had time to watch it yet. I figure you might not have had a chance neither." He sat back, nailing Harrington with a no-nonsense stare. "You let me take a look at what they did to your chest n' back there, and I'll put it on."
Steve just looked at him a little miserably, a beaten dog still hesitant to wag its tail. "I don't think there's anything you can do for it, it's really mostly bruised. Nothing feels broken though."
"You know what broken ribs feel like?" Wayne questioned partially out of curiosity but mostly to make sure.
Teenage boys loved to think themselves immortal after all.
Or at least his did.
"Cracked, but yeah." Steve admitted. "Couldn't finish out the year on the basketball team because of it."
He said it like it didn't hurt, but Wayne knew better.
Boy like Steve? 
He'd bet big bills something like basketball was all the kid really had, in terms of positive relationships.
(Except apparently, whatever had made Hopper decide to look after him.)
"I mostly just wanna make sure nothing looks like it's broken or bleeding internally son." Wayne said, then tried to cinch it with some good old guilt tripping. "I'd hate to have to tell Hopper that after all he went through to keep you safe, you up and died on my couch." 
"Hey, it might save him some future gray hairs." Steve responded but he looked a little more open to the idea, at least. 
It took a bit more coaxing, but Wayne finally got the kid to take his shirt off. 
The damage had him whistling out of instinct.
A fucking artist had gone to town on his torso, with bruised of all shades parading around to his left side. 
Thankfully most of it didn't hold that deep, dark tone that indicated any kind of bleeding, his back had scratches and road rash, and his shoulder had one long, thin line that looked a hell of a lot like Steve had narrowly avoided getting cut with a knife. 
"You got lucky, kid." Wayne told him.
Steve let out a shaky breath. "I know." 
He hesitated, then opened his mouth, a question clear on his face. 
Which of course, was the exact moment Eddie chose to walk through the door. 
"Hey old man, I--Harrington!?" 
"Munson?" Steve said, looking just as confused. "What are you doing here?"
"I live here?" Eddie had frozen in their little entryway, so close the door nearly whacked him on the ass as it slammed closed. 
Privately, Wayne cursed his nephew's awful timing.
"What are you doing here?" Eddie challenged back, and it was only years of Wayne knowin’ the kid to see he was struggling to decide how he wanted to react. 
“Uh…” Steve said, trailing off and looking pointedly at Wayne. 
Eddie saw this just as he registered all of Steve’s injuries. “Shit Wayne, did you hit him with your car?” 
“Don’t try to be funny, boy.” Wayne warned. There wasn’t much bite there, and Eddie, far too used to him, didn’t take it seriously.
Eddie was glued to the spot, eyes narrowing, “... Did Harrington hit the car with his fuckin’ face? Jesus christ.” 
Wayne could tell he was struggling to pull one of his usual little bits, eyes too wide and voice too high. 
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Eddie.”
“We can take him out back and shoot him, put the poor bastard out of his misery.” Eddie continued, like a runaway train. 
All gas, no breaks. 
It was a joke but a poor one, and it made Steve straighten out of his sideways slant. 
‘Dammit.’  Wayne thought with a sigh. 
He needed to stop this now, before the two of them went for each other's throats. 
“Since you already know each other I won’t bother with introductions.” Wayne cut in, before Eddie could blow up like a tea kettle--or cause Harrington to do the same. “Steve’s gonna be staying with us for a while.”
That of course, got the reaction Wayne had been hoping to avoid. 
Eddie stood stunned for a second, mouth gaping like a fish. 
“Why!?” He finally landed on, seeming both at a loss for words, and equally trying not to have a proper meltdown in front of Steve. 
Certainly wasn’t for Wayne’s benefit. 
"I'm…" Steve glanced at Wayne a second time, "...on vacation?"
 It took everything Wayne had in him not to run a hand down his face. 
He was going to give Harrington a pass, on account of the head trauma.
"You’re vacationing here.”Eddie’s tone was flat, but seething, like a lit fuse. “In my living room?” 
“...Yeah?” He finished poorly tone up-ticking at the end like it was a question. “It’s a--college thing. Supposed to help my applications.” 
This time, Wayne did run a hand down his face this time. 
God save him from idiot teenagers. 
Hands clenched tight, Eddie took an aborted glance to the right before shaking his head hard and scoffing. At least it let Wayne know exactly what his kid was thinking. 
To Eddie’s right was the counter where Wayne kept the bills. 
Before he realized just how badly Ed’s daddy had messed him up about such things, Wayne hadn’t bothered to hide the bills that were past due. Turns out the kid noticed such things, and worry over money had been the leading factor in more than one of Eddie’s run-ins with Hop.
Clearly, he thought it was the cause of Wayne entertaining this bullshit. 
Offense was written in every rigid line of his body, and Wayne knew betrayal wasn’t gonna be far behind. 
“What the hell Wayne!” Eddie spat, taking a singular step forward, the accent he tried so hard to hide growing thicker the madder he got. “We’re not a damn experiment--why would you agree to that!?” 
He had seconds to salvage this, before Ed’s ran and did something dumb. 
“‘Steve’s here cause I owe Hopper a favor.” Wayne answered honestly, standing to put himself between the two. “He reminded me of all the times he’s been good to you, and then he called it in. Now,” 
He cut Eddie off before his rant could pick up steam and bowl them all over. “I need you both to listen to me. Steve, I need Eddie to know the basics in order to keep you safe. I’ll only tell him what he needs to hear to understand why that is.” 
Steve stared at him for a moment, catching Wayne’s eye as the elder man positioned himself so he could see both boys at once.
“Okay.” Steve said, dropping the hesitant tone for something serious. 
Eddie said nothing, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and gripping the edges of his jacket hard enough to leave creases. 
Judging that as good enough, Wayne continued. “He’s not here on vacation, Ed’s. Hopper has asked us to house Steve for a bit due to an ongoing situation. It’s a dangerous one, and it’s important you do not tell anyone that Steve is here.”
Eddie’s mouth did the thing it did when he desperately wanted to say something, but Wayne held up a finger in the universal “wait.” position. 
“Let me finish.” He warned, and though he caught a hell of a glare for it, Eddie remained silent. 
“Right now I need you to trust me, son.” He said softly, and prayed that alone was enough for now. “I don’t do things without a good reason behind it. I know you know that. Let me get Steve settled, and I’ll come talk to you.” 
He could go in depth a little more, outside of Harrington’s eyesight. There Eddie would be inclined to drop the parts of his personality he put on blast as a defense mechanism, and ideally, Steve could get the sleep he so desperately needed. 
“It’ll be tight, but we’ll all get through this so long as you two keep your heads. “You both got plenty of problems right now on your own, you don’t need to add to it. You understand?”  
Eddie’s eyes narrowed dramatically as he sucked in a deep breath. 
“Fine.” He snarled, letting air hiss through his clenched teeth. “As long as King Dick here can keep himself out of my shit.”
Steve didn’t rise to the bait--or perhaps, was simply too tired to want to do anything but exit the conversation. 
‘Yes Sir.” He said instead, and Wayne didn’t bother correcting him that time. Simply clocked the title as a nervous tick of Steve’s and let himself feel that brief pang of sorrow that he’d caused the kid to backslide a bit trust wise.
No use for it, though.
Not if he wanted peace in his home. 
“Good.” Wayne said. 
Eddie stormed past, beeling towards his room. 
The door closed with an angry slam, the sound echoing throughout the trailer. 
Steve reacted like a puppet with its strings cut, letting out his own breath and going right back to slumping sideways. 
“Come on kid.” Wayne said quietly. “I think it’s beyond time you got to lay down. Let’s get you a shirt and some blankets.”
Steve didn’t say a word, just managed to get himself up and over to the couch, fumbling for his bag. 
“Oh.” He said after a moment, pulling a green sweater from the duffel and blinking dully at it. “Shit--I mean, shoot.” He shot a guilty look to Wayne, like Eddie hadn’t just sworn up a storm in front of them both. 
“What’s the matter?” Wayne just asked. 
“It’s nothing, I just-- grabbed the wrong bag.” Steve told him earnestly. It was clear the day had taken a hard toll on him, because he was blinking rapidly, fighting away sleep. 
A bad sign, given the energy Eddie had just come in with. 
It should be taking him longer to feel safe to drop off, and that he was doin’ so anyway was a bad testament to the state of him. 
“You need a different one?”
Steve shook his head. “No this is just my grab bag for the Upsi-errrm.” He hummed, before falling silent for a minute. 
Wayne let him fish for words at his leisure. 
“These are just clothes that I couldn’t get stains out of, kept them as backups.” Steve managed, before beginning the long process of pulling a shirt on. 
Wayne almost offered to help, except he knew he’d likely be rejected. It was too soon, the trust between them not there yet. 
He almost let the clothing comment go, figured it as  just one of those things the brain did when it was injured and run down. The sweater Steve was struggling with was expensive and soft, and Wayne didn’t even see a stain until the poor kid finally finished getting it on. 
He nearly froze, for the second time that day, when he did.
On one sleeve, smeared like Steve had wiped his face with it, was a bloodstain. 
This one was old, and clearly attempts had been made to get it out. 
‘Aw kid.’ He thought, staring at Steve as the kid managed to swing himself up on the couch, looking seconds away from dropping off. ‘What the hell has life done to you.’
It didn’t take long before sleep took him, but Wayne watched over him for a bit longer anyway, working up to what the hell he was going to tell his kid. 
Eddie might very well not forgive him for this, but Wayne had a shot now to head things off before they got worse. 
He just had to find the right words. 
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coeurify · 7 months
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actually on my knees begging for a girl next door blurb with Ellie
like imagine moving into the house next to her’s and her being all grumbly and closed off because she cannot physically face the reader because she’s just a loser lesbian and OMG THE UNKNOWN PINING SUJDJSNSNDB
I NEED HER I CANT-
WHERE IS THE LOVE FOR LOSER GND!ELLIE ⁉️
giggles.. cause like.. yea.
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if we r talking modern!ellie, oh god would it be the most cliche shit ever (plz tell me if u want jackson!ellie version cause i’d be happy to do that too. or jus more of this concept) [not edited]
⋆˚✿˖° im talking, ellie looking out from her window in her old house, eyes narrowing as a moving truck pulled into the pretty blue house next door. the neighborhood had been recently taken over by young families, which ellie hated— cause why was she being interrupted in her ‘laying in her bed while blasting music and complaining to herself’ alone time by a bunch of kids screaming outside? either way. she expected another one of these cases.
⋆˚✿˖° but then you popped out, trying to handle three boxes all on your own, cheek pressed against the cardboard as you yelled something ellie couldn’t hear to whoever else was in moving truck. you had glanced over at ellie’s house, maybe even up at her window. and maybe ellie was just dramatic, but she flipped away from that window and face down onto her bed so quickly she was pretty sure it was a new record. because fuck you were pretty.
⋆˚✿˖° and it only got worse later, when el was pulling her hair down from its bun, glancing the sun pressing below the clouds. her fingers moved to close the curtains of her window, and there you were, standing at the window directly across from hers. like— shit straight from a taylor swift music video or something.
⋆˚✿˖° and you, almost as awkward as her, let your hands fall down from their place above your head. you had been putting up shades, but once you caught the gaze of your messy haired neighbor, you smiled at her. fuck, you smiled and waved and ellie just turned away and shut her curtains. you know, like the master at social interactions she was.
⋆˚✿˖° a twin frown painted both your lips at the interaction that night, and at the same time you both huffed out, “god, why’d i do that?”
⋆˚✿˖° nothing really got better from there. not when your family forced you over to ellie’s house with a plate of cookies, your sweet smile the first sight ellie had seen that day as she turned the doorknob to shoo away some girl scout selling something. “we don’t need— oh— oh hi.”
⋆˚✿˖° you looked so fucking pretty. ellie was sure it was fake. maybe she was still in bed dreaming. maybe this was about to turn into one of those really weird s- never mind. you were talking now, and not asking to borrow sugar, so definitely real. “hi! uh— I just, we— i mean, my family, we just wanted to introduce ourselves. and give a gift i guess,” you glance to the plate of wrapped up treats and chuckle lightly. because really, cookies?
⋆˚✿˖° ellie was about red as the shirt she was wearing, stammering a thank you as joel creeped behind her at the door. “you the new neighbors kid?” joel had asked, making ellie clam right up. she backed away from the door, like— just side shuffled out of your view with an awkward wave.
⋆˚✿˖° your eyes followed her, fighting back the odd sense of disappointment that you were no longer staring at the freckled and flushed face of your new neighbor. “uh, yea—yes sir.” you eventually spoke again, offering your grin to joel instead.
⋆˚✿˖° one time joel was doing yard work the same time your family was outside working on the garden. you were fanning your sweating cheek with your hand, the warmth from the sun along with carrying in and out heavy tools was not exactly ideal, and you only felt more heated when ellie came outside the door at the exact moment joel ended up making conversation with your mother.
⋆˚✿˖° “your girl in college?” you could hear him ask, but it was lightly muffled, your attention instead on watching as ellie struggled to bend over and tie her converse against the wall. what an odd way to do it. she was balancing some sort of notebook between arm.. maybe pencils too? did she draw? or maybe write? why couldn’t you stop wondering about it?
⋆˚✿˖° your mom answered joel’s question with some version of the story she always does, gushing about how you were doing so well in school, how she was so proud of you. you didn’t tune back in until joel was speaking again, “ah yea, my — well, ellie, she’s in school too. physics major. but she’s got this thing for astronomy too. kid’s always talking about double majoring.”
⋆˚✿˖° god, she was cute and smart? and her name was ellie? you swore the sun got even hotter at the thought of her talking to you about quantum something-or-other, just nodding along. god you could see it now. a hand in that pretty auburn hair.. mumbling ‘mhm.. whatever you say ellie.’
⋆˚✿˖° then you saw her trip down the stairs on her porch as she looked over. full on hand on the side of the stairs to keep her from eating shit on the rocks there. you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, stifling a giggle as you wave her way. only to be given a tight lipped smile as she quickly moved away to her car. god. what an odd girl.
⋆˚✿˖° ellie simply lost it the moment she sat in her car, groaning loudly as she slammed her sketch book on her face. “stupid fucking shoes!” she muttered, as if it was the shoes fault for tripping, and not the way she had been intently staring at your face from across the yard. definitely not.
⋆˚✿˖° but really she couldn’t help it, you looked so good, you were wearing shorts, and ellie was happily taking in the sight of skin before that evil fucking creaky porch board got her tumbling down. fuck. she couldn’t ever talk to you again. not ever. she let her head fall to the steering wheel as she went through a million and one ways to simply become invisible and escape any way of running into you. maybe she should become nocturnal.
⋆˚✿˖° but when she let her head fall to the steering wheel, it honked. like a loud, drawn out honk that had you, joel, and your mother’s head turning to the direction of the sound.
⋆˚✿˖° ellie screeched, and you pressed fingers to your lips to contain another smile. you were pretty sure living here was going to be kind of great.
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delulu-with-wandanat · 7 months
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International Affair
Welcome to my shameless self-insert series🤭 Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Last
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Reader Description: Masculine style, They/He, AFAB, International Student, 20 Years Old. Sometimes will be describe using masculine terms (man, boy, handsome, etc)
Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x InternationalStudent!Reader
Warnings: Specified age gap (Wanda is 34).
Summary: For their summer break, Y/n decided to spend it in a little town called Westview. It was there when they met Wanda Maximoff. A woman in her 30s with two kids, who seems to be attracted to the college student despite being married.
New York University's tuition was fucking ass. It really is, at a whopping $64,000 tuition fee per year. And that's only the tuition fee, the total estimate of studying in NYU plus living cost was probably over $90,000. Exactly it's fucking insane. Despite receiving a sponsorship from their parent's good friend and also financial aid from NYU, he still needed to figure out how to pay it back.
Sometimes they feel like smacking their head for choosing to study in a city where it's known for its back bank breaking living cost. Can you blame him though? Those tall buildings, shining lights, bustling nightlife, sounds of gunshots, and a huge opportunity for a creative person such as themselves, along with a dash of capitalism. Y/n couldn't help but be fascinated. That American dream that he had been chasing since he saw the Devil Wears Prada.
It was now summer vacation. Instead of going home for the summer, Y/n decided to join this Homeshare Summer program. Basically an elderly person provides home for students to share during the summer. The benefits are plenty, but most notably, cheaper housing rent. His roommates also joined this program, together they sublease their apartment. Adding extra funds to their breaking bank account.
In return, the students must help their elderly host with basic domestic needs. Mostly light household tasks; preparing and sharing meals, tidying up, chores, walking a pet, etc.
Y/n ended up matching with someone in a small town called Westview somewhere in New Jersey. As much as he loves New York, he wanted to spend his summer somewhere else in America.
He matched with a lovely widow named Melina Vostokoff. He learned that she has 2 daughters, both whom are adults with their own respective career. She needed a companion, understandably so, and Y/n was more than happy to assist her in anyway she might need.
"Y/n." Melina called.
"Yes, Mrs. Vostokoff?" Y/n looked up from their laptop, they were sitting on the dinner table editing some footage.
"Oh dear, please, I told you to call me Melina."
"Sorry, Melina. Force of habit." He said with a smile. "What's up?"
"Would you please send all this batches of cookies around the neighborhood? I already have a list of houses on where you can drop them." Melina is known for sharing batches of cookies for free around the neighborhood. Why? Out of kindness.
And also the fact that she loves baking, but ended up not being able to finish it all. So she shares them around the neighborhood.
"Sure, Melina! I'll do that right away."
So he sets of to drop off delicious dessert for Westview citizens. Melina had told them that this was a good chance to ask around for a summer job as well. Which is what he had initially planned to do anyway. Finally they reached the last house, Maximoff Household. They weren't so lucky with the other neighbors, but last one's a charm right? He rang the doorbell.
A person then opens the door. "Hello, I was just-" Holyfucking shit. This woman was absolutely gorgeous.
"May I help you?" She ask, god her voice is sexy.
"Uhhh..." Snap out of it! "Sorry! I'm Y/n, I'm the student staying over the summer at Mrs. Vostokoff. She told me to drop off her Bi-Weekly batches of cookies."
Wanda wasn't stupid, she noticed their nervousness and found it adorable. "Lovely to meet you, Y/n. I'm Wanda, Wanda Maximoff." She offered her hand.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Maximoff." He shook her hand.
"Do you go to Westview University?" She was rather intrigued by the younger one.
"No, ma'am. I actually go to NYU, I'm studying film production."
Wanda raised an eyebrow and smiled. "How impressive. Though I must ask, why choose to spend your summer here?"
Damn... her smile.
"Mainly a much cheaper living cost, other than that I figured It'll be good for me to explore other parts of America. New Jersey is not far so it's a good place to start."
"Ah, an International student I see. Is it one of those Homeshare programs?"
"It is!" The student beamed.
What a charming smile he has, Wanda thought to herself. "Say, how old are you, Y/n." She ask while leaning against the door frame, her tone was... rather flirty.
"Um... I'll be turning 21 this year." Wanda hummed at the answer. For what reason Y/n doesn't know either. "Here are your cookies, ma'am." Well shit, he was getting nervous again. Obviously, Wanda staring at him with a look he can't quite pin.
"Oh! Thank you, dear. My sons absolutely love Melina's cookies." She took the container from them.
"Well that's no surprise, I could live off from those cookies alone." They said while laughing lightly. "So I take it you've lived here for a while?"
"Yes, I've lived here for years with my twin boys and husband." Damn it, they thought. "Anything you would like to know?"
"Yes actually! I've been looking for a summer job, but I haven’t had any luck."
"Well, lucky for you, a friend of mine who owns the Cafe in town is looking for a new Barista. She just recently opened the position."
"That's great news! Thank you so much for letting me know, Mrs. Maximoff." They said with a smile, Wanda had another idea in mind.
"However, I think they're only offering part-time. If you're looking for some extra work, I may need a few... help around the house. Would you be interested?" She asked with a devilish smile.
Y/n, being too excited at the possibility of finally landing a job, failed to notice the flirty undertone in Wanda's sentence. "Absolutely!"
"Splendid! Come over to my house tomorrow and we'll discuss the details."
"I will see you tomorrow, Mrs. Maximoff. Thank you again!" The young man said with a bright smile, he started walking backwards onto the sidewalk.
"See you tomorrow, Y/n." Once they turned their backs on her, Wanda bit her lip. She had multiple things in mind for Y/n to help her with.
I did a quick research on the law of international students working in the US. I didn't get into detail but it basically said yes but there are restrictions. So ignore the actual laws, and y'know just - whatever man it's a fanfic :') When I saw the estimated cost of studying in NYU i almost cried-
Also I hope you guys don’t mind I go with a more masculine reader for this one (i really want to be called a good boy by Wanda)
I hope the reader description doesn’t confuse you guys, if it does. Its ok, i self inserted myself and im very confused abt my gender-
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crestfallercanyon · 5 months
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I think Ian would love when Mickey takes long showers.
The rest of the Gallaghers try to complain, and Ian would shut that shit down immediately. Mickey rarely does something so self-indulgent that isn't, y'know, a violent impulse. This is something that no one else gets to see, this isn't Mickey putting on a toughness show, this isn't anything but Mickey taking care of Mickey and Ian loves that for him. Wants him to have that for as long as he can.
Because here's the thing -- Ian remembers the filthy dirty boy he used to fuck in the Kash and Grab.
While Ian never judged Mickey for it (hell, who hasn't experienced a water shut off or heater shortage in Southside?) he knew that Mickey experienced it worst than most. Half the neighborhood called Mickey smelly for fuck's sake, it was well known that Mickey was not clean.
I also imagine Mickey had to fake-it-til-you-make-it in feeling okay with being that dirty. He stopped taking frequent showers or bothering with any hygiene products because he knew the Milkoviches only had so much hot water (or water in general). Terry got first dibs because if he didn't get what he wanted then his piss-poor mood would dictate how everyone's day's went.
Then, Mickey gave next priority to Mandy. Mandy's a girl, which when he was younger didn't really mean anything to him, until she came home wildly upset about being dirty, about how all the girls wouldn't stop pointing out how awful she smelled, how she got her period and the bloodstains were still in her clothes and she didn't have enough water to clean them out but she didn't have any more clean clothes, and fuck, Mickey realized girls were fucking mean when it came to shit like that, and Mickey never wanted her to deal with that ever again. After that, Mickey made sure Mandy had enough water to stay clean, to be orderly, because Mandy cared and Mandy deserved to feel good about herself.
If his brothers were home, they'd get it next, because they somehow always smelled worse than Mickey did. However, that was rarely a problem, and a lot of the time after Terry and Mandy they didn't really have much left in the tank anyway.
So Mickey learned to not care. Not care about being gross and disgusting and feeling itchy at times. To smell clothes and while it was sharp to his nose it was whatever. So something gave him a rash once, he can fucking live. Everyone seems to look at him like he's even more dangerous when he's filthy, so it comes with its own perks, right? Who cares if some nights he couldn't really sleep. He's a kid, and who fucking cares, he's probably not living that long anyway.
But as Mickey starts having more people care about him (and care more about himself in turn) things change in his head. Even when he comes back in season 7, he is nowhere near as covered in dirt as he was when he was young. And while some of this can be chalked up to not being a kid anymore, that's certainly not most of it. The self-loathing he had no longer manifests so outwardly, he's no longer living in a burn out and die young mindset, and he's got people who he gives a shit what they think about him. He wants to try to like himself the way other people (Ian) likes him. Which means being fucking clean.
So he starts to take long showers. And he realizes that, yeah, he likes the feel of having hot water on him, melting the day away. Likes having the assurance that he can have this without being covered in blood and needing to medically clean out the wound (if he'd even do it then). He likes... taking showers. Being clean. Having clean clothes. And Ian, of course, notices.
So, when Ian can hear Mickey taking a shower, and taking his fucking time and actually taking care of himself, Ian freaking loves it. Doesn't let anyone bother Mickey about the water, doesn't let anyone tell him what soaps to use or not use. It's all for his disposal.
And when Mickey's done, Ian will open the door and join Mickey in with the steamy bathroom. Before Mickey can utter a single word about it (most days he'll try to crack something self-deprecating, not quite broaching sorry but as close as he usually gets; on particularly vulnerable days he will try to genuinely apologize) Ian kisses him. Tells him he smells good. Tells him he looks good. Ian's a big fan of positive reinforcement. He's also a big fan of the smile on Mickey's face when he's feeling good about himself.
Ian of course wishes he could get Mickey to feel good about himself every day, but, it's a work in progress just like everything else. Mickey's got to unlearn a childhood built on the belief that he was barely worth garbage. That takes time. Ian gets it.
An easy place to start, though? Enjoying when his man takes his long hot showers.
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dixonzzgirl · 7 months
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the day was long. not just for you, but for daryl too. you had been out on a supply run with rosita and glenn, going through each house in a small neighborhood you had come across a few weeks back. in the last house you went searching through, you spotted a shiny, red altoid tin. after picking it up and shaking it for a moment, you flip the lid open to see its contents. four joints all rolled in dark brown paper. Without even lifting the tin closer, a familiar, almost piney smell filled your nose. you smiled to yourself and slipped it into your pack. 
daryl had been out recruiting all day, but his only thought was you. he hated when you had to go on runs without each other. there was no way he could ensure your safety being so far away. don’t get me wrong, daryl knows you can hold your own. he just never wants you to feel hopeless or alone. however, rosita and glenn were two people daryl knew he could trust to look after you in his absence. he knew they would have your back if shit went down. even then, he was still worried. he arrived back at alexandria around 5 p.m. and sat on the porch steps until he heard a vehicle approaching outside the gates. He quickly snuffed out his cigarette and threw it by the bushes. 
as he got closer to the gates, they started to open and the three of you made your way in. you immediately spotted daryl standing where he always did when you came back from a run. you smiled and snaked your arms around his neck and he buried his face into your neck. glenn and rosita were too busy greeting their respective loved ones to notice anything. “any luck today?” you asked, slightly muffled. “nah.” he grunted and pulled away to look at your face. he examined every inch of skin that wasn’t currently covered in clothing for bites or scratches. “you?” his tired eyes found yours. you cracked a mischievous grin and pulled him into another hug. “i have a present for you.” you sang into his chest. “for me?” he blushed a little bit as he tried to match my excited tone. “mhm.” you slipped your hand into one of his and began walking back to your shared house. 
daryl led you up the stairs and into your bedroom where you slid off your pack and plopped it down on your bed. he stood beside you as you started digging around for something. “okay, close your eyes.” you clutched the cold tin at the bottom of your bag. daryl closed his eyes and you placed the tin on his palm. “okay, now open.” you ordered, holding back a squeal. his eyes opened and looked directly down at the tin. he popped it open and chuckled when he saw the joints. he took one out and lifted it to his nose, inhaling the bitter scent. the thought of you both being able to just relax outside and smoke together made him so eager. “do you like it?” you were smiling like a kid. “like it? i love it.” the corner of his mouth was curled up as he pulled you into another embrace. “i had a feeling you would.” you laughed into his neck and left a trail of kisses from his cheek to his lips. he pulled your hips flush against his own and rested his big hands on your ass as you held onto one of his biceps. “c’mon.” you poked at his side. “let’s get super high and stare up at the sky.” 
a/n: this is my first ever daryl dixon fic, so please be kind! i'm open to doing a part two!! :)
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xoxo-sarah · 7 months
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The Exit
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↝a/n: kinda based off the song. I wanted to write more but I was tired of seeing this just sitting in my notes. First love type shit edit: I took out the little bit of smut.
↝pairing:Steve Harrington x reader
↝ Warning: angst, not proofread,, heartbreak, one-sided break up(?), arguing, Stancy
↝⎙ 9.3.23
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"So, how long are you going to avoid me?" Shit shit shit.
You were doing fine with avoiding him, have been for 5 months. He just couldn't leave it alone.
Well, you suppose you'd be the same way. If he cut off all contact with you after you got a new boyfriend, you'd probably be a little pissed off and curious as to why, too.
"I'm kind of busy."
"I'm sure you have a minute." Steve leaned against the door frame, eyes flickering around your whole face, looking for any hint of what he possibly could've done.
The two of you have been friends for forever. You grew up together, went through so much.
He knew your tells, knew when he had disappointed you in some way. He had gotten pretty good at finding that one out in your young-love phase.
The classic friends to lovers teen romance. The kind that the neighborhood gossip would say "I told you!", "I knew it, they were meant for each other.", And the nosy "they're parents better watch them. They'll have a grandchild on the way before they can blink." That was something you both chose to ignore.
Like numerous other things.
•••••
You were both 15 when you decided to take it from friends to girlfriend and boyfriend. It's embarrassing how giddy you were after Steve had asked you out, kicking your feet and telling all of your friends.
It just felt right. He made it feel so easy.
The dates were nice. The way you acted didn't change, you just began to kiss and hold hands slowly after. And it eventually escalated.
~
Your chest heaven in pure bliss.
Reaching forward, you pushed some hairs out of his face. His eyes fluttered open for a split second, searching your own. His iris danced in yours, mapping out every speck of color.
"God, I love you."
His eyebrows furrowed.
You had whispered it so quietly. Maybe he heard you wrong.
Dropping beside you, he let you take his hand, rubbing your finger over his knuckles, your naked bodies beginning to intertwine in a new position.
You had this glow about you right after, you always did. He couldn't look you in the eyes right now.
But he couldn't help himself. He glanced up at you, seeing you looking at your conjoined hands. You looked as if you hadn't said those words. Maybe they just slipped out, you didn't mean to.
"I can't love you." He quickly added to that, after your head shot up to look at him. "I can't love anybody, I don't think. Y/n, I," he moved to sit up, you doing the same. "I like you, I really do. I have for a long time, and I intend to do it for much longer. Love just isn't something I have felt for anyone. I can't picture myself feeling a certain “love connection” to somebody. You know?" He really didn't know how to explain it. He had felt something with you. Something he hadn't felt with any of his other friends. He doesn't know if he'd call it love, though.
You couldn't say you didn't understand. What if what you thought was love, wasn't? You were kids, you most likely didn't know what love even is or what it feels like.
"Yeah- okay." Slowly nodding, you tried to find the words. "That's okay. You don't have to love me. What I feel for you is love, I think. We have plenty of time to figure it out, right?"
He nodded, his shoulders relaxing and a lazy smile making its way onto his face. "Yeah."
Everything was fine after that. Your feelings never changed.
It wasn't until Steve had run into this girl. You had seen her around school and around town. But you never talked too much.
She seemed to find him interesting. Who didn't? He had become popular in the early years of high school.
You didn't think anything of it. Maybe you should've.
"I forgot!" Steve threw his arms up in the air.
"For the third time? I reminded you." Your voice was louder than your normal tone. You were too exhausted to yell. Waiting at the little café for 2 hours the 3rd day in a row was embarrassing and tiring.
"Wha-when?"
You just looked at him.
"Before 1st period, Steve."
He threw his head back, looking back at you with a look of realization. He wasn't about to give in.
"I could barely hear what you were saying. You know how loud the halls get, c'mon."
"Or maybe you were too busy gawking at Nancy."
His head shot up to look at you in disbelief. "What does Nance have to do with this?"
"‘Nance’? Are you kidding me?" Didn't know they were in the nickname phase. He rarely used any nicknames for you. "You know what, whatever. I'm not arguing with you right now." You had to study and it was already late. You really didn't want to focus too much on how your relationship was slowly breaking to pieces along with your heart. There was plenty of work you could do to distract you.
"No, hey," As you tried walking away, Steve reached out, grabbing your arm and softly pulling you to stand in front of him. His hand moved to your face. "Let me make it up to you, yeah?"
"I have to study."
"I'll help you study after." His fingers caressed your soft jaw, waiting for your response.
You sighed, "Fine."
There wasn't a point where you two sat down and broke up. You just kind of grew apart. You were done trying to fix something he couldn't care less about.
Pushing the fork around your tray absentmindedly, you tried to ignore the high-pitched laugh of Karen and the stupid conversations that happened on that table. The table you once sat at with Steve, talking about anything and everything. When he got those remarkable friends of his, you stopped talking. A person can only handle so many interruptions and digs from Karen and Tommy before you just decide to keep to yourself.
Your chair didn't stay cold for long. Nance sat down, and it looked like she fit in nicely.
Nearly 10 years of friendship and 3 years of a relationship all down the drain. It hurt, It really did.
It didn't help when you ran into Nancy at the store and she was the sweetest thing. She had even asked you about how you and Steve were doing. You found it weird. How were you to respond to that? Choosing to shrug it off led her to ask Steve about it. And with the pity look she gave you when you locked eyes in the school hallways, you guessed he gave an answer you wouldn't like.
Why did he look at her like that? Did he ever look at you like that? It hurt your brain to watch them from across the room. You should keep your eyes away from them. But it hurt more to know they were having a great time-together while you were in a corner, alone at the party. Chugging the rest of your pungent beer, you beelined to the kitchen to get a refill.
"Y/n."
"Steve." You didn't turn around, instead pouring your solo cup to the rim.
"Enjoying the party?" He sounded like he was talking to a friend. Once he hadn't left to feel like shit.
"Yeah, fun. Real fun."
The awkwardness between you was obvious. If someone were to walk in, they'd know something happened. Something not so good.
"So-"
"Nancy seems nice."
After getting over the shock of you interrupting him, he smiled. Actually smiled. "Yeah, Nance is great."
Was he not seeing your hurt? How could he be so blind? Of course she's wonderful.
"Um, about us-" so he had thought about you, what you two were. Maybe he could actually tell you exactly what it is, what game you were unwilling playing.
"What about us?"
"We're cool, right?"
What? We're cool- how are we cool? Leaving someone without any explanation as to why doesn't make you two cool.
He must have seen the pure confusion.
"It was a mutual decision." It was more of a statement than a question. He seemed so genuine.
Choosing to just nod, you didn't know what else to say. It was over. It had been for a while. Perhaps you were the blind one.
A few drinks in, you two were leaning against the countertop, talking like friends again. Talking about everything and anything. Maybe it was the alcohol that made you feel so relaxed and calm to be around him. You were just two friends catching up.
"I think I love her." Steve hiccuped.
Suddenly you were sober.
He continued to hiccup nonsense as you got quite.
Your mind was running a mile a second. He can easily love her but he couldn't love you? Your eyes caught sight of Nancy in the crowded living room. She easily talked to the people around her. It was easy for her. Men could drop to her feet and she wouldn't be fazed. She carried confidence and beauty. You got it, you really did. She was Nancy Wheeler.
"I need to go."
"What? C'mon, y/n, don't go." Steve slurred, watching as you put your cup down.
"It's getting late." You were off before his intoxicated mind could register you moving through the people and out the door.
He shrugged it off, bringing his own cup back to his lips.
It took 3 weeks after that party for you two to talk again. He came knocking on your door, broken and confused. He didn't know what to do. You didn't have to help him. But he was your friend before your boyfriend. You'd always be there for him, no matter how much it would hurt you.
As he cried in your arms, you held him, soothed his sobs and told him everything was going to be alright. Something no one did for you while you sat, sobbing on your couch or in your bed, not knowing what you were to him.
And you continued to be there for him until he went back. They figured it out and it left you alone, again. But it was okay because he was happy again.
You two went back to not talking until they got into an argument or took a break. You were always there.
It was a constant back and forth. An emotional rollercoaster not only for them, but for yourself.
You were helping a friend, so why did it pain you so much? It shouldn't.
Steve's knuckles against the oak door faded to the back of your mind as you continued to read the same paragraph over and over. "Y/n?" He called out. Glancing back, he made sure he hadn't imagined your car in the driveway. "I know you're home." He hiccuped.
It pained you too, you know. As he was hurting, your mind and heart was too.
Choosing to ignore him would be the first, the hardest step to peace, to happiness. It was time to put your emotions first.
He wouldn't stop everything to make sure you were okay if you were in his position.
•••••
"Talk to me, y/n." The way he leaned against the door had you deeply inhaling. He looked different. His hair had grew, it laid messy on the top of his head. The eye bags under his eyes were more prominent. His dark eyes still held the same shine.
"Steve, I was literally about to leave."
The music from the party downstairs had your head aching with every beat. The sound of a party with your friends seemed fun, until it wasn't. They had left to do their own thing. Going back home sounded nice.
"Can we go outside then? I miss talking to you."
Your mouth shut in distaste. You didn't want to talk to him. All the progress you made would be thrown out the door with those puppy dog eyes.
Reluctantly, you stepped back to sit on the guest room bed. Steve shut the door, walking over cautiously.
After a long moment of silence, Steve spoke up.
"Did I do something?"
No? Yes? Fuck.
"You know I would never deliberately do something to make you upset. You're my best friend-"
"That's actually why I'm upset." You blurted before you could help yourself.
He looked beyond confused. "What?"
It was your turn to get everything off your chest. With a big inhale, you poured your heart out. "We were more than best friends. I don't know about you, but that time meant everything to me, you meant everything to me. Until Nancy came along. You just discarded me like I wasn't your girlfriend, Steve."
For once, he didn't know how to respond. Steve stood there, just staring at your face.
Having about of his silence, you got up and walked to the door.
"You asked. Having to put your feelings before mine when you broke my heart without knowing or caring, was too much. I hope you and Nance are good, really."
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•© 2021-2023 by sarahwasfound•
•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [!I don't give permission!]
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wmarximoff · 2 years
Text
devoted wife | w. maximoff
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summary: you are a devoted wife who is capable of doing anything for your wife's welfare; including letting Wanda release the unhealthy nature that resides within her.
warnings (18+): dark Wanda, dark(ish) reader, brief smut, breeding kink, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving), choking (r receiving), smoking, slightly toxic relationship, explicit depiction of blood, explicit depiction of violence, explicit depiction of dead body, manipulation.
pairing: Wanda x fem!reader
word count: 3k
A/N: i literally wrote this here in one sitting so it's probably not my best work, but i was really inspired by the Love and Death teaser and this idea just wouldn't get out of my head. but hey, don't read if dark topics aren't your cup of tea. this shit is just pure madness.
anyway, enjoy!
|masterlist|
༺ᱬ༻
The smoke is like a pair of dancers dancing a waltz above your head, making love in the air. This time is no different from the last time it happened or even the second to last, although the sky is particularly cloudy and the weather tastes like conformism that is stabilized by a bitterness that consumes you within your stomach.
You inhale from the cigarette you smoke, seeking comfort in the fume, and hold and spray the tobacco through your nostrils, in almost enviable sync with the watery sound that can be found behind your shoulders, which are tucked inside a gray hooded jacket like the fur of a wild wolf; other than the circular call of a remote owl, the only sound heard is the tiny, breathy moans that Wanda lets out here and there as she grunts when she takes gulps of oxygen.
A few unconscious mutters are gasped, puffs leaking from between your wife's peachy lips, who's out of your sight because the right side of your hip is snug against the icy bodywork of your off-road car.
The night is as unsettling in your bones as the fateful sight of a car accident would be, and the song of the night birds hidden among the branches and foliage of the tall trees, with an audience of nightly eyes, brings you a certain ghostly feeling that you are a prey, and not hunter. Yet, in your simplest cognition, you are nothing more than a devoted wife.
And you remember when you first met Wanda, nearly two decades already spent in each other's company. Westview, a tiny town in upstate New Jersey, was not used to welcoming new faces into its suburban structures; and that is why the Maximoff family, made up of an immigrant couple and their two twin children born on American soil (a boy and a girl, both of your age), was an object of study adopted by all the little more than six thousand inhabitants at the time they moved into your neighborhood.
Her brother soon began to walk in the footsteps of the Westview High cool kids troupe (Pietro was a born athlete), but Wanda was like a shy shadow of her older twin, who lived holed up behind thick book pages, with an introverted presence that soon usurped your attention when your attentive gaze scanned her face, who sat at a desk placed to the right of yours during literature classes.
You asked her about five months after you met her properly, and she accepted the proposal just two days later – in college it was a little different with the proposal, because you proposed at a fine restaurant and she accepted at readiness, rewarding your with the purest of smiles gleaming at the commission of her pearly lips, an act showered with a limpid, chaste glint of love that showcased her two front teeth, which were vaguely larger than the rest and gave her a bunny appearance, because she had the habit of fortuitously scrunching a flash of skin from her nose when engendering the act of smiling.
But something withered in Wanda after the first year of marriage between the two of you, a couple still so young, with so much to do in partnership with each other. Your sweet wife was restless when you came home from work, and it was hard to say what was on her mind. Wanda, while possessing a rather emotional nature, was never the type to open up easily, and it was customary for her to bottle up her own feelings when they bothered her too much, when she didn't quite know how to deal with the will growing inside her.
Until she told you, once, after days turned into weeks all had with a certain distance between you and her that, in all your honesty, had your heart constricted inside your chest.
It was late at night, and your room was barely dipped in a haze of yellow light that emanated from a small lamp on the bedside table – you with your eyes wandering over the sentences of some novel open between the palms of your hands, holding the book close to the tip of your nose, as Wanda lied with her milky back turned to you, who assumed that your wife had long been snoring beside you, enjoying a deep night's sleep.
“Something's missing,” her voice came suddenly, prompting your chin to snap back to her, who still hadn't turned to look back at you.
“What's missing, baby?” it was a question you didn't know would prove to be a watershed for the line of normalcy that ruled your life when in a small family of two.
When Wanda shifted in bed, rustling the sheets to turn to look at you, her eyes, once green as a polished emerald stone, were made dark and deep like the moss that grows in the dampness of tree bark, untouched by the sun, away from life. It was that look you'd never seen before take over her pretty features, a numb emptiness that lacked filling, a will found in the confines of the soul that inhabited her body. She looked like a silent doll, staring at you with that verdant expanse that seemed to be able to read your thoughts.
Icy electricity ran along the length of your spine. You never thought that Wanda could give you the chills.
The need building inside her, expanding, taking shape and greater proportions, was thunderous and all-encompassing. It was an itch, a predatory addiction. A strange psychic deficiency, which you could never remedy on your own; it was out of her reach, that was not your role in her life. You were assigned the role of wife, partner, which you gladly accepted, for better or worse, just contenting yourself with a smile on the face of the one who was your muse, your obsession, your sanity and your madness.
But Wanda soon realized that you alone wouldn't be enough to satisfy the needs pulsing inside her, like preludes to a coming calamity; in her eyes was the warning of the apocalypse.
Not in the way she wanted, because when the length of her fingers pressed against the pulsing muscles and arteries of your throat, on one particularly wild night when she, with the hollow of her bare alabaster thighs snugly fitted to the red toy strapped to your waist, riding you like an animal in heat, something in her came to the edge and she allowed herself to fall, increasing the pressure, depriving your brain of the oxygen necessary for your body's full functionality.
It was as if she wanted to squeeze the life out of you. To see what your reaction would be and what would hers be too.
Your vision darkened as she came in a sharp moan, perhaps more from the lust from the power she exerted over you than from sexual the act itself, tightening her grip on the sensitive skin of your larynx. And you couldn't breathe, but you didn't need oxygen; you needed her. She would fill your lungs with life. Though she let go in time for any permanent sequel to do you irreversible damage, five hideous bruises marked you as her property in purplish-red streaks, like a galaxy dotted across your epidermis.
But when the notion dawned on you, when you had to cover your wounds with a coat of makeup, your somewhat hurt reaction to the violence calmed her nerves. Although, if she really wanted to, you'd let her steal the oxygen from your chest.
In an orgasm achieved on the day that marked your second year of marriage, a couple of months later, you offered your wife the idea of conceiving a child together. It seemed natural for a couple who'd been together as long as the two of you to dream up the idea of starting a family that would exceed two people, after all.
“I bet you'd look so hot pregnant,” it was said in a groan punctuated by a panting breath, as she rode your strap moving her body over yours the way she always liked to do, “Can you imagine that, Wands? Me putting a baby inside you?”
And she sighed a, “Fuck, Y/n!”, moving even faster with her hips, reaching for you, going for a much-needed orgasm. When her fingers bit into your neck a second time, you didn't care at all.
It didn't take more than a few tries for the twins to come; Thomas, fifteen minutes older, followed by William accordingly. Two boys who could be nothing but the embodiment of your love for her; the gift you wanted her to bestow. And the firsts of childhood witnessed by the caress of a mother's gaze did lift Wanda's spirits; for a while life was simple, the two of you too busy to allow yourself to think about anything but bottles and pacifiers. But what was spreading through Wanda's senses, until then asleep, haunted her again like an ethereal creature scraping the inside of her skull.
You saw the earnest way in which she directed furtive glances at other people who were becoming commonplace figures in her everyday life; other women who lived as secondary characters in your lives, just innocent lambs beside the wolf in disguise. But you loved her. You preyed for her good, who was the love of your life, who had been the mother of your children formed in the graces of her womb, her flesh and blood. And then, there was consent.
At some point, you gave your blessing for her to do so, because you knew it would make her happy, make her complete in a way that even your family couldn't; because she licked her lips like a thirsty person looking for water to quench her thirst – Wanda suffered from an impulse, just a lapse, a little unrestrained slip, and you were there to hold her hand every time she fell into perversities of her own temptations. You were the tightrope that kept her balanced within her own mental faculties.
The first was Agatha, there was no way you could forget; she was the boys' elementary school teacher and had a wide smile accompanied by full brown hair that made her look like an evil witch in a children's cartoon. Wanda consumed her completely, and you watched every wretched action your wife performed toward the woman older than the two of you. And then came Sharon, a friendly blonde store clerk. Darcy, a college student, and Jennifer, an aspiring lawyer. They made Wanda happy, and so were you too.
Kate came over the weekend you made it from the big city to the Westview welcomes, when your father's birthday celebration was held, sixty years or more than that.
Your parents seemed elated with yours and Wanda's presence in the small town, because it also meant the company of their only grandchildren, whom they both cherished and the feeling was mutual between the boys (Tommy was interested in asking Alexei about his time served as a low-ranking soldier in the remote Soviet Union, and Billy would ask Melina to read to him books that contained in their pages words that his scant childhood cognition, however cunning, would not be able to pronounce without the help of an adult, and it so happens that he has always been very close to his grandmother).
Natasha, your older sister, was out for military service, but Yelena, the youngest of the family, was the one who came from college, and brought along with her the company of the tall Kate Bishop, the girlfriend who she said that one day would be her wife.
Kate was a nice girl, and you were happy for your sister, who was all touching and hugging with her partner.
Over the course of dinner she engaged in an avid conversation with your father about sport archery (which she had been practicing since even younger than your children, she reported when you, across the table, asked her about it and was promptly greeted with a warm response), and she incontinently repeated a dish of stroganoff prepared by your mother, who served her with gusto.
But you can't help but notice the way Wanda looked at her from behind her glass of red wine. Thinking, scheming, studying in her brain methods of making it happen, of twisting and breaking something she wanted to crush between her hands.
Something fell into you, and you were barely able to answer the question Billy asked you as your gaze traced from your wife to the girl oblivious to her situated across the table, to near your younger sister's left shoulder. How Wanda's mouth really seemed to water in the presence of a girl young enough to be her little sister, for a meat she'd like to taste.
When Tommy called out to her, though, she looked away from the dark-haired young woman to look at you, who were standing next to your son standing between the two of you. And then, she smiled reassuringly, her lips brushed with a thin layer of red wine that did nothing to diminish the doses of sweetness in her features; and you were delivered, because she was yours and you were hers. Even if, behind that genuine smile, there was an enormous strength, a will equipped with an animalistic voracity, like a secret voluptuousness between you and your wife.
All it took was her tongue between your legs for her to have you where she wanted.
When, in the next night, your parents went to spend quality time with the boys at a nearby ice cream shop and Yelena left to go to the store to buy the missing ingredients for a homemade cookie recipe, Wanda sprang into action and, like a fool in love, you followed after her, tailing the emotional collar which she had screwed around your neck along with the wedding band on your ring finger.
You were different, you weren't disposable. You were her favorite possession.
There was no denying it. There was no way to leave her. There was no way to stop it. Even when her hand caressed the cheek of a Kate so absorbed in a banal and commonplace act between sisters-in-law, even when Wanda lured her like a treacherous viper, just waiting for the fatal pounce on the helpless little mouse.
And, well, if Wanda was the snake, you allowed yourself to taste the red apple she offered you. Your primary sin was loving her. It was to be a devoted wife.
You, therefore, take a little more and throw the rest of your cigarette on the floor, crushing it with the sole of your shoe, ending the act when the sound fades, and there are only sharp gasps to be heard through the night.
And, after fumbling with your fingers for a handful of garbage bags placed near your right ankle like an old dog, you stick your left hand inside your front trouser pocket as you bring your hips away from the bodywork of the car, wrapped in a color of red like the skin of a ripe cherry, departing in conversational strides to the front of the vehicle, where a pair of glowing headlights are like the demonic eyes of a creature in the midst of darkness, engulfed in the hollow heart of the forest that surrounds the city boundary.
A stream of yellow light reflects off the sharp edge of a metal ax that drips onto a thick viscous material that is an amalgamation of brains and entrails, and it is Wanda who has the sturdy wooden handle pressed between the fingers of both hers hands, her wedding band bathed in a splash of still-warm blood. And, well, indeed your marriage is bloody like your wife's blouse and hair, who lets the scarlet-soaked tool fall to the floor with a hollow thud, as if she's eaten too much and is too full before digestion.
She digests the moment, the atmosphere. She digests you.
Wanda no longer deals any blows against the crumbs of that shapeless, gory and mirrored thing all over the floor that was once Kate's head, now open and with all its inner contents on display – a disgusting gray mass that soils her shoes and the hem of her pants.
Wanda is happy, exultant, vibrating with a belated contentment that she can barely contain from the shots of adrenaline coursing through her veins when caught in the violent act of inflicting pain on anyone other than her or yourself. And she doesn't look any less pretty, even when she's covered in blood spatter, dirt, hair and guts. And if she's happy, you're happy. Because you are a devoted wife.
“All done here, honey?” you call out to her, brandishing the garbage bags held up by your right hand.
“All done,” she smiles as she comes towards you, pupils dilated and dark, “Thank you for doing this for me, baby.”
“I’ll always do everything I can to make you happy Wanda, you know that.”
And her answer is a kiss with the metallic taste of blood that slides between your teeth.
And for a second you try to think about Kate, who made your kids laugh until they were ready to cry and who also pleased your parents, and how Yelena's crying would break your heart once she realized her girlfriend would never come back home again. But Wanda's discomfort would shatter your soul. If her addiction was to the dismemberment of living people, yours was to her happiness.
“Baby,” she murmurs against your lips, a puff of warm air entering the gap of your mouth, fresh blood pouring in a single drop toward your chin, “I love you, you know? You're the only person I need in my life, Y/n. Only you."
And her words make your heart rumble inside your chest in an exultant pulse of joy. Because you're just a devoted wife. Or maybe just a mind as sick as Wanda's.
“I love you too, pretty girl,” you smile, “I am devoted to you.”
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theitgirlnetwork · 11 days
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What Are You Willing To Do?
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Note: Hey everyone, its time to introduce a new boy to the lineup. Probably our craziest lead boy, Mr. Rafe Cameron. This is a snippet of his upcoming series. The first chapter should be coming out tomorrow along with an update in my other stories: Me and You and Better. I hope you all enjoy the snippet and are excited to embark on this new ride with me. It's gonna be toxic, sweet, and fun. Giving very, I can fix him/daddy I love him energy lol. But that's what Rafe needs! Pls heed the warnings though, this shit is for fun, and not real life, do not go find a crazy motherfucker like Rafe pls...or my oc. Let me know what you think and if you're excited for this story! The aesthetic for our leading lady is already posted. (Milan Cabot aesthetic).
Warning: Depictions of toxic relationships, dom/sub dynamics (throughout the series), obsession, explicit content and language (and everything else bad that comes with Rafe's crazy ass) MDNI.
“Take me home!” 
“Yeah? That’s what you want, kid, that’s exactly where I’ll take you.” Rafe chuckles humorously, pulling his hand from its place on her thigh, leaving the skin he’d been warming with his hand open to the cool night air. “Goin’ the fuck home.”
She watches as his large hand expertly whips the vehicle in the opposite direction of Tannyhill, turning to go down her neighborhood instead. The houses are just as nice, just as expensive, but she knew there would be something missing at her parents home. Rafe’s nonchalant, arrogant demeanor has her blood boiling under her skin in frustration. She wants to wipe the easy look off of his face. “M’not a fuckin’ kid.” she huffs, crossing her arms and leaning her head against the passenger window. 
She feels widened, sharp blue eyes burning into the back of her head as she stares into the dark streets, gasping when she feels the car jolt, tires skirting as the lunatic driver pulls into the shoulder of the road. Before she can react that same large hand is encasing her jaw, pointer finger and thumb pushing into her cheeks as he guides her face to his. “I’m like…I’m genuinely trying to figure out who the fuck you’re talking to.”
She whines a little, leaning into his hand, glancing over to the windows to ensure no one was witnessing this. “Rafe-”
“No, because, I know it’s not fuckin’ me. Like, you know better than that shit.” Rafe says, adjusting his grip, the cool metal of his ring resting against her cheek. “You know, I take bein’ your man like…insanely serious, like always…everything I do is for us. Like, you know that.”
“I…I do…”
“Handle business so I can make sure you have food to eat, buy you have the nicest shit, fuck you real good, m’not gettin’ the issue.”
“M’not saying there’s a problem.” 
Rafe releases his grip fully, taking to cupping her jaw instead, smoothing his thumb down the side of her neck. “And I don’t ask you for much do I, baby? Just hold me down. Listen to me. Trust me to build our life an’ shit, that’s too hard?”
“No, it isn’t, m’not saying I’m not grateful, Rafey, it’s just that sometimes-”
“I’m not trying to, like, minimize what you do for me.” Rafe cuts in again, softening his tone and leaning in to rest his forehead against hers. “But for this shit to work, princess, I need someone who’s gonna actually ride for me. And uh, I need to know now if you can do that, sweetheart. Got too much shit to do to keep having this conversation. Too many plans for us. You need to decide if you can be my woman.”
“I can, baby, I can.” she sighs, nudging Rafe’s nose with her own, ignorant to what he’d managed to do again, blissfully unaware as her eyes slip closed and her guard slips down. “M’sorry.”
“I know you are. But uh, what are you willing to do to show it?” he asks softly, working to keep the smirk off of his face as he watches the small resolve his girl had mustered crumble as she breathes him in, her knees retreating from facing the window and moving over to him instead.
“Anything, Rafey.”
“Yeah?” he says smugly, tugging her into a deep, nasty kiss, tonguing her down with his hand hooked in the necklace he’d bought her, holding her to him. “That’s good t’a hear, pretty girl. M’gunna hold you to that shit.” he murmurs against her lips before lightly nudging her back into her seat and starting the car, mumbling under his breath as he drives them to Tannyhill.
“‘Take me home.’ Must’ve lost your fuckin’ mind.”
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sweet-child · 21 days
Note
dallas x artist!reader ?? like she has her own studio and always has paint on her clothes, real artist shit LMAOO
Messy
untidy or dirty
· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·
In which Dallas Winston walks into his partner's art studio, finding a mess. 
Pairing - Dallas Winston x GN!Reader
Word Count - 438
A/n: this is my first one-shot in a long while, and its currently 1 minute past midnight. this is great. 
“We’re looking for someone to paint a mural here. D’ya know anyone?” 
· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·
It was a ‘long’ day for Dallas Winston. (Not really, he was just bored). He was being himself, smoking cancer sticks and terrorizing the neighborhood kids. Normally he’d be doing it with Johnny and Pony Boy, but it was a school day and Darry would’ve had a fit if he found out that Dally checked out his kid brother. Leaning against a brick wall, he took one last drag of his cigarette before throwing it onto the ground and stomping it out, exhaling the smoke. It was around 3 in the afternoon, so he figured he would make a surprise visit to his partner’s house. 
Upon entering Y/n’s home, the normally playing music wasn’t heard. He searched around the house, until he heard a crash in the backyard. Quickly, he strutted outside to find a small, white shed. Through the window, he saw his partner wiping their hands off with a stained rag. He opened the door, and walked in, wrapping his arms around his partner's waist. Y/n jumped, and let out a startled yelp. Turning around, they quickly smiled. “Hi Dally.”
“Hey Baby,” He gently kissed the other’s lips. “What’cha doin’ out here?” He asked, looking around on the floor, finding multiple canvases, pain spills, and paint-stained rags. 
“I was going to finish a painting, but I guess I got too into it..” They let out a nervous laugh, raising up their forearms to show their boyfriend the multiple paint streaks they've accidentally made on themselves. 
Dallas just shook his head, and looked down at his significant others’ white shirt, finding different colored streaks, droplets, spills, and stains; most likely all from paint. “Jesus, dollface, ya always get this messy?” His New York accent slipped out 
“Well, Dal, yes I do.” They crossed their arms in a sassily, yet joking, manner. “I believe if you’re making a mess, it's proof you’re having fun.” Then, they got an idea. They noticed a paint bottle open, and very slyly dipped their finger in it. However, Dallas caught on quick. 
“Oh no..don’t do it..” He took a step back, not wanting to get paint on his clothes or in his hair. Suddenly, he turned and sprinted, wanting to get a headstart. Y/n was quick on his tail, and magically tackled him to the ground, smearing a classic, fancy french mustache onto his face. They slowly started giggling, which quickly turned into full on laughter. Dallas slowly started chuckling as well, causing his partner to slip from ontop of him and onto the green grass below them. “I guess I'm messy, too.” 
“Yes, Dally. you’re messy, too.”
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queen-of-deans-booty · 2 months
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Find Your Way Back Home: Part One
Pairing: No Pairing (for this part)
Word Count: ~2.5k
Warnings: minor angst?
Summary: You're tired of living and not doing anything with your life. The group home you're in doesn't provide many opportunities to go out and find yourself, so when you meet Sam and Dean Winchester, you fall into the hunting life. Best thing to ever happen to you, honestly.
Author’s Note: This is the first part of six parts of the commission for @winchester-sinchester. Dean is eighteen, the reader is ten, and Sam is fourteen.
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Kids climb the jungle gym savagely trying to outdo one another. Kids swing high on the swingset to the point where they might fall off and onto their asses. That's something you’d like to see. Parents are seated on the bench with phones in their hands or to their ears, calling out to their kids to get back up once they’ve fallen.
You should be having fun out there with the rest of them but you’re off to the side by yourself away from it all. You’ve always been an outcast in your group home. It’s better than being the center of attention. There is a whole forest surrounding the park, a forest that must have secrets of its own. Secrets that are begging to be found by someone like you. All the parents including your fake ones are too busy on their phones to notice what’s going on, so you sneak off towards the forest without a look back.
You’re not going to go too far since the forest is pretty big and you don’t want to get lost so you always stay far enough into where you can see the park if you were to look behind you. You take two steps to the right when you hear gunshots and bottles shattering. You veer off the path a bit until you come to a clearing where two boys are. One of them looks old enough to be in high school and the other looks like he is just starting high school.
The younger one aims the gun in his hands at the bottles before shooting, and the glass shatters everywhere. They’re far enough away from the park where the noise isn’t going to be a bother to the kids playing. This neighborhood isn’t the best anyway, so gunshots aren’t unheard of here. The younger kid shoots another bottle which prompts you to walk closer to them.
“Can I join?”
Both boys jump out of their skin when they hear you, and the older one narrows his eyes.
“Beat it, kid.”
“Let me shoot just one.”
“I’m not gonna ask again.”
“Just because I’m a kid doesn’t mean I can’t shoot a gun.”
The older kid turns to you and crosses his arms to look intimidating but it doesn’t work.
“How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Dead.”
The older boy thinks for a second before nudging the younger one.
“Give her the gun, Sammy.”
Sammy hands you the gun handle first so his hand is wrapped around the barrel. You take it and step to where he once was before aiming. Years of using your fake dad’s guns are finally paying off. You hit the third, fourth, and fifth bottles with precision, shocking both boys.
“I’m impressed. Where did you learn to shoot?” the older one asks and grabs the gun from you.
“My dad who is not really my dad has a cool gun collection. He doesn’t notice when we get into them. Not like he’d care anyways.”
“Your dad who is not really your dad?”
“Yeah, my parents died when I was two or three. I’ve spent my time in a group home ever since. The mom doesn’t really stick around a lot. I think she’s only with her husband because of the money he gets from all the kids he has. The dad is cool so as long as you don’t piss him off. Like I said, he lets us use his guns for target practice so that’s cool.”
“I’m Sam,” the younger one smiles. “That’s my brother, Dean.”
“Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Y/N.”
Dean’s phone chirps and he checks it immediately.
“Shit, we have to go.” You get kind of sad at the thought of not hanging out with them anymore. “See ya, kid.”
Sam and Dean leave the bottles where they are and leave with the gun. You have no choice but to go back to the park, your fake parents having no clue you even left. There is something about the brothers that sticks with you even after a few days have passed. You can’t wait to see them again, so when your fake parents take the kids back to the park, you run over to the same place last time.
Sam and Dean are in the same spot shooting bottles once again.
“Hi, Sam. Hi, Dean.”
“Hey, Y/N,” Sam smiles and shoots another bottle.
“Question. Why is Sam the only one shooting?”
“Sam needs the practice,” Dean answers.
“Why? Why are you shooting to begin with?”
“Because we have free will.”
“What do you want to shoot at later?”
“Do you always ask a lot of questions?” Dean asks you.
“Only when I’m curious.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
Despite how cagey Dean is toward you, you like being with them. They’re a lot better than the kids at the group home.
“Can I try shooting again?”
“No, Sammy needs to do this.”
“It’s Sam,” the younger brother grumbles.
“Just shoot.”
Sam gets in a few good shots before lowering his weapon.
“I’m good, Dean. I’ve been doing this for weeks.”
“Oh, you think you’re ready now, huh?” Dean looks at you who stares at him with wide eyes. He looked like he was going to continue with the threat, saw you, and backed down. “Come on, we should be leaving.”
“You just got here,” you complain.
“Kid, we have shit to do. Sammy, come on.”
Dean walks away but Sam stays where he is. He takes out the phone his dad allowed him to have for emergencies and hands it over to you.
“Put your number in. We can talk later.”
“Okay,” you smile. Dean turns back and sees this. He lets Sam have his friend and this moment. When you’re done, you hand it back to Sam. “Text me.”
“I will.”
Sam runs off with his older brother, leaving you alone. This time, you head back to the park with a smile on your face. The days after are spent with your face in your phone texting Sam. You keep asking about Dean but he doesn’t say much about him. Sam is nice and is your first real friend, and you’re not going to let someone like Dean scare you away from him.
A week later, you’re lying on your bed reading a worn-down book when your phone rings. The group home has a small library filled with books that are well out of your reading range in the opposite direction. They’re all kid books but they pass the time. You smile when you see Sam’s name pop up on the screen.
“Hi, Sam,” you answer.
“Hey, we’re outside. Wanna go to the beach?”
You scramble off the bed and look out the window to see the shiny black Impala waiting outside. With a grin, you grab your jacket and meet the brothers in the car. Sam is sitting in the backseat to give you the front while Dean is behind the wheel. His father gave him this car when he turned eighteen, a car he is in love with having.
Dean takes off to the nearest beach which isn’t far from where you’re staying. Since you’re much closer to Sam’s age than Dean’s, he lets you two have your fun in the sun while he stays back and keeps an eye on you two.
“Is he always this serious?” you ask and make a pile of sand.
“Yeah. He can be a hard-ass but he’s a good guy. He’s looked out for me my entire life.”
You look back at Dean to see him watching you with a close eye. He doesn’t want you and Sam to get close because then he’d have to break both your hearts when they up and move to the next town. John is working a demon case not far from here that has been taking a few weeks which is why they haven’t moved away yet.
When the sun got too much to bear, Dean took you and Sam to get ice cream across the street. The cold treat is a nice stark to the hot summer sun.
“So, do you guys have parents?” you ask as you eat.
“Mom died when I was a baby,” Sam answers for Dean. He knows he doesn’t like talking about Mom. “We just have a dad.”
“What does he do?”
“Something that moves us around a lot. As soon as he’s done, we won’t be here anymore,” Dean says.
He might sound harsh but he has to make you understand Sammy isn’t always going to be here. He doesn’t want to involve a kid in this life even if was forced onto him and Sam. You hear the sternness in his voice. That’s a stop-asking-questions-before-you-get-hurt stern.
You and Sam keep texting well after the beach date just because it’s nice to have a friend even if you’re four years younger than him. You’re well beyond your years, something the group home forced upon you. The kids here are worse than the parents because they’ll hurt you without a care in the world while the parents have some sort of heart when it comes to kids.
One night when you can’t sleep, you grab your phone and text Sam in hopes that he is up. He’s usually pretty quick with his responses. The past couple of weeks, he’s been answering late at night because he can’t sleep. He claims the monsters in the closet are going to get him. Ten minutes go by and you start to grow worried.
Your fake parents aren’t going to notice if you leave, so you decide to go over to where they’re staying and see if they’re okay. You pack light with only what you can carry and sneak out through the window. Luckily your bedroom is on the first floor. You take a rock and place it on the window sill to keep the window from closing and locking on you. You’d really rather not sleep outside.
The reason you are able to hang out with Sam and Dean almost every day is that they live so close to your group home. You keep to the shadows in case anyone is out at this time. You don’t want a repeat of what happened last time. You got caught and woke up your fake dad. He wasn’t happy, to say the least.
You get to the motel they’re staying in and find their room on the second floor easily. You knock three times and wait three minutes but no one comes out. You knock two more times but decide that it’s easier if you break in. Your fake parents like to keep things hidden so you’ve gotten good at picking locks.
You get into the room in two minutes but no one is inside. The beds are messy as if someone was sleeping in them recently. It doesn’t look like foul play since nothing is out of order. However, there is an entire wall of news clippings about the murders that have been happening in town.
Bodies Drained Of Blood. Vampires? Are Our Kids Safe? BEWARE MONSTERS AT WORK.
Many articles about the murders in town all point to a single kind of monster: vampires. Alongside the news articles are pages from books about vampires. Lore about vampires. What makes them tick, what makes them dead, and everything in between. Is this what Sam and Dean have been doing while in town? Is this the kind of work their dad does that causes them to move around a lot? Hunting vampires across the country?
There are vials on the desk in the back filled with some kind of blood, and you look at the notes next to it. Dead Man’s Blood. Nearly lethal to vampires. There is an address for the old Mill on the outside of town. That’s where Sam and Dean are, you bet. You grab a few vials of Dead Man’s Blood and leave the room. It takes longer to get there since you’re a ten-year-old on foot but you make it in record time.
You’ve been here a few times with your older siblings while they smoked weed and played Indie music. Even before walking inside, you can hear the screams of people coming from inside. You quickly sneak inside and follow the sounds of despair down to the basement. You haven’t seen John but assume he is somewhere here fighting off vampires.
In the basement is another vampire with a terrified Sam and Dean (more so Sam than Dean). Sam is clutching his older brother while Dean holds a machete in his hands trying to protect  Sam. They haven’t seen you yet otherwise Dean would be trying to protect you too.
“Give it up, kid. You’re not getting out of here alive.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” you say from behind them.
You jump onto the vampire’s back and slam the syringe of blood into his neck. The vampire grabs at you to fight you off, only managing to throw you off him. You knock into the wall with a grunt as the vampire goes down. Dean runs at him and swipes his machete into his neck.
That’s when John comes down with a bloody machete sling over his shoulder. He grins at his sons before noticing you.
“Where the hell did you come from?”
“She saved us, Dad,” Sam says.
“How did you know where to find us?”
“The news clippings on your wall. You’re very thorough.”
John doesn’t like that you’ve been inside his room and looking through his things, but he will deal with it later.
“Get to the car. I’ll meet you there,” John orders his eldest son.
Dean takes you and Sam outside while John gets rid of the bodies so that no one will know what happened there.
“So, this is what you really do? Kill monsters?”
“Yeah,” Dean sighs.
“Not sure I believed in vampires until tonight. Is that the only monster out there?”
“No. This world is filled with monsters from your worst nightmare.”
“Dean, don’t scare her.”
“She’s the one who broke into our motel room, stole from us, followed us here, and took down a vampire.”
“Is this why Sam is the only one shooting?”
“He needs the practice,” Dean says and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.
You look around the place and think about what you’ve just gone through. That was more thrilling than anything you’ve ever done in the group home.
“Okay, I’m in.”
“Kid, go home,” Dean rolls his eyes.
“What home? I don’t have one. Do you think they care about me? They only care about the paycheck I bring in. I have to fight other kids, older kids, just for a slice of damn pizza most days. I hate it there.”
“Dean,” Sam whispers and nudges his brother.
Only Dean can make this decision. If it were up to Sam, you’d already be in the car. John might not be keen on having another kid with him if Dean says yes, but he’d come around once he sees how resourceful you can be.
“You got heart, kid. You can’t come with us but that doesn’t mean you can’t help. I’ll give you some books to read. Do your homework and maybe you can help us on the next hunt we have.”
“Deal,” you smile.
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melodygatesauthor · 3 months
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The Webs We Weave
Peter B. Parker X Miguel O'Hara
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Not Beta Read
I MIGHT write more for this, but as of right now I don't plan for it to be a series.
Summary
Miguel is babysitting May one night while Mary Jane and Peter are on a date. When they come home and Peter is drunk, things take a turn that Miguel wasn't expecting.
Tags/Warnings
NSFW, smut, top!Peter, bottom!Miguel, anal sex, we're ignoring anal prep in this one folks, anal creampie, cheating (Peter cheating on MJ), porn with some plot, gay sex, dirty talk, drunk sex, unprotected anal sex.
Word Count: 2k
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“Thanks for watching May,” MJ whispered as she walked by Miguel who was sprawled out lazily on the couch.
“Yeah,” Miguel murmured, the fatigue of a long afternoon with the toddler weighing on him.
“I hate to ask this but, Peter is–”
“HEY MIG!” Miguel groaned upon hearing Peter’s voice outdoors, understanding perfectly well what Mary Jane was going to ask of him.
“On it,” Miguel grumbled, making his way to the door.
A drunken Peter was still sitting in the car, playing music far too loud for the neighborhood he lived in, and far too loud for one o’clock in the morning. Not to mention it had been a bit of a struggle to get May to sleep, and Miguel didn’t like the idea of listening to a screaming child all night. He practically ripped the car door off its hinges, turning the radio off before promptly grabbing Peter and pulling him out of the car.
“Will you shut the hell up? Your kid is sleeping.” Miguel hissed through clenched teeth, dragging Peter by the collar of his shirt into the house.
“I’m sorry!” He slurred. “Just trying to have fun with my wife, you know, that’s what I was trying to do!”
“Peter!” MJ whispered harshly, aiding Miguel to the bedroom with her intoxicated husband. “Put him on the bed. You getting drunk every time we have a date night isn’t fun for your wife.”
It was tough to see them like that. Miguel knew how much MJ meant to Peter, and vice versa, but he knew they weren’t happy. They hadn’t been happy for a long time. They’d invite Miguel over for dinner, or sometimes host parties and it would always end in one, or both, of them crying about how miserable they were. 
“Gotta stay together for the kid. I know it might not make sense to you since…”
Peter didn’t say shit like that on purpose, but it always made Miguel wanna knock the guy’s lights out whenever he did. The man’s a fucking idiot, Miguel reminded himself.
“Are you staying?” Mary Jane asked, eyes nearly pleading with Miguel.
He sighed, “yeah, yeah I guess I can. I had plans to go home and get a good night’s rest but yeah I can babysit your husband too. Why the hell not.”
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Miguel stayed. Of course he stayed. What else was he going to do? Leave his closest friend’s wife to deal with his bullshit? She was choosing to put up with his nonsense as much as Miguel was, but Miguel had a soft spot for Peter and his antics, even if he sported an irritated face ninety-percent of the time. Beneath that tough exterior, he cared deeply for the guy.
Miguel was curled up in the guest room when Peter sauntered down the hallway to the door.
“Mig,” Peter slurred, jumping Miguel in his bed.
“Jesus, Peter. You scared the shit out of–”
“Sh,” Peter shushed, sitting on the bed next to Miguel. “Don’t wanna wake up MJ.”
Miguel could see Peter’s features through the moonlight coming through the large window on the other side of the room. His eyes were underlined with dark circles and hair sticking out in every direction. Miguel’s eyes traced the outline of Peter’s body, white teeshirt sitting loosely over his frame.
“So you thought it was a good idea to wake me up? Peter–”
“I want a divorce, but I don’t want to do that to May.”
Miguel groaned. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard Peter talk like that, and it wouldn’t be the last.
“You’re drunk. Go to bed.” Miguel grumbled, laying back down and rolling over so his back was to Peter.
“Miguel,” Peter whispered, putting his hand on Miguel’s shoulder.
He tried to shrug Peter’s hand away but the man was persistent. He moved in, curling up behind Miguel and pressing his chest against the larger man’s spine. His arm snaked under Miguel’s arm and around his waist.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m just getting comfy, just relax will ya?” Peter sniffed out a laugh as he cozied up closer behind his friend.
Miguel could feel it, the hard press of Peter's dick against his ass cheek. He tried to ignore it, thinking that drawing attention to it might be more awkward than just letting it go. What Miguel couldn’t ignore, was Peter’s fingers grabbing at the waistband of his boxer-briefs and tugging them down before reaching for Miguel’s to do the same.
“Peter, what the fuck are you doing? Are you stupid?”
“Yeah, but also, really fucking horny, Mig,” he slurred drunkenly. “Be a good friend for me okay? Please?”
Miguel wanted to tell him to stop…didn’t he? This was weird, and it was wrong. MJ was right in the other room, and Peter was his best friend. They’d always been just friends…that’s it.
Miguel heard Peter spit and felt him jerk himself once, and then twice, before sliding his cock between Miguel’s cheeks. Peter couldn’t see the way Miguel was gripping the sheets, nor the way his jaw was clenched so tight he thought his teeth might break.
“I’ve never done anything like this before so do I like…do I just…”
He moved his hips forward, the fat tip of his cock rested against Miguel’s tight ring of muscle. Miguel exhaled sharply, cock springing to life almost immediately with the prod of Peter’s thick head. He tried to relax, making himself more pliant. Peter pushed forward, his wide girth slipping into Miguel’s hole like it belonged there.
“Holy shit,” Peter breathed, feeling his cock throb inside Miguel’s tight ass. “You’re so tight, Mig.”
Miguel couldn’t respond, the feeling of Peter’s cock stretching him out made his brain short-circuit. He huffed out through his nostrils, fingers digging into the sheets as Peter started rocking himself back and forth. The bed creaked, forcing him to slow just a tad, fearful that Mary Jane would find out what they were doing.
Peter’s dick twitched inside of Miguel again, forcing him to choke back a moan. He still didn’t want to tell Peter he liked it. Part of him, despite his friend already being balls deep in his guts, still wanted to pretend that they weren’t doing what they were doing. Miguel’s cock ached, the glossy tip leaking precum all over the bedding. He rutted forward, the delicious friction of the sheets forcing a soft exhale from his lips.
“God, Mig, you like that hm?” Peter asked, his pace still a slow roll into Miguel, body shuddering every time he bottomed out. “I can hear you whining, it’s cute,” Peter laughed.
“Cállate,” Miguel grumbled, trying to ignore how good it felt to have Peter stretching him out like that.
“Oh come on Mig, you…fuck…you like it,” Peter teased.
Miguel didn’t say a word, not wanting to give Peter the satisfaction of thinking he’d won Miguel over. He was still trying to process the fact that his best friend of the last couple years was buried deep in his ass with the man’s wife sleeping just two doors down. Miguel’s talons extended outward, digging into the extra pillow by his head. He pulled it down to his cock, shuddering at the feeling of his slick length brushing against the fabric.
“Y’know if you roll that thing up just right I bet it would feel amazing,” Peter slurred in Miguel’s ear. “Try it.”
Miguel grumbled but eventually conceded to Peter’s idea, rolling the pillow so it had a hole in the middle and stuffing his dick inside. The fucker was right. It did feel good. He breathed out, bucking his hips forward into the makeshift fleshlight.
“You thinking about me, Mig?” Peter’s hips rolled behind Miguel even faster. “You thinking about how good it would feel to fuck my ass? F-fuck, maybe I’ll l-let you try me out next t-time.”
Peter started struggling to speak, breaths coming out in sharp gasps the closer he got to spilling everything he had into Miguel’s tight hole. Miguel felt Peter’s hands digging into the meat of his narrow hips. His thrusts were getting more ragged and sloppy, and Miguel couldn’t shake the delicious feeling of his own cock throbbing and leaking into the pillow the more he fucked into it.
God he felt depraved, happily letting his drunken friend fuck him dumb while he rutted desperately into a damn pillow. Of all the times Miguel had felt self-loathing, this was near the top of his list. Every time Peter’s cock stuffed him to the brim though, he forgot all about it, mind going numb with nothing but the feeling of his asshole getting railed.
“Peter, this is so f-fucking dumb,” Miguel said, still holding on to the smallest bit of dignity he had left, the part of him that felt bad for Mary Jane.
“Sh,” Peter whispered, nails digging harder into Miguel, “I’m so close Mig, please.”
Peter whined in Miguel’s ear, and how could he possibly say no to that?
Giving in, Miguel started moving along with Peter’s rhythm, fucking the hole he made in the pillow like it belonged to a living, breathing human. Miguel’s mind went blank, filled with nothing but the feeling of his aching cock against the fabric while he rolled his hips faster.
“Oh god Mig, do you want me to come in your ass? I can pull out if you want I…oh shit I’m…” Peter didn’t wait for an answer before he felt his cock twitching and shooting hot ropes deep into Miguel’s tight hole.
“Fuck, Parker, for fuck’s sake…”
Miguel lost it, cum spilling out into the stark white pillow while his asshole contracted around Peter’s dick. He’d never had such a strong orgasm before that night, the feeling forcing his entire body to stiffen and shake with every throb of his cock. They laid there for a while, the room filled with nothing but their combined heavy breaths before Peter finally pulled out, leaving Miguel feeling empty.
“Fuck, Miguel,” he whispered, kissing Miguel’s neck once before pulling his sweats back up around his hips.
Miguel didn’t turn around. He didn’t know what he’d do even if he had. It didn’t feel like the right time for post-sex cuddling and a soft makeout session, so Miguel just kept his body turned away from Peter as the man got up and left the room silently. If not for the cum still dripping out of Miguel’s spent asshole, it would be like Peter was never there in the first place.
When morning came, Miguel wasn’t sure what would happen. Would Peter even remember stealing into Miguel’s room the night before? Would he go on as if nothing ever happened? As far as Miguel was concerned, it would be best if they let it go. How could they possibly continue running the Spider Society as partners if they were…doing things in secret behind the scenes? It didn’t make sense. Not to mention…Mary Jane.
She was smiling when Miguel made his way into the kitchen in the morning, the red headed toddler hanging off her shoulders while she made coffee. Miguel and MJ exchanged pleasantries, but Miguel’s aching rear amplified his guilt tenfold. He felt like he should tell the blissfully ignorant wife that her husband had cheated on her the night before.
Then again…Miguel didn’t exactly do anything to stop it.
“Morning!” Peter exclaimed, coming out of his bedroom with a wide stretch and a loud yawn.
“Morning, Peter,” both Miguel and Mary Jane said in unison, turning to face him.
“I’m so sorry if I caused too much trouble last night, I was deeerunk,” he said nonchalantly, walking up behind MJ at the counter and kissing her on the cheek.
While she was turned away, Peter and Miguel shared a glance where Peter looked Miguel up and down.
“I don’t remember much so, I hope I wasn’t a…pain in the ass…”
Miguel gulped. Peter clearly didn’t intend on ignoring what had happened between them the night before, and Miguel couldn’t shake the new feelings he felt stirring inside.
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Miguel O'Hara Masterlist
Main Masterlist
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