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callsign-hexen · 9 months

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Western Skies

Summary: after having dinner with the rest of the Abbott family, you and Rhett enjoy some time together in the field

word count: 4.2K

Warnings: cursing, Rhett being a shy boy around Reader, making out in a field, doing more stuff in a field, dirty talk, oral sex (female), a slight hand job, vaginal fingering, PiV sex in a field, cream pie (reader is on birth control, but wrap it before you tap it, folks), 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI, AFAB reader, no use of Y/N. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: This took longer to make due to procrastination, a summer class, and a bachelorette party weekend. Some of the spicy dialogue is based on things that my boyfriend has said to me. I have PLENTY of ideas, but any suggestions or requests are welcome! Enjoy!

You and Rhett had only been seeing each other for two months. You met him years ago in high school when your family moved to town in the middle of your sophomore year. You never talked, but he admired you from afar, almost as if it were love at first sight. Not quite love at the time, but the feeling that something was here. The pretty new girl in town, the one who was quiet, shy, and would never talk unless someone spoke to you first. Usually, it was somebody asking the age-old question: “Why move here?”. You never really knew how to answer that question, as simple as it was. A small town like Wabang being as boring as it is, especially to a teenager, one would wonder who the hell would want to move in instead of moving out.

The two of you somehow managed to never start a conversation with each other for the rest of your high school years. But you knew of each other’s existence well enough that if someone were to have told either of you news about the other that had been going through the town, you would generally know who they were talking about.

Rhett had kept you in the back of his mind as he went throughout his life in Wabang, even during the whole Maria debacle. He often thought of himself as a creep for it, always thinking about a girl he had never even spoken to. But it felt impossible not to do so as he saw you everywhere. At school, at the rodeos, at the general store that you worked at, he would even see you at church whenever his mother would drag him along with the rest of the Abbott clan.

It would only get worse when you started babysitting Amy a few years back.

There was a time when Amy was small enough to where she couldn’t properly learn to ride a horse yet, and the ranch work got so tough that all of the family would have to pitch in on the fields, even Rebecca. With Amy being too young, they had to have someone watch her while everyone else took care of the ranch. That was when you walked further into Rhett’s life.

He happened to be near the front door as he heard a knock early that morning. He was never told who was going to watch Amy; so, as he opened the door, the last person he expected to see was you. You were wearing an oversized sweater that was long enough to cover your hands to combat the chilly morning of the fall season, jeans, and an old pair of boots that he remembers you wearing throughout high school. He almost froze on the spot, taking you in as you stood on the porch. You look up at him, eyes illuminated by the porch light that was turned on as the sun has just barely risen. “W-what are you doin’ here?” he asked you, finally finding his voice.

You breathed out a small laugh, “Well good morning to you too, Rhett. Your mom and Rebecca asked me to watch Amy while you guys go take care of things, so here I am,” you said. You motioned a request to come in with your hand, he moved aside so quickly he almost trip on the carpet. You stepped inside, taking in the Abbott house. You’ve never been over, let alone inside of it.

“So, how’ve you been, Rhett? I’ve seen you at the rodeos, you’re doing pretty good,” you said as you walked around the living room. Rhett already felt his knees grow weak the second he saw you, but every time you say his name, he felt as if he could fall to his knees in an instant if he heard it one too many times. “You come to the rodeos?” He asked you; it took everything in him to keep his voice from giving away how nervous you made him. He felt as if he were a small child talking to their crush for the first time. “Only every one there is, got nothing else to do at night besides staying at home with a cat,” you laughed as you replied, looking over your shoulder at him as you made your way to the kitchen to meet Cecelia as she put on a pot of coffee.

You continued to watch over Amy for three months, after that you two became so close that she and Rebecca would make regular appearances at the General Store to visit you as you worked. It took one year of that for Amy to finally bring Rhett along. And a few short months after for Rhett to finally get the guts to ask you out.

Amy was over looking at the little toy dispensers at the front, searching in her pockets for a quarter or two. Rhett was with you at the register in the back, leaning against it as you cleaned up to close the store, it was a Sunday afternoon which normally meant to close up early around 5 o’clock. He volunteered to straighten up some papers, flyers, and other little things that lined themselves up at the counter. He looked over at you as you swept the floors. “So,” he started, already thinking that he should stop while he’s ahead to keep himself from embarrassment, “what are your plans this week?” You looked up from the floor as you swept the dirt into the dustpan, shrugging, “I’m not sure, mostly just work here and there. I’ll probably just stay home for a bit until this week’s rodeo.” You went over to the trashcan to empty the pan before putting the broom up. “Do you happen to have anything going on around, say Friday night?” he asked, his guts churning as if someone was trying to make butter out of his intestines.

You looked back at him after closing the maintenance closet, “Well, I think I just have a small shift here that morning, but I don’t think I have anything in mind that night. Why?” Rhett shifted his weight on his feet, looking down at the floor before finally looking up and into your eyes. “Well,” he started, “I was wonderin’, if you had nothing goin’ on that night, if you would want to go grab a drink with me? Just us,” Rhett could barely get his words out. You turn to full face him head on, “Just us?” you asked him. He nods at you almost too fast, too eager; he curses himself internally. “Y-yeah, just us two. You don’t have to, it was just a tho-”

“I would love to,” you said before he could finish. “Pick me up at 8:00?”

He froze in his spot; the best possible outcome has now become his worst fear. Last time he felt like this, he was on the back of a bull for the first time in his life. “Absolutely” he said, feeling a little more sure of himself. You gave him your signature, sweet smile, “fantastic, I’ll see you then!”

The two of you have been inseparable since then. Being with each other every night, out late until the two of you were forced to go back to your respected houses. Two months later, to now, you lay in the pasture. The sun was setting over the horizon, coating the field in a gold hue. It was days like these that you knew you would look back on when things got tough. Just the two of you, and the fields of the Abbott land.

You laid tucked into Rhett’s side with your head on his chest, one of his arms was around you, and the other behind his head which had his hat covering his face. His eyes shut as the two of you laid peacefully, bathing in the sunset. The both of you were laying down on an old blanket that Rhett kept in his truck for these days. The ones where you just enjoyed each other’s company under the fiery skies.

His truck was behind you by a couple of yards. The two of you had finished dinner with his folks just an hour before, your first time having dinner with them as Rhett’s girlfriend. The Abbots aren’t a dressy bunch, so you just wore boots, jeans, and a tank top covered by a flannel. Afterward, he has asked you if you wanted to take a drive and watch the sun set. You could never turn down such a request.

You turned your head slightly, almost shoving it into his neck, breathing in the slight scent of the cigarettes he smoked and the cologne he bought only because he thought you would prefer it. You don’t, but it does smell nice. His hold tightened around you, squeezing you into his chest as he shifted his head towards you. His hat raised just enough for his face to show as he looked down at you. You lifted your gaze up to look at him, into his eyes. His azure eyes shone with a brightness that you could feel almost as strongly as the sun ahead of you. A sea that you could dive in and never wish to return. Your eyes had never seen the ocean in real time before, but if you did, you knew it would rival the one in his. He looked at you, his nose touching yours just slightly. You could feel his breath on your lips, his body heat mixing with yours nearly overheating you in the chilly fall evening. As you stared into each other’s eyes, the heat grew more and more. The both of you could feel your want for each other, looking at your lips in contemplation. You tilted your head, silently asking for him to make a move. Answering your call, he slowly leaned down to you and pressed his lips against yours with you leaning up to meet him.

You two had shared kisses before; when he would come back from riding a bull, when he would get hurt doing so, when he dropped you off at home after a date, when you greeted him outside of the General Store after a work shift, and sometimes when you just felt like it. But this was different. Those were harmless, “I adore you”, “I’ll see you soon” kisses. This, this was full of want.

His hands roamed your body with such tenderness that you felt that if they were any lighter, it would be like he was never there.

Your hands brushed through his hair, knocking the hat further off of his head, combing through the dark blonde strands as your lips covered his in a loving, fiery kiss. The sun had set down a little further, the transition between summer and fall causing a chill through the air, causing you to lean further into his arms. The more this goes on, the more his hands grip your hips, almost forgetting to be gentle. You almost want him to.

He moves your leg over to shift over is hip, you’re almost laying on top of him at this point. His hand slides up to cup your ass as the other is wrapped around your shoulder, keeping you close to him as you moan into his mouth at the touch. He starts to kiss down you jaw to your neck, giving tiny nips at your throat. You gasp at the painful pleasure he gave you. He sits up, taking you with him and shifting you over into his lap completely, your thighs on the other sides of his hips. His arms are wrapped around your back, one hand up behind your neck, holding you in place gently, afraid of taking things too far without your say so. His tongue swipes over your bottom lip, asking for entrance. You let him in, your tongues dance in a battle for dominance. Your hands moved up around his neck, playing with the curls of his hair. His lips moved further down to your collar bone, moving the collar of your shirt down just enough to place his lips just under it to put a hickey where nobody but him can see it. When he was done, he put his hands back around you, and kissed up to right below your ear where you jaw ended. He quickly learned that you liked that as your moans got louder and began to slowly grind your hips into his. You started to feel him getting harder, you reach down to rub him through his jeans, but he stops you. His hands raised up and placed themselves on your back; you could feel his lips move against your ear as he whispered, “We can stop anytime you say, just give me the word. I don’t want you doing something you don’t want to, or something you regret.”

You leaned back to look him in his cerulean eyes, placing your forehead against his. “I could never regret anything with you, Rhett. I want everything with you, anything you can give me I will happily take and give anything in return. I want you”

His arms tightened around you, holding you impossibly close to him. Sliding them down to your hips. You moved along in the rhythm of his hands, fingers still lacing themselves through his hair, tugging slightly at his roots. A low rumble in his throat tells you to pull just a bit harder. He goes back to his previous quest to kissing your neck. You moan as he reaches the right spot that makes your eyes roll back. His hands squeeze your hips as you roll them into his. He sucks a hickey onto your collar bone as he removes the flannel off of your shoulders, down your arms, and lays it on the grass beside you. He raises your top to remove it as well, his lips going further down into your cleavage. He feels like he finally reached paradise, maybe he didn’t get up from the ground that the bull threw him in this past weekend like he thought he did. He’s just been resting until he found his way into his heaven.

As he cups your breasts, he pushes them together slightly to leave kisses down lower and lower. You remove your hands from his hair to reach back to remove our bra, revealing yourself to him.

“Was this your plan, Rhett? Take me out into a field, make me bare as you ravish me fully clothed?” you smirk at him, going to undo the buttons on his shirt. “Isn’t that every man’s dream?” he retorts back, leaning up to place his lips on yours again as he helps you take his shirt off. Your lips reconnect as your hands slide up his chest, feeling his scar on his left shoulder you often wonder how he got it; the best bet was a riding accident. Out of the many he has had over the years. Flush, chest to chest, the both of you feeling each other over and over until you believed that you had a map of each other in your brain to forever keep. He let out a low grown as you pulled his hair again. He grabbed a good hold on you, lifting himself onto his knees, taking you up with him as your legs wrapped around him fully. He leaned over and carefully placed you onto the ground, keeping himself hovering over you.

He looked down at you as you gazed up at him, his hair in his face, lips slightly swollen after the passionate kisses you had shared. He brought one of his hands up to move a few strands of hair from your face, getting lost in your eyes. “The things you do to me, and what I want to do to you,” he said softly, cupping your cheek. You tightened your legs around him, bringing his hips closer to yours as you locked him in. “What is it you want to do to me, Rhett?” you whispered so softly that he was surprised he could hear it. He leaned down to kiss your forehead, your nose, and then finally on your lips again. He then placed his lips next to your ear, “I want to do everything, I want to strip you bare in this field and have you close to me. I want to have you writhe under the sky while you scream my name, we’re so far that nobody could hear you for miles. I want to be inside of you, to feel you.” He moved his kisses down your neck, to your collar bone. “The warmth,” he kept moving down further to kiss each of your breasts and then travelled down the valley. “The wet,” he said as he reached the button on your pants, undoing it as he looked back up at you. “But most of all, I want to hear you beg.”

You helped him slide your jeans from your legs, his lips immediately attacking your inner thighs as they get out of his way and join the rest of your clothes. His hands rubbing up and down your legs; feeling the smooth skin as they wrap around his shoulders, locking him in as he kissed down your inner thighs. He slid his hands up to lay on the dip in your waist as his placed a kiss on your panties, teeth tugging at the fabric lightly. You could feel his breath against your skin, your legs tightened around him in anticipation, his hands tightened around your waist as they slide down to the elastic of your underwear. Hooking his fingers in the band, he began pulling them down as he nipped at your thighs before raising up to hover above you, looking into the depths of your eyes.

You laid bare before him in the grass field on his family’s land, the sun has gone down just enough for the sky to be a dark purple. Becoming dark but you could still see enough to see the loving lust in his eyes as he stared down at you. He brought a hand up to cup your face, his thumb rubbing lightly over your cheekbone before kissing your lips. He traveled the kisses down your body to land him self back down between your legs, finally making his way to where you’ve needed him.

Wrapping his hands around your thighs he pulled you to him; he licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit. You shivered under his touch, your hands moving into his hair. He took his time, methodically moving from licking you to sucking slightly on the bundle of nerves that made you twitch at every stimulation. He closed his eyes and reveled in the taste of you, he could live off of you for the rest of his time here on earth and whatever lies afterwards. You moan loudly as he latched his lips around your clit; sucking and licking like his life depended on it. You pulled his hair as you felt your arousal grow tighter. “You taste so good, darlin’. Fuck, you taste so good,” he shifted one of his hands from your things and inserted a finger into you, going in and out, curling. It feels so different than when you do it. His hands, his fingers, are so much bigger than your small ones. Ever since you first saw them, your dreamed about how they would feel all over you, inside of you.

He went up to kiss your neck again, making his way up to your mouth. You moan into him, silencing your cries. “Let me hear you, baby. What do you want?” he says as he pulls back to look you in the eyes, his finger curling into your sweet spot, quickening his pace. “a..another f-finger” you respond, trying to keep focus as he shifts his thumb to rub your clit with the same pace as his fingers. “You wan’ me to add another finger? You want me to fuck you with my figers before stuffing you with my cock?” He rests his forehead to yours, his breath colliding with yours and in almost kiss. “P-please! Please let me cum!” you almost scream, Rhett laughs lowly as he slides another finger into your quivering cunt. He keeps increasing his pace as you feel yourself getting closer to your climax. Your leg begins to shake a bit as you cling to him, pulling his hair, sinking your nails into his arm. “I can feel you baby, cum for me, scream for me,” he kisses you one last time before reaching a hand to pull your hair slightly, not going too hard in case you don’t like it, but you love it. Your moans grew louder as you feel yourself cumming around his fingers, your cries echoing through the clearing. His fingers continue, but slow down slightly to ride you through your high. You shove your face into his neck, kissing it as you feel his fingers slow to a stop.

You pull your head from his neck, looking him in the face. He stares into your eyes as he slides his fingers out from you, bringing them to his mouth, sucking your juices off of them. He leans in to kiss you, you can taste yourself on him, his tongue. You bring your hang down, feeling him rock hard in his jeans. You help him undo his belt, pulling his cock out, feeling the precum on his tip. He moans at your touch, his grip on you tightens as you rub him. “I didn’t bring anything with me, this wasn’t my immediate plan,” he whispers to you, kissing you softly. “I’m on birth control, and I’m clean,” you whisper back. “So am I,” he kisses you again, running his fingers through your hair.

He disconnects your lips, raising himself to hover above you as he pumps himself a few times. He rubs his tip through your fold one, twice, before sliding himself into your slowly, not wanting to hurt you. You moan as he enters you, adjusting to his size. Once he’s in, he leans back down to you, giving you a second to really adjust to him. He kisses your lips, slipping his tongue into your mouth as your moans mix together. After a minute or two, he begins to move. Slowly rocking in and out of you as you cling to him. He laid kisses down your neck, grunting into you. His hips slowly gaining pace, you moan as you tighten your hold on him. Your hands gripping his shoulders, moving your hips with his. He places his hands on each side of your head, moving one to up your face. “F-faster…please,” you plead softly as you look up at him. He quickens his pace slightly, “need me to go faster? If you want me to do that, you need to speak to me clearly sweetheart,” he says down to you. You can barely think, it’s been so long since you’ve been with someone, especially someone like Rhett. “Please go faster, Rhett. Please”

He lowers himself down to you, his lips touching yours, but not kissing you. Holding you close he says, “say my name, call it out. Let everyone know who has you, who is doing this to you?” He quickens his pace, a hand in your hair and a hand holding your leg to him. “R-rhett! Fuck, Rhett!” you scream, your voice echoing through the field. You grab at his hair, pulling it as he slams into you. You hold each other as you move together. You felt the knot tighten once more, your moans growing louder. His moans grew with yours. He can feel you near your orgasm, his hand going to rub your clit. “Rhett” you started to beg, “cum for me, baby. I can feel you, please cum for me,” he says. You became undone before him, screaming his name into the air, holding him close to you as you shake under his touch. He follows you shortly after, grunting and moaning into your neck. He slows his hips down to ride the both of you through your highs.

You look up to the dark sky, seeing the constellations and the stars that surrounded the two of you. You could only hear your breaths along with the noises of the wildlife around you. The two of you felt so close to each other and the earth, one with nature.

He looks up at you, meeting your eyes. “This isn’t how I planned this, y’know? I was gonna take you out to somewhere nice, do it in an actual bed and not a blanket in a field,” he said softly. You laugh lightly at him, the sweet plan he had for such an intimate time in your relationship. “I don’t know,” you said, “this is pretty nice. A clear night sky, a small chill in the air combatting with body heat. I’d take this over a nice dinner any day.” He laughs with you, kissing you softly as you laid in each other’s arms. You knew that you needed to get up so that he could take you home before you fall asleep here. But you can’t bring yourself to get out of his arms or tell him different. For now, you lay in your peaceful little world to yourselves. The two of you forever, as it should be

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sailoryooons · 1 year

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Obsidian | One | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Yoongi x f. reader

☾ Summary: You remember everything. The first time you radiated at garnet, feeling the power of the jewel rushing through you. Remember the energy pulsing at your command. And you certainly remember the face of the man who ruined your life. Then there’s Min Yoongi, the Chaotic who is the key to your revenge.

☾ Word Count: 10,012

☾ Genre: Urban fantasy, criminal/syndicate, strangers to lovers, angst, eventual smut

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

☾ Warnings: Graphic depiction of death and body dismemberment, a lot of blood, Yoongi is brutally wounded/gutted, near-death experience, traumatic loss of parents, mention of suicide (not actual, but metaphorical), this is pretty blood and gory but not gratuitous? Death of a koi fish rip Agust the I.

☾ Published: April 22, 2023

☾ A/N: Don’t ask me to explain myself. I have no idea what I’m doing and my Aries moon is in full control of me and working me like a robot. This is a series or something I don’t know. I have no plans and no thoughts, just brain rot. Inspired by Jade City by Fonda Lee, the movie Colombiana, the movie Scarface and by my fuck it we ball attitude about writing what I want when I think of it. Also please note that the order of first and last names will be done in Western fashion in this, as this story does not exist anywhere real-world-adjacent and thus, will be first name > last name.❀ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

An emerald Radiant walks into the bar and makes a mess. It sounds like a punchline, but you never hear the end of the joke. Only the hook and the line. No sinker.

Before he arrives and messes everything up is important, though.

Market Town is a mess. Each side of the road has storefronts with open doors, neon and holographic signage blinking on and off with the shitty pulse from the electricity grid. In front of them on the side walks and spilling into the street are the stall vendors, ever-changing and ever-moving sales carts, tables, boxes and people hawking their wares, fruits and trinkets at the hundreds of people who writhe through the market.

It smells terrible. You keep to yourself, all the stink of bodies and rotting fruit and the sizzling fat of meat making your head dizzy no matter which way you navigate. Market Town stretches an entire district, street after street of stores and people and things and it feels like it never ends, the stench of humanity clinging to you like a second skin.

Water crashes down on a man selling lab-grade jewels to a wary-looking mother and daughter. They flinch away from the seller as he sputters and screams, soaked in sweat and whatever liquid has been tossed out an apartment window from above. He cranes his neck up to locate whoever tossed the water - or more likely, piss - out of the window, but he has hundreds of options to choose from from the apartment building that towers behind him. You grimace and step further into the middle of the street. Most of the apartments in Market Town have years worth of failing plumbing, and you have no desire to be showered with piss and shit.

It’s too early in the evening for the lights of the neon advertisements glittering in the air above your head to cast a blinding light on your eyes. Their glow is not yet painted on the surge of people coming and going, but you know by sundown Market Town will be a watercolor of holographic and neon advertisements courtesy of Roanoke Insurance, Jend Cosmetics, and Jura Jura Coffee: Best Brew In Diade.

At least Market Town has sensible advertisements. It isn’t the vibrant horror of naked figures bent over, or the bloody holograph of a man having his brains blown out. Crimson District has no shortage of unique and salacious advertising and the money its businesses generate make the lights and the glow much harder to ignore, even in the daylight. It’s part of why you prefer to scrounge around Market Town like a mangrove rat.

Well, and it’s what you can afford.

Namjoon’s work stall floats around Market Town. Usually, you can find him tucked between Margot’s fruit stand and Len’s divination table. Namjoon likes to nibble on Margot’s sweet strawberries in exchange for fixing the till on Margot’s stand, and Len is an okay stall neighbor when he isn’t so drunk that he’s trying to convince you that the end is near and the world will be swallowed in garnet and obsidian.

That sounds lovely, you always tell him.

Prepare for the end, Len always answers.

The sweet smell of tangerines reaches you through the sizzling smell of frying meat a few stalls over. It’s better than the rank stink of flowers wafting from a stall a few carts over, your head dizzy with the fragrance as you approach Namjoon, Margot and Len.

Margot’s fruit always smells better than any other food set out across tables and bins on the street. You’re pretty sure it has to do with the pretty, green citrine jewel that he keeps tucked away and out of sight and away from any wandering eyes.

You can’t blame him. Even though citrine isn’t high on the Jewel Caste, Market Town is primarily made up of Nulls. They certainly can’t radiate with jewels, but they sell them at a high price to those desperate enough to feel the power of a Radiant. Some even promise to sell jewels that make Radiants Caste Drop to a new, darker and more powerful color.

Only an untrained Radiant would think a Caste Drop is possible through a rock. It’s stupid, really. Anyone who wears or buys jewels openly in Market Town is asking to be robbed and gutted. You’ve even seen as light as a diamond caste get murdered here.

A kindly young man stands in front of Namjoon’s stand. It’s really just a wooden table with a bunch of trinkets, clocks with too many dials, little holographic action figures jumping into different poses, and other wares that run on technology or small engineering. Namjoon prides himself on being the best tinkerer, though you’re willing to bet he’s a lot smarter than that.

Namjoon himself isn’t much older than the man at his table, gesturing to a watch as Namjoon leans over it. Namjoon’s brown hair has grown long, shoved back by a black, cotton strip he has tied around his head to keep it out of the way. He’s dressed in a dirty shirt and canvas overalls, a little bit of grease on his arms. His glasses slide down his nose, lenses fogged with the humidity that collects in Market Town and makes it rot.

A fly buzzes toward you from Margot’s stand. He has his back turned to you, placing little white pricing stickers on his green melons. He's a little portly and very short - especially when Namjoon stands and shakes his customer’s hand. Namjoon is taller than most people, and much broader, his shoulders wide and arms thick, suggesting that he did something else before he became a tinkerer in Market Town.

You don’t know what, though. You can sense the peridot he has hidden in the soles of his boots and the fingertips of his work gloves, giving him power to radiate as he works on his little devices and mending broken objects for people. But you’ve never asked.

Asking questions is the first step to murder in these parts.

When his customer leaves, Namjoon turns to you and blinks his brown eyes at you owlishly, magnetized by his prescription lenses. He’s handsome - a little too handsome by Market Town standards - and he smiles at you, a dimple popping up in his cheek.

“I finally fixed this device for you,” Namjoon says by way of greeting. He digs around in his overall pockets and produces a tiny, silver device that looks like a bullet. “The little battery inside was fried. I put in a new one and replaced the copper plating on the starter. Your wires were totally corroded and-”

“How much?” you ask, a little exasperated. Namjoon will go on forever if you let him, and you need to get to Montana. “I only asked for the battery to be looked at, Joon.”

“No cost. It was a fun little device to look at. Kind of dangerous, though, no?”

“You can’t not charge me. I told you to stop giving people their shit for free.”

His cheeks turn cherry as he scratches the back of his neck. “Fine, what about five nil?” You toss the coins on the table and he passes you the device. “It’s a mini shatterwave, right? The high-pitched frequency scatters the frequency of Radiants?”

You give him an annoyed look. “Yes.”

“Who made it? It’s a fascinating device.”

Instead of answering Namjoon’s question, you pocket the little bullet and toss another five nil on the table. “For silence,” you tell him firmly.

He wants to ask another question. You can see it in his face. Namjoon is always asking you questions about the things you bring to him and ask him for. It isn’t his job to ask questions, especially as freely as he asks them. But Namjoon operates like someone who has no idea that he’s tucked away in the most dangerous market in the Crown Cities.

Nothing Namjoon does is that of someone low born. He’s too polite, gives out too many handouts, and lets his curiosity get the best of him. Lets his clients become friends. You’re fond of him as much as someone of your position is allowed to be - maybe even a little more - but Namjoon is a danger to himself, no matter how often you keep steering him back in the right direction.

“You!” Len leans over Namjoon’s table, his glassy green eyes wide, pupils dilated. His hair is white as salt and sticks up in multiple directions, looking as though he may have been electrocuted and never recovered. He points one knobby finger at you. “The world will end in garnet and obsidian.”

“That sounds lovely, Len.”

You predict the next words. Have heard him say it dozens of times. “Obsidian.”

Len surprises you. That has yet to be a response in your little game of prophecy, and you open your mouth to indulge and ask him what he means when something tingles at the back of your neck.

You pause and glance to the side where Margot is dealing with a customer arguing about the price of squash. A soft breeze rustles the canvas topper to Margot’s stand, carrying the scent of tangerine with it. Something is buzzing at the back of your neck, and your gaze slowly drifts from Margot to a man passing by the cart.

This is someone who blends in. His clothes are plain: his pants are ripped at the knees and scuffed at the bottom, his white t-shirt clinging to his chest in places where he’s sweating through. He has a floral shirt pulled over, open and fluttering in the balmy breezy of the market.

Nothing about him is remarkable, except that he’s beautiful. Perhaps not on the first glance, but when you blink and focus, it feels like you’re seeing him for the first time. You have no idea how upon first glance you thought he could ever blend in.

He has a round face, glowing and pale like the moon. Inky hair that is a little bit dirty, a few wavy pieces falling over cat-sharp eyes. He smirks as he walks, and though he isn’t looking at you, he seems smug about something. You’re not sure what, but as he passes you, you feel that tingle again.

Your eyes dart to all of the places you look for jewels first. Hands, ears, neck, and wrists. Nothing, there’s no jewel on him. You can’t sense a frequency about him that makes sense - he doesn’t fit anywhere on the caste that makes sense to you, but it’s definitely a Radiant-adjacent sensation. He’s on the caste, but you don’t know where.

Most Radiants feel like a dull buzz. When they have jewels, it’s more like an itch that you want to scratch. There is always an attraction for a Radiant to use jewels, even if they don’t belong to them. This feeling isn’t that, it’s more invasive and sharp, not like anything you’ve felt from diamond caste to onyx caste.

When he gets a few yards away, the feeling begins to fade. You start to turn away but he tosses something up and the air and catches it. You narrow your eyes and he does it again, realizing he’s tossing a tangerine up and down.

A tangerine that he stole.

“Hey!” you bark at him, making several people turn in your direction, including Namjoon and Margot. The man doesn’t pause, tossing his tangerine in the air again. “Hey motherfucker! You have to pay for that tangerine!”

That catches his attention. He turns and looks at you over his shoulder, eyes round and mouth parted in surprise. A few people turn to look at where you’re shouting, but you mostly go ignored. Thieves are common here and most people don’t bother to yell at them anymore.

The man pauses for a moment. His gaze darts between you, Margot who is coming around his cart behind you with a knife, and the ripe little tangerine in his hand. He looks at you again, dark eyes glittering. For a second, the two of you are connected, strung together by an unlikely moment between strangers. Then he does the damndest thing: he grins.

And then he’s running down the street, floral shirt snapping in the wind as he dashes headfirst into the crowd.

Like the idiot you are, you take off after him. Suddenly, you are the number one security measure of Margot’s fruit stand, a man who has never given you a fucking discount in your life. You have no idea why you’re running after this tangerine thief, but you feel energy surge through you as you do, dodging people and bodies and things as you tear after him.

The tangerine thief is quick on his feet but you’re fast too, the emerald jewel hidden in your boot sending energy through you. You only radiate a little - not enough to draw too much attention, but enough to not lose sight of his red shirt flapping as he takes a corner and leaps over a stall.

He’s a Radiant, you realize. You suspected when you felt him walk behind you, but the ease at which he vaults a market stall much taller than him gives it away. He isn’t worried about hiding his status from you, which can mean a couple of things.

You don’t consider any of them, going around the stall instead of over. The emerald in your shoe is more than enough to send you several meters in the air, but you like to play your cards close. Don’t like to flash power unless you absolutely have to.

In a market full of Nulls, you prefer to blend in. Unjeweled is safer, especially in Market Town full of thieves and cut throats for naive or unsuspecting Radiants.

Just as you catch sight of your thief again, there’s a loud snap in the market. You look up, seeing a two story stall made from dry-rotted driftwood splinter. There’s a single second where you’re watching the top of the stall holding fresh rain water and it’s crashing down onto the market floor.

Screams ring out as alarmed market goers are startled by the sudden deluge. You just barely throw up a shield of concentrated energy. Water splits once it hits you, a river breaking around a boulder. Chaos ensues, the stall owner screaming her head off and wailing about the precious rainwater she collected to bless with her divine spiritual energy and sell, while shoppers and other stall owners alike are furious about their now soaking persons and wares.

Dropping your shield, you shoulder through the crowd. Now the smell of garbage is wet and pungent, clinging to bodies as you shove through the mess, looking for any sign of the pretty boy and his stolen tangerine.

It’s a mass of colors and people, lanes between stalls and the crowd opening and closing. The movement of Market Town flexes like a living thing, shifting and writhing, a hungry serpent sliding through the streets.

“Fuck,” you growl. It was a well placed distraction and perfect aim, using his power to snap the beam of the stand.

With a sigh, you look down at your watch and curse. You’re going to be late to work. Again. All because you chased down a thief for a fruit salesman that doesn’t even like you.

But that tingle. That sense of awareness that pricked the back of your neck, sharp and lethal. You think about it as you speed walk to the outskirts of Market Town where the edge of the Night Sphinx territory borders the loosely carved strip of streets that belong to the Green Dragons.

The lane of pockmarked pavement between the left and right sides of the street is the only place in Diade where two families of the Armory share such close property. Though the Salib and Park families are friendly enough, it still doesn’t do well to mix too much among Armory families outside of official business.

As soon as you hit the corner, you keep your eye on the other side of the street. It’s lined with clubs and bars and gambling dens that belong to the Night Sphinx organization. A few patrons loiter on the street, but it’s mostly members with sphinx tattoos, brooches or emblems stitched to their clothing to state their association.

The sun is sinking toward its final goodbye, rays of gold light cut in half by the towering buildings of Civ just a few miles away. It’s a beautiful sight, a shot straight down to the lower elevation of the giant buildings turned burnish gold by the sunset.

Even from a distance, the commercial district of the city is imposing, its steel teeth biting upward at a colored sky. You wonder what it must be like to live in that world. To work or live in one of the Civ towers. You imagine you’d have your own little office with a desk and a private window to look out at the world. So high up near the clouds, a god of civilization.

A group of Green Dragons pour out of the door of Montana and onto the sidewalk. It draws your attention away from the shining, ever-golden Civ to the flickering neon sign above a banged-up metal door. It looks like the lock is busted again and you make a note to tell Burro. Not that he’ll get it fixed. It’s not worth the nil to fix anything in Montana, including the mangrove rat infestation brought in by one of the liquor shipments from Blows.

Inside the bar is no better. Sticky floors, wobbling tables with chipped wood and scratched lacquer coating, a single bar with broken stools pulled up to the edge. There are a few holoscreens flickering above the colorful bottles that line the bar, sometimes interrupted by Jungkook’s tattooed hand reaching for bottles.

Montana is rarely busy. It’s a new acquisition fronted by the Green Dragons, though the building isn’t new and neither is the bar. It had been closed for almost fifteen years, a rotted hole of a used-to-be-bar until Jimin opened it up again. He doesn’t intend for it to be a popular place to drink as much as he needs it for Green Dragons operations, but he fixed it up a bit.

As you round the bar to throw your shit in the office, a mangrove rat scurries by your feet, making you screech and jump. Jungkook lifts his head, round eyes sweeping back and forth for danger, hands cocked and fists half-clenched. He catches sight of the rat scurrying into one of the holes in the side of the wall and scowls before nodding in greeting.

So maybe Jimin hadn’t fixed up the bar that much.

If Jungkook is irritated by your tardiness, he doesn’t say anything. You’re just as pleased as you are displeased to discover that Burro isn’t in the bar at all. You suspect he’s down the block wasted in the Green Garter. Instead of asking, you immediately get to helping Jungkook maintain the system behind the bar, which is mostly cleaning vigorously at all times to fight the grime that seems to inch up on the place every hour.

Working with Jungkook is your favorite. He’s a quiet kid with a guarded expression and soft eyes. You don’t ask him much about how he got here or why. Jimin seems to show him the same reverence as when he first found you, so it’s safe to assume that Jungkook is a stray like you.

Even without jewels, Jungkook is tall and broad, his arms thick and strong enough to lift kegs one-armed over his shoulder. You’ve seen him go from quiet and unassuming behind the bar to throwing a jeweled Radiant across the street. You know he has your back. Despite the fact that his eyes sometimes drift to where your emerald is hidden. It’s the only evidence that you have that he’s frequency sensitive, like you.

Jungkook’s energy vibrates somewhere on the light colors. Maybe jade or rose, it’s hard to place him because he wears no jewels.

The sound of some sporting event on the holoscreen buzzes behind you. The murmur of voices is soothing as you work, scrubbing a stain on the bartop you don’t remember being there yesterday. A quick sweep tells you that it’s the usual crowd this evening: Daro who is a smoky jewel sitting at a booth with Rollins and Gia, both emeralds; twins Rin and Maki sitting at the bar with their sharp, matching gazes vibrating at amethyst, and Bolero who doesn’t run with the Green Dragons but has become a regular, the only Null in the building.

Bolero signals for another drink, grey eyes following you. He’s dancer-thin and his face is sharp like a hawk, grey eyes even sharper. He’s always in a long, red trench coat no matter how boiling hot it is. You think you’re going to see him keel over and have a heatstroke one day, but he never does. Just strolls in, pushing his long, dark hair out of his face before sitting down wordlessly at the bar.

You pour him a whiskey neat and slide it over to him. He hums a thank you and turns his attention back to the screen flickering behind you. Bolero never talks, but you don’t mind him. The Radiants ignore him, though they hadn’t at first. You still see Rollins sporting a ropey scar on his hand from learning how much bullying Bolero would take.

Apparently, it was very little.

Most places would have had the Null killed and dragged out for the city sanitation to collect in their once-a-week pickups. To Radiants, anyone who doesn’t have power, who can’t radiate on the same frequency as a jewel, is beneath them. Powerless. Ant, meet boot.

Radiants, you’ve learned, are certainly powerful but not quite intelligent.

“Where’s the asshole?” you ask Jungkook as you close the dishwasher with your hip. Three hours in and no Burro in sight. Not that you’re complaining, but as the manager, he’s usually expected to be around in the event that someone important drops by for business.

Jungkook shrugs, dubious. “How should I know?”

“He can’t keep leaving you alone.”

“I’m not a kid.” You give him a look and his cheeks go pink. “I’m twenty-two, you know?”

“A child. A mere infant. Baby.”

“Ugh.”

“Anway,” you clarify, throwing a rag over your shoulder. “It’s not right. If someone comes in here for Green Dragons shit and Burro isn’t around, you’re gonna be fucked.”

“I can service them just fine.”

“Yeah? Where’s the stash?”

Jungkook smirks and leans against the bar. He’s dressed in dirty pants and a t-shirt he’s patched holes on several times already. His arms flex as he crosses them, cocking his head to the side. His hair is so much longer than it used to be - now it’s wavy and falling into his eyes, sticking to the sweaty skin of his forehead. You want to offer him a haircut, but you don’t want to baby him further.

“It’s in the grate underneath the desk in Burro’s office.”

“Great, and then they’ll flay you alive for not answering in their weird little code phrase.” Jungkook’s smirk falls off his face and you shake your head. “Exactly. Just because you know things doesn’t mean you know all of them, Jungkook.”

“Whatever.”

Jungkook pushes off of the counter and distracts himself by sullenly adjusting the bottles on the bar. You snort and turn back to trying to pry the sparking plug of the freezer out from the outlet to move power sources. Eventually, you feel Jungkook’s presence at your side, making you crane your neck up to look at him.

“So what is the code phrase?” he asks, pout prominent. You roll your eyes and straighten just as the door opens to the bar.

The door swings open with such force that it smacks the wall behind it, doorknob cracking. It draws the attention of the bar, everyone turning in their seats to see the man standing at the entrance. He’s mid-size with wild, blue hair and there’s a messy tattoo of a black cat on his arm. Your eyes narrow and the bar stills at the violent entrance of a Night Sphinx member in front of you, panting and staring directly at Bolero, the only person not looking at the door.

“Can I help you?” you ask, looking back and forth between them.

The Night Sphinx is angry and his energy snaps around him, a crackle in the air. You don’t have to sense the emeralds on him to know where he’s at on the Jewel Caste. He has a single ring on his finger and two modest earrings, not polished jewels but still emeralds all the same.

For a second, the man doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Bolero in a red rage, face purpling with the way he’s panting, fists clenched at his sides. You think he might just pass out, but then he’s pointing a finger at the Null sitting at your bar, sipping whiskey.

“You motherfucker!” His voice is garbled and slurred with liquor. “You fucked my wife!”

“Oh for jewels sake,” Maki grunts, turning away and sharing a roll of her eyes with her twin. “Take him outside and kick his ass then. He’s a Null.”

If being sold out by Maki bothers Bolero, he doesn’t show it. He simply sits there in his heavy trench coat, eyes fixed on the game on the holoscreen. This seems to enrage the man at the door even further. He ignores Maki’s advice and storms into the bar, gathering energy as he goes. The chairs and tables he walks by rattle and slide away from him, the pulse of energy flowing through him as he radiates disturbing them.

No one in the bar moves. Jungkook is transfixed and confused, eyes wide. The Green Dragons in the bar watch with mild interest. Bolero isn’t one of them, and the bar isn’t important enough to pick a fight with one of Salib's men over a Null.

But you’re not looking forward to the cleanup, and you don’t want to explain to Jimin how you did nothing while some Night Sphinx came in and fucked up a patron.

As your hand slides to the small, bullet-shaped device Namjoon fixed for you, Bolero moves. It’s almost too fast to follow the fluid way he stands and spins from the chair. His foot slips under the stool, using the toe of his boot to hook it behind the stool’s leg and he kicks.

The stool flies at the Radiant. He’s a little drunk and slow, but he’s still a Radiant and he reacts with enough clarity to pulse with the jewels on his hand and earrings once, sending a shield of energy around him. The stool shatters against the invisible wall, leaving the intruder unharmed.

Bolero is still fast for a Null though, already flipping a round table over to duck behind it as the Night Sphinx sends a green bolt of energy right at Bolero. It hits the table and singes it, cracking it in half. It’s loud as thunder, your yell going ignored as the two of them wreck the left side of the bar.

This is the ignorance of the Radiants. They don’t care about how destructive they are, storming into places and letting others take damage as they make demands and use force when they want.

Grabbing the scatterwave in your pocket. Bolero is dodging and waving blasts of energy from the man who chases him around the bar, blowing tables and chairs to bits. The other members of the Green Dragons have moved out of the warpath, collected near a booth on the far end of the bar, watching and jeering as Bolero doges a slice of concentrated energy that would have taken his head off.

“Fuckers,” you mutter.

Palming the device you press the top of the scatterwave. The device is small but it lets out a high-pitched sound when activated, sharp enough to disrupt frequencies within a small radius. Its target is the darker colors on the caste, its high frequency enough of a distraction and disruption for Radiants that it makes it harder to radiate.

The reaction is instantaneous. You feel nausea roll through your stomach and your world spins. It’s an earth-shattering noise, your ears vibrating with the force of the whistle. Your vision is blurry but you stumble toward where the two men are fighting, the Radiant bent over with his hands on his ears screaming from the force of the shatterwave.

Bolero is unaffected. He has no frequency to scatter and he takes the shot, leaping at the struggling Radiant with a snarl on his face.

“Not in here!” you screech. “He’s a Salib, you cannot kill him in Park territory. Go somewhere else! Bolero, please!”

Bolero looks at you once, grey eyes full of fire. He has the intruder by the shirt collar, fisted tight as the man continues to thrash against the sound of your device. You think for a split second that Bolero is going to drag him out of the bar and do what you ask. He turns to look at the door, considering it.

He decides not to. A knife appears in his hand and you yell as he stabs downward. You can’t hear the fleshy sound as Bolero sinks the blade in over the wailing of the device in your hand. He hits right between the ribs and up, a solid jab directly to the heart. The Radiant jerks in Bolero’s arms, his death twitch violent as he fists Bolero’s shirt, eyes wide, face aghast. Then he goes limp, sagging as a ragged breath leaves him.

No one moves. Bolero holds the dead man in his arms, panting and looking down at him. They are so close, Bolero’s face right over the man’s and if you didn’t know any better, you might think they were lovers. Bolero slowly crouches down, suddenly gentle as he lays the dead body on the ground, hands hovering over him.

You press the top of the shatterwave and it goes silent as it can with the high-pitched ring in your ears as you try to recover. You’re a little unsteady on your feet, pressing your hand against the bartop to keep your balance. A sharp pain behind your eyes signals an oncoming headache.

“What the fuck?” your voice sounds foreign and strained in the ringing quiet. “Are you fucking serious?”

Bolero rises, pulling the bloody knife with him. He wipes it on his pants and flips it in his fingers artfully. Familiar with blades, you note. He half turns to you and glances around the destroyed section of Monatna before he looks back at you and shrugs.

“Maybe you didn’t notice, but he was trying to kill me.”

“I don’t give a fuck. You kill people outside of this bar. You aren’t permitted to kill here.”

“Montana doesn’t protect its patrons?”

“Montana protects Green Dragons,” you clarify with a hiss.

You feel your fingers twitch. The familiar urge to radiate rises. It’s a natural instinct, to want to reach for the power that is right there on the edge of your mind all the time. You feel the emerald in your shoe. You imagine it beckons you, wiggling its fingers, begging to be used.

You ignore it, pointing a finger at Bolero. “You fucked up and you know it. What the fuck am I supposed to do with a dead Night Sphynix?”

“Tell the Salib’s he attacked first.”

“You’re a Null asshole, it doesn’t matter that he attacked you first. You’re not fucking one of us.”

Something passes over Bolero’s face when you say it. Offense, you think. It’s there and gone so fast that you think you imagine it. You only feel a little guilty that he thinks you mean not a Radiant. You really mean not one of the Green Dragons but it doesn’t matter, in the end.

He pulls his phone out. “My boss will pay for the damage and deal with the Salibs.”

“Unless your boss is Jimin fucking Park, that doesn’t really matter.”

Bolero holds the phone up to his ear. You watch as he smirks a bit, shrugging. “Nah, but don’t worry about it.”

“Oh I’m fucking worried about it,” you snarl. Jungkook is watching wordlessly, mouth parted slightly. “Call Jimin,” you bark at him, making him flinch. You immediately soften your voice. “Sorry, just - call Jimin.”

With a bow of his head, Jungkook grabs the phone and dials.

Jungkook starts murmuring quietly when Jimin - or an assistant, more like - answers the phone while you let yourself into the back and lock the backdoor for security before returning to the front. Bolero is sitting at the bar waiting, the dead Night Sphinx behind him. Red is beginning to pool around him, almost black against the dirty floor of the bar.

Heading to the door, you throw Gia a look. “Watch the bar,” you grunt. “Unlike you did when that fuck stick walked in here and ripped the place apart.”

She looks down her nose at you, eyes narrowed. Gia is terrifyingly beautiful, standing nearly a foot taller than you and built with wiry muscle. Her silky, black hair is braided out of her face, elegant and carved like one of the glass angels sold in the art district. Her eyes are the same color as her jewels, a stunning emerald that flashes in annoyance at your command.

Gia nods once instead of arguing. The other Green Dragons behind her have the decency to look ashamed. While they aren’t heavies dedicated to protecting the Park family assets, they are low-level lackeys who could have prevented half the bar from being blown to bits by a Radiant. Especially the two amethyst caste twins who look at the wall blankly realizing what's going to happen now.

Instead of stopping the Night Sphinx, they all stood there with drunk stares and half-tilted grins. Jimin won’t like it and they know it. It doesn’t matter that Montana isn’t an integral operation to the Green Dragons. It’s about pride and respect. The fact that a drunk, emerald caste man under the flag of the Salib family stumbled into Jimin’s bar, destroyed the place and then was killed by a Null is going to set Jimin off.

So you find a target to direct his anger at.

Burro is slouched down on a leather couch at the Green Garter, exactly where you expect him. He doesn’t see you coming, the scattered green and white lights from the stage refracting and splitting into dozens of beams shining in his eyes as he stares at the topless woman on stage. There’s hardly anyone in the club and only a few people look startled when you grab him by the collar and yank him from the booth.

Security at the door and near the strange straighten up. The girl on stage keeps moving, lithe movements carrying her away from where you lift Burro up, fingers digging into his shirt enough to rip. He smells like grain alcohol and sweat, the stubble on his face indicating that he may have slept in the club.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Come on,” you snarl at him, shooting daggers as one of the security guards steps in your direction. You let yourself radiate just a little, enough to give out a steady hum that even the lightest on the Jewel Caste can feel the sensation of an emerald jewel. He backs off immediately despite the fact that you can see and sense the amethyst pieces drilled into his pale knuckles.

But there are two things that stop him: emerald is close enough to amethyst that a good Radiant can fuck up someone who is only a little darker than them on the Caste, and you’re a Radiant under the protection of the Park family, specifically Jimin, who owns the club.

As much as it annoys the man whose job is to protect the dancers and the patrons, if you want to beat the shit out of Burro on the shitty green carpet in front of everyone, he has to allow it. You’re one of Jimin’s favorite little Radiants and everyone knows it, especially on this strip of road.

No one stops you as you drag Burro out of the bar. His feet slide on the stained carpet, trying to find purchase as he yanks at your hand, shouting obscenities at you with his reeking breath. Your grip is iron, and you throw him as hard as you can once you’re back onto the sidewalk. He hits the ground hard, shoulder cracking against the street.

Burro yells and rolls over, curling into himself. You fight the urge to kick him a few times, your wrath waiting like a coiled snake to strike out and punish him for being such a burden to deal with. You leave him in a fetal position, storming back into the bar to throw a couple of nill on the table for the drinks and a heavy sum more on the stage for the girl’s trouble. She winks at you, pretty enough to make you flush and spin on your heel to get back outside where Burro is still laying on the ground.

Most of the time, you don’t bother. Burro is technically your manager and your superior. He’s an asshole and a waste of the Green Dragon's salary, which is why Jimin stuck him behind the bar, a punishment as much as a favor to Burro’s father who is a mid-ranking heavy in the Park family’s retinue. It’s as good as his son is willing to get for an emerald caste who is lazy and spends most of his days gambling, ogling at naked bodies, or wasted in a booth with Rollins.

Even so, most days you let him yell at you. Throw curses your way. Drone about how shitty of a bartender you are - which is true - like a gnat that won’t leave. He’s harmless on good days, annoying on bad days, and he’s too afraid to retaliate in rare moments like this when you shove him into his ill-fitting role.

“Get up,” you spit at him. You have the urge to crush his fingers that are spread out on the sidewalk. You think the loud crunch beneath your boot might be satisfying. You don’t, though. “Bolero just killed a Night Sphinx in the bar.”

“Swhwat?”

You growl as he slurs, slowly pushing himself to his feet. You think he might have been handsome once. He has the making for it, but his days knocking back grain alcohol have weathered him. You see the early signs of Alloy addiction all over his face, scabs picked raw, leaving behind dark scarring, the track marks in his arms when he wears short sleeves.

Raucous noise reaches you from a group of Night Sphinxes watching your exchange. Their laughter and whistles echo across the street, backed by the loud hum of shitty neon and the now very bright and flickering holographic display ads spinning in windows. This is a nice show for them, you’re sure. Everyone on this edge of Market Town has seen Burro get his shit kicked, though usually not by you.

“Get up, you’re embarrassing yourself.” You start marching back to Montana. “You’re needed at the bar. You know, the place you manage.”

He mutters something behind you as he manages to get to his feet, tilted and tripping. You don’t catch what he says, eyes fixed on the sleek car that sits parked right in front of the door at Montana.

The road here isn’t really built for cars. It’s full of cracked faultlines and potholes, but Jimin has opted for a sharp-looking SUV with green LEDs running down the side and a little metal dragon on the grill. Not his personal car, but a business class that is no doubt reinforced with bulletproof windows and shatterwave tech.

There are four men standing around the car, dressed in pressed suits, each with a dragon brooch pinned to the front. They nod when you walk by and you keep your eyes low, feeling the different colors as you pass by: amethyst, sapphire, emerald. They have jewels drilled into their knuckles and some of their teeth, earrings of polished stone, and necklaces set with their respective caste colors.

Walking around with that much power is safe enough for them, but it makes your skin itch. Thinking of all that energy just waiting to be tapped into, waiting for them to radiate. The urge to reach for the power just a few feet away lessens as you walk inside of Montana.

Inside is a vision. Jimin’s loyal group of Green Dragons sit together in a booth, silent and heads down. Maki glances up for a split second as you come through the door, anger twitching on her face before she looks back down at the table in resolute silence, her curtain of black hair hiding her scowl.

Good. She could have used her fucking amethyst to wipe the now dead man from the map and not suffered a consequence under Jimin’s protection. And yet there you are, walking slowly toward the scene of the crime.

Jungkook is standing behind the bar chewing on his lip, hands linked behind his back as he watches the two men in front of him conversing. Bolero smokes a cigarette on the same stool he was on earlier, eyes fixated on the holo once again. The dead man is still very dead, Jimin’s men spread out around the bar to assess the damage.

Jimin is one of the two men speaking at the bar in front of Jungkook. Jimin’s dressed sharply in black dress pants and a matching black, tailored jacket with emerald buttons and a beautiful dragon broach set with emeralds and jade. His arms are crossed as he listens passively, dark hair slicked back. There’s a single dangling earring in one ear, a teardrop diamond at the end.

Jimin Park is one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. He reminds you of a dangerous jungle cat. His eyes are sharp, shadowed by a full-fan of dark lashes, cheeks round and soft in contrast to his elegant jawline. He smiles at something the man he’s talking to says, full lips rosebud pink.

Your eyes drift to the man talking to Jimin and before you can think twice about interrupting them, you’re yelling, “You!”

Both of the men jerk their heads in your direction. Jimin’s brows shoot up and he shakes his head as if to ask what the fuck? But you’re too distracted by the other man, who grins at you as soon as he realizes who you are, adjusting his floral shirt as he turns to face you head on.

You get a better look at him now and you’re angry to discover that he is still just as stunning as he was in the middle of the Market Town stalls. His hair is pushed back out of his face more, eyes twinkling as they drag up and down your frame. He wiggles his fingers at you in a wave.

“You can’t just steal tangerines!” you bark at him suddenly.

“What?” Jimin asks. He frowns and looks between the two of you. “I’m sorry, do you know one another?” The man says ‘no’ at the exact same time you say ‘sort of’ which makes Jimin’s jaw tick, patience waning. “Well? Which is it?”

“Seen her once,” the man admits. “But I don’t know her. She chased me through the streets of Market Town today like a lunatic. I think she took one look at me and fell in love.”

Your jaw drops. “You stole fruit from Margot’s fruit stand motherfucker! It had nothing to do with your good looks.”

“So you admit I’m good-looking!”

A failed attempt at a response comes sputtering out of you. You stop and start your sentences multiple times, trying to come up with a wicked riposte to his ridiculous insinuation that you think he’s attractive. Which you do, especially when he gives you a full, shit-eating gummy grin.

“Enough,” Jimin snaps in your direction. “Wait with Jungkook, I’ll deal with you later. And don’t interrupt me again, got it?”

You bow deeply at the command. You feel hot all over, an unpleasant mix of shame and something else that you can’t place for “Yes sir. I apologize for my outburst.”

Jimin turns away from you and back to the tangerine thief, leaving you to rush behind the bar to stand next to Jungkook while you stare at the two of them.

You have no idea who this man is. You’ve never seen him in the bar with Bolero, though it’s possible he’s come in when you’re not working. It isn’t likely, since there’s only one additional bartender besides you and Jungkook, but you can’t possibly imagine how this man is important enough to look Jimin in the eye when he speaks.

Jungkook gives you a head tilt and doe eyes. You shake your head, opting instead to study the object of your irritation rather than explaining. He doesn’t ask any questions but you can see the way he shifts back and forth, unsure of where to focus his energy.

As one of the family members in the city’s Armory, Jimin is one of the highest-ranking citizens in Diade. Though the Green Dragons are on the bottom of the totem in the Armory, Jimin ranks higher than most of the city by being the son of his family’s leader.

The man speaking to Jimin looks at him directly in the eyes as an equal. He is a hairsbreadth taller, but his gaze and tone are steady and respectful. There is no air of superiority between the two of them, making you wonder where exactly this smug man falls on the spectrum of city authority.

Each face of the Armory is familiar to you: the Parks, the Manobals, the Salibs, the Achilleos’ and the Kims. This man belongs to none of them and yet Jimin listens to him calmly, nodding his head at whatever the man is saying. Jimin’s arms are looped behind his back and he is poised as ever, even making a joke or two as they exchange words in hushed tones.

In Diade, the ruling family syndicates are the ultimate power. Jimin’s family owns the territory to the southeast, the Salib’s directly to the north, the Manobals to the west. You stick to Park territory only, always mindful of where each Armory boundary lies.

Despite Jimin’s favoritism, you’re not a high-ranking member of the Park family’s Green Dragons. Jimin thinks you’re useful enough though, and has a soft heart for strays. Jungkook is proof enough of that as you are, two little sources of information and loyalty in his personal pocket.

You work for Jimin, not his mother.

The respect that Jimin shows the tangerine thief leads to a few possibilities of who he could be. Under the rule of the Armory, there are other smaller and less organized gangs. The Circles are not particularly powerful and still concede to the Armory, but they range from loose bands of idiots and thieves to highly organized factions. There are dozens of Circles in the city, but only a few are powerful enough to earn a smile from Jimin Park, the prince of the Green Dragons.

Chewing your lip, your mind runs through a list of possible Circles this man could rank high enough in to matter. White Fang has always worked with the Green Dragons well. Their members can sometimes be found hanging out in Montana with tight if not overly polite smiles while they conduct business. While White Fang answers to all of the families of the Armory as a collective governing body, they are particularly fond of the Parks.

There is little chance that the tangerine thief belongs to the Midnight Sun. As the largest and most powerful Circle, they are only allied to the Kim family. Dangerous for any Circle to declare allyship to only a single governing body, but the Kim family sits at the top of the food chain. Being protected by Yujun and his son Seokjin have its strengths.

Your vision blurs when you think of the Kim family. Seokjin’s beautiful smile, the way his inky eyes glitter. He remains the most eternal person you’ve ever laid eyes on, and one of the most charming. Funny, smooth talking, intelligent.

But Seokjin is a snake. A beautiful thing that can fool you into a false sense of security before striking and sinking his fangs in deep.

Nausea unfurls in your stomach at the thought of him. You blink a few times, willing away the memories of him and his high-pitched laughter and anything else to do with him. Jimin shakes the man’s hand in front of you. It draws your attention to where their hands meet. Jimin’s hand is small and delicate in the large hand of the tangerine thief. A man who was raised with privilege and a man you suspect made his own.

“I’ll be back,” Jimin calls. You realize he’s talking to you and you bow. He turns his attention to the group of his gang members sitting at the table, waiting for their punishment. He whistles at them, calling them like dogs. “With me.”

You can’t help but feel a little smug as they jump up, tangled over one another to get out of the booth as fast as possible to follow Jimin toward the front door. None of them look at you or Jungkook, chins tucked to their chest and eyes on the floor. At least they’re good dogs who know when they’re going to be punished.

“Hello again.”

The tangerine thief is leaning on the bar. Up close, he smells like sandalwood and a hint of sea salt. It isn’t unpleasant, but you grimace all the same. There are bracelets on his wrist, but no jewels. The prickling, needle-like sensation comes back, right at the back of your neck.

“Jungkook, can you start cleaning up?” You ask. He nods and dashes away, giving the stranger a single nervous glance as he joins the security members of Jimin’s team cleaning up.

They pick up the body and carry him through the bag on Jungkook’s guidance, dripping blood the entire way. Bolero doesn’t even glance as they pass him, still transfixed by the holoscreen.

“Why did you use a shatterwave?”

Your eyes drift back to the man in front of you. Up close, you notice that his skin is flawless. He has a shine and glow to him of a healthy Radiant, and yet you’re not sure how to place him on the caste. You know he’s a radiant from his escape methods in Market Town, but you’ve never had this much trouble placing someone on the caste. “What?”

“The shatterwave. Had to hurt you too, I imagine.”

“Well no one else was going to do anything,” you answer, skirting his assertion that you’re a Radiant. “It didn’t hurt that bad. I’m a Light Radiant.”

He raises his brows. “Oh, you’re a liar.”

“About some things, sure. I can’t take on an emerald caste, though. So I used a shatterwave.”

“There’s an emerald in your boot.”

You grit your teeth. He doesn’t make sense. The needling feeling only increases as he cocks his head, scanning you from head to toe. His pout turns into a smirk and there’s something heated in his gaze that makes you squirm as you shift back and forth on your feet, trying to place him.

Sensing jewel frequencies outside of the jewel you radiate most with is difficult. Energy is a fickle thing, and though you can feel the buzz of every color of jewel around you, most Radiants can’t. They can only sense what jewel they vibrate on the same frequency as, though trained Radiants can sense their assigned jewel and lighter.

This puts the tangerine thief at emerald or darker. If he can sense the emerald in your shoe, it means he can use it. Unless he is a rare case like you and Jungkook, who are frequency sensitive. But he doesn’t feel like emerald and he doesn’t feel like he sits darker at garnet and onyx.

You shiver remembering what onyx feels like, an oppressive and demanding thing.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I lied,” you offer. You can keep skirting the topic of the emerald in your shoe, but he already knows it's there.

He chuckles. It’s raspy and soft as a whisper. There’s no doubt he’s used to the effect he has on people. It reminds you a little of Seokjin and you feel skittish.

“No, I’m sure you are quite the liar.” He leans in a little bit. “I’m Agust, by the way.”

Schooling your features is hard. Out of all of the Circles that crossed your mind that he could belong to, you never considered Black Lotus. It makes sense, you suppose, that Bolero belongs to the Black Lotus. It’s one of the few Circles in the city that not only accept Nulls in their ranks, but encourage it. A little oasis for Radiants and Nulls alike to claw their way to the top from the bottom of the barrel.

My boss will pay for the damage and deal with the Salibs. You think of Bolero’s comment, realizing why he was so confident. His boss is the leader of the Black Lotus, a chaotic thorn in the Armory’s side who walks around the Crown Cities undermining authority where he can.

Agust smiles, pride bleeding through when you recognize his name. He’s a little notorious for the destruction of three Circles associated with the Kim family and for donating thousands of nil to squatters in Blows. A violent killer with a soft spot for charity. Strange, and not quite as heroic as some seem to think it is.

Instead of saying anything, you busy yourself with folding rags, feeling the way of his gaze. Agust is pretty with a soft edge to his face and a charming grin. There’s a confidence about him that draws the eye, and yet he can blend in just like he did at Margot’s fruit stand. He is both sides of the moon, light and dark, switching whenever it suits him.

Again, he reminds you of Seokjin and your heart squeezes as you take a step away from him.

“Well, I hope you have a great evening, Agust.” It's dismal. Polite, but an end to the conversation nevertheless.

He isn’t swayed. “What, no name?”

“Do you need it?”

“I’d like it. Is it as pretty as you are?”

“Your flattery isn’t welcome here.”

“Then what is?”

You glare. “The money for Margot’s tangerine.”

Agust chuckles again and shrugs. You expect him to walk away or volley back with a riposte but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the nil that Margot is owed and sets them on the counter, the silver coins clinking against the wood. He leans against the bar again, hand cupping his chin as he looks up at you.

“This cover me?”

You swipe the coins off the bar and sniff. “I suppose.”

“I like you. How about I call you Montana, hmm? Since you won’t give me a name, I’ll make one for you.”

Instead of looking at him directly, you busy yourself with moving around the syrup bottles in their plastic bin. “You don’t have to call me anything.”

“Or Garnet?”

For a second, you stare at your hands before slowly dragging your gaze to him where he watches you, feline-eyes glittering. That pinprick feeling returns sharper than ever. You’re a mouse caught under the watchful gaze of a hungry cat.

There are only a handful of people in the world that knows you sit on the second darkest color of the Jewel Caste. One of them is outside giving his gang members the lashing of a lifetime, one of them is sitting in a luxurious home in Aria and the other is no doubt watching cameras on the casino floor of Kaiju.

Sweat gathers on the back of your neck. You think about the first time you radiated at garnet, the power so raw and rich that you were almost drunk on it. You were just a kid, untrained in how to syphon energy that volatile. You’d become sick right after, taking too much too fast and completely unaware of how to channel all that energy.

The Kim’s had helped you find a way. And then used it to their advantage, a little girl with no one else to count on with all that power just waiting to be directed.

You refused to ever be used for your place on the Jewel Caste ever again.

“Say it again,” you murmur, voice low. Your hands open and close and you feel the emerald surge in your boot. Agust is either onyx or frequency sensitive, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve gone head to head with darker than you before. “I dare you.”

To your surprise, his smile is sad this time. There’s a moment you think you see understanding. Compassion. Something soft. Then it’s gone and he gives you a brief nod before pushing away from the bar, running a hand through his hair. You don’t move, muscles locked and primed to lash out, to grind him to dust if you have to. You don’t have a garnet, but you don’t need it. You can do just as much damage with an emerald, regardless of whatever color he is.

“Put the claws away, your secret is safe with me.” He nods to the pool of blood on the floor. “You have my apologies for the mess. Black Lotus will handle the fallout. Tell Bolero if any of those Night Sphinx fucks give you any trouble. You have my word I’ll pay my debt.”

“What debt?”

He jerks his thumb at Bolero. “You saved his worthless ass.” You don’t disagree but you say nothing. He lingers for a second, looking you up and down. Something passes his face that makes your heart speed up a little. “I mean it. Call if you need.”

“I won't.”

He grins. “Bye, Montana.”

When Agust turns to leave, Bolero gets up and goes with him. When the door shuts, it’s just you and the sound of Jungkook and Jimin’s men putting the bar back together.

No one can hear how loud your heart thunders.

THE JEWEL CASTE (from least to most powerful)

Light Caste

Diamond Citrine Aquamarine Jade Rose

Mid Caste

Peridot Topaz Turquoise Ruby Smokey

Dark Caste

Emerald Amethyst Sapphire Garnet Onyx

THE CHAOTIC CASTE (in general, from least to most powerful)

Opal Quartz Tourmaline Carnelian Obsidian

GLOSSARY

Alloy - A drug that allows radiants to lift frequency for a temporary amount of time and meld with a jewel they cannot normally radiate with. Caste Drop - When someone drops a color on the Jewel Caste and vibrates at a higher frequency Circle - Lower gangs who are not in the Armory Dark Radiant - Those who vibrate at the low-colors and high frequencies Jewel Caste - The order of least to most powerful vibrational jewel frequencies Light Radiant - Those who vibrate at the lighter colors and lower frequencies Mid Radiant - Those who vibrate at the mid-colors and medium frequencies Null - Those who don’t vibrate at the same frequency as the jewels and cannot radiate Radiant - Those who vibrate at the same frequency as the jewels and thus can radiate Shatterwave - A type of device that lets out high-frequency sounds to shatter Radiant frequencies in a certain radius Unjeweled - A radiant who doesn’t have any jewels on them to help radiate

#yoongi smut #suga smut #suga fanfic #yoongi fanfic #suga bts #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #bts fanfic #mafia yoongi #minors do not interact #minors dni

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curiositydooropened · 1 year

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Better Off - Part Two

Four years since Argyle's wedding, Robin invited you and the gang to her boss's lake house. Hoping good memories will be made, you're forced to wrestle with some ghosts of your past.

This fic runs in the same Universe as My Whole Life, Too.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader, Eddie Munson x Reader

Wordcount: 14,132

Warnings: second chance romance, angst, fluff, sex and sex adjacent (minors DNI, thanks!), recreational drinking and drug use, mentions of pregnancy and parenthood, mentions of the loss of loved ones

Navigation • Masterlist • Part One

---

Your gaze blurred on ribbons of gold and ivory, stretched and pulled and flipped as a man in candy stripes worked his taffy on its puller. The air smelled sticky sweet of vanilla and lemon and warmth, and you bundled tighter into your sweater with each burst of cold air and ding of a bell at the door.

Another worker with rolled sweets pressed and smacked them onto the countertop, the scattering of beads pulling your focus and stirring you from your daze. She offered a sample with a kind smile, and you thanked her before popping the sticky sour drop into your mouth.

It ached at the stress sore just between your teeth and molars, but you supposed you deserved the slight agony. With a sigh, you dropped your shoulders and allowed Robin to shove you gently back to the cobblestones streets, the outside air a misty chill. Large, grey clouds loomed in the distance, the forecasted storm apt weather for your current state of mind.

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” Robin groaned for the four hundredth time that day.

You managed to plaster on a smile, though you could feel the dishonesty behind it, and gave her a hand squeeze. “Shut up, please.”

“Yeah, Robin, we’re fine,” Nancy agreed sidling up on her other side, that special Nancy-Wheeler-determination etched between her brows. “All of this shit needed to be aired out anyway. You just facilitated it.”

Robin rolled her eyes. “That makes me feel so much better.”

You shrugged. “I’m glad it’s all coming out now, when I have you two for support.”

Nancy’s facade nearly broke then, the glimmer of emotion in her eyes, but she gave a curt nod. “Me too.”

Robin groaned and started back on your path down the western side of the road. This little lakeside town was full of antique shops and souvenir stores. Every store had something you liked, in a black or navy, or in a Devil red or forest green, smoked charcoal or honeyed yellow. You’d given up a few stores ago now, understanding the Universe was just mocking you.

Other than the looming storm clouds and the lingering guilt from the night before, you supposed you were having a lovely, if not much-needed girls day. In any other scenario, you’d be delighted to walk such a pristine little village, smelling the early summer buds and tasting at each little eatery along the route. Plus, the company was ideal.

“Robs, I’m coming to visit you immediately, I hope you know,” you linked your arm with hers and fell into step. “You’ll never see me because I’ll spend the entire trip holed up in a bakery, elbow-deep in baguettes, but I’ll be there. You’ll teach me French?”

“Bien sûr,” she snickered, tugging you into a vintage clothing shop.

The window display had a little black dress á la Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and the place smelled of mothballs and rose-scented perfume. It reminded you a bit of your grandmother, on your mother’s side. She had an oversized hatbox that was passed down to you, chock full of love letters from soldiers in the war.

A similar hatbox sat near the register, pale pink and pressed satin, and you jimmied the top off to see if any secrets lay inside. No love letters, but a collection of multicolored silk scarves. You pulled one from the top, white with thin, navy Breton stripes and tied it around your neck. “What do you think, Robin? Will I fit right in?”

Robin abandoned her post near an oversized button bin, hands already full, and waggled her eyebrows, dropping her haul to the countertop. “It’s perfect,” she chuckled, caressing it between her thumb and forefinger.

You watched her blue eyes scan your features, smile softening, and eventually her padded shoulders dropped in a sigh.

“You can’t run away to France with me.”

You smiled at that. “Why not?”

She shook her fringe from her eyes. “Eddie’s not mad at you, you know.”

You swallowed, nodded. “I know. I’m still going to apologize.”

“And for what it’s worth,” she dug through the box in front of you, avoiding your gaze. “Steve did love you, maybe does love you.”

You sighed and untied the scarf around your throat, suddenly suffocated by the stuffy air in here. “Steve loves the idea of me.” You pinched at the bridge of your nose, remembering you were talking to his best friend too. “I just mean… I don’t think it’s fair to start something again when I can’t be certain how I’d like to finish it.”

Robin nodded. “I can appreciate that stance. It’s very… mature.” She commented with the flair for dramatics that would put Eddie to shame, pulling a rose-covered scarf from the box with a flourish and tying it around her head.

You snorted.

“Guys,” Nancy’s voice was so meek from the corner of the room, you barely recognized it. When you turned, she was holding the world’s smallest knit sweater, navy blue with a great white whale, and she was crying.

—

You recognized the calm from ten years of coastal living. That sweet, soft lull in birdsong, the electricity in the air. Clouds blackened the sky, and off-shore docks groaned under whitecaps’ wake. You stood in your room, looking out the tiny window at the billowing tops of trees, fingers idling at the satin ribbon around your neck, Robin’s treat. You couldn’t focus in the silence, only hearing the thrum of your heart against your ribcage. You could sense Eddie in the room next door, could feel smoke and anxiety attached to a string around your finger, reminding you of the atrocities you’d enacted. Calm before the storm.

With a deep breath and a decided snap of tension, you toed out of the room, floorboard creaking with each step toward atonement.

Only, Eddie’s room was empty, door wide, belonging strewn about like he’d moved in. His window was bigger than yours, curtains drawn and window cracked. A cool breeze whipped around your knees, billowing the soft chiffon of your skirt. You sighed and crossed, moving a handmade ashtray from the window sill to the side table. A well-loved copy of A Wizard of Earthsea sat beside the lamp, dog-eared to all Hell.

You tugged the window down and latched it when something glinted to the North, catching your eye.

From this vantage, you could just make out the tip of the dock, and the boat in its mooring, rocking mercilessly back and forth. You cursed and turned heel to find Steve waiting in the doorway, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes turned up at you like he’d been waiting and didn’t know what to say.

“Did you guys wind the boat up?” You asked before he had a chance to speak.

He opened his mouth, brows furrowed, and that was enough of an answer to have you shoving past him and down the staircase to slip into your sneakers and out the front door.

“What are you-?” Robin called out from her cozy spot on the sofa.

You waved her off with a “Be right back!” and let the slap of rubber to wood lead you down the winding staircase, past the patio and fire pit, and to the end of the dock. Halfway there, you heard Steve calling after you, heard his curses, the distinct thud of his own feet on your tail.

The boat swayed under its awning. Steve’s voice was lost on the wind. Waves thrashed against rocky shores.

“Hold that steady!” You called after him, pointing to the bow, and he rushed as instructed, wind whipping at auburn hair, the navy collar of his polo.

The boat had been placed under the dock, tied to a safeguard by a tight rope, but you knew that if it wasn’t cranked upwards and out of the water, the metal casing surrounding it could cause some serious damage, depending on the intensity of the storm. And, as you put all of your strength and effort into cranking the oversized metal wheel, the storm began to show you just how intense it could get.

Wind rushed between your legs, stretched wide for leverage, slicking your skirt to your thighs as the sky opened up and rain began to pour. A deluge of oversized drops, ice cold, that trampled your hair and soaked your skin, slipping your fingers from their handhold. You cursed, but Steve was right there to help, hair stuck to his temples, biceps flexed as he cranked the boat upward and out of the water.

You hated that you couldn’t look away, frigid wet to the bone, standing between Steve and the house, waves spraying the shoreline, unmoving as he stared back at you, blinking away rainwater, licking it from his lips.

A crack of thunder startled you both, and you ran, slipped on the wet floorboards of the dock to be caught in strong arms, hands that gripped your cardigan at your waist line and pulled you in close, warm, led you to an abandoned beach hut to wait out the storm.

The space was musty and dark and damp, and you were uncomfortable under skin-slicked clothes, pressed against a splintering wooden bench with molding life vests in neon orange. Steve hovered over you, breath heavy in his warm chest, droplets from his hair shaken into your eyelashes and across the tops of your cheeks. His hands remained on your waist, a tether, a buoy, anchoring himself to you and you to the ground for each roll of thunder from above.

Rain pelted the tin roof too loud to hear the racing of your heart, too loud to hear your own anxiety screaming at you to leave, to run back up the hill to safety, too loud to stop you.

Steve’s grip tightened on your waist, tugging at the material of your skirt, and the tip of his nose met your temple, ice-cold, in a line. Then his cheek was pressed to yours, stubble and sunscreen. His breath warmed the lobe of your ear.

You helped him lift you onto the bench, the whole thing wobbling under your weight, but you had faith in his grasp on you, his weight between your legs as he helped to hitch your skirt up one thigh, material tacky to goose-pimpled flesh. His hands were ice-cold, but you were on fire as he trailed fingertips from your hip to your knee, hooking your leg up higher on his hip.

Another roll of thunder wracked through his shoulders, a quake around your frame that you squaring him to face you. His expression was unreadable, pupils wide, but lips drawn downward, jaw clenched. His far-off gaze lingered on your lips, and he licked his own, pawing at the underside of your thigh.

This was the moment of no return. You knew it. You knew he could feel it. Something deep inside was clawing its way up, trying to remind you of all of the heartache you’d endured in the last four years, but the rain wouldn’t let up, and his hand kneaded your flesh in a way that felt so right, so familiar, felt like home.

You caught his elbow to stop his movements, and he tensed, shoulders receding in defeat, like he’d just been waiting for you to stop him, like his mind had been racing like your own.

You breathed his name, like a prayer, and his gaze snapped back to yours. “Touch me.”

Drowning your better judgement, you trailed your fingers down the rope of muscles in his forearm to grasp at his wrist and guide his hand to where you needed him most.

God, it felt like coming home. Steve’s hands were made for you, a perfect form to all of the places you needed him, as if he’d made you himself. You were plaster, and he Michaelangelo. He flattened creases formed over time from wear and stress, and kneaded them smooth and soft.

He stretched and hit places that had your eyelids alight with stardust, places you hadn’t hit in years. Your fingernails caught on the breadth of his shoulders and the rain against the roof dampened the sinful sounds pouring from each of your open mouths. He worked you like he’d been born to do it, a sailor devoted to a life at sea, or rather returning from too many years landlocked, eager and determined.

He muttered affirmations hot and damp against the shell of your ear that had you keening, begging for him to keep going, desperate to stay afloat, until the band snapped and the buoy became untethered, rope unraveling within you.

The rainfall slowed and the sunlight fell in shallow waves across patches in the siding. Your breath evened against the damp planes of Steve’s throat. Clarity began to sharpen the softened edges. A chill wracked through you, soaked through, and you forced him from your space. Gently, you hopped from the bench, skirt falling around shaky knees.

The beach hut door opened with a creak, and you stepped out into the sun.

—

Your eyes remained unfocused on the candlelight, too warm and itchy under an afghan and dry clothes to listen to the nostalgia being shared in the adjacent seating room. You hadn’t left the dining table, reassuring everyone you were fine, just exhausted, when you hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of your dinner. All you could focus on was Steve’s grip around the top of his beer bottle, condensation dripping between the soft pads of his fingers.

“Hey.”

You startled at the intrusion, and tried to blink away the residual flickers in your eyesight, focusing instead on the forlorn look on Jonathan’s face as he scooted into the seat beside you, offering a chocolate bar. You took it with a soft smile, peeling back the plastic wrapping and hunkering further into your patched blanket.

“Remember last month when we were eating pizza at 3AM, laughing about how crazy this trip would be,” he released that cheeky half-smile you hadn’t seen since he’d heard the news.

You snorted, snapping off a section of chocolate to let melt on your tongue. You rolled your eyes, passing it back for him to break off a piece. “Yeah, how’re you feeling?”

He sighed, ran a hand down his face, shrugged. You watched him stare into the flame for a while.

When he didn’t speak, you reached your hand out to take his, and he met your gaze again with a wry smile, squeezing your hand. “At least I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”

“You will?” You grinned.

He shrugged. “Unless Nancy wants to move overseas. But if that’s the case, I suppose we’ll just take you with us.”

Your heart ached at the sentiment, and you felt your emotions start to stick in your throat. He was moving to be with her. He was dropping everything he loved, everything he had, to be with Nancy, wherever her dreams took her. And although that made you wildly happy for them, it also further drove home that ache in the pit of you, that spot that hurt.

A pair of knuckles wrapped at the doorway, stirring your attention from Jonathan. Nancy and Eddie stood side-by-side, hands shoved into pockets or hid in the sleeves of oversized sweaters. Nancy mumbled a goodnight, tiny frame dwarfed beside the gangly man beside her, both of their curls haloed in candlelight.

“I’ll go with you,” Jonathan hoisted himself upright, planting a soft kiss to your cheek before he followed Nancy up the winding staircase and into the darkness beyond.

Eddie lingered, shuffling closer to break a piece off your candy bar on the table. “Hey,” he mumbled.

“Hey,” you sighed. You hadn’t spoken to him all day. More accurately, you’d been avoiding him all day.

Another burst of laughter echoed from the living room. Eddie nodded toward the kitchen and moved the chocolate to his cheek to ask, “Wanna chat?”

With a swallow and a nod, you pulled your chair out from the table and gathered your unfinished dinner plate to follow him into the kitchen, discarding your blanket at your place setting.

Eddie sidled up to a counter, silhouetted in moonlight, and he stayed silent while you scraped your scraps into the garbage and rinsed your plate. When you were finished, you hoisted yourself to the countertop beside him, shoulder’s hunched, heels kicking at the baseboard cabinet. The light flickered warm from the other rooms, laughter trickling in in intervals of hushed tones.

“I’m sorry about last night,” you both simultaneously, followed by a snicker of understanding. You elbowed him, and he swayed dramatically, sinking his weight back into you.

“Shut up,” you scolded. “I’m actually sorry. I was being a dick. You did nothing wrong.”

“That’s not true,” Eddie countered. “You didn’t deserve what I said. At least, not the way I said it.”

You sighed and linked your arm with his, resting your head atop his bony shoulder. You felt the press of lips to the crown of your head, his cheek to your hair.

“You do know I just want you to be happy, right? And that I love you?”

“I know,” you smiled, tilting your head to kiss at the seam of his band tee. “I love you too.”

“I, uh…” He raked a hand down his face, callouses catching on stubble. “I talked to Steve today, while you guys were out. He told me what he said to you.”

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I told him to grow up.”

You pulled yourself upright to see that Cheshire grin poking dimples into pale cheeks.

“And that him hating it just made me want to do you even more. With him watching.”

“Eddie!” You shoved at his shoulder, and once again he sunk further into you, hiding a cackle behind his hand. “You perv.”

“Come on, you know he’d be into that.”

Your face heated at the idea. Your mind flashed back to that dark look in Steve’s eyes, in the beach hut, watching you get off on his thick, warm fingers, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the steady rise and fall of his broad chest beneath your palms.

“I would to,” Eddie elbowed you out of your daydream, and you landed a punch, harder this time.

“Stop!”

He snickered and dodged your next attack, rubbing the sore spot you’d left on his bicep. “You’re fiesty under emotional duress.” He grinned. “What does it say about me that I find that really sexy?”

“That you need help,” you snorted.

He caught your wrist and pressed your hand to his sternum, deepening his voice. “Yeah I do, sweetheart.”

You scoffed as his rumble turned into a laugh, and since you couldn’t take your hand back, you gripped his t-shirt to pull him closer, resting your forehead to his chest. He tucked you under his jaw and released your wrist in favor of wrapping you in a tight hug. Cigarette smoke and sunscreen and rumbled laughter and lithe limbs and still, somehow, it wasn’t enough. Something dammed at your throat, and you clenched every muscle in your body to rid yourself of the anxiety building.

Eddie began soothing ministrations up and down your spine. “You need to talk to him.” He mumbled into your temple, breath hot and chocolatey against your skin. “I mean, really talk to him. Like just the two of you, hash it out for hours. You get out everything you need to. Let him tell his part. We both know you won’t be able to make a decision until you get everything out on the table and really look at it, as a whole.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Make a decision?”

He pulled away, pressing soft hands to your cheeks, dark eyes beneath a furrowed brow. “Promise me something?”

You hummed.

“Promise me you’ll talk to him sometime this week. It can be right before we leave, for all I care. But I need you to tell me what you figured out before you get on that plane.”

There was something hopeful in his gaze, features softened to that lost little boy you’d tutored. There were too many meanings behind his words, too many things that spun in your mind and caught somewhere in the ventricles of your heart. “Eddie…” You muttered.

He released your face and wiped nervous hands to his jeans, suddenly shier than you’d seen him in years. “Christ, I didn’t mean it as like an ultimatum or anything. I’m not that guy.” Not like Steve. He scratched at the back of his neck, took a few steps backward. “I just need to know if I need to hide the liquor bottles or if Hawkins’ is getting a new resident.”

God, why did each phrase feel like an extra stab in the gut?

“I’m sorry,” Eddie stammered a laugh, wrapping ringed fingers against the flat plane of his chest. “I think I’ve had too much to drink.” He never drank more than one.

You reached your hand out, stretched all the way across the gap until the tips of your fingers brushed the silver of his rings.

He sighed and took your grasp, allowed you to pull him back into you.

“I promise I’ll talk to him,” you chewed on the inside of you cheek, ducked to catch his gaze. “And I promise I’ll talk to you.”

The dimple tucked into his cheek beside those plump, pink lips, stretched thin in an awkward smile. He nodded. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Then, he leaned to press his lips to yours. It was chaste, soft, a cascade of curls around your face, and lithe fingertips against your cheekbone. Your eyes didn’t have time to flutter closed. Then he was kissing your knuckles and bending his slender frame into a dramatic bow.

“Goodnight, m’lady.”

You managed a choked laugh. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

—

Kneading dough was grounding, cathartic. It made you feel like everything was right in the world. Soft, sticky between flour-caked knuckles, the dull thud against the rolling board, the squeaky wheels of the rolling pin, the sweet smell of apples caramelizing in a nearby mixing bowl, all of it felt like heaven to you. You were at peace with an apron tied around your waist, lakeside wind sweeping in through the opened window, oven making the small space a bit stuffy and warm.

The others were down at the patio, or out on the water, you weren’t sure. You stayed behind to think, to clear your mind, to distract yourself from the constant tipping of a scale one direction or the other. You’d tossed and turned all night thinking of Steve’s hands and Eddie’s lips and the complications to your life that each one brought. So you decided midmorning should be spent centering yourself, alone with your craft, and at peace.

You’d pressed the dough into its tin, trimming the edges and balling the scraps to be rolled and cut into strips for a lattice work top. You poured the apple slice mixture, all cinnamon and sugar and nutmeg and clove, watching the sun sparkle against their wet flesh. You indulged in licking the spoon, tangy and sticky. Then you sprinkled flour to your surface again to start rolling out the remaining dough, humming to yourself as the birds chirped outside.

You flattened and cut and worked a lattice and ate the scraps, admiring your handiwork before you placed it into the oven and set the little wind-up timer on the stovetop. It was shaped like an egg. Your mom had one when you were young. It disappeared somewhere over time, or in the move. You contemplated stealing this one.

You poured yourself some fresh-squeezed lemonade, tart and sweet, and leaned yourself against the countertop. You watched the sparkle of waves just off-shore and sipped and tried not to allow your mind to wander until the subject of your wandering mind entered your kitchen with mussed hair and sun kissed skin, pulling expensive sunglasses from the freckled bridge of his nose.

“Smells amazing,” Steve smiled, reaching past you for a glass to pour himself some lemonade. You watched his forearm handle the full pitcher with care. You watched the length of his throat as he drank. You watched his tongue dart to lick a drop from the corner of pink lips. He set himself against the counter opposite you, ten feet away and still too close.

“Where’s everyone else?” You asked, praying for Robin to come prancing in with a bucket of ice cold water.

“On the boat. They just left.” He set his glass beside him. “We should talk about yesterday.”

You turned to start the washing up, sink full of mixing bowls and measuring cups. The counter was white with flour. You turned the tap on hot, and the rushing of water into a metal sink had your brain buzzing with images of rain against the tin roof of the hut. You swallowed. “Yesterday was a mistake.”

You weren’t even sure you said it out loud, didn’t dare look to him for confirmation. You just held your front two fingers under the water to gauge temperature, although to be honest, you wouldn’t be able to tell scalding from freezing right now anyway.

“Sure, yeah, totally,” his tone was oddly light. Out of your peripherals, you caught him entering your space, sidling up to the opposite side of you now. He smelled of expensive cologne, deliciously Steve. “Or… we could just make some adjustments to our truce.”

You looked up at him then, caught breathless by the dark look in his eyes. You swallowed. “What?”

He shrugged, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Well, we agreed to be civil and not bring up the past.” He held your gaze. “We only have a couple of days left. Might as well… I don’t know, make the most of it?” His jaw was firm, but there was something playful in his tone, a fire behind his eyes you hadn’t seen in years.

You scoffed. “You’re serious?”

He shrugged again, leaned into your space to brush flour from your shoulder, sweeping your hair back as he did so. God, he was good. “You had fun, didn’t you?”

“Steve,” you peeled yourself away, scrubbing melted sugar from the rim of a measuring cup.

“Come on,” he boxed you in, his frame folding around yours, warm and broad and strong. “You’re on vacation.” The tip of his nose found the shell of your ear, sending sparks from skull to tailbone. “You deserve to relax, babe.”

Babe. So flippant, so casual. It’s what he called you, before, when it was just the two of you playing house in hotel rooms. You elbowed him off of you, grateful when he respected your boundaries and stood a few more feet away.

With a sigh, you turned off the faucet, only the singular measuring cup squeaky clean. You dried your hands on a hand towel embroidered with dairy cow and its milkmaid, and you turned to face Steve.

He had a fantastic pokerface, to add to the list of vast differences between he and his housemate. Where Eddie showed every last thought that came into his mind, Steve remained stoic, strong brow furrowed, jaw tight, keen eyes watching your every movement. He kept his shoulders squared, but lax, and his strong arms kept him upright against the lip of the counter, strong arms you were desperate to have wrapped around you again.

“Be civil, no bringing up the past, and have fun while it lasts,” you agreed before your brain caught up with your words.

All at once, Steve crowded your space again, pressing your backside to the damp countertop, an arm to either side of your hips, dipping his nose to meet yours.

You pressed your fingertips to his chest to push him away a few more inches. “Don’t call me babe.”

His lips split into a grin at that, and he chuckled a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”

He was eager, so eager, and you felt the buzz in your waist, the flutter under your sternum. You watched his tongue wet soft, pink lips, and were suddenly reminded of the third grade, of Tommy H.’s birthday, of the surprise smooch in a treehouse and of wanting to savor that kiss for the rest of your life. As Steve dipped his head low once more, you turned to face the oven, ducking away.

“And I’m not going to kiss you.” An odd boundary you didn’t know you had until it was there, presenting itself in a panic clawing at your chest. You just knew if you kissed him, you’d be done for. You’d be packing everything you owned into a U-haul and signing the lease next to his name. Just like Eddie said.

Steve’s stoic facade seemed to falter for a split second before he nodded and pulled away. He eyed you for a beat too long before he lowered his voice to ask, “Am I allowed to kiss you?” And the implications in his tone had your knees weakening.

You swallowed in a vain attempt to lubricated a parched throat, and nodded.

He emitted a groan from somewhere deep, and you bit down hard on your lip as you watched King Steve Harrington sink to his knees before you, hands traveling up your skirt to knead at the flesh of your thighs like it grounded him, like it made everything right in the world.

He tugged your shirt free from the waistband of your apron and skirt, watching you, amber eyes painted black. His breath was hot against your stomach, your hip bone. “Can you see the front door?” He asked.

You peeled your gaze from him to look through the entry way to the front door. You nodded.

“Good. Keep watch for me, sweet girl.”

—

“Scale of 1-10, how hot do I look?” Robin did a pose, hair stuffed under a wide-brimmed hat and blue blazer sleeves rolled.

“Ten,” you and Nancy affirmed simultaneously, blotting your own pink lipsticks in the full-length mirror on the back of Robin’s bedroom door. You wore a low-cut blouse with flowy sleeves, and Nancy looked sleek in black, and she helped stick a bobby pin into your scalp when a curl threatened to fall out of place.

“What are the odds there’s a single, hot lesbian looking for a hook up?”

“At a country western bar?” Nancy peered back at your friend, and you chuckled.

“Robin,” you reassured. “I promise there will be at least one single, hot lesbian looking for a hook up.”

Robin sighed. “Yeah. Me.”

She’d picked the venue for your night out, spotted it on your walk through town the previous morning, and convinced the group to go after their late evening naps. The sky had started to soak in peaches and golds, and the warmth had cooled from a breeze that billowed curtains and chilled your fevered cheeks. You’d spent the day distracted, praying no one would notice the smile that ached at the corners of your lips. You were thankful for the excuse to be chipper.

“Ladies, I need advice,” Argyle called from beyond the door, and you gently led Nancy to the side so you could open it to meet him. He wore a leather vest with a spearmint button-up beneath it, and in his hands were two ties, one a shocking pink, the other a bolo with a cubic design in brass.

“Bolo, always,” you confirmed.

“That’s what I said!” Eddie called from the next room over.

“Alright,” Argyle nodded and toed back to his own room to put his tie on in a mirror.

Nancy slipped out beside you to meet Jonathan at the top of the stairs. Your heart ached in your chest when you watched his lips meet her temple, and his hand slip into hers. They shared sweet words and walked down the stairs together.

Robin shoved past you. “Sorry, gotta brush my teeth. Will you check on Steve for me? You know he always takes the longest.”

You stood in her doorway for a long moment, staring at the wood of Steve’s bedroom door from across the hall. Your hands clammed up at your sides, but you released a held breath and closed the distance to wrap your knuckles against the panels.

“Come in,” he called from inside, and you turned the handle and pushed yourself inside.

Steve’s room was a mirror of your own, window facing the water, slanted ceiling, headboard against the opposite wall. His bed was neatly made, pillows stacked at attention just like his mom taught him. The bedside lamp illuminated everything soft and warm.

Steve stood at a dresser putting on his watch, forest green polo taught over the muscles of his back. He glanced up at you when you entered, cheeks turning up in a grin. “Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey,” you breathed back, propping yourself against the wall beside the door. “Robin wanted me to tell you to hurry up.”

“I’m ready,” he held his hands out to show himself off, and you admired the stretch of denim across his thighs.

“You look good,” you affirmed, swallowing when he closed the distance between you, eyes flickering to the hallway just to your right hand side.

When the coast was apparently clear, he placed a hand on your waist. “So do you. Tonight should be fun.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” you nodded. You felt giddy again, like he had you pressed up against the school lockers, hiding from the principal between classes.

“Yeah?” His voice graveled, and he pressed himself even closer, wedging his thigh between your legs.

“Dingus! You ready or what?” Robin shouted, and all at once, Steve was gone, his warmth replaced by cool breeze.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” he groaned, fidgeting with the watch at his wrist. “Thanks for the help,” he waved it your direction, and you furrowed your brow before noticing Robin’s head poked through the doorway.

She narrowed her eyes your direction, but grabbed Steve’s other wrist to lead him out and down the stairs.

You took a minute to calibrate, a few calming breaths, before you followed them. When you rounded into the hallway, you startled at the sight of Eddie in his own doorway, lithe frame covered in black, damp curls hung in his eyes. That dimple carved deep into his cheek.

“You look smoking hot,” he greeted.

You rolled your eyes but hooked your hand into his elbow and let him escort you down the stairs to meet the others.

—

Tequila was great after the initial burn. Once the tang of lime shocked your taste buds, you were smooth sailing. The music was live and loud. The room filled with smoke and the sweet smell of alcohol. Wooden walls were lined with neon beer logos and antlers. A dart board sat in one corner, a pool table in another. You were warmed from the inside, tingling fingertips and toes.

The first round alone had you doing things you ought not, like catching Steve’s gaze over the top of Nancy’s head. He’d been staring, lips glossy and eyes hungry, and you couldn’t look away until Argyle bought round two.

Round three had you on the dance floor, pressed against the warm rumble of Eddie’s chest while he hummed a balad just under the crooning of the band’s lead singer. Flirting with Eddie was another thing you ought not do, but holding back felt impossible, tequila or no. Especially when he held you so close, thigh between your knees, swaying you back and forth to some slow and sultry tune.

“Have I told you you look smoking hot tonight?” He indulged in another rake of your features, not shy from peaking down your blouse.

You sucked your cheeks between your teeth to avoid the smile aching at them and managed to shrug. “Might’ve mentioned it.”

He chuckled, shaking his hair from his eyes. “Yeah, I like that top.”

“I look better without it,” you countered, cocking a brow.

“I know you do, sweetheart.” His dark eyes shone under dim lighting, and his plump lips turned up at the corners. He was all curls, cigarettes and spearmint, and something in his eyes sank your heart. It was Eddie’s heart on his sleeve again, that poker face slipping just long enough to show you the longing beyond the lust.

You swallowed and placed a hand to his cheek, thumbing over scruff and stubble. His name caught in your throat.

“Song’s almost over,” he mumbled, nuzzling his nose with yours. “Do you trust me?”

You nodded, and the air was expelled from your lungs when he dipped you low. He gripped your thigh at his waist, and you felt the trail of his nose up your sternum and throat as he pulled you upright, breathless and warmed.

Your audience whooped and hollered from their high-top.

Stage shy, you allowed Eddie to take your hand and tug you back to the table. His grip was strong, thumb administering distraction circles upon your wrist. Nancy slid you a full glass of iced water, and you thanked her for it.

“Okay, why the fuck are you both so hot?” Robin scoffed, chugging her own red plastic cup of water.

“Born this way, Buckley. Don’t act so shocked.” Eddie reached over to flick her forehead, and she swatted at him.

“She’s right though,” Jonathan pitched in, saucy grin playing on boyish features. He slung an arm around Nancy’s shoulder, and she grimaced before shoving him off.

“Yeah, you guys should make a porno,” Argyle nodded, mustache turned down in thought before he snapped his fingers. “Baker and the Beast.”

“Jesus Christ,” you snorted, thankful for the water to hide your warming face. You took a long drink, praying for the ice to cool you down.

“Sex Dungeon Master,” Robin chimed in, and you nearly did a spit take.

“Full Metal Banging,” Steve piped in to everyone’s surprise. You looked up at him to see a playful smirk across those sinful lips, and he shrugged, nodded, took another sip of his beer. “I’d watch it.” Something in you ached at the low tones of his voice.

Eddie shook a ringed finger Steve’s direction. “I fucking knew it! I knew you liked to watch. Harrington, you dirty dog!”

Steve merely shrugged, pokerface stoic again while his eyes offered you something more salacious. You wondered if the rest of them caught him staring the way you did, wondered if they could tell what transpired between the two of you in the beach hut, in the kitchen.

A new song kicked on, much faster, more familiar than the last, and Eddie finally released your hand, now cold and clammy, to snap his fingers in Robin’s direction. “Come on, Buckley. Your turn.”

Robin sighed and extended a hand for him to take. “Fine, but no cleavage licking.”

“Come on,” Eddie whined, and before they trailed off to the dance floor, you heard him say, “I washed my tits before we came!”

You laughed and fell into a spot beside Nancy, avoiding Steve’s gaze as you drank your water and attempted to sober yourself up. Maybe three was your limit, maybe two, but you felt just primed enough to give away all of your secrets.

“Nancy,” Argyle stood from his seat and tightened the bolo around his neck. “May I have this dance?”

Before the warmth of Nancy beside you had been replaced by air conditioning and the smell of stale beer, a strong hand had slipped itself between your knuckles.

“Jonathan, watch the table,” Steve said, pulling you onto the dance floor.

Under a swirl of lights, and to the fast rhythm of bass and drums, you were tucked close to Steve’s front and backed toward the center of the dance floor. People swung and dipped around you, and Steve bobbed and weaved your way through them with laughter rumbling deep in his chest. God, you missed that sound.

He was wildly off tempo, and a little off-balance, but maybe that was the tequila affecting your equilibrium. He had one hand to the small of your back, the other swinging wildly, and he stepped on your toes more than once.

“You’re a terrible dancer,” you leaned in to shout into the shell of his ear.

He pulled back to shoot you an incredulous look before pulling you in close again, breath hot on the side of your face. “You taught me how to dance.”

You shook your head, but released a laugh that bubbled high in your chest. “I did not!”

“Yes you did,” he argued. “At prom. I told you I didn’t know how to dance, and you promised you’d teach me. So if I’m horrible, that’s on you.”

You smiled into his chest, and allowed your mind to wander. You wondered what she would think of you now, senior-you, prom-going-you. You wondered how she’d feel, swept around a dance floor in King Steve’s arms all these years later.

You could still remember walking down the staircase to meet him. You could still see the flush of his cheeks when he saw you, could remember the distinct kick of butterflies in your stomach.

“Hey, dingus!” Robin’s voice sliced through your memories. You blinked back into focus to find her and Eddie beside you. Eddie was using Robin’s hand to swat at Steve’s side.

“Will you two grow up?” Steve scolded, ever the dad of the group.

“We have a question for you two,” she ignored him, continuing to prod at his bicep and then yours when he spun you to use as a human shield.

“What?” You laughed.

“What’s the best sex you’ve ever had?” Robin’s voice carried over the music, swam in your head, heated you from the inside out as you felt the stares of intrigue from your dance partner and hers.

You snorted, shook your head, and avoided their gaze. “Yeah, I’m not answering that.”

Robin booed you.

“You’re so drunk!” You laughed.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Eddie grinned, sidling up beside Steve. He had mischief in his eyes. “We can handle it.”

Steve squared up then, stopped your sway, and his mouth stretched into an equally devilish grin. “Yeah, Munson can handle it.”

You cocked a brow, still in Steve’s grasp, and looked straight into Eddie’s big, brown eyes, conjuring a memory you knew would earn a reaction from the both of them. “Campsite at the coast? Back of the car?”

Eddie nodded, big, dramatic, hair swinging in front of his face. He pointed at Robin. “That’s what I said!”

“Holy shit, Harrington, you want some ice for that burn?” Robin cackled, high-fiving you and Eddie both.

When you found Steve’s gaze again, he was blinking back at you, mouth slightly ajar. You tried and failed to bite back the giggle that bubbled in your chest, doubling over into his stunned chest while you wheezed a laugh, tequila taking over.

You heard Robin and Eddie yell run and squeal beside you, and when you looked up, they were spinning manically away. Steve’s mouth had closed, and he licked at his molars, nodding slowly. You worried for half a second before the corner of his mouth turned up, and he spun you away and back. You yelped, narrowly avoiding a speaker.

You crashed into his chest and laughed the tune of his own rhythmic chuckle, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck to hold yourself steady.

“If I had known this is what it’d take to make you happy, I’d have gone down on you at the beginning of the week,” Steve grinned.

“Steve!” You admonished, glancing around to make sure no one was around to hear what he’d said. You were far from the table now, and definitely out of earshot.

“Tell me about the campsite.” When you met his gaze again, it was that same delicious look that set you on fire from the inside out, unwavering.

You breathed his name again, faltering a little on your feet, but he caught you.

“Come on,” he swayed your hips in his hands. “I gotta study my competition if I want to know how to come out on top.”

You licked your lips, searched his honeyed eyes for any sign of a trap, but he was just as tipsy as you were. Tequila painted the hollows of his cheeks pink. “It was the middle of the day. Campers everywhere. We had to be quiet.”

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His grip on your waist tightened, and he pulled you impossibly closer. You could feel every ripple of muscle beneath the luxurious fabric of his top. He looked around the room before his eyes trailed your face, your lips, down the front of your blouse and back. “This is a room full of people, and the music’s so loud you wouldn’t have to be quiet.”

His words sent heat through you.“You’re drunk,” you sucked in a smile and glanced back across the room at Jonathan drooping in his seat, a soft smile on his face as he watched Nancy and Argyle dance. Robin and Eddie twirled and dipped in a far-off corner.

Steve pressed the tip of his nose to the baby hairs at your forehead. “So take advantage of me.”

In that moment, you realized Steve Harrington could be dangerous, commanding, a force to be reckoned with.

—

The hot, sticky glow of three shots of tequila faded to heart palpitations and a burn in your calves. Though, that could be the dancing, the grin that ached at your features, the early morning burrito, or the anticipation that kept you buzzing, bouncing the balls of your bare feet against floorboards while you counted the creaks and footsteps outside your door.

You turned in earlier than the others, feigning exhaustion related to old age, just to prop yourself against the headboard for nearly an hour before the raucous laughter died down beneath you and the sounds of your compatriots readying themselves for bed filtered in under your bedroom door.

Anxiety replaced that warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You listened to Robin’s hiccups on high-alert, pulse thudding to her steady rhythm. You toed to the door, pressed your ear to the wood to listen to the mutterings of goodnight, the faucet running in the bathroom, the steady pad of feet just beyond.

Your hand hovered over the lock on your brass knob, but you snatched it away, pacing to the foot of your bed and back. Once, twice, three times. You caught your reflection in a mirror above the bedside. You’d left your makeup on, curled hair falling around your shoulders in tendrils. The bra you wore beneath an oversized t-shirt pinched at the skin under your arm, but it was the prettiest you’d packed in periwinkle lace to match the panties hiding beneath plaid night shorts.

You were making a mistake. Throat dry, you crossed back to the door, reaching for the knob to lock it and turn yourself in for the night.

The cool brass turned under your touch, and the door swung your way, narrow, allowing a shadowed figure to step into the honeyed glow of your bedside lamp.

“Hi,” Steve smiled, towering over you, breath fresh and hair mussed.

You swallowed. “Hi.”

“Sorry,” he hissed, closing the door behind himself. The click emitted feather-light. “Robin wouldn’t let us go to bed. I was worried you fell asleep.”

You shook your head, managed a weak smile. “Nope.”

“Good,” he said. “Are you cold?” His warm fingertips ghosted the skin beneath the hem of your shorts, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake.

You shivered, shook your head again, allowing your eyelids to go heavy as his other hand came to cradle to your cheek.

“Do you still want to do this?”

He had the power to see right through you, always had. You released a shaky breath, shoulders to your ears in a shrug. You swallowed. “I don’t know.” Honesty spilled out. You hadn’t felt this vulnerable with him since Louisville, not this nervous, not this jittery.

A crease tucked between his brows, and he dropped his hand from your thigh to catch your fingertips in his. “I’m not going to push you.”

“I know,” you squeezed his knuckles, hands dwarfing yours. “You never have.”

He smiled at that, nodded toward the bed. “Want to just hang out?”

You nodded and drew him to soft covers and an old mattress. It sunk under your weight, a burst of air puffing out between you as Steve plopped himself down, hands resting on his chest, hair splayed against patchwork. You were drawn to him, fingers itching to run themselves through his hair, to trace the bridge of his nose, connect-the-dots with his freckles, but you hesitated, tucking your knees to your chest.

He turned his head to look at you, lazy smile crossing beautiful, dark features. “I’m glad I sobered up.”

“Yeah?” You were on the fence.

“Yeah.” He groped around the blankets until he found your hand at your side. He massaged at your wrist, your palm, wide stroke with his thumb that smoothed aching joints and eased your mind. He pulled you ever-closer, before trailing your pointer finger over the bridge of his nose. His lashes fluttered closed, and he hummed as you painted his cheekbones with your fingertips, catching on the stubble of his jaw. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered. He brought your fingertips to his lip, soft and pink and damp. You exhaled his name.

He looked at you then, eyes dark, and placed a kiss to your palm, your wrist, the flesh of your forearm, tugging you gently from your fold until you leaned over him, your hair a curtain separating you both from the glow of the bedside lamp. “Do you want me to leave?”

Your throat was dry, your breath staggered. You shook your head.

Steve’s hands found your waist, smooth dregs of his palms up your ribcage until his thumbs met the underwire of your bra. “Do you want me to stay?”

You nodded, sucking in a breath when his hands worked higher, palming at silk and lace.

“I need to hear you say it, babe,” his voice was hoarse, thick.

You faltered on the pet name, a rule broken, his eyelids heavy, warm hands on your breasts, but you didn’t want to think anymore, didn’t want to worry or panic. So you washed it all away, pushed guilt to the back of your mind, and threw a leg over him to straddle his slender waist. “I want you, Steve.”

He sat up, pushing you both upright to drag the soft cotton of your top up and over your head. He groaned at the sight of you, and you felt his lips find purchase at the crux of your throat and shoulder, his mouth wet and warm.

You sunk your fingertips into his scalp, indulging in the vibrations of his voice against your skin.

He pushed the lacy straps down your arms, pressing soft kisses into the bits of flesh that were creased and red. He reached around to undo the clasp, and relief flooded your waist from where the elastic bit at your skin. You released him, allowing the scratchy fabric to fall to the ground at the bedside, and Steve lowered himself back to the mattress.

You felt self-conscious, suddenly, as he drank you in, hands ghosting the bits of your flesh that were marred or torn, burn-scarred, pock-marked. You wondered if you’d aged since he last saw you like this, if you had more wrinkles, more pudge, if the weight of you sank different onto his slender hips. You wondered if your boobs sagged, if the flesh of your thighs doubled over your panty line.

Steve’s eyes didn’t give anything away as he raked your frame, hands molding to you like they were meant to, and after too long of a moment, he spoke. “Shit, babe. My memory doesn’t do you justice. You’re fucking perfect.”

A chill caught on your spine, a chuckle of embarrassment building at the compliment, and you folded yourself back to him, squirming under the scrutiny. “You think about me often, Harrington?”

His nose brushed yours in a nod, and he palmed the swell of your thighs beneath your shorts, grinding you down onto him. “Every single day.”

The honesty stuttered your breath, his fanning your lips, and you knew if you didn’t back away now, you’d be lost to him. As he leaned forward to close the gap, you turned your head, cursing yourself when soft lips met your cheekbone.

You avoided his gaze, moving instead to press a kiss to his jaw. Stubble scratched your lips, you chin. You nosed at his throat until he turned his head, and you wrapped your lips to his soft earlobe, delighting in the rumble of his chest against yours.

His hips snapped into you once more, hardened length pressed to the inseam of your thigh.

“Then we better give you something to remember,” you hissed into his ear.

Before you could act on your promise, Steve had you rolled over, pinning you to the bed with his hips. His lips were on you, hands kneading, frantic, eager. He pressed himself upright to strip his t-shirt, collar first, and when it hit the ground, you both heard the pad of footsteps on the floorboards outside.

You froze, suddenly remembering where you were, who occupied the room all around you. Your pulse thundered in your skull, anxiety licking at every inch of you, until you felt Steve Harrington’s perfect teeth graze your nipple and everything coursed through you like livewire.

“Can you be quiet for me?” He hissed to your skin, gathering your wrists to pin above your head, and you gave a fervent nod, swallowing the saliva flooding your mouth.

Steve was trouble, danger, desperate kneading hands and the rhythmic snap of hips. He was brute strength and roped muscles and demanding. He worshiped and praised God and you and mumbled praises into the crux of your throat, your sternum, building you to the highest high before crashing down on you like a wave.

Even after all this time, he knew how to work you, how to mold you, bend you, command you in hushed tones, hand over your mouth to keep your sinful sounds from spilling between his fingers. He delighted in the challenge, wanted you begging but silent, asking if you wanted more, asking if it was good with his chin to your shoulder, your face buried into his to muffle your moans.

He was strong, confident, delicious, salt-to-the-wounds and salt of the Earth, and you fell apart on his hands, his lips, the crash of his hips like waves across a rocky shoreline. Your eyelids sparkled, the ceiling spotted with starlight, and you came down with the weight of his head on your chest.

Steve placed a chaste kiss to your collarbone and looked up at you, a smug grin etched upon his features. He rolled himself to the side, breath ragged. You closed your eyes and listened to the deep in-and-out, trying to match your inhales with his, to slow your heart rate, to stop the pulsing of every muscle now aching in your body.

“How was that?” He whispered into your neck, turning to wrap his arm tightly around your waist.

You huffed a laugh, shrugged. “Top five, at least.”

He gnawed at your throat and squeezed you tighter into him, both of your bodies sticky with sweat.

Sleep tempted you, darkening your vision, weighing you further and further into the warm squish of the mattress and your pillow. Steve’s breathing calmed against your back, his nose tucked under the shell of your ear, and you wondered if you’d fallen asleep so easily in the last four years.

Steve muttered your name, and you hummed, drifting on the edge of bliss. “I do still think about you every day.”

And you wish he hadn’t said it, wish he hadn’t broken the spell, wish he hadn’t reminded you why you were here, what this was all about. The moonlight filtered in through treetops out the window beyond, and you tucked the blanket higher around your shoulders. Maybe there was no harm in late night truths whispered between lovers.

“The campsite wasn’t the best ever,” you confessed, voice weak. Steve loosened his cradle. You turned to face the ceiling, staring up at vaulted shadows. “Remember that first night in Louisville? I hadn’t seen you in so long, and we were tiptoeing around each other all night, but then the door’s closed in that elevator…”

Steve had propped himself up beside you, cupped your cheek. You felt the soft pad of his thumb against your lower lip. “I really want to kiss you.”

The only rule left to be broken, and your heart ached for it. You took a deep breath and avoided his gaze. You couldn’t do this to yourself again, couldn’t do it to him. It was selfish of both of you. You slipped from his grasp and out of the covers, digging through the dark for your t-shirt and sleep shorts. “The other’s will be awake soon.”

—

The sun cast the tops of your cheeks and nose in warmth, golden light filtering through your eyelids while you bathed in a lounger, allowing your Munson-special pancakes to settle. Your friends seemingly revived from breakfast, splashed a level below you, voices and laughter filtering up the wooden walkway. You battled the melancholy of your final full day with memories from the night before that had a smile aching at your lips.

You sighed and let your mind drift to the weight of Steve’s body against yours, the slam of his hips, the tight grasp of his hand to your wrists above your head.

“I’m heading up to take a shower,” his voice sliced through your daydream, graveled from a late night. “You guys need the bathroom before I go up?”

Nancy shook her head beside you, glancing up at him from above the sunglasses perched on the soft bridge of her nose.

Steve looked to you, and you squirmed under his gaze, shaking your own head with a smile. “Kay,” he smiled back. “Be back in a bit.” And you couldn’t resist in watching the slope of his thighs as he climbed the hill beside you to walk into the house.

“Holy fucking shit,” Nancy slammed her book down on her lounger.

You jumped and sat upright, glancing around you for something to cause her reaction, a giant bee, a severed arm.

“You slept with Steve.”

You halted your search and slowly met Nancy’s gaze. Her lips were pursed, and there was something twisted in the way she looked at you, like she was both pissed and proud she’d cracked the case.

You cowered under her gaze, picking at a sliver in the lounger, and fumbled through an excuse. “I don’t know what - ”

“Don’t bullshit me,” she snapped. “I saw him walking out of your room at 5AM when I got up to puke, and that little exchange you two just had confirmed it.” She waved her finger in the air to exemplify her point.

You felt your face heat. You didn’t appreciate the accusation in her tone. “Okay, so? We’re consenting adults.”

Nancy stuffed her arms under her armpits and turned to face you. “So are the two of you back together?”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, the ragged rate of your breath speeding your pulse, or maybe it was the other way around. “No,” you huffed. “We’re just having fun while we’re here.”

Nancy rolled her eyes.

“Hey, no, don’t come at me with that. What about you and Jonathan, huh? Or should I say Robbie?” It was a low blow, and the moment it fell from your lips, you wish you could it all back.

Nancy sucked her lips between her perfect teeth and turned back in her sun lounger, hands flattening against her lower abdomen. “Yeah, well we learned our lesson, didn’t we?”

You blanched at the thought and shook your hair from your eyes. “Jesus, Nancy. I’m sorry.” You mumbled.

She didn’t respond for a long minute, looking out on the water, listening to the chirp of birds along the tree line. Then, she turned her head to face you, sun sparkling off the chrome tint of her sunglasses. “Do you remember that summer after Louisville? That night out on the Cape, just us girls?”

You barely remembered it, a drunken night out in a bar where everything smelled like the country club Steve’s parents frequented. You remembered sequins sticking to your face on a tiled floor. You remembered watching couples spin on a dance floor and wanting to splash your drink in the face of every single one of them. You remember feeling empty, broken, lost.

“I don’t think I realized how in love you two were before then.” She continued, turning back to sunbathe, as if this was the easiest breeziest of topics. “I mean, I knew you were close. You always spoke about him like family. And we all knew you were fucking, even though you tried to hide it.” She raised an eyebrow at you.

You swallowed.

“But that night’s when I realized how heartbroken you were.”

You closed your eyes, released a shaky breath, tried to maintain the happy memories that were quickly slipping from between your fingers, an anchor of your past traumas rocketing you to the bottom.

“I can’t begin to imagine how he felt.”

“Nancy,” you chided, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Come on,” she argued. “He won the fucking jackpot with you. Plus, he’d been burned too many times by other self-hating idiots to let himself get close enough to you. That’s why he never asked you to be his girlfriend, why he never left Hawkins to be with you. He was terrified you’d bail, and then he realizes he can’t live without you and what do you go and do?”

That hit somewhere deep, a dull ache that spread like hot liquid through your chest. “I didn’t…”

“Of course you didn’t know,” she muttered, offering an innocuous wave to Jonathan who swung his arms in the air from the level beneath you, perched atop Argyle’s shoulders in the shallow water, Robin atop Eddie. “You guys haven’t talked in four years. And it wasn’t my job to tell you. My job, as the best friend, is to tell you you don’t need him. That you’re strong and beautiful and independent. My job is to cheer you on through your accomplishments and listen about your escapades with new and exciting men.”

God, you loved her, and you didn’t want to cry because she was right, you were strong and confident and independent, and you didn’t want to cry because Nancy wouldn’t cry, but you couldn’t help the emotion damming at your throat.

“He was supposed to tell you all of this, but clearly you two are incapable of communication.” She sat upright in her chair again and scoffed. “You know what? No. You’re going to talk to him, right now.”

You blinked, heart racing at the idea. “What? No.”

Nancy stood from her seat and grabbed you around the elbow, hoisting you upright. “Yes, right now. I’ll distract everyone else. This can’t go on any longer, or we’re all going to implode. You’re going into that house, and you’re going to hear his side of it. Because we all know you won’t be able to make a decision until you do.”

—

The floorboards creaked under your weight, a groan at each step to remind you of where you were going. Your bare feet, sun soaked, stuck to the finish. A breeze caught gossamer window dressing, but did nothing for the slick of sweat beading your upper lip, the creases of your palm, your lower back. The steam from Steve’s shower framed the bathroom mirror and permeated the upper floor with his scent, squeaky clean and expensive.

Your hands trembled against the surface of his bedroom door. You heard the shuffle of fabric on the other side, and a low, soft hum. You’d almost forgotten that about him, the way he sang when he thought no one was around. If he had an ear worm, or just felt happy about something.

You took a deep breath, pressed your forehead to the door, and knocked.

“Yeah, come in,” he called, and then “Hello?” after your lengthy hesitation.

You turned the brass knob and entered, clicking the door behind yourself. Steve stood across the room, nearest the window, tugging at his watch straps again. His white t-shirt was speckled grey across his shoulders where his hair had dripped into a freckled pattern. When he saw you, his honeyed eyes lit with recognition, something hungry in them.

“Hi,” you managed, and there must have been sheer terror in your eyes because Steve’s face flashed with alarm, and he made a slow cross your way.

“What’s wrong?” His tone reminded you of too many late night phone calls, his voice keeping the nightmares at bay.

You swallowed, allowed him to lead you to the edge of the bed, felt his fingers slot into yours, tried to ignore how soothed you felt already. “We need to talk about Louisville.”

He searched your eyes for a moment before he turned his attention to your hand in his, tracing your knuckles, brushing a thumb over your nails. “What about it?”

“I want to know what happened,” you sighed, allowing yourself to flop backwards onto a hand knit throw, the mattress swishing beneath you. “I want to know where it all went wrong, why I lost you. I guess I just need some insight, Steve. Because I’ve been wracking my brain for four years trying to figure it out.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he sighed, and you saw his teeth chew on his bottom lip. Then he brought his nail beds to his mouth, a bad habit from his youth.

You stopped his wrist, pulling his hand back into yours. “You were my best friend, and then you just quit calling.” You don’t think you’d let the hurt sink in until that moment, heard it catch in your vocal chords. You stared at the ceiling, a blur of white plaster and amber beams.

“I thought you didn’t want me to,” his voice was just as small as yours.

You shrugged, didn’t let the wobble in your jaw deter you. “We had fights before, bigger than this one. I figured we’d get over it.”

“You told me you didn’t want to marry me.”

You propped yourself on your elbows to face him. “Steve, come on. You weren’t serious. You didn’t want to marry me, not really. You were just at that stage in your life where you thought that’s what was supposed to happen.”

He rolled his eyes, shook his head, pulling his hand from yours to run through his damp hair. Flecks of water marked your skin. “Will you quit saying that? Quit invalidating my feelings like that. I didn’t just want to settle down out of convenience. That’s always bugged the shit out of me.” He snapped.

You barked a laugh, wry. “Okay, you had feelings for me. I get that. You know I love you too, but you can’t just spring a marriage proposal on a girl because she’s naked in your hotel bed. You didn’t even have a ring.”

Steve stared back at you for a long moment, and something in his eyes excited you. You hadn’t sparred in ages, hadn’t talked your genuine feelings out with your best friend in four years.

“Fuck it,” he said and stood from his seat beside you to cross to his opened suitcase, everything neatly folded and tucked inside. “If I show you this, you have to promise me you won’t say a word until I’m done talking. Alright?” He held something behind his back and pointed a finger your direction. “Not a God damn word.”

You rolled your eyes but held three fingers his direction and pretended to zip your lips. Then you caught a little black box he tossed at you. Your heart began to thunder in your chest, fingers trembling around velvet. You blinked at it a few times before looking back at him.

Steve was stone faced, if not a little pale, and his arms were crossed over his chest like he was waiting for you to say something. When you didn’t, he took a step forward, and then back, shifting weight on the balls of his feet. Then, he gestured to the box in your hand, a curse spilling from his lips. “I bought it the second day,” he said, “in Louisville.”

You couldn’t move, breath short, hands a vice grip on the box in your lap, terrified to look at it.

“We had that first night, the one you mentioned with dinner at that cantina, and we took that long walk past all those big houses, and I felt like I was holding my breath all day. And I can hold my breath for a long time, I’m a damn good swimmer. But sometimes with you, it feels like I’m drowning.”

You could remember every second of that night, had thought about it a thousand times, compared every date to it, hell every happy moment.

“And I think I just realized I couldn’t tread water with you anymore. Sink or swim, Harrington,” he groaned, scrubbing his hand down a freshly shaven face. “So the next day, while you were at your conference, I went to a jewelry store and bought that.”

Once again, your attention was drawn to the tiny box in your hands, and although your curiosity was piqued, you were still too terrified to open it.

“I chickened out pretty much the entire weekend. I think I just didn’t want to ruin the fun, and then on that last morning, I panicked. I freaked the fuck out because we were going home, and I didn’t want to be away from you anymore. So I said what I said, and we fought, and I kicked myself the whole way home.”

You were glad you’d promised not to speak, glad you’d zipped your lips, because you didn’t think you had words anyway. Too many thoughts and emotions and memories zooming through your headspace like speedboats, leaving casualties in their wake.

“I’m sorry I didn’t go to Argyle’s wedding,” his voice was soft, and his arms found their spot across his chest once more. “I know I promised you I’d go, but I think dancing with you at someone else’s wedding felt like a twisted joke.”

You swallowed, nodded.

“Please don’t think I brought it here because I thought I could win you back, or whatever,” he hurried as an afterthought. “I honestly wasn’t sure what would happen this week. I was shitting myself that I’d somehow make everything worse, which maybe I have.”

You shook your head.

“I just keep it in my suitcase,” he gestured to the box again. “I don’t care what you do with it now. Hock it, pawn it, chuck it into the lake. You know, do what you want with it because it’s yours. It always has been.”

You watched as he crossed to you, taking a slow and awkward seat beside you, just beyond your reach.

“That it,” he sighed, shoulders slumped. “That’s my piece, I guess. You can talk now. Or not, if you don’t want. No pressure. At all, about any of this,” he glanced around the room. “If you want to go back to the way things were, I totally understand. I meant it when I said I just wanted a truce for this week. We agreed you reserve the right to live your own life.”

“No,” you croaked. You cleared your throat and shook your head. “I don’t want that. I mean, I want you in my life.”

The corners of his lips turned up at that, and he let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Me too.”

“This is all just…” You clasped the box until your knuckles whitened, just to stop the trembling. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” Steve stood from next to you. “I’ll give you a few minutes, or you know, whatever you need. I uh… I actually think I need some air.” He thumbed to the door.

You stood on shaky legs, nodding. “Yeah, me too. Water, I think, might be good.”

“Totally,” he held the door open for you, and the two of you walked side-by-side to the top of the stairs. The floor groaned beneath your feet.

“Come find me later?” His voice was soft, warm, forehead creased with concern.

You smiled, nodded, and watched as his lanky frame retreat down the staircase and out the front door.

—

A batch of cookies baked in the oven, caramelized brown sugar and butter permeated the air. Three other cookie sheets sat prepped at the ready on the countertop nearby. You’d washed and dried your mixing bowls and measuring cups and hung the apron on its hook inside the pantry door. Your glass of lemonade lay untouched, glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

The small black box rolled in your pruned fingertips, and you glanced around the kitchen for any signs of onlookers before cracking open the seal, hinge groaning, for a peak at what rested within the pink satin lining.

You nearly dropped it, throwing your hand to your lips to contain the gasp that rattled when you saw the perfect diamond in its fitting on the perfect, most delicate little band. It was everything you would have wanted, subtle and sleek and sweet. You wondered if you had mentioned the details, mumbled into Steve’s chest after a night out, senses liquored and secrets spilled.

Or maybe he just knew you, better than anyone else could.

You glanced around the empty house once more before risking to pull it out of its casing and slide it over the summer-swollen knuckles of the ring finger on your left hand. It was the perfect fit, sparkling in honeyed sunlight, casting rainbows against the cabinets and countertops.

“Smells amazing in here, dudette,” Argyle entered the small kitchen.

“Thanks,” you choked a laugh, shoving your hands behind your back to greet him. “How’s dinner coming?”

“Good, good,” he bobbed his head, long hair swishing against a broad chest. He sidled up to the counter opposite you. “Came here to check on you though. It’s our last day. It’s not the same without you.”

“I know,” you smiled, waving at the cookies with your right hand. “Let me finish these up, and I’ll be right out.”

“Sure,” he saw right through you, a grin forming beneath his mustache, a glint in his eye. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right? I’m here for you.”

The honesty there cut deep. You nodded, wondered how much he knew, felt guilty for not telling him more, or for taking too much vacation time with your petty drama.

“Can I tell you a story about me and Eden?” His eyes lit up when he spoke of her, a big grin formed across soft features.

You nodded again, toyed with the ring around your finger behind your back. “Please.”

He scratched an itch at his mustache, and you saw him twist his own ring around his finger, gold, outdated, oversized. “Remember that day in the military tent? When we were all waiting for orders, and Steve pulled you in so we could explain what the Hell was going on?”

You swallowed. You’d never forget that day, though you were grateful you thought about it less and less as time went on.

“Sorry to bring it up,” Argyle nodded, held a hand up in apology. “I only do because I remember it more vividly than any of those days. I mean, I was high for a lot of everything before, and everything after felt like one big firefight. But I remember that day specifically because you lost your mom and Steve brought you into that tent, and he just held you.”

The emotion that had been rising all day started to spill, a causeway that rolled warm down your cheeks, and you were frantic to stop the flow, trying to push back those awful memories, the flashes of orange and camo, Steve’s strong arms wrapped around your collapsing body, knees gave way. You nodded to encourage Argyle to keep going, to reassure you were okay.

He reached a hand out anyway, pulled you into the cushion of his shoulder, rubbed at your arm. “We were all so young and so dumb, and I just wanted to go home.”

You sniffled and hugged around his middle because you understood.

“Not home to Lenora, but home to this girl I met a week earlier with brown hair and brown eyes because the moment I saw her, I knew I’d do anything for her. I wanted her to hold me the way Steve held you.”

Home, this place you’d always had in Steve Harrington, a place you always would.

“That’s the day I realized she was my one-and-only.” He always waxed so poetic about his wife, and until this moment you’d always rolled your eyes with fondness for the man. Until this moment, you never really understood. “Are you picking up what I’m laying down?”

You nodded, laughed wetly. “I think so.”

The wrap of knuckles against the doorframe grabbed your attention, and you looked up to find Eddie. His hair was frizzy from air dry, and he looked impossibly lanky in a black tank top and red shorts, and the handsome smile from his face fell when he saw the tears in your eyes. “Everything okay in here?”

Your heart sank.

“All good, my dude, just talking to her about my beautiful wife,” Argyle gave you one more tight squeeze before releasing you to stand at his full height. He gave you a wink before pushing past Eddie to head back outside to be with the rest of your friends.

The two of you stood in silence for a few minutes, the breeze trailing in to float his air from his eyes. You weren’t sure how to start, what you could say to make it right, but you didn’t have to.

Eddie let out a whistle, long and low, and crossed the room to meet you. “I always knew Harrington had good taste.” Before you realized you were fidgeting with your ring, he took your hand into his, holding it up to catch the light like you had done earlier.

You swallowed, watching the subtle hurt etched between his brows. Eddie Munson, heart on his sleeve. You whispered his name.

He shrugged, dimples poking through his goatee, and shook his hair from his eyes. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it. I just want you both happy.” He ducked his head then, inches from yours. “Are you happy?”

You thought to all of the friends that had held you throughout this week, throughout the past twelve years, throughout your life, and you nodded, fighting back the new tears that threatened to spill.

Eddie caught them with the calloused pad of his thumb, a chuckle rumbling low in his chest. “I’m never going to stop loving you.”

“I know,” you laughed, closing your eyes as he pressed soft lips to your forehead.

“You know? Wow. A bit full of yourself, sweetheart,” he teased, and you swatted at him. He dodged your aim and grabbed you by the waist to pull you into a bone-crushing hug, jaw pressed to your temple.

“I love you too,” you whispered into his neck, cigarette and spice and sunscreen.

“Have you told him yet?”

You froze, shook your head.

The egg timer went off, shrill and loud, and in that exact moment, under the honeyed glow of the late afternoon summer sun, with the room smelling of your mom’s chocolate chip cookies, you felt like she was sending you a sign.

Your hands shook, and you mopped at the tears in your eyes and pointed at the oven. “Can you take those out?” You asked Eddie, breathless, heart thundering in your chest.

His lips split into that Cheshire grin, and he waved you off. “Go get him, sweetheart.”

The rubber of your soles squeaked against every wooden step on your way down. The patio was empty, sounds of splashes and crackled firewood and laughter could be heard from the shore, and when you rounded the little tin roof beach hut, you saw your friends, your family, roasting kababs and drinking beer and smiling. Nancy and Robin shared a log to sit on, while the boys stood around the grill with hands in their pockets, breeze ruffling their shirts. The smell of ash and smoke and meats rose to your nostrils, something that just felt like another sign.

Steve was the closest to you, his back turned, broad shoulders in navy blue, running his hand through his hair. You hit sand and called his name, and he turned to face you with a squinted gaze, hand up to see your approaching figure.

You closed the gap in four strides, dragging him down by the collar to press your lips to his, the final rule broken.

A sound of surprise turned low when the realization hit, and you felt his hands snake around your waist and hips, lifting you on the balls of your feet to kiss him deeper. Your hands found his hair, one of his cupped your cheek, and all at once you felt at home. Once lost at sea, now you’d found your mooring.

You breathed a laugh that mirrored his, the tip of his nose pressed to your cheek, and it wasn’t until the ringing in your ears stopped that you noticed the ruckus of friends around you.

“Is that a diamond ring!?” Robin screeched somewhere behind Steve.

You sucked back a smile and pulled your hand from Steve’s hair to admire the ring on your finger. Steve looked back at you glassy eyed, mouth open to speak without words. You shrugged, smiled, allowed the diamond to sparkle in the sunlight.

“Yeah, I guess it - ” You were cut-off when Steve planted another kiss on you, lifting you into his arms.

—

The windows had been closed for the night, pale yellow curtains no longer flowing in the breeze. Your hair smelled of campfire, and your eyelids grew heavy from an eventful day. You were full of kabobs and Mom’s chocolate chip cookies, and you squished onto the tiny couch between Steve and Robin, who were flicking each other inches above your head.

“You’re both children,” you snorted, swatting their hands away as they began to flick you instead.

“Wheeler, are you crying?” Eddie’s voice turned all of your attention quickly to Nancy, who sat between Jonathan’s legs, mopping at the tops of her freckled cheeks.

“No, fuck off, Munson,” she scoffed.

You scrambled to sit upright, leaning across the coffee table to take her hand in your own. Jonathan gripped you both. “What’s up?” You bit back a smile, seeing Nancy’s eyes roll in annoyance at being the center of attention for something she’d rather keep private.

“I just never thought we’d be here.” She sighed.

“Yeah, Kurtis was really generous leaving his house with a bunch of assholes like us,” Robin agreed.

“Shut up,” Nancy groaned when you all laughed. “I just meant… after all this time, I’m really glad I still have you guys.”

“Can’t get rid of us that easy, Nance,” Steve grinned, swinging an arm over your shoulder. You leaned into him with a sigh.

“It’s true, dude. We’re like parasites,” Argyle piped in, mouth full of cookie.

You tried not to let her words seep in, tried desperately to tread water, to fight back the current of emotions that prickled when you realized you didn’t know the next time you’d all be together like this. Robin was off to France. Nancy and Jonathan had their own adventures, baby in tow. Argyle lived across the country.

You met Eddie’s gaze, warm browns and Cheshire smile. “Besides, we’ll all be together again soon. I heard there’s going to be a wedding in Hawkins.”

You cocked a brow, ready to retort, but Steve beat you to the punch.

“Hard to plan a wedding in a place we don’t live.”

---

A/N: This fic was definitely a labor of love for me. I actually had this planned before I wrote My Whole Life, Too. And I have so many other details of their lives and pasts that I'd love to dive back into. Thank you so so so much for reading xo xo

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#better off fic #steve harrington fic #eddie munson fic #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #steve harrington fluff #eddie munson angst #steve harrington angst #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #robin buckley #jancy #argyle #eden bingham

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grannyandgrandpascreations · 8 months

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They Whispered To Her You Cannot Withstand The Storms She Whispered Back I Am the Storm Distressed Flannel

This listing is for a one-of-a-kind distressed bleached "They Whispered To Her You Cannot Withstand The Storms She Whispered Back I am The Storm" button down flannel shirt.

If your size is showing sold out, reach out to use to see if we have received a shipment of products in, due to the availability of items during this holiday season, we receive our products in daily.

No two shirts will ever be exactly alike so please aware and embrace the differences. All shirts are carefully curated, hand-dyed, and re-purposed so that each shirt is going to be different from the next in terms of color and plaid print.

SIZING: These shirts vary, many are unisex and come in men's sizing. They can be worn by both men & women. Ordering your normal t-shirt size is recommended for a regular fit. Going 1 size up works well for a baggy/oversized fit. Women's or Children's Specific sizing will be noted on the photo/variation options selected.

FABRIC: All these shirts are made of cotton or a cotton/poly blend. Measurements and thickness vary slightly by brand.

COLORS: Each flannel is unique, and no two shirts are going to look exactly alike. Colors are sent at random. Because the colors often change throughout the bleaching process, I cannot take specific color requests for these shirts.

CONDITION: All of our flannel shirts are brand new and washed twiced.

Care instructions: Turn item inside out, machine wash cold, no bleach, no softener. Do not dry clean. Do not iron. Air dry is recommended.

Due to different picture lighting settings the actual color might vary a bit from the pictures.

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This listing is for a one-of-a-kind distressed bleached "They Whispered To her You Cannot Withstand The Storms She Whispered Back I am The Storm" button down flannel shirt.

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nopointic · 6 months

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blue eye samurai was so funny to me how everyone who saw mizu's blue eyes immediately were like YUCK! 🤮 DEMON! *hides children behind them* because in modern society today it's the opposite. i remember always being bummed when a character would have blue eyes and that was their defining beauty trait. books would go on to describe characters with brown eyes as dull and lifeless and you don't think these things stick with you but it does. and then colored contacts came out. and i remember so many black people in my city buying blue contact lenses to feel "prettier". it became a huge thing. so with black girls it was ok we gotta straighten our hair with toxic chemicals and for a bigger glow up pop in blue contacts.

then photoshopping became very common. fans would give their favorite artists blue eyes. i remember this specifically with zayn in one direction. it made me so fucking mad. zayn looks like something out of perfect runway anyways. and here fans were making his eyes blue and saying "now he's perfect!" imagine thinking zayn malik needed a makeover. mind boggling then and now.

but here we have a whole show where the culture is like nah those blue eyes? that shit is demonic and ugly. it's obviously cruel and nobody should be treated as such.

but remember when fowler bragged how one day they would love a face like his and consider his beauty above their their own when he got done colonizing their country? it happened.

in damn near every country where nonwhite people exist, european features are the pinnacle of beauty.

we see this when we have "international" modeling show. a model from every country but the sharp jawlines and lightest skin always win. loose curls not tightly coiled hair like some black people have. thin bodies. tall bodies. international but those qualities are always wanted. the same fucking look. a slight shade difference at most.

hell the natural hair movement with black people is oddly just a parade of expensive products to give one the looser curl pattern that society accepts. curl puddings and products to combat "shrinkage" makes up majority of black hair products in the natural section. it's something.

chemically straightened hair. the natural hair that grows out of my black scalp has been called unprofessional and needed several laws to protect others like me from various job discrimination policies. kids with natural black hair are still being told their hair is out of dress code.

skin bleaching is popular in several ethnic cultures. i can find a bleaching soap at my local big box retail store. they're not advertised but it's still a big seller. i want you to put that into perspective.

many products today boast about glowing skin. brightening is a nicer way to say bleaching. turmeric powder and lemon in everything now.

western media loves to point fingers at koreans now due to an increase of kpop in the media. they judge those who spend a massive amount of time, money, and resources to obtain a strict set of beauty standards. lighter skin, weight loss plans, sharper cheeks, new eyelids, color contacts, chin exercises you can learn on youtube it goes on and on. western white people judge asian people on their beauty obsession standards and it's tone deaf. it's a slap in the fucking face when i see it. your ancestors told all of us people of color we were ugly and needed to look like you to succeed in life. now we do it and you wanna point fingers and talk about how vain and fickle we are? that's fucked up! it pissed me off!!!!!!

so i guess it's a bitter taste in my mouth when i do laugh at mizu's "unfortunate eye color" being the cause of so much pain. because now it's the opposite.

as the cool kids say, she would do "numbers" in beauty standard rankings now. ethnic, but not "too" ethnic. blue eyes, androgynous and athletic but not too bulky and long hair? the algorithm says money honey!

funny how all this works out. eurocentric beauty is a hell of a drug. no katana will be able to kill that. no body positivity campaign or hashtag will undo any of this global phenomenon we now live with. we can call brown eyes beautiful now in songs and yet the angels in the church will always have blue eyes. this is the first time i've not seen a fandom go batshit insane when seeing a person of color WITH blue eyes. usually it's all caps with phrases like "woke liberal bullshit" or something. the fallout from the black little mermaid with red hair showed this very well.

white people have damn near colonized every other race and then they cry foul at the thought of a non white person with eyes other than brown and hair other than black and brown. it's the funniest shit. i mean they'll accept a mermaid. but her being black with red hair? too far. we truly would have never heard the fucking end if they made halle wear blue contacts as ariel. white people would have lost their fucking minds on another level lbh!

we joke that brown contacts would have given mizu an easier life. it's sobering that blue contacts and other fucked up beauty rituals give people of color the same easier life now.

mizu in blue eye samurai during that period is shunned for their appearance. today mizu would do numbers on instagram and make money being the face of some random blue low calorie sport drinks available at big chain stores.

anyways that's my TED talk on blue eyes, eurocentric beauty standards and why i really really love how blue eyes samurai shows all of this. i am in awe of the creators making this show from them having a biracial asian baby with blue eyes. because so many don't even realize how their blue eyes will always leave them being talked about no matter what. they will be called a a faker with contacts, have to constantly prove with baby pictures their eyes were and have always been blue. people will make immediate judgements and even though you would think this would not happen in 2023 it does.

so i commend the parents for making this show. it's a conversation we need to have more. how society treats those with certain features when you are not in control of said features. and how far we go personally to try to "fit in" in a world that is hell bent on neat and tidy labels. this is good this is bad blah blah blah.

i fucking love blue eye samurai. please let there be a season 2!

#blue eye samurai #Mizu #eurocentric beauty standards #beauty

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casuallyimagining · 1 year

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Fallen (1) | myg

Min Yoongi x Female Reader

Summary: If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then where does that leave you? Spurned by your ex-fiance, you seek the one person who can help. But as it turns out, the price of revenge may be a little more than you bargained for.

Genre: Fallen Angel AU, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, angst

Word Count: 9,208

Warnings: homelessness, abusive ex, manipulation, emotional abuse, forced isolation, major character injury, blood, mentions of critiques of organized western religion, threats of harm, brief mentions of an almost-panic attack, arguing, more to be added later

Notes: Thank you to @daechwitatamic and @madbutgloriouspond for reading through this fic and for listening to me talk about it literally every day. And thanks to @btsmosphere and @toikiii for helping me with the angst.

Fallen Masterlist | Next Part

Everything is grey. Or, at least, that’s how it feels. You rarely come this far uptown, where the trains run on elevated tracks instead of under your feet. You follow the tracks along the river. They said he’d be somewhere around here, under the el between the old Radio Shack and the bodega. Above, a train rumbles past, its speed whipping up a wind that blows your hair into your face.

You pull your jacket closer and step over a puddle.

Honestly, uptown would be nice if it didn’t seem like it died in the 70s. But, at least near the el, everything gives off that decayed vibe. Faded posters still cling to the bricks in alleyways advertising bands that hadn’t toured in decades. Window displays for nameless stores show off mannequins dressed in clothes that would have been long out of fashion by the time you were born.

Something glowing near one of the track supports draws your attention. It’s a metal trash can, its contents ablaze. Just behind the can, leaning against the steel support, is a man. His clothes are tattered, and as you get closer, you can see he’s sucking on a lollipop.

“Goat?” You’re almost in front of the burning can. The man doesn’t answer you, doesn't acknowledge you, he just continues to stare into the flames. “Are-are you Goat?” you try again, taking a step closer. “I’m looking for someone. I was told he’d be here–uptown under the tracks where no one comes. Some of them called him Goat.”

The man snorts derisively, a small, bitterly amused smirk appears on his lips. “Not to my face they don’t.”

“I’ll call you whatever you want,” you concede. He doesn’t seem to be upset, but you don’t want to push his buttons. “I need to talk to you.”

“No thanks, kid.”

“It’s important.”

The man–Goat, or whatever he’s called–rolls his eyes. “You humans are always so convinced you need my help.” He turns then, tossing the stick of his lollipop into the fire, and starts to walk away. “I’ll give you a piece of advice: you can’t handle it.” He throws the last thought over his shoulder, barely even turning his head.

You walk quickly to catch up. “You don’t know anything about me. I’m stronger than I look.”

As you emerge from the shadows of the el tracks, you’re able to get a better look at him. He’s slight, thin, with barely any visible muscle. His dark hair hangs long into his eyes, which are an intense shade of deep, dark brown. He doesn’t look like much, and for a moment, you think that maybe you have the wrong man. But there’s a quiet power to how he carries himself, as if he could turn into something all-powerful and terrifying in the blink of an eye. You can see it in how he walks, how he carries himself. He’s dressed like just another unhoused person, but there’s a confidence around him that would make it nearly impossible to think he’s anything else than the immovable force that he was.

“You would know a thing about being stronger than you look, I think,” you say quietly.

He sighs and pauses beside a light pole, leaning against it and allowing you to fully catch up to him. “What do you want.” It’s not a question.

“I need something.”

He laughs, eyebrows raising in surprise. “You want a favor?”

“Not a favor. I’ll pay you.”

“You’ll pay me?”

“Anything you want.”

He shakes his head, pushing off the post and continuing to walk. This time, though, it’s much slower, as if he’s inviting you to keep up. You’re intrigued–he’s intriguing–and you aren’t about to give up yet. So you walk with him, up the street, past the dusty old bodega and into an alley.

“I don’t want anything,” he says, eyes focused ahead.

You shrug. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

He stops and turns to you, stepping close, so close that you can smell the smoke from the garbage fire on his clothes, in his hair. He inspects you, dark eyes gazing deeply into yours. “Who have you been talking to about me?”

“Your friends.”

“I don’t have friends.”

“The ones who live down here.”

Again, he laughs, stepping away from you. You can still smell the smoke of his clothes. “They’d kill me if they got the chance.” He continues walking, leading you down another side street. This one looks just as Disco Dead as the previous one. “You should watch your step. There are snakes everywhere.”

You sigh. At this rate, you’ll be dead before you convince him to help you. But you press on. “I’ll make it worth your time.”

“How?”

“You tell me.”

He hums, scrubbing a hand along his chin in thought. He shoves his other hand into the pocket of his oversized, tattered coat. “What do you want, kid?”

“Revenge. On my ex-fiance. He’s…” You shake your head. Your ex-fiance is a lot of things. And you hate all of them.

“Real winner, eh?” He hums, turning from the alley and onto the avenue.

The shops here are just as old, the signs just as peeling and time-worn, but some of these are open. Their doors are propped open and music–a strange cacophony of reggae, latin fusion, and jazz–floats out onto the street from old boomboxes. Judging by the advertisements in the windows, these storefronts were stuck somewhere in the 90s. An improvement, but not quite enough.

Finally, he stops just outside of a run down electronics store. The front window still has a CRT tv that’s hooked up to a security camera filming the street. You and the man are reflected back in the screen. He’s standing so close to you that the sleeves of his tattered coat brush against your arm.

“Sure, okay,” he says finally, the corners of his lips turning up in a smirk.

For a moment, you’re taken aback. That was… much easier than you had expected it to be. Your shock must be evident on your face, because then he says, “What do you need?”

Carefully, you collect yourself, school your face into something you hope is a neutral expression. “I just want him to suffer.”

He whistles lowly, fluffing his hair. “Doesn’t exactly give me a lot to go off.”

“Can you do it or not?”

Briefly, he looks amused. His smirk turns into a smile. It’s soft, and it’s a little cocky, but it sets your mind at ease a little bit. “Might take a bit to get it right, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“I want him ruined,” you say softly, taking a step closer. “Personally and professionally. Just like he did to me.”

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

“Thank you, Goat.” You smile, and he smiles back. A wide, gummy thing that seems to show off all the teeth in his mouth. “Or, I guess…?”

“Yoongi. Call me Yoongi.”

It’s amazing how cold it’s gotten in the span of a couple weeks. It hasn’t snowed yet, but you can definitely tell that it’s going to soon. There’s something about the smell of the air, how the wind feels as it whips its way under the el tracks. The puddles under the track from the water and moisture dripping from the trains look frigid. You step around one and approach the man standing at the burning trash can.

He looks cold, too. He’s wearing the same tattered coat as last time, and now you notice the places where you can see his shirt through the holes. You wonder if he has anything else he could wear, any other layers he could put on now that it’s getting cold. You wonder if he has anywhere to go when the temperatures start to dip at night, somewhere other than huddled around a Hooverville fire.

He smiles as you get closer, much different from the indifferent glare he’d fixed you with the first time, and you warm a little bit. It’s sweet, the half-grin he shoots your way, almost as if he’s excited to see you. You’d tried to keep your distance over the past few weeks, despite the fact that you’d been practically bursting at the seams to know how things were progressing. But that doesn’t mean you hadn’t seen him at all.

He’d wandered past your work a few days ago. You couldn’t be quite sure, but you were pretty sure he’d actually floated past the front windows of the bar. But he’d paused and waved, and you’d waved back only for your coworkers to look at you like you were crazy.

So there was a 50/50 chance that Yoongi was actually just a figment of your revenge-addled imagination. But you know. That’s what happens when you cavort with a fallen angel. C’est la vie.

“Kid. You came.” He greets you cheerfully, his eyes focusing down on the fire in front of him. He reaches down beside him and grabs a small stack of papers–old posters and some trash, from the looks of it–and drops them into the flames. Sparks fly up, and you watch them glitter in his eyes. “I’m a little surprised, to be honest.”

“Well, it’s hard to ignore a creepy text from an unknown number asking you to meet under the el at nearly sundown.” You shrug. “You really should sign your texts. Or, I don��t know. Give me your number.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes and scoffs, but you could swear his cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink than they already were.

The wind picks up, touseling his hair and chilling you to your core. You push your bag further up onto your shoulder and shove your hands deep into the pockets of your coat. Yoongi steps closer to the fire, visibly shivering, and again, you find yourself concerned for him. But before you can say anything, he clears his throat.

“I think I’m going to need some more details about what he did to you,” he says softly. You bristle at his words. Brown eyes find yours, and you can sense that he hates having to ask.

You sigh. You’d hoped to be able to get through this without having to tell him about any of it. You’d done a lot of healing in the time since leaving your fiance, but so much of it still stung–and some of it, you were still dealing with the fallout. You’d thought that because of who he was, you wouldn’t have to tell Yoongi anything.

“I thought you could just sense that stuff.”

He frowns. “I can tell when it’s enough to balance out the universe. But I need to know what I’m balancing for.”

“What have you tried so far?”

“Admittedly not much just yet.” Yoongi scratches at the back of his neck. “I started small to test the waters. But between his keys disappearing and his clocks never being the correct time, he’ll never be on-time ever again. I’ve also crashed his computer several times and wiped a few important files. He’ll need them in a few days. He’s currently up for a promotion, but uh… not after his boss finds out that the reports for three of their biggest clients are gone.”

You hum. It’s a start. Your ex-fiance was incredibly dedicated to his job. You’d loved that about him, back when you loved him. So it did give you a sick sense of satisfaction to know that slowly, his job was slipping through his fingertips. But…

“It’s not enough,” you say sharply. “You need to go further.”

“Right. That’s why I was hoping you could give me more information.”

“Well, I…” You sigh. Where the hell do you even start? How the hell do you even start? You look around. The surrounding buildings are still grey, still decaying, still… damp. You can’t see them, but somewhere nearby, someone is rooting around in a dumpster. Suddenly, you’re intimately aware of how cold it is, and how stinging the wind is, and how exposed you are. You rub your arm. “Can we talk somewhere else?”

Yoongi watches you, and some emotion crosses his eyes. But you can’t tell what it is, and it’s gone before you can really even analyze it. Silently, he nods and holds out his hand. You think that maybe he’s going to lead you away again, on a goose chase through the weird eras of this part of uptown. But he doesn’t.

Brown eyes meet yours for the briefest of seconds, and then a warm wind picks up, blowing Yoongi’s long hair into his eyes. Your stomach lurches and then something soft rises up to meet you. You open your eyes–when did you close them?--and suddenly, you’re no longer under the el.

There’s a clatter off to your left, and the ding of a bell. Distantly, you hear someone ask “You want some more coffee, hun?” The surface under you is soft, but not so soft to be mistaken for comfortable. Yoongi sits across from you, a smug smirk on his lips.

A diner. You’re in a diner. It’s fairly busy, too, and for a moment, you’re worried that someone noticed the two of you just appearing out of nowhere in a booth. But shockingly, no one is even looking in your direction.

“How…?”

Yoongi shrugs. “People see what they want.”

“Oh… okay.”

You settle into the vinyl seating, resting your hands against the table. The formica surface is sticky and you recoil in disgust. Yoongi watches you, his cat-like eyes following your movements with curiosity. It’s quiet for a moment, save for the clinking of dishes and the noises from the kitchen.

A waitress flutters back and forth between the tables and the stools at the counter, taking orders and pouring coffee. She either hasn’t noticed you’re there or she doesn’t see you at all. Quite frankly, neither would shock you. Another order appears in the window with a ding and the waitress spins to place the plate in front of a man at the counter.

After a second, she approaches your table to take your order. You aren’t particularly hungry, but Yoongi orders a plate of fries and a slice of cake to share. She pours Yoongi a cup of coffee and promises to return with a glass of water for you and then she’s gone.

“So.” Yoongi clears his throat and leans on his hand. He studies you curiously. His voice is soft when he next speaks. “I really do need to know what he did to you, kid.”

You sigh. It wasn’t surprising, but that didn’t make it any less difficult to talk about. Your fiance had been terrific at first. Loving. Loyal. Kind. You’d known him since college, had seen him go from gangly, awkward first-year to second in his class in one of the country’s most prestigious law schools. You’d watched him graduate, had been there when he was named partner, celebrated every raise and promotion as he climbed the ladder. But slowly, over time, he’d changed.

“He used to be lovely,” you admit softly, dragging a finger through the condensation on the glass of water the waitress sat in front of you. “But somewhere along the way, he changed. Or maybe he was always like this and I didn’t notice. I don’t know.”

“Sometimes people hide who they are.”

“After a while, I realized that I wasn’t myself anymore. There was nothing about me at that point that didn’t revolve around him. I hadn’t seen my friends in over a year. I was completely dependent on him financially. He’d gotten me a job at his firm, we lived in a nice apartment near the river. But I didn’t want to only be Song Dawoon’s wife for the rest of my life. And when I left, I…” You shrug, hands falling into your lap. “Well, he showed me, I guess.”

“He took it all away?”

You nod. “My whole life, gone in less than 24 hours.”

“Your friends?”

“Turns out he’d been feeding them lies.”

Yoongi hums deeply and frowns. And when the waitress returns at that precise moment with a plate of fries, he jumps slightly at the clatter. When she’s gone, he leans closer, no longer resting on his hand. He picks up a fry and inspects it briefly before popping it into his mouth. He makes a face, though you can’t necessarily tell why. You consider for the first time that maybe he’d never eaten before.

Gently, he pushes the plate toward you. “Eat,” he coaxes softly. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. But now that I know, I can change tactics.” He sighs, his eyes falling to the plate as he traces the edge. “I’ll make sure he gets what’s deserved.”

Things go silent. Yoongi coaxes you to eat again, but other than that, the sounds of the diner take over. Slowly, the fries disappear. You try not to watch him–or, at least, you try not to be too obvious about watching him. He’s warmed up in the diner, his full cheeks no longer bright pink and windbitten, but you worry about when you leave.

What happens then?

Does he have somewhere to go to get out of the cold? Does he stay in a tent in the encampment under the el? Does he go to a shelter? Or does he huddle by the trash can fire through the night? His clothes are so thin, there’s no way they protect him from the cold. Does he even get cold?

You barely notice when the waitress comes to take away the plate and replace it with another, this one topped with a slice of cake large enough for two. Again, Yoongi nudges the plate in your direction, but you let him have the first bite. He practically melts when his lips close around his fork, and suddenly you’re struck with a thought.

You would like to know more about him.

It’s weird, and a little random. But you want to know more about what he likes and what he doesn’t. You’re curious about his past, though you aren’t sure you’d ever be brave enough to ask. But he’s fascinating, you’re fascinated by him, and so you smile gently at him when you stab into your side of the cake. He returns it warmly, and it reflects in his eyes.

The days pass quickly, and soon enough, it’s almost a week later. For reasons you can’t quite figure out, you’ve seen Yoongi for the majority of the days after your impromptu trip to the diner. Or, perhaps seen isn’t the right word. Anyone else, you would say you’d been hanging out with them. But with Yoongi, that didn’t seem quite right.

He’d shown up at the bar. You’d assumed that he wanted to tell you about his most recent attempts at bringing enough justice to Dawoon to rattle his teeth. But he sat down at the corner of the bar and watched you curiously while you served the customers that were there before him. When you finally made your way toward him, he shot you a warm smile.

You’d only spoken a few words to him when it became abundantly clear that you were the only one that could see him. Your coworkers eyed you warily, and the other patrons sitting at the bar were looking at you like you were the drunk one. You whispered a soft “Stick around. I’m closing,” to him and promptly ignored him for the rest of the night.

Which is how you ended up here. With the bar’s sound system blasting late 90s pop while you pile dishes into the dishwasher. Yoongi perches on the countertop beside you, dark eyes watching you curiously as you place cups into the tray for washing.

“Is there a reason why I’m the only one who can see you?” you finally ask. It’d been bothering you all night, and now seems as good a time as any to ask.

He shrugs, and for a moment, you think he’s going to answer, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches you hit start on the dishwasher and follows you back out to the bar. “You humans are… complicated,” he says cryptically, as if that’s supposed to answer your question.

You hum. Ain’t that the truth.

He stands behind you as you take stock, checking the bottles behind the bar to see what’s low. Gingerly, he picks up a bottle of bar brand rum and inspects the label. “Why do humans drink this?” he asks, voice quiet.

It’s your turn to shrug. “Celebration. Relaxation. Happiness. Sadness. For fun. To forget.”

“That’s a lot of contradictions.”

“Humans are complicated.”

He grunts and falls silent, putting the rum back behind the bar.

It’s a day later, and Yoongi is following you around once again. It’s weird how comfortable it is. He’s in your apartment, beside you in the kitchen. You’d been right in the diner–he hadn’t tried many human foods. He didn’t really need to eat. But he had a sweet tooth, and that was the extent of his experimentation.

Mercifully, it’s your day off, and you’ve taken the time to expose Yoongi to breakfast foods–waffles, you argue, are among humankind’s greatest creations. You had set him to task cutting up melon, and truthfully, you’re a little worried he’s going to cut his finger off. But it turns out that he’s a natural with a knife, and you aren’t sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But he chats with you while he cuts into the juicy green flesh, the thwack, thwack, thwack of the knife a nice rhythmic background to the conversation.

“It’s why the trains are always late,” he explains, his voice quiet, but sage. Somehow–you weren’t entirely sure how–he’d gotten on the topic of rail infrastructure. You hadn’t exactly been able to follow his logic, but his voice is nice, the slight gravel to it is soothing, and you think that maybe, you could listen to him talk for hours about nothing. Which is a strange thought because a month ago, you hadn’t even known his name.

The waffle maker beeps, and when you open it, the steam swirls out from a perfectly golden brown waffle. You pour more batter in and shut and lock the plates.

“Why do they call you Goat?” you ask quietly. It’s sudden, and his eyebrows shoot into his hairline. It’s quiet, save for the sounds of Yoongi’s knife and the every-so-often ding! of the waffle maker. Suddenly, you’re struck with the idea that maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me.” You can feel yourself clamming up. “I was just curious. That’s all.”

“No, it’s… it’s okay, kid.” He waves you off with a sigh. “Those snakes will do anything to humiliate me. I’m a joke to them.” Yoongi shrugs, his lips flattening into a line. “Goat. Not good enough for the guys up top. Not bad enough for the ones down below.”

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. You hadn’t considered that maybe the nickname was mean. “I didn’t know they were making fun of you.”

“How could you?” He shrugs, pushing the sliced melon onto a plate. “They’re assholes, not worthy of my time.”

“Still–I’m sorry you have to go through it. It’s not fair to you.”

The waffle maker beeps again and you pull the last fluffy piece from the plates before unplugging it. You hand Yoongi the syrup and push the slightly cooled waffle in his direction. Warily, he pours some syrup and tears a piece off the waffle. He eats, humming lowly after a second and nodding his head.

“It’s good,” he confirms, flashing you a smile and licking some syrup off his thumb.

You feel yourself stand a little straighter, a small smile spreading across your face. He dives back in, tearing off another piece of waffle.

“Oh!” He finishes chewing before continuing. “I have some updates if you want them?”

“Oh, uh, sure.”

“I took what you said, and I gave it some thought. So first of all, he’s now only telling his friends and coworkers the truth. Which is fun. His secretary already wants to kill him.” You nod, no longer interested in your own meal. “And I’m working on slowly rearranging his files. Not the public ones. I’m not trying to get a paralegal fired. But his files and notes. Choi, Park, and Park are very annoyed with him.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good.”

“You don’t seem too happy, kid.”

“It’s just…” You sigh. It’s weird. You’re happy that Dawoon is getting what he deserves. So why do you have a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach? You shrug. It doesn’t matter. “Humans are complicated.”

You sigh and flop down onto your couch, throwing your phone down beside you. It’s been nearly a week, and you haven’t heard a single peep from Yoongi. You feel a little dumb for how it’s affecting you, but how else are you supposed to feel? He’d spent three weeks practically glued to your side, visiting you at the bar, following you around the city while you ran errands. You’d introduced him to some of your favorite foods. It’s stupid–after everything, you still only barely knew him–but you considered him a friend.

But now, for the second time in as many years, you find yourself alone and frustrated and feeling like the world’s biggest fool. Yoongi doesn’t have the capacity to hurt you as deeply as Dawoon’s betrayal had, but that doesn't mean that it doesn’t sting.

You’d met Dawoon during your first-year orientation in college. He was assigned to your group for the weekend. He’d been squirrely and awkward, and had followed you like a puppy around campus during the tour and all the first-year activities. But by the time classes started that Monday, you were fond of him. By the end of your first year, you were dating. By the end of his first year of law school, you’d moved in together.

He had been your best friend. He’d brought you coffee for every late night study session. He’d held you while you cried when the stress of your senior thesis got to be too much. He’d helped you relax during spring break the year you managed to burn yourself out so much that you considered dropping out. Dawoon had been there for every up and every down, and you’d loved him for it.

You aren’t sure when things started to change. Only that, at some point into your nine-year relationship, they had. You woke up one morning, completely alone, and realized that you weren’t happy. It had been a long time since Dawoon had told you he loved you, and an even longer time since you’d felt like more than just arm candy. When you’d brought it up to him–that you felt like you weren’t an equal participant in the relationship, that you felt like he mattered more than you did–he’d gotten angry. So angry, that he’d almost hit you. So you’d left. Broke off the engagement, packed your bags, and left.

24 hours later, your life was gone, burnt down around you. Your boss, your friends, all tricked by Dawoon’s lies. That was almost a year and a half ago.

You were finally starting to feel like a person again, and Yoongi was a big part of it. And now, he’s gone, too.

At the beginning of the week, you’d been surprised–sad, even–that Yoongi hadn’t popped up sometime throughout the day. But you’d gone to bed that night content in the assumption that perhaps he was busy with your favor or someone else’s, and that the next day, you would see his lopsided smile as he floated into the bar during your shift.

But no such luck. A day passes, and you go from surprised to worried. Where could he possibly be? You hope that he isn’t frozen somewhere, never to be seen again.

Three more days pass, and you find yourself getting angrier–both at Yoongi and yourself. Why hasn’t he even tried to contact you? What could he possibly be doing that he couldn’t answer a single one of your texts? Or one of your calls? Or even just float by the bar when you’re working to let you know he’s alive?

Why hadn’t you offered to buy him a new coat? You knew his was in tatters. You knew the nights were getting colder. You could have offered your couch.

That anger festered, and now you’re pissed. At Yoongi. At yourself. At the world. Thankfully, you don’t have to completely start over again, but there’s something just as crushing about finding yourself alone again. It’s not productive, your anger, so you channel it into something more positive.

You clean. The whole apartment. Top to bottom. Starting with your bedroom and working through the bathroom and the kitchen. You blast the punk music from your early teen years on your phone and set about the living room, dusting your bookshelves and reorganizing the contents.

You’re almost ready to get out the mop and bucket when you hear a ‘thud’ against your door. Just one, and not very loud. You’ve almost decided to ignore it–it’s late, and your apartment is between enough bars that drunks falling into your door is not uncommon–when the soft knock comes, slow but deliberate. It persists, despite your efforts to get back to your cleaning, and finally, you can’t take it any more.

You march to the door, throwing it open violently. “What?” you snap before even getting a look at the knocker.

The person falls forward, and you catch them easily, grunting under the dead weight of their body. Through slashes in the man’s jacket, you can see what you think is blood–golden and viscous against lightly tanned skin–sticking what’s left of a sweater to a bruised and battered body. You hold him carefully, pushing black hair away from his face. Something inside of you knows already, but you need to be sure.

“Yoongi?” Your heart sinks. “What happened? Where have you been?”

He splutters a bit and sags in your arms. You struggle to maneuver him further into your apartment, shutting the door behind you. “Snakes,” he manages, wincing as you nudge his arm around your shoulders.

You frown, helping him slowly hobble out of your doorway and into the living room. Your goal is the bedroom, if you can make it. He would probably be better off on the bed if you can get him there. Snakes. They told you they were his friends. He’d warned you about them. Said they’d kill him if they ever got the chance. You suppose he was right.

Together, you limp halfway through the living room before Yoongi groans. “Gotta lay down, kid.”

“The bed’ll be more comfortable.” He grunts, and you can tell he won’t be able to make it that far. “Couch, then?”

He stumbles, and you almost lose your grip on him, but you manage to keep him upright. “Floor. Please.”

Gently, you ease him to the floor, pushing your ottoman out of the way so he doesn’t have to curl up. You pull the pillows off the couch, kneeling down to lift his head and slip one under so he’s comfortable.

“Do you need a blanket?” you ask softly, rushing out of the room.

He grunts out a ‘no,’ but you grab him one anyway, and a glass of water–though if you’re honest, you have no idea how he’s going to drink it laying face-down on the floor, but it seems right–and then a straw because that makes more sense and rush back. You sit beside him on the floor and place your collection around you so you can reach any of it should he need.

You reach out, hesitating just slightly before your hand touches his hair. You don’t want to hurt him. But then he groans and curls slightly in on himself from the pain, and you think that maybe you can’t hurt him any more than he already is. So gently, ever so gently, you lower your hand into the inky blackness of his hair. It’s wet from sweat and sticky from blood–there’s a gash on his temple that his long hair can’t help but get stuck in–but you smooth it down anyway, away from his face.

You stand and return moments later with a bowl full of lukewarm water and a rag. “They really kicked the shit out of you, huh?” you ask softly, wringing out the rag and dabbing it against the cut on his temple. Yoongi hisses in pain and recoils. “I know, I’m sorry,” you murmur, using your other hand to smooth his hair down. “Who are they?”

“Demons,” he groans, dark eyes barely opening to look at you. “I was doing a job over by the harbor on Wednesday and they jumped me.”

“Wednesday?” you exclaim, washing out the rag and wringing it again. You move to his left shoulder, where three terribly bruised scratches run from his clavicle across his shoulder blade and down his black. “Yoongi, that was three days ago.”

He flinches when the rag hits his skin and you apologize softly. His sweater and coat fall apart in your fingers as you try to clean his wounds. You finish cleaning his back, wiping the dirt and blood and grime out of the scratches. You can see where they’re already starting to heal, where they’re already scabbing over and the flesh is growing back. You imagine that, among the other special abilities he has, he heals faster than a human. Which is good for him, because you weren’t kidding. He looks like shit.

“You good?” You stroke his hair again, pushing it back away from his eyes.

He nods ever so slightly, deep brown eyes meeting yours briefly before he winces in pain. “I’ll be okay.”

“Not gonna die?”

Yoongi scoffs, then lets out a low groan. “Looking to get rid of me, kid?”

“Never.” You fluff his hair and stand. “I’ll be right back. Yell if you need me.”

He calls your name before you’re even out of the room and you turn to him. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

He gestures vaguely, barely lifting his arm from the floor, but you get the idea. For taking him in. For taking care of him. For making him feel like a person.

“You’re welcome,” you say softly, and pat the door frame. You disappear into your bedroom before he can say anything else.

You throw open your closet, flicking through the hangers, searching for one in particular. Somewhere in here’s an old sweater, one of the only things you managed to take with you after Dawoon, stuffed into your suitcase. It’s cream colored, you remember, chunky knit. You haven’t seen the sweater in over a year, but it’s got to be in here somewhere.

You tug it off the hanger in triumph just as a thud sounds in the living room. There’s a flapping noise, like a sheet shaken to remove the wrinkles. Confused, you slowly creep back out. There, lying precisely where you’d left him, is Yoongi. Except now, sprawled to either side of him is a pair of feathery black wings.

“Yoongi?” you question softly, stepping into the living room clutching the sweater to your chest.

His head turns away from you. “I couldn’t keep them in any longer. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s… it’s fine. I brought you a sweater. Your clothes are ruined.” He grunts. “If you’re feeling up to it, I can help you into it.” Your eyes widen. There was probably a less weird way to phrase that. “Because of your shoulder. It’s kind of really fucked up.”

He snorts, a light laugh leaving his lips, and then winces. “Thanks.”

You sink to the floor beside him, hand finding his hair once again. “Are you… you’re sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” Yoongi nods, and with a groan, rolls onto his side. He’s facing you now, one wing draped over his body and partially in your lap. “Don’t worry too much about me, kid. I’ve been through worse.”

Something about that breaks your heart. Maybe because you can tell. It’s the tone of his voice, but also it’s how mangled and damaged his wings are, and how you could see scars on his back under the scratches from the demons. He’s seen much worse than this.

Your fingertips brush against his wing gently and the feathers twitch away. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No.” He sounds tired, his voice husky and ragged. “No one’s ever touched them before.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh.” His brows furrow. “It’s okay. It didn’t hurt.”

Something about his tone gives you pause. Ever so gently, you run your fingers through the feathers of his wings. It’s purposeful this time, and he doesn’t flinch away. In fact, he practically purrs, a deep exhale leaving him.

You can tell that his wings used to be beautiful. Closer up, the feathers are a dark grey, and most of them are still glossy. It’s just that… there are patches where there are no feathers, and places where you can see the bony protrusions that make up the physical structure of the wing. Some of the feathers are bent and broken, some are crushed, the soft, downy tendrils clumped together.

But despite everything, the feathers are soft and delicate, and they run through your fingers like water. You trace a scar along the ridge of his wing, the tip of your finger dragging through the feathers slowly, and at first, he jumps a little bit, but he quickly relaxes.

“Hey Yoongi?” you ask softly, your focus on the feathers resting against your leg. He hums an acknowledgement. You can feel his eyes on the side of your head. His curiosity is back. He must be starting to feel better. “How’d you…” You sigh and gather some courage. “How’d you fall?”

“Ah.”

“It’s just… you said that you weren’t good enough for them, right? But the demons clearly aren’t…”

“Not my biggest fans, no.”

“So, I just…”

When you finally look at him, you’re struck by how beautiful he is. Not just in a ‘you’re pretty’ way–which, admittedly, he’s that, too. But in a ‘you’re fascinating’ sort of way. Everything about him seems contradictory. His eyes–sharp, catlike, ever observant–sit above a soft button nose, round cheeks, pouty lips. His wings are so beautiful, yet so broken. Even his words, which were sharp when you first met him, are now much softer and friendlier. Sharp and soft. It suits him, somehow.

His dark eyes watch you watch him. And though his face says he’s irritated, his eyes glisten with mirth. He enjoys watching you fumble, apparently, and you recognize that you should be more annoyed by that, but truthfully, you’re happy that he’s feeling well enough to even entertain the thought of mischief. A small smile spreads across his lips, and you find yourself smiling back at him.

“Okay,” he grunts, shifting himself closer awkwardly.

“What are you–? Be careful!” you chide gently, confused by his actions.

He finally seems to settle when he’s laying perpendicular to you. His head lands in your lap and you freeze, arms raised in surprise. Yoongi readjusts slightly to get more comfortable against your thigh. He stretches his wing out–the tips of his feathers brushing against the ceiling–and winces slightly with the movement.

When he’s settled in, he sighs. “I didn’t fall. I was pushed. They don’t really tolerate dissent. Even if you’re right.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s really not that deep of a story, kid. Top brass and I had some disagreements, that’s all.”

“Such as?”

He hums. “Oh you know. Just some minor things.” He rolls slightly so he can look you in the face. “I have these radical ideas where I think people should be kind to everyone and that everyone is worthy of respect.”

You finally drop your hands, and they find the feathers on the ridge of his wing. “I didn’t know I was in the presence of such an extremist.”

“Yeah well.” He grunts, using his arm to push himself upright. He wobbles a little bit when he’s fully vertical, and you reach out a hand to hold him steady. “When the big guy said ‘Love thy neighbor’, he didn’t really leave room for exceptions.”

You hum, your hand falling from Yoongi’s arm when you’re satisfied that he won’t fall over. He stretches, wings folding behind his back with a surprising amount of grace. It strikes you in that moment that he didn’t need to come here, didn’t need you to stitch him up. He could do it all on his own, quicker than you could have ever taken care of him. The scratches on his shoulder are already healed over–they’re still pink and inflamed, sure, but they aren’t bleeding anymore. You wonder how long it took for his pain to go away. So then why…?

“Why’d you come here?” The question is out of your mouth before you can even register it’s a bad idea.

“What?”

“I mean, I’m just a human. I haven’t done shit for you.”

“That’s not true.” His brow furrows. “You brought me a sweater.” He reaches forward to grab the forgotten top.

“That’s not a lot. You did most of the work.”

He shrugs the sweater on, the cream material falling loosely over his torso. Somehow, his wings poke out of the back just fine, even though there are no holes for them. You’re curious, but you also aren’t about to ask him about it. The sweater is big on him, oversized in that two-sizes-too-big sort of way.

“It’s a lot to me,” he says quietly.

Was he always sitting this close? Suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of his knee touching yours and how his fingers are barely brushing your own. Deep brown eyes meet yours, his attention flickering quickly downwards before dragging back up to your eyes, like it took a great effort. And then he’s leaning in. Or maybe you’re leaning in. Both of you? It doesn’t matter. Your heart is pounding in your chest. Can he hear it? He can probably hear it.

He’s millimeters from you, you can feel his breath fanning across your face. “Can I kiss you?” He asks it so softly, it’s barely audible, even from this distance.

You don’t even think. You just nod.

His lips meet yours, and it’s like all of the air is sucked from your lungs. It’s quick–he breaks it far too soon–and you’re admittedly a little lightheaded. He doesn’t get far, though, before you’re pulling him closer again, hand cradling his jaw. His lips are slightly chapped, and he moves gently against you. Not too fast, not too forceful. It’s almost as if he’s hesitant. But then he adjusts how he’s sitting and pulls you ever so slightly closer.

When you finally pull apart, your face feels warm. Yoongi’s looking at you, dark eyes swimming with some emotion that you can’t really place. But it’s gooey and soft, and the warmth spreads from your face to your whole body. No one had looked at you like that since… well, since Dawoon, and really, it had been a long time for even that. Yoongi offers you a small smile, and you return it, suddenly very nervous. He stretches his legs out in front of him, hand brushing yours once again.

What in the world are you supposed to do now? You didn’t think you were so far over Dawoon’s betrayal that you were ready to kiss… anyone, let alone Yoongi.

“You uh…” You cough, feeling very awkward, and fumble for the right thing to say. “You want to watch a movie?”

When you wake up, you aren’t sure what time it is. It’s weird. You remember the movie–an old Scooby Doo made-for-tv special from your childhood–and sitting beside Yoongi on the floor. You remember the shuffle of his wings as he got comfortable–the couch apparently too rigid for the sensitive appendages. You remember how he tried to hide his laughter behind his hand, but the shaking of his shoulders gave it away.

What you don’t remember is falling asleep.

But it’s now morning, early light streaming through the windows. The tv is off, and there’s a blanket thrown over your shoulders. Your apartment is so quiet you can hear the foot traffic on the sidewalk outside. Where’s Yoongi? You push yourself up off the floor, squinting as you look around. You check your bedroom, and the kitchen, and the bathroom, and he’s nowhere. He’s just… gone.

You sigh and collapse onto the couch, heart and stomach somewhere in your ankles. You feel sick. This is different from when you were angry and worried about him. Now, you’re just angry.

How dare he? How dare he make you worry about him? How dare he show up on your doorstep without warning like that? How dare he make you care?

How dare he kiss you like that and leave without a word?

Something stings behind your eyes and you squeeze them shut, letting your head fall to hit the back of the couch. How could you be so stupid? After Dawoon, you’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t let yourself get invested like that again. It only led to this. Sitting alone, a mysterious stinging in your eyes, wondering what you did wrong.

You grit your teeth and give yourself another ten seconds to wallow in self-pity. And then you stand. You promised a coworker you’d cover her lunch shift at the bar today. You can’t afford to miss it. Plus, you do better when you don’t have time to dwell on things.

Unfortunately, the bar is dead. You count the glassware at least a dozen times. You wipe down the bar more times than you can count. You wipe down every bottle in the well and on display, double-check the kegs, restock the bottled beer in the fridge. A few hours into the shift and you’re faced with the fact that it’s not as good a distraction as you had hoped. Thankfully, there are at least a couple patrons, and since there are no servers staffed for the lunch shift, you’re forced to take care of them.

You’re grateful for the customers, grateful for something to do, for the outlet. But then the door opens, and you throw a quick “Sit anywhere! I’ll be with you in a sec!” over your shoulder as you pop into the kitchen to grab one of the table’s appetizers. When you emerge, you nearly drop the nachos you’re carrying.

At a table in the corner sits a face you’d rather forget. He’s tall, and handsome–a far cry from the spindly first-year you’d met a decade ago. His black hair is a little shaggy, perfectly styled to be out of his face. He wears a suit, no doubt it cost him more than your entire month’s pay, tips included.

Song Dawoon.

You steel yourself, take a second to plaster the customer service smile back on your face, and step out onto the floor. You drop the nachos off at the correct table without spilling a single chip, despite the fact that your hands are shaking like you’re experiencing your own personal earthquake. You promise to refill the man’s Jack and Coke, and then you take a breath and step toward Dawoon’s table.

“What can I get you?” you ask through your best plastered-on smile.

Dawoon looks up at you, a sickly sweet grin on his face. “How have you been? I didn’t know you worked here!”

Sure he didn’t.

“Sit down,” he suggests, kicking out the chair across from him.

“No thanks.”

“Sit. Let’s talk.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for questions.

Cautiously, you sit. Your leg starts to bounce. Between the anger from this morning and your nerves now, you’re dizzy and nauseated. It’s a big city. You’d hoped that you’d never have the displeasure of seeing Dawoon again.

“The funniest thing has happened to me,” he says, leaning forward, his fingers steepled. “I’ve been having the worst luck lately. My keys disappear. My clocks are all broken. My files are disappearing. And you’ll never believe this, but all of my clients keep forgetting my name.” He hums and shakes his head. “It’s strange. Almost supernatural. Like if someone hired a vengeful spirit. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

You shrug. “Not at all.”

“See, that’s the thing. I think maybe you do.” He beckons you closer, but you don’t move. His voice is dark. You’d only ever heard him like this once before.

The day he swung at you.

“I think,” he continues, voice low, “you know a lot about it. I’m not quite sure how, but if I figure out how you’re ruining my career, you’ll have to pick up the pieces three states over.”

“You know, that’s really rich coming from you.” You stand, the chair scraping from behind you. You take a deep breath. “I think you should leave now.”

It takes everything in you to walk away with your head held high. Your legs are shaking by the time you get back behind the bar, and as soon as you’re safe in the kitchen, you sink to the floor. The cook eyes you warily but says nothing, simply hands you a glass of water and goes back behind the prep station.

The room is spinning. Your chest is tight. Your heart is beating so fast, you’re afraid it’ll pop out of your chest and flop around on the floor like a fish. The door to the kitchen swings open and shut, open and shut, a dull throb that barely registers somewhere in the back of your mind. Your hands shake as you take a sip of the water. Someone pats your shoulder as they pass by.

It takes ten minutes for you to breathe normally again, and another five for your blood pressure to return to that of an alive human being. You stand, give the kitchen staff a nervous nod in thanks, and sneak back out into the bar. By now, Amy–the other bartender–has clocked in. A quick glance around the room eases your nerves. Dawoon is gone. The other patrons are still there, but Dawoon is no longer sitting in the corner.

You lean against the bar and sigh. And then you pull yourself together and finish your shift.

By the time you get home, you’re exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally. You’re drained. You want nothing more than to sleep for a week, take a hot bath, and drink an entire bottle of red wine. And not necessarily in that order. You collapse onto the couch, television remote in hand. Despite your exhaustion, you’re still wired.

In the glow of your tv’s home screen, you see something glossy on the floor at your feet and reach down to pick it up. Something soft brushes your fingertips, and when you finally grab it and inspect it, you’re face-to-face to a single dark grey feather.

Your head falls, hitting the plush back of the couch. You feel your eyes start to sting again. It’s all too much.

A noise to your left startles you–the sound of a blanket being shaken to get the wrinkles out. You squeeze your eyes shut briefly. Of course the universe is forcing you to do this now.

When he says your name, it’s barely a whisper–deep, gravelly, it matches the early hour. Stubbornly, you ignore him, your eyes squeezed shut. Maybe, if you don’t acknowledge him, he’ll go away. But then you hear him step closer, and you’re jumping to your feet.

“What are you doing here?” you question him sharply.

“I wanted to check on you, I-”

“Why?”

“Song Dawoon, he’s-” Yoongi frowns. “You’re upset.” He takes a step forward. “Why are you upset?”

You scoff. “Don’t talk to me about him.”

He looks confused, dark eyes clouding over with questions. And for a moment, your heart flutters. But then a part of you–the angry part–reminds you that you’d woken up this morning alone. And an even larger part of you reminds you that Dawoon knows somehow, and you grit your teeth.

“You left me alone.” Your eyes sting again, and you try to blink it away. Now is not the time. “You left me alone and I had to deal with him by myself.”

Something akin to worry crosses Yoongi’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean-”

“It doesn’t matter!” You’re exasperated, and you can feel your heart rate increasing–you try to take deep breaths despite the fact that your lungs feel like they’re being squeezed. “Don’t you get it? He ruined my life because we weren’t in love any more. He took it personally that I wouldn’t stick around and enjoy our perfect, abusive relationship. He told my boss I was selling information to a rival firm and got me fired. He told my friends that I talked shit behind their backs and made them hate me. He took away my entire support system and kicked me out on my ass and he’s still coming after me.” You take a shaky breath and force yourself to stare Yoongi down.

“I didn’t know. You didn’t say-”

“Of course I didn’t! Why would I want to relive the worst months of my life? God, I…” You throw up your hands and turn away. “How useless are you? I thought you were supposed to be able to sense this stuff? Maybe not the specifics, but at least the severity, or… or something!”

“I-”

It’s all too much. Yoongi standing there, looking like a kicked puppy. Him leaving, Dawoon’s threats. You can’t take it anymore.

“You need to…” You take a deep breath, force your voice to steady, blink away the stinging. “Thank you for your help, but unfortunately, I don’t think this will work.”

“What-”

You hold up a hand, cutting him off. “I won’t be needing your help anymore. You can go.”

“But I…” Yoongi’s brow furrows, and you watch as he deflates. His shoulders sag, and something changes in how he stands there. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s there not to understand? I don’t need your help anymore. We never have to see each other again.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Go.”

He nods, black hair falling in front of his face. His eyes are downcast, but you think you see a shine in them that wasn’t there before. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before speaking again. “Okay.” His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. “Okay. Well… I guess this is it then.”

“Bye, Yoongi.”

He’s gone in a flap of invisible wings, and suddenly, it’s dead quiet in your apartment. You stand there for a moment, silent, unsure what to do next. And then something in you breaks, and you sink to the floor in front of your ottoman. Tears well in your eyes, and it’s barely a second before you’re sobbing into your hands.

He was still wearing your sweater.

Fallen Masterlist | Next Part

thank you for reading. I have no idea when part two will be out--I don't normally do this, but I couldn't wait to get part one out, so I'm still working on the rest. I'd love to hear what you thought about this part! it might even inspire me to finish the fic!

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