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theoldsports · 1 month

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SOUR.

Art Donaldson x Reader (Patrick Zweig x Reader) | SORRY series | 4.2k words

it’s finally here by popular demand. Patrick has entered the plot. this is set before all of the prior chapters, two days before the Donaldson wedding. can be read as part of the SORRY SERIES (read more episodes of their lives here) or on its own. lemme know if you’d like to be on the taglist.

warnings: 18+. angst. it’s brutal angst. more than allusions to Patrick’s canonical use of hard drugs. rehab, allusion to an OD, mention of Art’s disordered eating patterns. they’re bad for each other in a good way. the Donaldsons have a friendly dog. coveting another man’s wife. discussion of niche sexual fantasies. making out. biting. tornados/extreme weather. running away from your problems.

“Art?”

“Nngh.”

“Artie, wake up.”

“‘M up. Fhhh… ‘m up. What’s the matter?” Art grumbled with half shut eyes. “Somethin’ wrong?” He whispered even though they were alone. It was nighttime which meant whispering to Art.

“I don’t like this storm.”

What a sign that storm should have been.

Art smirked. “We’re getting married in, like, three days and you’re worried about the weather?”

“There’s a tornado warning. Or watch. Whichever the worse one is. I saw it on the news.”

Art frowned. “You ever been through a tornado?”

“No.”

Art rolled over from his position in [Y/N]’s arms to face her nose to nose. “I have. A lot. Close your eyes,” he commanded softly. His arm slotted into the dip of her waist and pulled her closer. “Close ‘em for me. That’s it, that’s it.” He coaxed as she followed his directions.

“I don’t see what this has to do with—“

“Shh, listen,” they both got quiet. Rain pelted against the windows. Wind whistled. Branches cracked and crunched. Thunder boomed. [Y/N] could see the gleam of lightning even behind her eyelids. “Hear it?”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Congrats. Your ears are workin’ best as they can,” Art teased to try and get his fiancé to crack a smile. “Now, which one’s the loudest? Which of the sounds?”

“You breathing.”

“I’m flattered. Which one outside?”

[Y/N] listened. “Right now? The rain, I think.”

“We’re in the clear for now. Let me know when the wind’s louder. Like that real, real crazy whooshing, whistling sound. When it starts whipping like that, we’ll go in the bathroom and lock the doors, yeah? Hell, we can head in now if it would make you feel better?”

“What if I fall asleep before the weather gets worse?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay awake,” Art yawned. “How about I get you up if I notice a disturbance. I gotta take care of my wife, right?”

“I’m not your wife.”

Art sighed. “…I know. I’m just practicing.”

Fortunately, no tornado ever touched down. And Art was still there when [Y/N] woke up.

It always amazed her that Art was still there everyday. For every nasty thing she said to him that she didn’t mean, every argument where she told him Patrick was right, every tennis match won or lost, every natural disaster, every tear shed. Art was there for all of it. He liked the bad moments as much as the good ones because it meant simply more time spent by [Y/N]’s side. He wasn’t going anywhere. Ever.

It was too much power, [Y/N] frequently thought, that she had over Art.

[Y/N] faced Art and brushed his strawberry blonde hair away from his forehead. Art often looked exhausted. He wore his tiredness on his face and shoulders. The exhaustion of constantly chasing, people-pleasing and being a professional athlete could destroy a kid. Art wore it like a Boy Scout badge. [Y/N] could watch him look relaxed forever. It was so rare he looked like that.

“Good morning, guard dog,” [Y/N] whispered. Art stirred. She could tell he was awake even though his eyes were shut due to that crease the reappeared between his eyebrows. It was never not there in his waking moments. Slowly, Art’s hand crept up and gently clutched [Y/N]’s wrist. Art used his grip to slide [Y/N]’s hand down his own drowsy face. He planted a kiss on her palm before tiredly looking at her. “Good morning.” She repeated to him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” [Y/N] replied. Gray sunlight filtered through the window. “You ready for today?” She smirked.

“What’s today?”

“Patrick’s in town.”

Art dramatically threw his arm over his face and groaned. “I thought he was in tomorrow… Everything was so peaceful… And quiet,” Art mumbled into his elbow. He couldn’t keep a straight face for long and resolved into a soft laugh. “Whose babysitting?” He asked, peering his blue and brown eyes over his arm.

“I’m picking up the cake today, so I figured I could use his strength.”

Art sat up a bit. “You’re getting it today?”

“In the later afternoon, yeah. Why?”

“It’s gonna be, like, stale.”

[Y/N] glanced over at Art. “If we had gotten cupcakes like I wanted, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“You’re such a little jerk.” Art teased.

“Me!” [Y/N] gasped. “It doesn’t even matter because it’s not like you’re gonna eat it anyway because you don’t eat anything.”

“Little jerk!” Art said with his crooked smile widening. He leaned in, slotting an arm over her. “You heard me. You’re a little… troublemaking jerk.” Art’s nose almost pressed against hers.

“Oh yeah? Why are you marrying me then, hm?”

“…You’re pretty,” Art grinned almost timidly, bowing his head. His flat vocal timber sounded like the verbal equivalent of a blush. “Like, really, really pretty. Even if you suck.” Tenderly, Art leaned the rest of the way in to kiss [Y/N]. Once and then twice and then seven times. Maybe fourteen.

And they would have stayed like that all day.

They would have.

BANG BANG BANG.

Like gunshots.

Their lips parted and they held long eye contact. They paused. They sighed.

“Patrick.” They both said.

With a bend of his arms, the full weight of Art’s toned body collapsed on top of [Y/N]’s.

“Pretty baby!”

“No. ‘M pretending he’s not out there,” He laid flat on her, head on her chest. “Can’t go anywhere now.”

BANG BANG BANG on the front door again. Cheese, the couple’s Labrador mix barked at the sound from downstairs.

“Art!”

“Mhm-mm. Nope. Too bad. Sucks for Patrick.”

[Y/N] huffed. “You’re upsetting the dog.”

“He’s upsetting the dog,” Art started to laugh. “He showed up early. I’m just laying here. Hey, hey!” Art jeered as [Y/N] wiggled out from underneath him from backwards. She tried to inch away off the side of the bed. Her shoulders slumped against the carpet, while Art held her legs in place on the bed. [Y/N] dangled in a half on-half off sort of way. Her oversized Stanford t-shirt rolled up during the drama, exposing her breasts to Art. Unashamed, he stared.

[Y/N] twisted her foot into the side of Art’s face, causing a small cry of disgust from him. Just enough chaos for her to slip away. Without hesitation, she tossed the lightweight door open and skittered down the stairs with Art’s long gate keeping pace behind her. His arms reached out in an attempt to grab her. “He’s early! He can wait! He’s never been early in his whole fucking life!” Art laughed. Cheese jumped and barked at the hysteria.

The chase continued until [Y/N]’s hand hit the doorknob and chain. She unlocked it immediately. As [Y/N] ripped the door open, Art’s arm encircled her waist yanking her to the side with the force of his momentum, causing her to laugh with glee.

And on the other side of the door was Patrick Zweig.

Smiling impishly, Patrick took in the disheveled appearances of his two favorite people. He bit the inside of his cheek. “Nice boner.” Patrick smirked at Art, while he pulled [Y/N] into a side hug.

Art didn’t have a boner, or at least a proper one. But the comment was enough to get Art to look. He rolled his eyes and pulled Patrick in for a hug. Cheese ran over to the door for attention, when Art greeted Patrick.

Art closed the door. Patrick ducked down to greet the Labrador too. He liked Cheese, but wouldn’t necessarily choose to be around a dog in his free time the way that Art and [Y/N] did. Cheese really liked Patrick, much to his chagrin, so he pretended to be nice. While Patrick sat on the floor with the animal, he looked up at his best friends. “What’s with the clothes? You just get up?” Art with no shirt in just tube socks and boxers, and [Y/N] in Art’s old college shirt and underwear. They had all seen each other like this so many times growing up that no one particularly cared that the future Donaldsons looked so post coital. It was pretty normal. Patrick’s smirk sliced further across his unwashed face with the ghost of a laugh. “Were you guys fucking?” He said like a horny teenager.

[Y/N] laughed hard and kissed her lifelong best friend on top of the head on her way to make a pot of coffee in the kitchen. “No.” Art sighed in disappointment, flopping onto one of the barstools in the kitchen. This disappointment was either disappointment in Patrick for asking, or disappointment in the lack of sex due to Patrick’s arrival. It was Patrick’s fault either way.

When the dog got bored, Cheese wandered into the kitchen for nonexistent scraps. Patrick pulled up a chair next to Art and dropped his backpack on the floor. “How’s it going, man? You look good. Feeling ready?” He asked, leaning forward to tap Art across his bare knee.

Art nodded as if it say it’s a sure thing. “Thanks. We miss you. We appreciate you being here. It means a lot.”

“I appreciate you being here,” [Y/N] cut in. “Because you’re in my half of the wedding party.” She and Art were always in constant competition over who loved Patrick more. Art wanted him to be his best man. [Y/N] won out, though, having known him since the age of seven and Art only since age twelve.

“Ladies please. Not all at once.” Patrick said. He stood from his chair and wrapped his long arms around [Y/N] in a proper hug finally. Briefly, his chin rested on her head. He stopped before it went on too long.

“Good to see you, kid. How’s it going?” At two months older, [Y/N] had been calling Patrick ‘kid’ diminutively for almost two decades. It was cuter before he got so tall.

“I called you yesterday.” He replied dryly, stepping back to look at her. [Y/N] noted Patrick’s intimately familiar eyes. Too wide, pupils too dilated. Hm. He wore a long sleeved sweater and jeans. And dirty tennis shoes.

“You bring something nicer than this for Saturday?” She teased, pulling on one of his holey sleeves.

Art snorted at Patrick’s expense and cracked a smile. His freckled elbows leaned onto the counter. “Yeah, yeah. I’m here for two seconds, ‘n you’re already giving me tsuris?” Patrick quipped to [Y/N].

“Tsuris… Never thought I’d say it, but you sound like your mom, Patrick.” [Y/N] scoffed. Art snorted a laugh too.

Patrick frowned. “Guess I have to kill myself then.” He joked harshly to more laughter from the other two. M

“Yep. Have some coffee. Both of you. I’m going to put pants on.” [Y/N] turned away and moved to the stairs.

“Aw, do you have to?” Patrick called after her. [Y/N] tossed a middle finger up over her shoulder as she walked away. Art hissed at Patrick’s comment.

“Do you have to flirt with my wife?” Art sneered without malice.

Patrick smiled that boyish small, wicked, unassuming smile. “She’s not your wife yet.” He snapped back. Art smiled at him in return. The two held each other’s gaze adorned with sick grins for a moment before both of them dissolved into laughter. Everything was a competition, but it was only real if they brought it up.

Fast forward a few hours and Patrick and [Y/N] were in the car. Art had taken off for a haircut because his mom thought he looked like a messy little punk and wedding pictures were forever. [Y/N] drove because Patrick drove too fast and without mercy. He had a sports car once when he was in school and still spoke to his parents daily and had notably wrapped it around a telephone pole and walked out without nary a scratch. How’s that for nine lives?

[Y/N] had a sedan.

She and Patrick both held a cigarette out each of their respective windows as she drove.

“You should really quit, y’know.” She told Patrick.

He leaned over and blew smoke in her face. “Yeah, I’ll quit when you do.”

Patrick’s rude gesture didn’t bear acknowledging. “It’s different. You’re an athlete. I watch movies and review them for a living. It’s expected of me. You… you’re making your performance actively worse. You’re kneecapping yourself by choice.” [Y/N] explained.

“I’m good enough to take the hit.”

[Y/N] laughed and took a drag of her cigarette, asking it out the window. “And you’re arrogant enough to make that comment. Sometimes I look at you and you’re still thirteen. I swear to God. It’s fuckin’ funny,” she said. It was quiet for a moment. “Art, though. He doesn’t smoke anymore.”

“I don’t believe you,” Patrick replied immediately with a wild look in his eye. That was apparently a big surprise. “He’s totally lying to you. There’s no way—“

“Nope! Quit on his own too. He just decided he was done with it one day and got all pro-athlete about it.”

“Y-you’re wrong! You’re so wrong. He’s a liar. Last time I was in town, we—“

“No. No fucking way,” [Y/N] shook her head in manic disbelief. “When you came by to—“

“Mhm. Yep. On the patio. You didn’t notice?”

[Y/N] shook her head. “No sense of smell because of… I’m a smoker. I just… He’s such a shit.”

“A shit and a hypocrite!” They both laughed. When the glee dampened naturally and the cigarette butts were pitched out the window, Patrick looked over at [Y/N]. One good, long look. “You ready for Saturday?” Patrick asked because he was a masochist.

[Y/N] found herself often thinking back on this moment. Was this when it had gone wrong beyond repair?

[Y/N] sighed. She would only ever tell Patrick and maybe Art this. “Yes and no.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t say it like that. I have been ready to marry Art since I was, like, seventeen years old. It is unfathomable to me how much love I am capable of giving him, y’know? If he wanted the Mona Lisa, I’d be robbing the Louvre tomorrow. He’s it for me,” she said. Patrick faked a smile very convincingly and nodded for her to go on. “What I’m not looking forward to is everyone I know being in the same room at the same time. I don’t like other people except you and Art. And my editor. That’s about it.”

“You’re not at all worried about spending all that time married to someone?” Patrick tried to jab at her with his words while he scratched his right forearm.

“Not with Art.”

“Wow. That’s awfully grownup of you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m a grownup. With a smokin’ hot fiancé. And he actually cares if I live or die. Isn’t that crazy? My parents weren’t like that with each other. It’s… Am I allowed to say how grateful I am to you for bringing him home for break that one time, or is that stupid?”

“It’s kinda stupid,” he agreed teasingly. In reality, he wanted more than anything to put himself out of his misery. My fault, my fault, my fault. The words looped in Patrick’s head on constant repeat. He wanted to rip his skin off for so many different reasons. He couldn’t take it and he was trapped. Fuck.

Patrick scratched his right forearm again.

“Truth or dare?” Patrick slurred. He was twenty-one and drunk for [Y/N]’s birthday. She, Art and Patrick sat on the disgusting archaic carpet in Art’s dorm room.

“Uh, truth.” [Y/N] said too soberly to sober.

“Boring!” Art said, putting his hand on [Y/N]’s thigh.

Patrick took a long swing of his beer while he thought. “Okay, okay. What’s your weirdest sexual fantasy?” He asked.

“Ew.” [Y/N] wrinkled her nose.

Art thought the question was epic, but wasn’t going to facilitate his girl’s discomfort. “Hey, it’s her birthday, she doesn’t have to—“

“Um, no. I’ll do it. This is an actual dream I had. I think about it kinda all the time. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. It so dumb. So, it’s Art and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with coffee or something. And Art… sings me Happy Birthday like Marilyn Monroe did for JFK. And he’s dressed like Marilyn, but like a boy. No dress, but like the boy version of that look. Then we fuck. That’s weirder than you wanted. That was weird, right?” [Y/N] rambled.

Art leaned in closer to her. They were all drunk as skunks and he couldn’t help bite his lip. His arm pulled her closer to him. Art was handsy when drunk, they were all learning.

“Whose Jackie O?” Patrick asked.

“No Jackie O. And I’m not JFK. He’s just Marilyn. Gentlewomen prefer blondes.” [Y/N] had laughed so hard at that while she tangled her fingers in Art’s sandy hair.

The car ride to get cake and the drive back was the last proper conversation [Y/N] and Patrick had. The pair got home. Nothing seemed unusual to [Y/N] at all. They talked the whole time without any dry spells. The cake, in pieces to be assembled, was carefully toted in and placed way out of the way from disaster. Patrick took his bag to the bathroom, claiming he was going to shower.

[Y/N] shouted after him. “You know where the towels are!”

Patrick looked back over his shoulder at her with a smirk and closed the bathroom door behind him.

And he went out through the bathroom window.

[Y/N] had no idea he had gone until she heard his car start. For a minute, she thought it was the neighbors. She walked halfway down her hallway and saw the bathroom door open. No running shower water, no half nude Patrick shaving or something. She ran back down the hall and glanced out the kitchen window and watched his new white SUV whip out of the driveway.

[Y/N] stood there for several minutes. Staring and staring and staring after him. Not a single effort to move. The first thing she did was pick up her blue slidephone from beside the sink. She called Art, not Patrick. Patrick made his choice.

[Y/N] hadn’t realized she was crying when Art picked up on the other line.

“Honey? Honey, you there? You buttdial me?” Art said. [Y/N] thinks he said shit like that for several moments before she spoke. She just faced the window and stared for what felt like ages.

“Patrick’s gone.”

“Hm?”

“Patrick’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone.”

“He climbed through the bathroom window and drove off. We-we didn’t have a fight. Or-or… He just left. Like it was nothing.”

“I’m on my way. Stay where you are.”

Art rushed back in his blue-black jeep wrangler. It ripped into the smooth driveway causing the tires to damn near squeal. When he got out of his car and bounded to the door, it was clear that about half of his hair had been cut instead of all of it. [Y/N] would have laughed in an ideal situation.

“Baby, hey, what happened?” Art said breathlessly as he unlocked the door. [Y/N] sat at the seldom used dining room table the two of them used to hold their junk mail, sitting straight up and looking through Art. Art was alarmed. She never sat at the table and rarely was her face so expressionless. She was always feeling, expressing, something. He couldn’t tell if she was crying or not, but her eyes were red.

“Patrick seems to have decided not to join us this weekend.” [Y/N] said clearly.

Art closed up the door behind him and walked over to [Y/N]. His scraggly hair and bewildered expression lessened into some devastated softness. He knelt, as he often did, in front of her and took her softer hands in his. “Can you tell me what happened?” Art asked quietly. He felt angry tears sting at the corner of his own traitorous eyes.

“We went out, got the cake, got smoothies, and came back. We… He didn’t say anything weird. Nothing happened.”

“Okay. And then?”

“No, I mean, nothing happened. Like, he was on his best behavior. Like, he was doing so well. He seemed okay. Really okay, y’know?” [Y/N]’s voice broke and finally betrayed her. She choked on her last words and the tears followed. Art’s right hand traveled up the side of [Y/N] face to rest there in comfort. “We talked about everything, like always. He was totally fine. I swear. Then we got home and he says I’m gonna take a shower, or something. And then I heard his car pull away. That’s it.”

“I’m gonna fucking murder him.” Art said, shaking his head and gritting his teeth. He stood from the floor and pulled his own phone out of his pocket. Art leaned against the table [Y/N] sat at. He called Patrick. Then he called him again. And another time. Up to what felt like twelve times or so. He left voicemail after voicemail.

“Hey, call me.”

“Hey, it’s Art. Call me.”

“Art again. Call me back. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry about the last one. Patrick, call me. Are you coming home?”

“Hey, man. Fuck you. Fuck off.”

“I’m sorry about the last one too. I’m… Understandably, I’m kinda… Fucking pissed at you. I don’t need to talk to you like that, though. Are you okay? Are you safe? What happened? You can talk to me.”

“You’re an asshole. I wish you could see the look on [Y/N]’s face right now.”

“Don’t come back.”

Eventually, the voicemail box was full.

[Y/N] reached wordlessly for Art’s hand. She could feel his rare anger climbing. He got this ridiculous blush across his cheeks when he got angry and she could see it against the sunset’s glow. “Art?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened,” He said, turning his eyes to her. “I’m so sorry, hon.”

“It’s not your fault. You don’t have to apologize, pretty baby.”

“Yeah, but he’s my best friend. He’s your best friend,” He ranted. “That was a dick move to leave like that. I’m sorry that happened to you. He’s a piece of shit.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No! I do. I do mean that. For the last year, he’s treated us, especially you like trash. Do you not see how much more you deserve, [Y/N]? I don’t know what’s going on with him… Do you?”

“He’s…” [Y/N] looked down. “You think he’s using again?”

Art didn’t say anything, he just looked down. That was answer enough. [Y/N] buried her face in her hands with a shuddering sob. Art pulled her to her feet and into his chest. He buried his face in her hair, unable to hold his own tears back. Eventually, the pair landed on the sagging green couch. Art’s legs wrapped around [Y/N]’s middle. They kept the news on all night. In case he matched an accident description. They called hospitals and hunted for John Does that were over six feet with dark hair and stubble.

“What are we gonna do? He’s… He’s not coming back, is he?” [Y/N] whispered. Cheese rested his heavy beige head on her thigh. He obviously didn’t understand why Patrick had gone either.

“No, I don’t think he is,” Art replied, lips against her forehead. “I’m sorry.

Pathetically, [Y/N] raised her head to Art. “I’m sorry too. I don’t know what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.” He said. [Y/N] forced Art to lean back against the couch and she laid her head on his chest. Cheese circled for a new position where he could be touching them both at the same time.

[Y/N] knew it was a little bit her fault. She leaned up and kissed Art on the corner of his lips. “It’s my fault.”

“Then it’s both of our faults. You can’t talk about yourself like that. You’re the only you I’ve got, babe.” Art huffed tiredly.

[Y/N] dug her hands into Art’s hair the way he liked. “Can I fix your haircut? Haircut’s a generous way to describe it.”

“Damn, I was actually trying out this new thing. You don’t think it’s cool?”

“Yeah, it’s big for guys who blindly answer their wife’s phone calls, I hear.” [Y/N] said weakly.

Wife was all Art heard and he melted.

“I have never known someone I love as much as you,” Art said. “I’m all in with you. You know that, right?”

“‘Course I do.” [Y/N] did know. She sunk her teeth into the freckled skin on Art’s right shoulder gently and he moaned. Over top of the spot, [Y/N] left a trail of kisses down Art’s bicep.

“I’m gonna call his mom.” He said once [Y/N]’s pace had slowed. Art’s stomach growled. When he got upset, he didn’t eat. [Y/N] told herself it was because he had forgotten to in stressful moments, but wondered if it was a punishment instead. She pretending she hadn’t heard the sound.

“They don’t talk.”

“I know. Just in case he turns up.”

Patrick did turn up. About ten hours later, wet and unconscious in the emergency room. Following a psych eval, Patrick went to a short stint in rehab. He had gone once prior at the age of twenty. Needless to say Patrick missed the wedding. It was too much money to up and cancel, according to Art’s piece of shit stepfather, Douglas. Patrick made no efforts to contact the Donaldsons since leaving, as he left or following rehab. Despite all of Art and [Y/N]’s tireless efforts to find him, all they had to show for it was his disconnected phone number and a crippling feeling of shame and loss. Patrick had vanished from their lives without giving either one of them a say.

Patrick was gone.

But Art was there for all of it.

TAGLIST:

@toxiclovergirl @basicallynotbreathing @miniemonie2001 @valentine333 @tremendoushorsepeachbanana-blog @athxnss @babyspice6 @diorrfairy @donaldsonsdarling @muthafuckingstargirl @avylanchce @shysstuff @soberbabes @ysuftmikey @pussy-f41ry

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson x you #art donaldson #sorry series #challengers movie #challengers #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig

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the-entitie · 3 months

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"Just, please... please. I'll beg."

Poly_TF_141 x sex-demon_reader Prt:2

Read part 1 here 》 ....

A_N:... Continuation of the previous! This is part two, and to do with Werewolf Soap going into 'heat' but not the abo kinda heat. Soo, expect more wolf like behavior, and again, the same warnings apply.

CW.|.TW:... Sexual content. Intended male reader. Bottom but Dom reader. Polly-cule TF 141. Religious depictions of demons. Allusion to Reader having an Eating Disorder and the recovery there of. Ghost x Soap x Reader

It had taken some time and effort, but finally, finally, you were OK with the casual emotion that the team shared with one another.

Being a permanent member of the team seemed to help. You even put on weight in the recent months that you've actually fed semi regularly, although it wasn't anywhere near what you should be getting but it was miles better then the months you used to starve through.

Price made sure that any time between missions, there was some form of sexual intention in his team.

Not the hardest thing when all of them have been intemit with each other for years before you joined in with the physical side of things. And Price let you have your fill of him whenever he saw that drop in you again.

But someone else came knocking that night.

A blushing Soap who was leaning heavily on your door frame, looking almost shy for his bulkier body. He hardly says anything as you beckon him in. Eyes still down cast even as he leaves the door ajar and is sitting all but an inch away from you.

"I wan'ed te ask ya if yeh would..." he starts, blush spreading down his neck. "Can ye. I just wanted.."

That's when you felt a pulse of a sweeter emotion, a spiking arousal that was tainted with a primal urge. This absolute need for something so deeply sexual it was practically making your mouth water.

"Your lycanthopic urge?" You question,

"Aye, my heat kinda snuck up on me." He answers with a curt nod. Still not looking at you.

Your fingers find his chin, easily lifting his stubble edged jaw, so he was nose to nose with you.

Soap had dilated pupils, only elipsed by this thin sliver of his irus. Those needs already making his mind want to lean in and chase those lips of yours. Instead, he flicks his eyes back up, that emotion growing thicker, sweeter, with the movement.

"Just please..." he half begs, already so desperate. "Please. I'll beg. I'll go away if ye don't wanna, but I just.."

"Ok, I will lend you help."

You've hardly gotten the sentence out before Soap jumps you. Stealing breathless kiss after breathless kiss.

Guiding your hands to his skin, slipping them under his clothes, and soaking in the warmth with your skin on his. He gets so touch starved, so sensitive to it, when he's like this.

You near fucking his throat with a long split toungue isn't helping him think any more coherently. He tried to ignore the gentle tangle of your hands as you started getting him undressed. Body more demonic with the crackling desires streaming from Johnny's need for intimacy.

"You still got your mind in one peace there lad?"

A deep rumble follows from the door, Ghost standing there with his head tilted. Commenting, "Dumb Mutt just got one thing on his mind."

"You came to watch or pass along something or another."

"Oh, I wanna watch."

Simon crosses the distance from the door to your bed in two quick strides, fingers gliding in the panting Soap's hair. Pulling him back by the grip he has on the werewolf's Mohawk.

"Mainly to see this one don't hurt ya, hun. But to see if yah would need help."

Johnny rolls his hips against your thigh, toungue lulling out past his fangs and bruised lips. Eyes unfocused as he tries to keep his body still while miserably failing.

"Can get a bit one tracked and forget who's helpen 'em. And Price warned me yah got a habit of ignoring yourself."

"Acceptable. Just help me strip him before he cums in his pants."

"Alright hun."

You end up kneeling with Soap, hopelessly humping against your thighs with you stretching out your back so you can reach for Ghost as he leans back. Your hands trace over the fat of his thighs before using your tail to wrap around Johnny's waist, keeping a firm grip to help him actually get what he wants.

His cock already painfully hard, pulsing with each beat his heart had. He was happy to be pulled to where you wanted him, all but panting into your nape as he ruts up against you.

It's always that first breach that knocks the breath from you, but Soap sits still after he's fully sheathed. Just trying to feel as much as he can with skin against skin as that lusty haze fills his mind.

When he does start moving, it's at a brutal pace. Hardly pulling out before shoving back in all the way. Jolting your whole body.

That thickly suffocating emotion had your throat vibrating in the closest thing your kin could produce to a purr. Easily keeping him steady and against you with your tail. You could feel his back tense and ripple with each roll of his hips, with your tail snugly against his waist as he licks along any skin he can.

You heal too fast for him to see the hackies he's working along your shoulders, but the darker marks of his teeth do stick just a bit longer.

It's Simon who traces the rivets of your ram like horns, eyes watching the hitch in your breath. Fingers ever so gentle as he traces all the dents and scrapes along them; careful to rub his palms down the curve against your skull. And you can taste the lust that's just as strong from him.

When Soap had cum with a snarl, as he bared his teeth against your spine, you could feel how the tired feeling was pulsing along the need to keep going. He was hard and needy as he couldn't set a rhythm with the fatigue settling along.

He must have tried to get off before getting the courage to ask for your help.

Feeling a bit sorry for the werewolf, you roll him over; turning to face Simon as you hover over Johnny's body. Watching as Soap mouths over Simon's dick through his boxers, those sex blown eyes watching him.

When you started the roll off your hips, against the shivering Soap who moans egging you on; you saw Ghost lift his gaze. Watching you ride the other with ease.

"Shit." Ghost comments,

He hefts himself up to his knees, nearly covering Johnny's face with his crotch. The wolf didn't seem to mind. Just mouthing and licking at all he could reach. Soaking more of the fabric with his spit.

"Price gave this view no justice when he told me 'bout it."

Redoubled your efforts as more warmth flooded you, but Soap didn't soften. He only meets every roll down with a thrust up.

"Don't know why any of you enjoy it, and not the action."

Johnny is whimpering under Ghost, body trembling in over stimulation. Mind lost in the throws of the absolute pleasure you're helping pump through his very soul.

"More ta do with ya looking like yah enjoying yaself then the act alone."

"You have to be none-"

Those fingers dance over your horns, finally pulling a quiet noise from you. He leaned into you, sharing the quick hiffs of air you're both taking.

"That," Ghost repeats the action. You don't moan this time, but the effect is still evident. "Is what we enjoy of this."

"Prove it."

"Gladly hun." Before his eyes roll back into his skull, "Fuck... watch the teeth soldier."

Soap had pulled his boxers off with just his teeth, getting to his dick. At the comment, Johnny bared his teeth against the intimate skin of Simon's inner thigh. So close to him that the danger runs his blood just that bit hotter.

And for all that Ghost likes the danger, that bit of pain, he doesn't actually want to bite him. And not nearly as hard as he bites at you.

"He will tire out soon, just a warning."

Simon clasps at your horns, pulling you closer by them.

"Not for long hun, he'll be up and wanting more in no time." He presses his lips against yours, mumbling with a smirk, "and I wanna tag team him when he does."

#wip.txt #cod x male reader #x male reader #call of duty #cod #soap x male reader #soapghost #soap x reader #soap x you #mosnter 141 au #ghost x male reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x soap #ghost x soap x reader

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cevansbrat0007 · 3 months

Text

New In Town

Summary: Introducing Chapter One of my Sweet Renegades Series. Sparks fly when you accidentally find yourself sitting next to Bounty Hunter, Ari Levinson.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Ari Being A Menace, Mentions of Death and Grief, Mentions of Book Boyfriends, Allusions to Disordered Eating, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Major thanks to @curls-and-eyeliner for helping me plot out this chapter. This story is part of my Sweet Renegades Series. Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. Thanks for reading!

It was happening again. You could feel him doing it. You knew without turning your head that the bastard had gone back to staring.

At you.

Gritting your teeth, you make a point of adjusting the skirt of your dress before returning your focus to Reverend Turner at the pulpit. Trying your best to ignore the hum of electricity in your veins, you find yourself wishing that you’d opted to stay home today. After all, you hadn’t been to church in ages.

So what on earth possessed you to return today?

It’s not like you were concerned for your immortal soul or anything. On the contrary, you and God were good. You were even on speaking terms again – now that you’d finally forgiven him for calling your Uncle Leon home before you were ready to let him go.

That had been nearly three years ago.

These days, your grief has taken a backseat in favor of running the town’s only bookshop, Baubles & Quills. Once owned by your Uncle, the store had become your sanctuary as you’d struggled to cope with the loss of the only family you’d ever had.

And now that you’d deemed life worth living again you’d apparently decided that attending Calvary Baptist Church’s Sunday morning service was a good idea. But the one thing you hadn’t counted on when you’d politely – and strategically – taken a seat in the pew closest to the door was that you’d end up sharing it with the likes of him.

That bounty hunter fella that you’d been hearing about for the last week. His arrival had practically sent your little town into a regular feeding frenzy. Word on the street was that he was investigating something that had to do with your old high school pal, Martin Westbrook.

At least that’s what Charline Marshall had said when she’d stopped by your shop to return a book she’d purchased because she didn’t care for the ending. While you weren’t usually one for gossip, you’d been intrigued by her, ah, description of the handsome stranger that had taken up residence just a few blocks south of where you lived.

Two Days Ago…

“His name is Ari Levinson. Kinda strange, right?” She’d whispered conspiratorially, running a hand through her copper colored tresses . “But he’s a tall drink of water with the prettiest blue eyes I‘ve ever seen.”

“Oh really?” You’d mumbled, frowning at the crease that adorned the spine of the paperback book in your hands. Another one for the discount rack.

“Mhm. He’s handsome all over.” Charline had continued, picking up one of your more elaborate looking bookmarks and pretending to study it before using it to fan herself. “And not only that, but…” She’d leaned in then, allowing her freshly manicured nails lightly graze your arm. “I think he likes me.”

“Oh? Has he come out and said that?” Your eyes had gone wide with feigned interest. Because of course the man would be into Charline Anne Marshall. Who wouldn’t be? The woman was beautiful and, what’s more, she knew it.

“Well, I mean…not yet.” The woman had let out a disappointed little sigh. “But I’m almost certain he will. I’m just giving him time to get settled in, you know?” She’d said, her perfectly painted lips curving into a smile as she held out a hand for her change.

“How kind of you.” Good Lord how you wished you could hurry things along so you could go back to enjoying your peace and quiet.

“Ari has already interviewed me twice. He even gave me his number, just in case I happen to remember anything else.” She’d tucked the cash from her return into her purse. “I think I might call him up and tell him that my memory works best after a couple of drinks. Think that’ll work?”

“I guess you’ll never know if you don’t try.” Even though you were annoyed, you’d pasted on a fake smile and closed the register, hoping that might be enough to convince her to end the conversation and move on already.

“Why, I think you just might be right.” Your unwanted guest held up the bookmark that was still in her grasp, her unspoken question left hanging in the air. “And this?”

“It’s on the house, Charline.” You’d patiently replied, bracing your elbows on the counter. “Best of luck landing your bounty hunter beau.”

“Well, aren’t you just a gem?” She’d all but squealed, sounding positively giddy as she took a step back. “You know, I bet if you spent a little more time out in the real world instead of holed-up in here with all these books, you’d probably be able to land a man too. You’d be awful pretty if you’d just put in a little bit of effort into it. I mean –”

“No thanks.” You’d simply shrugged, unable to summon up enough energy to be outraged by the dig.

It wasn’t worth the breath you would've wasted trying to explain why you were better off keeping the company of your book boyfriends. A real man required too much care and feeding for your tastes.

“If you say so, sugar. But–” She’d responded as she strode towards the door. “Oh! You should come to my next party. We’ll let Mary Kay sponsor your makeover.”

'No offense, Charline, but I’d rather put a campfire out with my face than attend your next Mary Kay get-together featuring you and ten of your mother’s closest friends.' You'd thought to yourself.

“Uh, maybe. We’ll see.” You’d hedged before turning on your heel and heading in the direction of the stockroom. “Enjoy the bookmark!” God, you’d never been so happy to hear someone exit your shop than you were at that moment.

Which brought you back to the present. You’re startled out of your reverie when the congregation erupts into thunderous applause, signaling the end of Reverend Turner’s sermon. You knew you were going to have to move quickly if you wanted to avoid any unwanted attention from other members of the flock.

Or worse yet: be forced into making small talk with Ari Levinson. Assuming that beast of a man actually possessed enough brain cells to actually string together a sentence or two. Which was a shame because he really was easy on the eyes.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t realize that now you’re the one who’s staring until you notice the corner of his mouth tilt up in a smirk. Shit. The cocky lawman nods his head in your direction before having the audacity to mouth the word: “howdy”. It almost makes you wonder what his voice would sound like.

Would his southern drawl be thick and rough, or smooth and easygoing? Assuming he was southern, that is.

Feeling your cheeks heat, you make fast work of grabbing your things before scooting out of the pew, doing your best to sneak out of the service before everyone is formally dismissed. The absolute last thing you needed was to have this man thinking you were like every other woman in this town who was willing to practically trip over herself just to get a good look at him.

On your way out you brush past Sister Mary Jo Winans, who is all too eager to follow you out the door and halfway down the front stairs.

So much for making a clean getaway.

“You’re not staying for the potluck?” She wheezes, gripping the railing as she struggles to catch her breath.

“Afraid not, Sister Winans.” You tell her while digging through your purse for your keys. “I’ve gotta go home and change so I can head over to the shop.”

“But it’s Sunday, honey.” The matronly woman huffs, adjusting the angle of her wide-brim church hat. “This is the day that the Lord has made. We are to rejoice and be glad in it. It’s all right there in the good Book.”

“Be that as it may, Sister, I’m afraid I can’t stay. Plus I wouldn’t feel right about eating when I didn’t bring a dish to contribute, so…” You offer up a one-armed shrug. “Next time.”

You also weren’t a fan of eating in front of people. You were always self-conscious about whatever you put on your plate, convinced that you were being judged for your choices. Your stomach growls at the mention of food, reminding you that you’d left some cottage cheese and fruit behind at the shop. That would just have to do until you found the wherewithal to make it to the grocery store.

“But–”

“Next time. I promise.” You kindly interrupt, hoping that she would just let the issue drop. “By the way, I set aside a copy of Joyce Meyer’s latest book for you.”

“You did?”

“Yep.” You confirm as you begin walking backwards towards the nearby parking lot. “Stop by anytime. We’ll consider it an early birthday present, alright?” Smiling when she nods, you toss her a little wave before speed walking the rest of the way to your car.

Unlocking it, you climb in the driver’s seat and slam the door before gunning the engine. Finally free, you peel out of the lot and turn onto the empty street. Needing to focus on something other than your thoughts about a certain bounty hunter, you decide to turn up the radio, praying for your traitorous brain to cooperate.

Yeah, no such luck.

“Fuck you, Levinson.” You spit, wishing that he was close enough to hear you right then. Because the way you saw it, the sooner he packed his shit and moved on, the better off you and everyone else in this godforsaken town would be. And if he knew what was good for him, he’d stay far away from you.

He’d have more luck getting information out of a drunk Charline than he would trying to get you to spill your guts. And the moment he threatened you, you were planning to call Bell’s Creek PD to let them deal with it. Until then, you had some empty shelves to stock. But first…

You were gonna need to find someone to cut you out of these damned spanx.

END

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belokhvostikova · 1 year

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | An apology is definitely at hand, and Eddie cements it when he drunkenly appears at your house despite your clear disdain.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, yelling, crying, descriptions of depression, self-deprecating thoughts, alcohol consumption, driving while intoxicated, mentions of neglectful parents, mentions of childhood abuse, mentions of domestic abuse, brief allusions to eating disorders, and brief mentions of predatory behavior.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | So sorry for the confusion, I was simply updating the color scheme of this chapter when an error was found in my tag list, which I had to edit. I had to remove the tag list, but everyone who was already in the list or asked to be will still continue to be tagged as new chapters are released.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 | One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

You stayed in your bedroom. Not studying. Not reading. Not eating. Barely even moving. The concavity of teals and pastels with trinkets and knick-knacks that constituted the room you found solace in for the last twelve years of your life had swallowed you whole. The bookcase. The vanity. The dying plants begging for life in a personified reflection to your state. Your knees. Your fingers. Your sullen face in the smudged mirror. You listened to the sounds around you. The cars. The birds. The buzzing bees of the blistering spring. So lively, not you. Your father, the whirring indication of the coffee machine that kept him alive, the clearing of his throat, and the crinkle of his newspaper, as if he didn’t proclaim the nastiest words of failure and disappointment against the child he fathered neglectfully. But you had everything—food, a roof, money—who were you to complain, right? Your bladder is full, it hurts, yet you don’t dare to move. You suck in a breath, forgetting to do so innately. Everything has become manual. Your breathing, your thinking, your will.

You’re eighteen, a senior in high school, and you want to go to college. Which one? The farthest one. You’re merely a girl, a teenage girl, a teenage girl deemed a slut because you were nice to a boy. Nothing more, nothing less. Until the next day, where you would be deduced to a whore, because that was the inevitable step for a teenage girl who was nice to a boy. And that’s all you think of. All you repeat. Because you don’t want to remember more. You just want to wait. For what? You don’t know. So you think, you sit, and you wait. Just waiting until there’s nothing more to wait for.

Maybe when you learn to let go, you’ll finally be free.

Perhaps it was the jocular facet of Wayne Munson’s personality that humored the struggling reality of his life, or maybe it was as superficial as he liked to quip an occasional joke here or there, either way, the same teasing line declaring his rambunctious nephew to be the cause of his exceeding aging—the one that always got a good chuckle out of his buddies while sharing a beer or a shy giggle from the tired waitress who worked the overnight shift just to serve him his coffee in the early hours of the morning—was vastly proving to be a coping mechanism, because Wayne Munson swore he could feel a new wrinkle brandishing his forehead as his nephew was on the verge of getting suspended… and failing… and arrested.

Eddie Munson truly did age the poor man into oblivion.

“…Twenty-two tardies, fourteen absences, thirteen detentions…”

Wayne briefly freed the indented grays of his head from one of his many beloved trucker hats before securing it back on. His calloused fingers splayed against his stressed eyebrows at an attempt to alleviate the impending pain with a heavy sigh. It was midday. He should be resting for his coming shift at the plant. But here he was, having a parent meeting with the principal for his twenty-year-old boy.

“…Persistent insubordination, frequent public outbursts, and repeated offense of inappropriate comments made against staff…”

That one made Eddie giggle. Oh, Mrs. O’Donell.

“Okay, okay,” Wayne politely interjected with a tight-lipped smile, “I think I get the picture here.”

Principal Higgins scoffed incredulously, as he dropped the particularly heavy file of Eddie’s extensive high school record. “Respectfully, I don’t think you do, sir.” Eddie rolled his eyes, as he apathetically slumped in the chair. “Your nephew has been tormenting the sanctity of my establishment for six years, six years, sir, and he’s in for a seventh after assaulting a fellow student on school grounds!”

“Oh, please, Carver deserved it-”

“Ed.” Wayne gritted with sternness.

“Mr. Munson, I specifically warned you of the potential consequences of another detention or suspension, and you went ahead and disobeyed my word! Now, charges are being threatened! This is monstrous! Vile, even! Blasphemous-”

“I told you, that jockstrap deserved it!” Eddie sat up to defend his stance, blatantly ignoring his uncle's plea to calm down. “Why aren’t you getting him in trouble, huh?! He’s the one that started all this shit! Going around and spreading lies about Y/N!”

And maybe this is when Eddie should have shut up, because the way Principal Higgins eyes bulged at the revelation honestly kinda freaked Eddie out a bit.

“Ms. Y/L/N?!” Higgins spit odiously. “This is about Ms. Y/L/N?!”

Wayne blinked between both men. “Who’s Y/N Y/L/N?”

The poor man’s presence had long been disregarded. Once again, this had been extrapolated into a battle between Higgins and Munson, a long six year war that seemed to have no ending. And you, well, you fell victim in the crossfire, left unaided, to die, vulnerable to the vultures of Hawkins High that got to pick you apart free of consequences. Because that was human nature for a small town that capitalized the American Dream with infiltrations of conservatism and conformity for the need to prioritize normalcy. And Eddie Munson was not normal, therefore you were not normal. Because you took his fucking picture.

“In my years of administration, I have never, and I mean never, have had this much havoc from two students!” It became quite astounding how much a single vein could protrude from a reddening forehead of a forty-seven-year-old man.

“This isn’t her fault!” Eddie burdened to emphasize. “Why are you always blaming her?! You used to love parading her achievements around as if they were yours, and now that she’s friends with me,” you weren’t friends with him, “you suddenly got your little feelings hurt?! You’re unbelievable!” Eddie sneered with a heavy breath and condescending laugh.

Now, Higgins had been far too familiar with Eddie’s bite, but the abrupt revelation had the man searching for words that would excuse his exaggerating behavior. “I-I, uh, well, I… t-this- this isn’t about Ms. Y/L/N, this is about you, Mr. Munson, and what you did!”

Wayne had reached his wits end, “Alright, alr-”

“What? Rightfully put Carver in his place? Yeah, I did-”

“Alright.” Wayne’s jaw was heavy with tension as a stern scrape of his teeth was gritted to end the commotion. “Look, I truly do not have the time to be doin’ this, so we’re gonna run this quickly.” He sighed with a hand massaging his stubble. “I’ll have Ed apologize.”

Eddie made his annoyance evident with a loud groan and scoff, as he waved his uncle off.

“But,” Wayne interjected, knowing his nephew would spew out more words that would worsen his consequence, “you said it yourself, sir, that Ed’s been “disrupting” your school for a couple years now, so I don’t think another repeated year would do anyone any good. Right?”

“I- I… well, I, uh, I suppose so…” Higgins mumbled.

“Perfect.” Wayne perched out of his chair with a groan from his aching back. “I think a… sincere, heartfelt apology will teach my boy a valuable lesson here.” He patted Eddie on the shoulder before yanking on his denim vest to pull him from his seat. “So, no detention, no suspension, that way Ed will get to graduate, he’ll be out of your hair, and all’s good in life.”

“I, well, I think we’re being a little too lenient-”

Wayne shoved his working hand in front of Higgins. “I appreciate your understanding, and I’m glad we were able to come to a consensus.” Dumbfoundedly, Higgins shook the man’s hand trying to process everything. “Now, I’ll get in touch with the other boy’s parents, hopefully talk them out of charges, and Ed and I will have a long talk as to why we shouldn’t hit people. Right, Ed?”

“U-um, uh, yeah- yes, sir, I’m so sorry.” Eddie nodded, faux guilt casting his face, as he pressed his lips in and threw his round eyes of disappointment to the ground.

“Well, then” Wayne sighed, “I better get going, sleep’s not gonna catch itself.”

“Mr. Munson, uh, sir-”

“Again, thank you for understanding.” Wayne shoved Eddie past the office door, before sending a polite wave to Higgins, left speechless and open-mouthed, yet no protest could be formulated, as the Munson men were out quick with a slam to the door.

Upon reaching the empty halls of the school, Wayne wondered how ethical it would be to lean against the cold, metal lockers and light a cigarette, because he had no willpower to wait until he was outside. Wayne Munson loved Eddie, he truly did. It may not have been affectionately shown for the majority of his guardianship, but it was there; through every cracked joke, every greasy late-night dinner shared, and every moment when he would miss work, because Eddie always waited last minute to finish the algebra homework that he knew he struggled with, and Wayne was there to help.

But parenthood, itself, was a troubling journey, and when abruptly placed onto a man who had no desire to ever have kids of his own, it became devastatingly unfathomable. It became worse when the kid in question knew nothing but abuse, no hugs no kisses, simply fists and swears to condition his mind with the wrongful notions as to how to express his emotions. It was grueling.

Wayne cleared his throat. “Ed.”

“I know, I know,” Eddie was quick to explain, “but I swear, it really wasn’t my fault.” His eyes pleaded to avoid the wave of disappointment he knew he brought to everyone in Hawkins.

“Boy, if this Carver kid and that girl, Y/N, are giving you trouble-”

“No, no, she’s not!” Eddie swallowed the lump in his throat, and huffed. “I-I mean, he is, yeah, but it’s nothing I’m not used to, so it doesn’t matter. But her, she, uh, she didn’t- I, fuck, look this is all stupid! He’s stupid, she’s stupid- I, no, she’s not stupid-”

“Eddie.” Wayne was seeing the younger boy Eddie had once been. Struggling with emotions, struggling with words, unable to process and formulate because he was scared.

“She fucking hates me, alright!” Eddie heaved. “All of this is stupid, and it doesn’t matter, because she fucking hates me! And I can’t even blame her, because I’m an awful fucking person!”

“You’re not awful-”

“I am!’ Eddie sighed to catch his breath. “C’mon, Wayne, you know I am. I nearly fucking failed for the third time in a row, because I have no self-control and apparently no fucking emotional intelligence, and now I may end up getting arrested in the middle of the fucking school day. And she fucking hates me, Wayne, she hates me!”

The quietness of the hall became deafening after Eddie’s tangent. He knew his uncle didn’t understand half of what he just uttered, but it sure as hell felt good getting it off his chest. And by now, a cigarette was looking real good to the older gentleman.

“I- shit, I’m sorry, just forget all of that.” Eddie groaned, a tense hand running through his tangled hair.

“No, no,” Wayne shook his head, “say what you need to say. It’ll do you some good.”

Eddie suspired. “Look, Jason was saying some really gross shit about Y/N that wasn’t true, and the only reason why they said all that shit was because she added me- uh, Hellfire to the yearbook.” Wayne raised an eyebrow. “I know, don’t give me that look, like I said, this is all fucking stupid. Anyways, I felt bad, he was literally causing a scene in the middle of lunch, and well, I punched him-”

“Well, see, you’re not an awful person.” Wayne pointed.

“You didn’t let me finish.” Eddie, now highlighted with genuine guilt, casted down to the floor. “When she first took our picture, I kinda yelled at her, because I thought she was just being some two-faced cheerleader, which she wasn’t, but, uh, after the whole cafeteria scene, well, she told me to just leave her alone, and um, I got defensive and called her… a sl- look, I just really fucked up, alright.”

Wayne puffed out a big breath of air. “Okay.” He really didn’t remember high school being this cursory, granted it was over thirty years ago for him. “Uh, well, did you at least apologize to her?” He truly didn’t know how else to approach this problem.

“Well, no, she got suspended yesterday because of the whole yearbook thing. Highly doubt I’ll get a chance.”

“Well, make a chance.” Wayne waved off simply.

“What?”

“You care that much about what she thinks of you, make the chance happen. Don’t just sit around, do something. And if you really don’t care, then just let it go and focus on graduating and not getting in trouble.” Wayne pulled out his pack of Camels. “Either way, I need sleep and you need to get to class.”

“It’s lunch time.”

“Then eat.” Wayne sighed, as he began walking away. “Just stay out of trouble, because there’s only so many free car repairs I’m willing to offer in order to keep your ass out of jail, boy.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.”

“I can’t believe this! I totally don’t look like this!” Dustin shrieked. “This is a terrible angle! And I specifically told the guy to get my good side!”

Mike laughed with a mouth full of greasy pizza. “You look like the orcs from our campaign.”

“Who looks like the orcs from our campaign?” Eddie announced his arrival, as he took a seat at the head of the table.

“Dustin!” Gareth guffawed.

“But, hey, if you really wanna feel better, take a look at Stanley Godwin who literally sneezed in the middle of his picture.” Jeff stole the yearbook from Dustin’s grabby hands. “Poor kid and his sinuses.”

But before Jeff could thumb through to find the sneezing sophomore, Eddie had forcefully yanked the brand new book from his friend. “Where the hell did you get this?!”

“I bought it.” Dustin answered. “The Yearbook Committee is already selling them. But, if you want my advice, don’t bother asking Nancy for a family discount.”

“You’re not family.” Mike sneered with a playful shove.

And in true Dustin Henderson fashion, the boy audibly gasped. “Have the last ten years meant nothing to you?”

“Is our picture still in here?” Eddie interrupted.

“Yup!” Gareth smirked. “Front and center.”

Eddie flipped through the extracurriculars, filtering through the numerous clubs before his eyes bestowed upon their photo. There they were. All of them. Their faces and names representing the Hellfire title.

“Hey, how’d the meeting with Higgins go?” Jeff snapped Eddie’s attention. “Your uncle dish one out to ya?”

“Uh, no, actually.” Eddie signed. “Got let off the hook.”

“Wait, Higgins isn’t suspending you?” Mike questioned, and Eddie merely shook his head in confirmation.

“Wow, you’d think punching his precious star athlete would get you expelled.” Dustin laughed. “I mean, even Y/N got suspended for something less. Wish she was here, so I could thank her for the photo.”

Your name had sparked something within Eddie. He quickly turned the pages to reach the senior class of 1986, and flipped until he found your face. Your fucking beautiful face. So pretty and proper, dressed in your best clothing, pearls shining around your neck, eyes glinting with perfection. You were perfect. Perfect. Down to the last minute detail. Your teeth, your lips, your skin.

Make a chance.

Eddie tore the page with much fervor in mind.

“Hey, what the hell?!” Dustin whined. “That cost me forty-five bucks!”

“Sorry, kid.” Eddie muttered, as he stood from his chair, stuffing the torn page into the leather pocket of his worn jacket.

“Where are you going?” Jeff catechized. “We’re in the middle of lunch.”

“To find Chrissy Cunningham.”

Chrissy Cunningham was a lot harder to find than Eddie had expected. She had been in the same lunch period with him for the entirety of the semester, but the one instance he actually needed to speak to her, she wasn’t sitting with the gaggle of cheerleaders and jocks that claimed the best seats in the lunchroom. The girls’ bathroom had been his best option, now he obviously didn’t enter, but after he begrudgingly called out her name through the doorway, he felt like a creep and left rather quickly. The gym was his backup, but after peering through the small windows of the double doors, all he saw was Coach Monaghan loudly instructing scrawny freshmen through enervating suicide drills for the sake of physical education. And the health room was no luck, as the guidance counselor was enforcing teaching the importance of abstinence to a group of girls—only girls—for the sake of sexual education. More like purity culture. Eddie was running out of luck. His watch indicated the mere five minutes he had left before he’d be obligated to endure Mrs. O’Donell. But, by the grace of whatever god may or may not be out there, Eddie caught sight of the strawberry blonde sitting alone upon the writhing wood of an old picnic table just outside of the cafeteria. He walked all around, just for her to be a couple yards from where he originally was. Sometimes Eddie could only scoff at himself.

Appearing to be caught up in her own world, Eddie’s heavy footsteps went unnoticed, until he materialized into her peripheral, a startled shriek making him surrender with hands up in the air.

“Woah, hey, sorry.” He raucously chuckled, looking around to make sure no one could fabricate some false story of harassment against a cheerleader. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

But his words brought no ease to her- clearly, it was just yesterday she was cleaning up her boyfriend’s lip, because of Eddie. “I, uh, I- well, if it’s alright with you, I, um, liked to talk- well, ask you for something.” He softly assured, as she eyed him timidly.

“Um, a-about what?” Her voice could barely be picked up by the breeze of the afternoon.

Eddie took it as an invitation to sit down across from her with a tight-lipped smile. It was awkward. He took notice of her uneaten lunch, merely picked apart but not savored—well, as savored as school lunch could be. “So, uh, what brings you out here?” Perhaps an attempt at conversation with someone he never even spoke to was too bad of an idea, but he simply chose the politeness path, as he ask was pretty hefty. “Finally got tired of Jessica’s big mouth?” He laughed.

Chrissy didn’t. Jessica had made a comment, one that sounded too much like her mother’s own words.

So when Chrissy sadly shrugged, he dropped the small talk and diverted the conversation.

“Okay, look, I’m just gonna be up front.” Eddie sighed. “I need you to give me Y/N’s phone number and address.”

Her thinly groomed eyebrows creased her forehead in confusion. “Um, what?”

“Look, it’s a simple ask, alright, I just need her phone number and address.”

“No, I hear you, Eddie, I just- well, I just don’t know if she would want me to-”

“No, and I understand that, I just really need to talk to her.” Eddie pleaded. “And obviously I can’t do that at school.” Chrissy stayed quiet with contemplation. “C’mon, you guys are friends- or were friends, right? I really just want to make it up to her after all the bullshit she’s been through. Us being partially at fault because of it, y’know.”

Chrissy’s guilty round eyes met his. “I just don’t want her to hate me more.” she whispered.

Eddie’s mouth fell slightly agape, not knowing how to comfort. See, lying and saying all was good and merry between you and Chrissy in order to get what he wanted would have been his first solution—the asshole way of thinking. But being that Eddie being an asshole was the start of all your misery in the first place, he fought the urge to choose the easy way out and rubbed his face with agony.

“Yeah, no, I, uh, get it.” He huffed. “And if it’s any consolation, she fucking hates me, too. Probably more than she hates you.” He smiled. And luckily, a sadden smile curled her lips, which was a start. “And I mean, rightfully so, we were jackasses to her.” He laughed.

“I should have stuck up for her.” Chrissy sighed. “She always has for me. I mean, she’s been my best friend for four years. But Jason, he just gets so far into this idea of what people will say and think, and he doesn’t want me or him hurting from others' judgment.”

“So you judged her instead?” He couldn’t really be one to speak on the morals of virtue, as he judged, too.

“I know, it’s so stupid.” She dropped her head into her palms with shame. “And I’m not trying to excuse it, I just want her to know I’m so sorry, but I haven’t had the courage to tell her.” She groaned. “Plus, her dad is really strict and really hard on her to be so successful, that I doubt he’ll want me over after she got suspended.”

Chrissy drowned with dejection. Four years of the purest bond between young girls had been cemented into a cascade of hateful rumors and a lack of clear discernment that severed their loving connection that persevered them through the pinnacle of teenage years. As naive fourteen-year-olds, you both had stolen the locked up booze from your father’s office, and cheered one another on as you took a sip, to ensure you both appeared to know what you were doing when you arrived to Bradly Leminski’s party. Turns out, you both had accidentally drank too much in the comfort of your bedroom and missed out. You’d even watched giddily, as Jason Carver asked Chrissy out, after you ran him through the basis of what she loves, because he was determined to get her on a date. But through the woes of boys and high school parties, you’d both been there for one another through the deepest of tribulations, like when Chrissy called you bawling, because her mother’s words manipulated the way she saw herself in the beautiful dress she’d been so excited to wear for the winter formal. Or when she held you tightly after saving you from the harsh grasp of a senior, Jimmy Saunters, who forcefully shoved multiple shots of tequila down your throat, and attempted to drag you into his friend’s bedroom when you were merely a baby freshman.

Her comfort had saved you, just as yours did to her.

“Well, I mean, you can’t just not try.” Eddie reasoned. “Look, I fucking hate that she hates me, and I want to at least try to apologize to her, too, which is why I at least need her number and address, please. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you, too, whenever you get the chance.”

The school bell that Eddie had been all too familiar with screeched for the coming of class, and he jumped in hurry. “C’mon, Chrissy, please, you gotta help me out here.” The desperation became palpable. Chrissy turned and watched numerous students flood into the halls through the glass doors of the building. Caving in quickly, she rummaged through her backpack for a pink pen she’d nearly worn through after the excessive notes from her third period. But she simply grabbed Eddie’s jacket sleeve, and utilized the back of his veiny hand as a canvas for her information.

He’d ache his neck with a contorted twist of his head to watch the fading ink print what he wanted. A seven digit number lined the back of his hands, a small smile consuming his face, but then Chrissy started capping her pen away. “W-wait, uh, her address, too.”

“Um…”

“Please, I swear, if she asks, I won’t say it was you.” Eddie rushed.

Chrissy sighed, before quickly scribbling the number and street name of your home. Eddie cursed under his breath. “Christ, Pinecrest Acres? I got hired to mow some dude’s lawn in that neighborhood one summer, and some prick called the cops on me for trespassing.” He scoffed, and poor Chrissy didn’t know how to respond at the irrelevance of his news besides with an awkward chuckle. “But, anyways, thank you. I’ll, uh, leave you to it.” Eddie saluted, as he headed towards the door.

But then he abruptly turned. “Wait! Uh, tell your boyfriend I’m sorry for the, uh, whole, y’know…” And Eddie laughed, as he mimicked the shocking punch that loosened Jason Carver’s front teeth.

The entire reason why he hadn’t showed up to school that day.

“Um, don’t you want to tell him yourself?” Chrissy sweetly proffered. “I’m sure it’ll mean more.”

Eddie could roll his eyes. It was Jason Carver. Nothing Eddie did could mean shit to him.

He winced with a hiss. “Yeah, see, I totally would,” no, he wouldn’t, “but since he’s not here, and you’re the next best thing, I trust that you’ll pass on the message for me.” He smiled so sickly, Chrissy couldn’t see the drenching lies of his words.

“Oh, okay.” She agreed.

“Oh!” Eddie perked. “If Higgin’s asks, I totally did apologize to Carver, okay?” Well, maybe there was still a little asshole left in Eddie, but at least he wasn’t actively hurting anyone. Yet.

“Uh, o-okay.” She hesitantly smiled.

“Thanks, Chrissy.” He lifted his balled fist to bump with hers. It was telling of the fact that Eddie Munson had little interactions with girls his own age- or any girls for that matter. But she hesitantly bumped him back, nonetheless. “Y’know, you’re a really cool person, you should get better friends.” He affirmed, before waving a goodbye.

“Th-thanks.” She meekly watched him enter the school building.

While uncomfortable at first, the overall start of the budding friendship between Chrissy Cunningham and Eddie Munson was one to look forward to. While they evidently had nothing in common, it was quite comical actually, they could find reassurance in one another that improvements needed to be made within themselves in order to speak to the one person they both genuinely cared for. You. They at least had that in common. And luckily for Eddie, in six hours, Chrissy Cunningham would confide to Jason Carver to drop any potential charges, and he would listen, because he loved her.

“Fuck.” Eddie mumbled under his breath. He shook the nerves from his hands, and rolled his neck in preparation. “C’mon, you can do this.”

“So, uh,” Wayne snapped Eddie’s attention. His uncle was staring at him circumspectly, as he shrugged on his jacket, “you preparin’ for a marathon, or somethin’?”

“What?” Eddie blinked through his messy bangs. “No, I’m about to make a phone call.”

“Right.” Wayne cleared his throat, studying the newfound nervousness of his nephew’s demeanor, which he hadn’t seen in- well, ever. “Ima head out to work, see ya tomorrow morning.” It was clear Eddie was waiting for his uncle to leave, as Wayne caught sight of how quickly Eddie grabbed the handle of the phone as Wayne, himself, grabbed the doorknob. “Is this about that Y/N girl?”

Eddie’s shoulder’s dropped. “Shouldn’t you be heading off to work by now?”

“Alright, alright,” Wayne mumbled, “just askin’. Be sure to eat dinner.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I mean it, Ed. Eat.”

Eddie, in fact, did not eat.

In order to not succumb to the nauseating feeling that was churning in the pit of his tummy, he came to the concurrence that a cold beer would extenuate the ferment that made his heart skip a beat every ten seconds. Now, in typical sense, Eddie had consumed enough beer in his lifetime, that a single one shouldn’t have affected him to the extent at which this one did. But see, Eddie didn’t listen to the wise words of Wayne Munson, and his gurgling, empty stomach rocked him to the edge of tipsiness far quicker than he was used to.

And before he knew it, his cold fingertips were jamming the buttons to the sequence of Chrissy’s faded pink handwriting, and soon it began ringing- shit, the phone was ringing! Eddie began panicking in place, wavering between hanging up and bringing the phone back to his ear. He hadn’t even planned out what he would say to you. Well, he technically did, it was all that he could think about for the entire day, but each idea seemed unworthy to the standards you deserved, so he’d move on to the next thought, but then suddenly every thought was determined unfit by Eddie. Should he apologize? Fuck, of course, he should apologize, but for what first? Calling you a miserable bitch? An attention-seeking slut? Making a scene in the cafeteria? Yelling in your face? Making you cry? Jesus Christ, thinking it out loud, why on Earth would you ever accept his apology?! He should just hang up before it’s too late-

“Hello?”

Eddie Munson’s knees buckled.

He carelessly gripped the edge of his wooden table, and slowly steadied himself into the chair below. He should speak, but no words were coming out. His knuckle flew into his mouth, where his teeth brandished the tender skin with harsh indents. It was painful, but he couldn’t stop.

You spoke so featherly soft, too delicate for his usual orotund tone. The one he’d use to berate you. “Um, hello?”

“H-Hi…” He pierced out, immediately cringing at the sudden loudness he uncontrollably spoke in. “It’s, uh- well, it’s me, um… Eddie.”

It was dead quiet for what felt like an eternity.

No word, no squeak, no air. You were obviously holding your breath, and the mere thought was tearing at Eddie’s heart. “Please.” It came out so weak. “Please, Eddie, I don’t wanna start anything.”

His stomach dropped, and his hands shook with how scared you sounded. You were scared of him. In the couple of instances he interacted with you, he scared you. Because to you, he brought harm. It may not have been physical, but it was detrimental, nonetheless. And you were scared. He was becoming the sole person he did not want to become, because he knew what it was like to be scared.

“No, no, sweetheart,” he let out a shaky sigh, “I’m not gonna do anything. I promise.” He wanted to profusely vomit. It was the same words his dad had uttered to his bruised mom in order to sweet talk her out of leaving.

“I told you to leave me alone, Eddie.” You choked quietly. It was dinner. Your father was downstairs enjoying his takeout. Not yours. He stopped caring to ask the minute you refused to leave your bedroom. “I don’t even care how you got my number, but I need you to not call-”

“No, I know, sweetheart, but I really just need to talk to you.” His knuckles were casting white upon the tight grip he clutched the phone, as his lips brushed the bottom speaker in whispers. His other hand began insistently picking at the old wood of the kitchen table. Wayne would have a word with him about that. “I- what I did, I really need to tell that I’m sorry, because I truly am sor-”

“Eddie,” You gently interrupted, no energy to scream at him like your mind was begging you to do, “I don’t want your apology.” You sniffled. “If it really meant that much to you, you would have never done it to begin with, because I- I would have never done this to you. I would have never done this to you.”

His eyes clenched shut to mitigate the profound stinging of his eyes from the welling of tears his heart was urging to spill for you. He knew the probability of you accepting his apology was low, but his mother always seemed to accept his father’s after he sweet talked his way out of a domestic abuse charge. This is what was supposed to happen, right? You should be loving his words and running to forgive him, right? It was what he saw. It was what he experienced. It was what he was conditioned to believe. But you weren’t his mother. And he’d desperately do anything to not be his father. Yet everyday, the image in the mirror was sneering back that sickening smile that destroyed Eddie’s childhood. So you weren’t going to run in his arms. You were going to stand your ground, just like he wished his mother had done to his father.

“Please, sweetheart.” A gritted through his tense jaw, as a tear stained his reddening cheek. “Please.”

“I don’t want anything to do with you, Eddie.” There was no admonish to your words, in fact, you were so demure, holding back tears of your own, because he knew the ugly truth that you were well aware of the fact that if you screamed, he’d scream. And you’d, once again, be scared. “Just let me be, please. I don’t want you near me.”

The buzzing of the cutting line shot his bullet in his heart.

Your voice was gone, and yet, the phone stayed glued to his ear in hopes that he was just imagining it all. You didn’t hang up. You were still on the line. You would take back your words. You would accept his apology. But your euphonious voice never appeared again, and Eddie aggressively slammed the phone back on the hook with a grunt of frustration. The heel of his palms stabbed into his weeping eyes, as his shoulders assertively shook with every choke of his tightening breath. Rejection, heartache, vexation, and patheticism rampaged his mind from any calamity, and before he knew it, the characteristics he so badly hated about himself were being proffered up to the surface of his being.

In truth, this was the scary aspect of Eddie Munson that resembled the harm he was verbally and physically ingrained with as a tragic child who knew of no hope. All rationale was gone, and wrongful devotion rooted in his deepest fear of being neglected with disregard had overtook his judgment. Standing with all fury, his finger’s strained through the excessive flexing of joints before his balled fist broke through the drywall of his trailer. His knuckles split with blood, but it felt deserving to him. Who was Eddie Munson without the infliction of pain? Absolutely nobody, he affirmed in his mind. He was meant to suffer.

Chest heaving, beads of sweat pebbled his forehead, and the fridge door broke open. His truculent, battered hand grappled onto the torn yokes of the remaining three beers, hauling them, as his other hand reached for the keys to his van.

Eddie Munson was about to cause more harm.

“Please, jus hol’ on f’me…” His drenched lips slurred with beer, as his hand crushed the empty can he haphazardly threw into the passenger seat, where his growing collection stacked.

In the grand scheme of things, Eddie knew he was attesting to the predisposition of his role in this town, but he couldn’t help it. A lowlife, criminal, an irascible danger to society. Would you actually accept him? No, you wouldn’t. And he wouldn’t blame you. But he couldn’t stand the pre-conceived notion he’d confirmed about himself to you, and he was in desperation to speak to you. Unfortunately, Eddie had panicked, and this was happening in the ugliest, most horrifying and sinister state he’d ever been in. And you would see it all.

As lucky as one can be under the influence while driving, the cracked roads had fortunately been desolate, as nuclear families gathered around their pristine tables to lavish in the draining emotional labor of home cooked meals by their underappreciated wives. He rejected all red lights and street signs, stampeding through neighborhoods, drifting past turns, and steadily accelerating until he’d approached the spotlighted sign of Pinecrest Acres. The affluence—actually the beer and sharp curves—made his stomach turn in disgust. The aristocrats of Hawkins housed together, where they frolicked with no worries in the prolific assortment of two-stories, pool houses, parterres, and vintage cars, all while the struggling families of Forest Hills had to huddle with worn blankets to survive the blistering winters of Indiana. Ronald Reagan’s conservatism sure had an ascendancy on this place. He came to an abrupt stop after his headlights reflected the engraved 630 of your mailbox. “6… 3… 0 Pinecrest fucking Acres.” He mumbled.

His tire ran over the curb of your street before he pulled the keys from the ignition. For a second, he stopped. His breathing was becoming suffocating, as his chest fervently raised with each depth of an inhale. His hand found the door handle faster than his mind could process, and soon he was stumbling on inebriated legs to the front lawn of your house. Honestly, if your dad had found him, he would have shot him, but the man had driven himself into bed after downing the entirety of his rum.

Eddie’s eyes scaled the height of the house. “Fuck me.” Maybe he shouldn’t have chugged four beers. He cleared his throat. His joints echoed in a rhythmic sequence of pops, as he pressed and twisted his fingers to loosen up. A guttural groan escaped as his neck was next, snapping it left to right to ease out any crooks. His breaths stammered in unprecedented waverness, as his ears ached through the thudding sounds of his beating heart that seemed to be amplified in his mind. Jaw ticking. Hands shaking. Mouth dried. Body sweating. What the hell were you going to do when he’d shown up without your consent? In fact, you explicitly said to leave you alone. “Shit, shit, shit.” Eddie wanted to cry. Should he knock? No, your dad would call the cops. Would you call the cops? He sure as hell would if a drunk man harassed his yard.

But then, his stomach sank to his ass.

The one room that had been illuminated by the glowing overhead light had accentuated your silhouette. You. It was fucking you. In your room. Where you stayed, where you studied, where you slept, where you’d been crying and chose stoicism to numb the pain of everything around. But everything had happened quickly, and soon, you were gone with a sharp close of your curtains.

Eddie’s legs began working without thought, and he’d swiftly aligned himself with the window to your room, tramping the trimmed garden of crumpled rose bushes beneath his dirty sneakers. Your house had been complemented by the standing trellis that had been wrapped by vines of delicate nature. If there was any sign of either moving forward or leaving, the intricate trimming of your house perfectly starting where your trellis ended meaning Eddie had leeway to make it to your window, meaning Eddie’s intoxicated mind saw it was a passage to see you. “Jus do it f’her, do it f’her…” Regrettably, the rational part of his brain had fallen under the influence, which was screaming at him to just leave you alone.

As stealthy as a drunk man could, Eddie prayed the trellis could hold his weight, as he began scaling the flimsy wood against your wall. All he could think about was you. Every step was for you. Every splinter was for you. Every stumble was for you. Yet his clouded judgment could not process the fact that you didn’t want any of this. But the bottom of his shoe was already scuffing the white trimming of your house, and he was hoisting himself to stand upon the hipped edge roof. Crouched and begging his intoxication didn’t drop him from the second story, he quietly approached the dormer of your window.

His fingertips gently caressed the glass with great scrutiny. It was now just dawning on him as to what he’s just done. The danger he’s put himself and others in. The disrespect he’s inflicted upon you. The hurt. The knock was soft, barely comprehensible. You had ignored it, there was always noise. You tightly cuddled a bundle of your duvet, sinking yourself into the wallow of your bed in hopes of willing yourself to a serious need of sleep. But the noise continued. More apparent. More concerning.

You jolted at the clearest indication of a set of knocks cascading against your window.

Your heart began racing beyond compare, as the noise followed just outside. It was night, no one should be coming to your house, let alone your window at 9:27 p.m. And the one man you should have had full reliance on was currently passed out in his locked bedroom, where you knew awakening him would lead to a revile of the burden you’d become in his life. He said it when you were nine, and he’d freely say it again if you gave him a headache from his usual hangover.

But suddenly, the trembling of your body succumbed when you heard it.

“H-hello…”

Blindsided by the simple greeting, you stumbled out of bed with stupefaction that he would actually show up. Eddie. You ran to your window, swinging the curtains open to reveal him. Round, reddened eyes oozing with plead, as his hand pressed against your window. His heart sank at the look of disgust that his face garnered from you. He hated it. He hates your disheveled hair, your bagging pajamas, your wobbling lip. He hates you. He hates how perfect you were. Why the fuck were you so fucking perfect?

You made out the shaky “please” that left his mouth.

Opening the window swiftly, the cold breeze of the night engulfed you, as he helped you lift. “What are you doing here?!” You were quick to spit with spite.

“I-I,” upon seeing you, his eyes had an instant reaction to start welling for the shit he was putting you through, because he knew what he was wreaking was pure havoc in the normalcy of your life, “I just really needed to t-talk to you.” He managed to choke out.

His hot breath hit you like a truck, proffering memories of what a humid house party smelt like. “Are you drunk right now?!” He could only shamefully nod with closed eyes. “And you drove here?!” Another disgrace to his character. “Are you insane?!”

“M’so sorry… M’so fucking sorry, please, I-I jus- I jus-”

“You could have hurt somebody, Eddie!” Though whispered, it carried all the beratement of your anger. “You could have killed yourself!”

“I know!” He wailed with guilt. “I jus- I feel like m’losing my mind, because I need to fucking fix what I did. What I did to you! M’so sorry.” Your hands caught your head in anguish. You hated him, every being in your body wanted to shout at him, and yet, your heart was tormenting at the state he was in. And you fucking hated that you couldn’t hate him how you wanted- how you deserved. “M’sorry, I-I can leave and I swear I won-”

“You’re not fucking leaving like this, Eddie, you’re gonna get hurt.” You began tearing in frustration.

“Nonono, p-please don’t cry-”

He tried to reach out to you, but you slapped his comforting hands away, forcing him to lose his balance, before you had to steady him yourself. “You’re just saying that because you know you’re the cause.” You mumbled far too low for his drunk brain to process, while you held a tight grip around his wrist.

At an attempt to pull him in, his heavy, limp body contorted trying to bypass your window alcove, brandishing it with the streaks of his dirty shoes, and it took all your strength to stumble him onto your bed with a huff. Having him sit in place, you kneeled in front of him to get a good look at his face through the peering moonlight. He looked beyond exhausted, a testament to the agony of contrition he’s been eaten by for what he’s done to you. His eyes wholly swollen with irritation and tears that stained his flushed cheeks, as everything around him felt like it was burning hot. You couldn’t yell at him. At this state, ambushing him with an onslaught of curses and shouts would only project him into a disposition of vindication in order to protect himself. And that side of Eddie Munson was scary.

“Eddie,” you sighed, as his hanging head managed to meet your round eyes and quivering lips. “You cannot do this again. Do you hear me? You’re scaring me.” He vehemently shook his head, as his hands were quick to cover his face with shame to shield from the embarrassment he was consumed by. You pulled his arms away. “No, Eddie, I need you to say it; that you won’t do this to me again.”

“I-I… I won’t do this to you a-again- m’sorry. I won’t touch you, I promise, M’not my dad.” He sobbed.

You sighed in defeat. “What- why would you even do this in the first place? What are you talking about?” You pleaded to understand, as tears constricted your eyes.

There’s so much he wanted to say, but he didn’t know where to start. “I fucking need to fix what I did to you. I didn’t mean it, any of the shit I said to you. Being around is just so nice that I get afraid. I don’t want to lose you… a-as a friend, because- because nice things don’t happen to me, and I don’t know what I would do if I lost-” His breath had caught up to him, making him retch on nothing but tears and snot.

“Breathe, okay, Eddie, just breathe.” You quietly instructed, as he endeavored to follow suit. Your hands softly took hold of his, trying to ameliorate the violent shakes of his stiffening body, fingers delicately locking to find solace within his. And he held back so tightly.

“Nobody- nobody’s ever cared like you have.” He whimpered.

“So why treat me like this?” You mewled, sinking your teeth to discontinue the incoming sobs that stung your throat.

“Because I don’t fucking deserve you-” You were quick to immediately shush him, as your father was merely a couple doors down. “Sorry, but I can’t fucking like you, Y/N.” He murmured through a quivering lip. His mind was spewing his feelings, the one he so badly wanted to ignore, but alas, his intoxicated state was regrettably telling all. “I can’t, it hurts too much. Knowing- knowing you don’t belong with me, I-I can’t fucking hold you, hug you, I c-can’t.”

“Eddie, you could have just talked to me.” You softly cried.

“No.” He looked so terrified. “I can’t fucking hear you ignore me. I-I know you don’t like me-”

“You don’t know that-”

“Fucking look at me, Y/N.” He bawled. “Look at what I’m doing to you. You don’t fucking deserve this. M’not a good person. I hurt you. I fucking hurt you.”

“I just wished you would have given me a chance, and talked to me, Eddie.” You squeezed his hands.

“No, I don’t want to burden you.” He cried with heavy breaths. “There’s things I wanna say to you- do with you, but I should just be letting you live free from me. No one cares about what I have to say, and you know it.” He begged for you to get it. “All that bullshit about communication doesn’t mean anything when it comes to me. No one wants to hear me. No one wants me.”

Your heart shattered at the revelation because it was beyond the definitions of truth. From childhood, Eddie Munson knew he was nothing if not a punching bag to his father, a therapist to his mother, an obligation to his uncle, and a burden to everyone. It became unwarrantedly embedded into a six-year-old boy and vandalized into his twenty-year-old self. He recognized it. Everyone affirmed it.

You raked your hands from his hold, choosing to sit next to him on your bed, where your arms inundated him into a hug he had not received in years. The last close touch given to Eddie Munson left him weeping with a broken nose. He immediately fell into your embrace, shoving his head in the comfort of your neck, where his cries only amplified with the desperation of being touched lovingly. Your own tears had dampened his unruly head of hair, as you caved into him. His heavy arms constricted you tightly.

At this moment, you were not scared of Eddie Munson. You’d seen his reasoning and you understood. Not excused, but understood. A lot of people had simply scared him first.

“I hear you, Eddie. I want to keep hearing you.”

“Eddie?” You whispered into his curls.

It’d been an hour of nonstop wails of distress, years of pent up emotions, and the realization that his being could be accepted. Even if it was just for tonight. His eyes had endured a rollercoaster of feelings, and they soon gave up on holding him awake. You didn’t move. He didn’t move. A tight hug that was necessary for both of you after heavy stoicism from neglect in your own unique ways.

You caressed his head. “Eddie?”

He was out. You let out a shaky breath of relief. Carefully maneuvering his body, you gently laid his head onto your pillow, prying his strong arms from your waist where they refused to let go, bunching the fabric of your sweater. But you managed to escape his needy hold. Huffing lightly, you carried his legs onto your bed, deciding to let his shoes dirty your clean blankets. His arms had subconsciously gotten comfortable, splaying out against your mattress, where he fell into deep relaxation in comparison to the lumpy bed he’d succumb to back home. You took sight of the fading ink across his hand, your information decorating his alabaster skin with the all too familiar pink of Chrissy Cunningham’s pen. You wondered how the hell that conversation had gone down. You tenderly eased his arms from the malaise of his jacket, bringing the denim and leather infused with cheap cologne and cigarettes up to your nose. It was Eddie. Soothing the beloved jacket against the back of your desk chair, a small paper had dropped from the nearly torn pocket. Reaching out, you picked up the torn page from Dustin Henderson’s yearbook.

Though, no other student could be seen. It was ripped haphazardly to only focus on your picture.

You.

Eddie Munson had now seen you, as you had now seen him.

Softly placing the photo back, you rummaged through your closet to retrieve another set of duvets and blankets, where you preciously placed them onto the floor of your bedroom. Your bed had now been stolen, but you weren’t complaining—that much, at least. You’d quietly taken another pillow from your bed, placing it onto your newfound cushion of the floor. There was a reason why you shoved this particular blanket into the closet, it made your skin itch uncomfortably, but you’d withstand the terrible material of the woven covers if it meant that Eddie could get the peace he needed.

Because if Eddie was okay, you’d be okay.

Because similarly to Eddie, who were you if not catering to the needs of others in order to keep sanity in your life. You just wanted stability. True stability.

Cuddling into your blankets, you heard the snores of the past out man next to you. You sighed. In the mere three days of knowing Eddie Munson, you accepted the emotional labor that came with his damaged self. But that was okay. Because Eddie Munson seemed ready to do the same for you. Accept you.

But how willing were you to tolerate the impulsivity of Eddie Munson who knew nothing of stability?

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 | Again, there was an error in my tag list, which led me to removing it. Luckily, it’s been a couple days, so I believe most who wished to be tagged already read this chapter. My tag list will continue, I just simply had to remove it for this chapter in particular. I’m terribly sorry for any confusion.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fluff #mean!eddie munson #the yearbook: club pictures

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monzabee · 1 year

Text

two sides of the same coin - mv1

masterlist

Summary: The one where you try to convince yourself that you’re not falling for your teammate, but can’t help it when you realise that he is not that different from you after all.

Pairing: max verstappen x reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: cursing, mommy issues (same), daddy issues, ISSUES OKAY, ISSUES, EVERYBODY HAS ISSUES, J*s Verstappen (yikes), allusions to eating disorders, a singular mention of divorce babe divorce, angst (why am i writing so much angst), daniel ricciardo being the best older grid-brother there is, slight frenemies to lovers if your squint, i don’t really like horner but he’s like the only father figure max ever had so he’s a good guy in this one.

Request: “teammates to lovers with max please!❣️”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! i did NOT expect to get this out today, but there you go! it was so much fun to write and honestly, i might slowly becoming a max girl (sorry carlos). anyway, please check the warning tags if you haven’t already, because there might be some possibly triggering content. thank you, anon, for the request, i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.

2018

“Do you have to leave?” You ask the Australian in front of you who, coincidentally, is kneeled on the floor and in the middle of packing his bag. “Can’t you just… I don’t know, stay?”

“Come on, cheer up.” He says, “You’re supposed to be happy that I’m changing teams, Y/N.”

You scoff, dropping yourself to lay down and bending your knees to rest your feet on the couch. “I don’t have to be happy about anything.” You throw the tennis ball in your hand towards the wall, catching it and doing it all over again in a pattern in which you know is going to make Daniel mad.

“Any other potential driver would be happy about this, Horner already told you the seat would be yours. So, there is no reason why you shouldn’t feel happy about this.”

“Well, I still don’t.” You huff, turning your head towards the man jokingly glaring at you.

He laughs, gives you a look and returns to his task while shaking his head slightly. “You’re a very weird girl, Y/N.”

“Wow, Daniel. That’s brand-new information.” A third voice interrupts your discussion from the door. It’s Max leaning against the frame with his arms crossed across his chest. You halt the movement of your hands to send him a scathing look.

You roll your eyes, mumbling something along the lines of “No one asked you,” under your breath.

“Play nice, Max Emilian.” Daniel mumbles, making the Dutch groan and you laugh. “Fuck, how did I pack this in the first place?”

“You wouldn’t have this issue if you didn’t get too comfortable in your driver’s room, Danny.” You offer, raising yourself on your elbows to get a better look at the already bursting luggage. “You still have a ton of stuff at the hotel, too.”

“Maybe you should just stop living like a slob.” Max offers this time, making both you and Daniel to glare at him. “Jesus, tough room.”

“You should become a comedian,” you tell him with a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Max Emilian.”

He straightens his posture quickly, “You know what, Y/N–”

“Calm down, children.” Daniel sighs and giving you both the look. “You two need to get along now that I’m not going to be there to stop some kind of childish feud–”

“It’s not childish–” You argue at the same time Max complains, “She pushed me off the track!”

You furiously get up from your place on the couch and walk towards him with an accusatory finger extended towards him. “It wasn’t me, you dickhead, it was Charles! And it was an accident!”

“I don’t care,” He contends, “You were helping him push me off the track.” He shakes his head while mumbling, “Incident, inchident, as if I’m stupid.”

“Why would I help him when I was racing against both of you, Max?”

“I don’t know,” He shrugs, a devilish smirk on his lips. “Maybe you had a crush on him.”

“I- I did not!” Your shout is high pitched, you gasp and start to follow him with enraged steps when he walks out of the room. “You get back right here, Max, you insufferable twat!”

Daniel is left with an empty room and a luggage which is about to explode. “They’ll be fine,” he announces, mostly to himself but also at the poor intern who watches the corridor you’re both walking down in while continue your very loud fight. “Do you think you can get me another luggage?”

2019

It’s not like you hate Max, you don’t hate him at all. In fact, he’s gone out of his way to make you feel comfortable from your change in role from a reserve driver to the second driver at Red Bull. Looking back, you can now say that everything happened so quickly. One day, you were the reserve driver for Aston Martin Red Bull Formula One team, and the next day, Christian Horner invited you to his office to offer you an opportunity of a lifetime. Having a reserve driver who was a woman had already had the team under a large microscope – some calling it a step in the right direction whilst others arguing that it was nothing more than a PR move to gain sympathy. You tried telling your team principle your concerns about the media but he assured you that all will be dealt with and all you would need to do is drive a good race.

So, you left the office with a renewed, and rewritten, contract and never looked back. After that, it was a whirlwind of media duties (both due to your ‘promotion’ and Daniel’s departure), photoshoots, and much more. Your trusted Apple Watch was replaced with a Tag Heuer one, which left you terrified of losing it. But Horner assured you that they’d deal with it – “Should you ever lose the watch, but try not to because it costs a lot of money, okay?” Max was with you in every step of the way, even though his father clearly unapproved of your pseudo-friendship. You sometimes think the only reason the two of you ever became friends is due to the fact that it was forced upon you due to you being teammates, but Max proves this to be wrong every time he brings you coffee in morning briefings because; “I don’t want for them to repeat it and extend the meeting because you’re sleepy,” or when he checks up on you before a race in a particular track he knows you’re anxious about; “Just making sure you’re calmed down so you don’t accidentally hit me,” or how he comforts you after every fight you have with your mother.

Which brings us to another topic – your mother. You suppose what J.D Salinger said was true – Mothers are all slightly insane. And you are allowed to say that, because yours takes the term ‘dance mom’ to a whole other level. You thought since Daniel convinced your mother that he’d take care of you, she’d stay away, but she became very interested in your career as a racing driver. You’d hoped that wouldn’t be the case, but your dreams are crushed like your car when she shows up in your first race. You two have a very public fight, which Christian has to break up for both of your sakes, leaving you to lock yourself in your driver’s room for the remainder of the race. It’s only when your door is knocked you realise the race is over. You’re about to yell back against the persistent knocks that you want to be left alone when you hear his voice.

You get up and open to door to let Max in, only to find yourself crashing in his arms on the couch, sobbing through his calming words. “It’s going to be fine,” he says and somehow you realise maybe the two of you aren’t so different.

2020

Between the pandemic and the new regulations, the 2020 season rocks your world – in a totally not cool way. The paddock buzzes with the health restrictions, everyone wanting to keep their drivers and staff safe. The stress from the unknown which comes from the fact that you’re in a freaking pandemic and that fact that your mother and Helmut Marko is enough to keep you on the edge throughout the whole season. The fights with your mother now more prominent than ever, you’re fairly sure that the poor people who are supposed to be doing their jobs can’t even do that because the fight seems to continue wherever you go. One day it’s about the fact that you couldn’t get a podium, the next time it’s because of the fact that you were third, you didn’t push enough, you pushed too hard, you didn’t use enough throttle, and the list goes on. You can feel the light in you fading with every fight, and the criticising jabs being masked as ‘little comments’, you’re just glad that you’re getting through the season without wanting to explode.

It's between practice sessions when you sit down for lunch with your mother. You both order your food – her a salad, and you a sandwich. After the waiter leaves, your mother lets out an unsatisfied hum.

“What’s wrong, mom?” You ask, trying to keep your voice and facial expression calm.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you ate something healthier?” She asks, her voice condescending in every way you absolutely hate. “It would save your engineers a whole lot of work.”

You sigh, turning your attention to your phone in your hands to appear busy. “The world isn’t going to end if I eat two slices of bread for lunch, mom.” You mumble.

“It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t maintain healthier habits, I heard of this new diet–”

“I think she said she’d prefer the sandwich, Ms. Y/LN.” A voice interrupts, the one which you’ve become accustomed with. When you raise your head up, Max meets your eyes with an expectant look. “I’m sorry to keep your lunch short, but Christian said he wanted to meet us.”

And with that, he quickly whisks you away from your mother. You’re confused when he leads you to his driver’s room instead of Christian’s office. You look at him with raised eyebrows, “I thought we were meeting Christian.”

“Well, I might’ve lied.” He shrugs. Then, he moves towards the serving plate on the little table and motions you to sit. You’re even more surprised to find the sandwich you’ve ordered on the plate. He must’ve anticipated this because he explains it as he offers you the plate. “I was sitting a few tables over and heard you order it, now eat.”

“Thanks, Max.” You whisper with a breathy voice.

“It’s going to be fine.” He whispers back, making sure you eat every bite.

2021

Everything is much more tense this season. Although the go through the races is podium finishes and points (and even a few wins), you realise Max is more on edge than you are. This also puts you in a slight state of panic, as he’s been the one better at keeping the cool between the two of you, but you manage to put your own insecurities aside to help your friend who’s done the same for you for the past two years. It starts with encouraging words and continues with comforting touches which evolve into hands lingering around after hugs. It becomes stolen looks across the rooms or group interviews where they separated the two of you. It later becomes holding each other’s hands under the tables during function and award shows and even holding each other in the comfort of your respective driver’s or hotel rooms.

Max brings home a win in Monaco, while you steal the first place from Seb in Azerbaijan. He’s not bitter about it, in fact he congratulates you and doses you in so much champagne you have to take two showers to get the stickiness off your hair when you get back to your hotel room. While the season seems to be going for you from the race perspective, you realise Max is starting to have more problems with his father. You try your best when it comes to reassuring him, but both you and Max realise that you’re more open to being comforted than him. So, you provide the silence he craves and he eventually lets you know that he is ready for your cuddles. It’s a sad but a good routine.

There’s one incident with an interview during the season. The tensions are high and people are starting to question your ability as a driver more now that you are bringing home podiums and wins. They are sceptical about the fact that you are a woman and question your every move and achievement – but you don’t mind it, you’re doing it for the little girls everywhere who watch you and hope to achieve the same things as you one day.

An interviewer asks, “Isn’t it hard to focus on your task when you’re surrounded with nineteen other drivers who happen to be all men?”

You’re still tired from the previous race and not getting a full night’s sleep the night before, that it takes a while for you to comprehend the question. Thankfully, Daniel and Seb are there to defend you alongside Max. You turn your focus to the interviewer who asked the question as their protests die down. “Well,” you start with a shaky laugh, “I know the past year has messed up us all, but I’m not particularly into anything involving masks or stuff that conceal the face.” There is a nervous laughter around the room and the interviewer is not pleased with your answer. “Shall we continue?” You ask in the sweetest voice you can muster. When you look at Daniel and Max, both of them grin at you while giving you a supportive thumbs-up.

You find yourself in his hotel room in Austin, a couple weeks after the race in Turkey. His eyes are focused on the portable screen as he plays FIFA. You’ve realised it’s a pre-race routine for him – not that you understand, his eyes must be tired after looking at the screen for too long. He asks you if you want to play and you agree, albeit timidly. He lets you play a few rounds after taking over and playing for fourteen hours straight to find himself ranking 21 worldwide.

“You can always join an esports team after this.” You joke, your head is on the back of the couch as you look up at him. He laughs, agreeing you without any objection.

“Maybe I should.”

“What, you’re not going to continue racing until you are an old prune?” You ask.

His face contorts. “No, that’s not the goal, schatje.”

“Then tell me,” You move your hands under your chin to appear more interested despite the sleep in your eyes. “what is the goal?”

“To prove a point, and then I’m free.” He replies, mimicking your earlier pose.

“You’re going to be fine, Max.” You speak in a soft voice; your touch is soft on his cheek when you bring one of your hands to caress the skin. “You’re going to become the champion this year.”

“How do you know?” Max asks, you can tell it is not to be sceptical, but it is in genuine curiosity.

“Female intuition.”

He lets out a big laugh, grabbing your wrist gently and pressing a kiss on the tips of your fingers. “Come on, we have to sleep before tomorrow. He have a race to win.”

He wins, by the way – the race in Austin. And then, he goes on to win the 2021 World Championship. There are tears in your eyes as you congratulate him on the team radios, and after you get out of your car. He brings you on the podium and kisses you in front of the whole world. You realise that he was right all those times after all, everything is going to be fine.

2022

Both of you are in a bubble when you get to the 2022 season. He kisses you before every race, you do the same. You wish each other luck and proceed to race on the track the best you can. You find each other after every race, mostly covered in champagne, and kiss again. Both of your parents were opposed to your relationship at first – your mother and his father. It’s funny to think that now, because he’s introduced you to his mother and you introduced him to your dad, and as far as their approval goes, the love extends both ways. You’ve told your mother to stop coming to races, presenting a clear argument without raising your voice once, which leaves her no choice to agree to your wishes. It was scary to even consider doing it, but the proud look on Max’s face is enough for you to do it all again.

You win the race in Monaco this year. Max is P3, but he looks just as happy as you when you direct your bottle of champagne towards him. Although Carlos is there with you on the podium, in that moment, it feels like the world consists of only the two of you. You go to celebrate with the team, of course. Christian pushing you into the pool and you pulling Max, and consequently him, alongside you. Someone captures the moment and you post it to your social media. Daniel makes sure everyone knows that he approves.

The fight is still on, as Lewis would say. You know both him and Max are still fighting for the title. No one expected you to join the two of them in their fight for the title. The first few races are hard at the start of the season, but you outrace most of your friends on the track after your win in Monaco. By the time you get to Abu Dhabi for the season’s last race, you’re a shaky mess. He takes you into his arms and whispers affirming promises into your ear.

“You’re going to become the world champion,” He announces to you. “I know you’re going to do it.”

Your voice comes out creaking as you question, “How do you know?”

There is a warm smile on his lips as he answers, “Female intuition.”

You both get ready to race before you could answer because of the knock on the door.

“YOU DID IT, Y/N, YOU ARE THE FIRST FEMALE WORLD CHAMPION IN THE HISTORY OF FORMULA ONE!” Horner shouts through your radio.

You’re still shaking by the time you park your car, and can’t get out even when your team huddles around you to celebrate. It takes a while to take it all in, but as you stand on the podium as the reigning champion with the man you love, nothing else matters to you in the world. You look around to see the smile on people’s faces, people shouting and cheering for you, and you even see your father who holds a banner with one of his hands as his other arm is wrapped around your team principal. It’s a bittersweet feeling, winning the same season one of your best friends announce that he is going to become a reserve driver. But Daniel is right there with your dad and Christian, screaming your name with pride. After your national anthem is played and you pop the champagne, you’re trying to get your eyes dry from all the tears as Max suddenly falls to his knees. You kneel with him with panic, of course, thinking that there might be something wrong with his heartbeat or something worse. But right as you’re about to call for help he brings something from his back towards you, opening the small box while maintaining his eye contact with you. There is an uproar of cheers around you, but it doesn’t matter. As far as you’re concerned, there’s only Max and you – and you and Max.

“Marry me, liefje.” He says.

You nod your head, “Yes.”

He gathers you up in his arms after he puts the ring on your finger. You realise that he was right from the beginning, everything is more than fine.

2023

“You need to stop doing this to yourself.” You announce as you watch Daniel struggle with his overflowing luggage – again. “You’re not even driving this season.”

“It’s not my fault, I can’t not take what the fans give me.” He tries to defend himself; he points to the suitcase with frustration. “Can you help me, please?”

“Only because I am in a good mood.” You announce as you kneel beside him and the two of you try closing the monstrosity in front of you.

You know Max is there before he announces his arrival. “Putting my wife to work, Daniel?” He asks. He comes to kneel with the two of you helping you close the luggage up. Then, he kisses you softly on your lips as he mumbles, “Hello, Mrs. Verstappen.”

“Hello, Mr. Verstappen.” You giggle.

“God, you guys are insufferable.” Daniel pretends to gag, receiving glares from the both of you. “Remember when you guys hated each other? Yeah, I miss those days.”

“We never hated each other.” Max shrugs.

“Yeah,” You seem to agree with your husband. “It was just an inchident of misunderstanding.”

“I better be your future kids’ godfather!” He yells behind you as you start to leave (your) driver’s room. “Children, bloody children.” He mumbles to himself, he waves his arms for help when he spots one of the interns, “Hey, do you think you can get me another luggage?”

3K notes · View notes

anticanonsposts · 6 months

Text

König my bbg

I truly think this man would be so obsessive about your best interest…..

cw: allusion to disordered eating, lack of self care hehe, nsfw under the cut, mdni

he is for sure the partner to get very upset when asking you what you have eaten during the day, and you respond with coffee and a bag of cheetos.

coming from someone who needs to eat so much just to maintain his weight, he cannot wrap his head around how you are still functioning.

he will refuse to cuddle you until you get up and eat SOMETHING, this goes the same for water, he will bring you an entire glass and sit like a disappointed parent until you finish it.

he quite literally wants nothing more than for you to take basic care of yourself, and give yourself everything you need to simply function

sometimes when you are staying up late, mindlessly scrolling on your phone he will just complain and say that HE is tired

he's figured out that this works better than to beg you to go to sleep for your own good

NSFW under the cut mdni

early on in your physical relationship his head was buried between your legs and at one point it sounded like you were sobbing, and could barely catch your breath

this lead to you very fucked out and frustratedly looking down at him as he was gazing up at you with nothing but concern, having stopped what he was doing

you giggled and assured him that you were fine

one time you two are fucking in doggy but like sitting up, he takes a breather and you cant reach your water bottle so he leans back to grab his and lets you take a swig while he’s holding it (idk why but for some reason someone holding a water bottle while you drink from it seems hot to me, idk my brain might be broken)

after sex, after a bit of cuddling of course, he is adamant that you go pee, he doesn't want you getting a UTI and will literally lift you off of him if you resist or pretend to be asleep.

also….man is girthy ok

he refuses to give you his entire dick all at once or without a warm up/foreplay

he knows how you are supposed to feel, that you aren't supposed to be too tight, the last thing he wants to do is hurt you when he’s supposed to be making you feel good.

#könig smut #könig #könig x reader #könig cod #konig smut #konig x reader #call of duty smut #call of duty modern warfare #cod smut #cod mw2 #konig mw2 #konig cod #könig blurb #könig imagine #könig x you #konig blurb #konig imagine

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zegrasdrysdale · 10 days

Note

Could you possibly write something with Jack where the reader is having an insecure moment because she read some comments on her recent post and Jack comforts her and reassures that she’s the only girl for him and how beautiful he is, and maybe he makes a little insta post about her

[ don’t know what for ] j. hughes

paring : Jack Hughes x fem!reader

summary : after reading some of the comments on her most recent insta post, Jack’s girl gets a little insecure. he reminds her just how beautiful she is

warning(s) : insecure!reader, allusions to a past eating disorder

author’s note : if y’all understand the title then we are automatically best friends (bc 1d 🫶🏼)

༺═──────────────═༻

She frowns as her comments are once again flooded with comments how she looks. It's always a comment about the color of her hair or that it looks like she needs to "eat a burger". As if she didn't stop eating completely when she was a teenager because she was getting comments about how she looked overweight when she was healthy.

Sometimes there's even a dig at the fact that she has blue eyes.

She knows there's a stereotype around hockey players dating or marrying women that have blonde hair and blue eyes, but she can't control the color of either. Sure, it's the type of some players but Jack told her over and over again at the beginning of their relationship that he liked her for her personality.

That doesn't mean that little voice in her head tells her that he's with her because of her hair and eyes. She's aware he has a type, and that type does match the stereotype.

Instead of getting up and going out like she had planned, she doesn't move from her bed. She cancels all plans that she had with her friends and cancels dinner with Jack that night to hide from the public.

The last thing that she needs is more pictures of her to be taken that night and more comments to roll in about the way she looks.

from: hughesy ♡ - 10:03 am wdym you don't feel good ? can i bring you soup ? i can give you back rubs if you don't want soup (ik i'm not a great cook). snacks ? soda ? ice cream ?

to: hughesy ♡ - 10:05 am i'm not hungry. i just wanted to let you know about dinner

from: hughesy ♡ - 10:19 am i'm outside your apartment. open up

Despite saying that she doesn't feel good and doesn't want to see anyone, Jack is on the other side of the door when she opens it in her hoodie with the hood up to hide her hair. He holds up flowers, a plastic bag that's probably full of candy, and a can of soup with a big smile.

"Baby, you look like you've been crying," he states when she opens the door. "Are you sure it's more than you not feeling well?"

She moves to the side so Jack can walk into her apartment. "If I tell you, you'll think it's stupid," she mumbles as she closes the door behind him and follows him further into the apartment.

Jack puts the goodies on the kitchen island and turns to his girlfriend with a frown. "Hey, you can tell me and I promise I won't think it's stupid," he assures her. "What's really going on?"

Her bottom lip wobbles as she says, "I hate being blonde and I hate having blue eyes. I feel like you're only with me because of it. I feel like if I dyed my hair brown and got brown contacts then you'd leave me. I feel too skinny and I feel too fat at the same time. I don't want to go out today and probably get my picture taken every two seconds because I don't feel pretty. I don't want to be seen eating because I'll get told I need to stop again. I don't want to be seen not eating because then I'll be told I need to put on weight. It's confusing and I hate the way I look right now."

A weight comes off her shoulders when she confesses how she really feels to Jack. The tears begin though and sobs wrack her entire body.

His frown just deepens at her confession. Jack crosses the room in three long strides to envelope her in a hug. He cradles her head like he always does when she's upset. She buries her face into his healthy shoulder and wraps her arms around his torso.

"You're so allowed to have days like this," Jack tells her. "But you need to stay out of your comment section, my love. They don't know you like I do and only see you for your hair and eyes. They don't know the you that I fell in love with. I love you no matter what and that will never change. You could dye your hair magenta and I'd still love you and think you were beautiful."

She shakes her head and looks up at him. "You don't mean that," she says.

Jack pushes the hood off her head and runs his fingers through her locks. "I mean that with my entire heart, baby," he assures her. "I think you're beautiful on your most insecure days. I think you light up the room when you walk in when you think you'd dim it. I love you when you doubt it. You're it for me. Blonde hair or not. Blue eyes or not."

"I don't believe you," she whispers.

It hurts her heart to say it but it's true at the moment. She doesn't believe Jack when he says that she's it for him. She's heard those words before and they turned out not to me true.

He runs his thumbs over her cheekbones to dry her tears and replies, "You don't have to. Not right now. Just know that I find you incredibly beautiful for the both of us." He pulls her back into a hug. "I'd love you if you shaved your head tomorrow too and that's a fact."

She bites back a smile and shakes her head. "I'm not going to go bald or something, Jack," she tells him.

"Just saying that I'd love you no matter what," he assures her. She pulls her head back to look up at him. "Hairless or not. I'd even take you to get colored contacts if that's what you really wanted."

"I know," she sighs as she buries her face back into his good shoulder. "It just sucks that no matter what I do, I still have moments like this."

Jack presses kisses to the top of her head and she wraps her arms around his torso. "You're allowed, baby," he tells her. "Just don't shut me out when you have moments like these because I have so many compliments I could give you any time you need me to. We can eat in tonight, have a movie night too. We'll order since we both know that I can't cook."

She laughs and shakes her head. "Stay out of my kitchen, Hughes," she says. "I don't need you burning down my apartment."

He smiles at her. "I'm not planning on it," he laughs. "Your apartment is safe from me. What do you want to do today?"

"Cuddle and watch movies," she replies. "That's it. That's all I want to do today."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Jack says. He cups her jaw and presses a quick, soft kiss to her lips. "My pretty girl."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

jackhughes

liked by yourusername, lhughes_06, and 128,782 others

jackhughes you’re turning heads when you walk through the door 🫶🏼🤍

view all 3,892 comments

lhughes_06 a one direction reference ? didn’t know you were a fan

jackhughes i’ve been converted into a 1d fan

fan1 she’s so pretty

fan2 oh my goshhh jack can you fight ?

yourusername my love 🫶🏼

jackhughes my pretty girl 🤍

yourusername i love youuu

jackhughes love you so much more

_quinnhughes gross

fan3 someone’s jealous

nicohischier okay jack

dawson1417 what a good bf you are

fan4 aw

hater1 ofc he’s dating a blonde

jackhughes her hair color is not the reason she’s my girlfriend. she’d look beautiful bald too

yourusername JACK ????

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1864reruns · 1 month

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oneㅤ/ㅤtwo synopsis. luffy loves you— you know this with how abundantly clear love is in every ministration of his outstretched hand and a grin— yet your traitorous heart demands more, even though you're in no place to give him your loyalty. you know this so you do not demand his love nor to be saved, even when met with a relentlessly stretched hand.

warning(s). gn! reader, hanahaki disease, but some creatively liberated variation of it, angst, hurt/some comfort, slow burn, but does it really count if nothing happens?, unrequited love, pining and the works, background character death, blood, violent imagery, vague allusion to an unspecified mental disorder that involves eating habits (pls be careful!!!), luffy tries his best to be kind but it's cruel, reader spirals 🙏; minimal editing and proofreading (these are basically my thoughts raw and unadulterated)

from vyon. the card game they play is a vietnamese one also known as smth like thirteen in english and has too many rules to explain but it doesn't really matter :3 i was a beast at that game though i fear; this fanfic has been in my drafts for so long, it also grew into too big of a project than it was meant to be. i also had to split this up into two parts, it was getting too long, i'm sorry ＞︿＜

do not repost / copy / translate.

Once you know Monkey D. Luffy, you'll know his heart not a few minutes after. He's welded the unmoving, burning ingot to his bicep, always on display due to his amassing collection of armless vests; rubber skin melted around the golden gem, oozing past the lines of his beating heart to staple it there, an anomaly on the expanse of skin not otherwise susceptible to bullets or cannons. Your captain is a man that lives with his heart on his tongue, always ready to dictate the lay of your next move with an irregular beat that drums against the skinned men of war and an impulsivity that makes his crew scramble after him exasperatedly; oxygen taken from his cerebral arteries to his brain are stained in the grease and oil that stick to the meat he handles so carelessly. In the same endearing way, he's careless with his heart, allows for the small stuff to momentarily prick his heart, for judgement to cloud into anger before it picks up on the bitter taste of agony.

It's always easy to get a frown onto Luffy's face. Feign disinterest in his stories; make yourself too busy to help him look for strange insects; force him to shower, scold him after he does something he wasn't meant to; keep him away from something he seems interested in; starve him for more than five minutes— he makes it all exceptionally too easy. You're not audacious enough to claim to know Luffy any more than the Strawhats, especially not those that he had met in East Blue; you try not to let it bother you that they managed to meet a younger Luffy who had so many holes in his defence, whose smile threatened through skin more, who had yet to find scars in his palm from how hard he had to clench his fists.

To you, it seems unfair that Luffy had managed to uncover so many of your firsts. His unwavering presence by your side as you learnt how hard it was to live on sea, the intonations of your screaming when a marine canon was pointed at you, to live so freely away from the confines of restrictive justice, how it felt to have a hand in yours to promise forever and then some. Luffy has no preferential treatment when it comes to people he loves; he treats them all the same, no hierarchy could dream to disrupt that.

With the same sandals he uses to stomp on the faces of Marine's, he could demand food from Sanji, money from Nami, Zoro to play with him— instead, you watch him whine Sanji, food and dissolve into a puddle when his cook orders him to wait, he allows Nami's fists to fall onto his head when he makes any financially impulsive decision (or even thinks them), and he idles himself with drawing on Zoro's face with Usopp and Chopper, with the previous two of them taking the psychical brunt of their consequences. (Chopper is let off with a mere promise that he won't join in with their shenanigans again when it involves making Zoro into a fool and a growing bump underneath his hat.)

Luffy, from second to fourth gear, is tender aggression when it is love.

His form is bizarrely respectful when the door opens and light dawns upon your face; you see him through the gaps of Nami and Sanji's legs and towering forms over him, his hands on his thighs and feet tucked underneath his bottom. He slurs out an I'm sorry that lets you know that his face is definitely messed up and then follows up with an I was hungry though!

Then Nami messes him up some more for his shitty justification.

She leaves him— some caricature of her anger— on the floor with her hands on her hips and Sanji trailing after her with hearts in his eyes at her dominant display of power. As she passes Brook, he asks for the colour of her underwear and earns himself the same treatment. It's then that you laugh. Luffy snapped his head up, following after the trembling air of your laughter and then calls out your name, the syllables are all messy around his swollen cheeks and a missing tooth that will come back after a few minutes but you cannot rid yourself of the thought that it's sticky with love that you only remember hearing when you were just a babe, screaming and crying in the arms of a tired and ill mother in a hospital. You were introduced to a group of midwives with same love you hear now, their idle finger catching into both your small hands; Luffy's hand dances across the air, breaking apart your laugh with urgency and catching onto your wrist.

You're not sure if it's you who had been pulled to him or if he'd managed to catapult himself into you but you both end up a mess on the floor regardless. Limbs tangled around each other in a wave as you both fall to the deck, Luffy does not correct the length of his arm and takes to wrapping the limb around you like a vine snaked around the trunk of a tree. You don't know a start nor an end as Luffy nuzzles his beat–up face on your shoulder. "Hey captain," you raise your head to look down on him, trying to wrench a hand through the tight spirals he's coiled around you.

"I'm hungry," he whines in lieu of a response, "and I'm bored, Usopp kicked me out after I ate one of his ketchup stars." He doesn't relent with his hold on you, simply loosening the coil that you're trying to work your hand through before tightening again once your arm makes it past to trap it against your side. You don't question the fact that Usopp's ketchup stars may be laced with gunpowder or what the small dose of gunpowder may have done to Luffy's internal organs.

You guess even Usopp has his limits when it comes to his childish captain. "I can't do a lot about either of those things if you're keeping me hostage here." He looks up at you, his exaggeratedly large lips in a pout that matches the swelling of his cheeks and then says your name again, like you’ve done him wrong. It's a disordered collection of the letters again but you find you can't really do anything to fight against it. Instead, green tendrils sprout from your trapped arm, each vine wrapped in a light of leaves and strain against his extended limb before he gives in and, instead, laughs as he wraps his rubber arm around the spindly, twisted branches splitting open layers of skin on your bicep. His skin coloured against the green runner keeps the bine from wilting down to meet gravity.

You let Luffy do whatever he wants, with an expression that you're not sure you're too familiar with etched out on the lines of your face. Thinking back on it, you could've simply done as Nami had or Usopp, ignore or scold him enough into submission but his fingers catch one of the fronds and it curls between the meat of his fingertips, reaching out to tickle his palm and something soft blooms inside you. You know it must be you, not the work of your devil fruit, because as much as you've tried in your lacklustre pursuit of beauty, you've never been able to sprout any kind of flowers.

When Luffy finally lets you go, you find your way into the kitchen and give Sanji a smile. You apologise for interrupting him and tell him that you know that lunch had been served only an hour ago but, if he wasn't too busy, you were still a little peckish. Sanji shoots up immediately and asks you what you've got a taste for— you assure him any leftovers from lunch will do and he tells you, though this doesn't come as any surprise, that Luffy had worked his way through any grain of leftovers with a laugh. You laugh along with him and well, you seemed to be craving meat right now.

The plate he prepares seem to be more about quality rather than quantity, with sauce underneath the red meat drizzled across the white ceramic, a slab of meat already cut into bite sized pieces for you and a decorative herb stuck between the fatty slices but when the light oozes down into the stretch of meat, you don't think Luffy will complain too much.

You, of course, were right about that.

The shattering grin he greets you (the plate of meat, however small it seemed) with gives you the faint smell of sticky rain drenched in the light of the sun, and you almost give him your hand when he reaches out for the plate. Brook's guitar strums in the background and your heart shakes in time with his strings and Luffy's incessant chewing.

You've really no problems with Usopp asking you to help him with target practice, it's fairly common for you to help the crew with their unique fighting style— save Nami and Franky for fear of losing your life with their less than particular aimed area of damage— it's easy enough really. You don't even have to be mentally present for it; shaking through layers of flesh, vines grow across the deck of the Sunny and rise up straight to tower over Usopp as he fixes his goggles over his eyes. You keep a quarter of your mind instilled in every chloroplast that shivers across the skies so you can keep them moving but the other three quarters are focused on the card game you play with Robin, Chopper, and Franky.

You hear the snapping of elastic and your finger twitches against the back of playing cards as the particular vine shot to the left, glancing curiously at Chopper's hand across from you when he turned to Franky and accuses him of looking at his cards.

"It's not my fault!" Franky frowned, fixing his comedically small glasses to perch on his metal nose. "Your cards just happen to be in my view when I'm looking at the pile 'cause you're tiny!"

Chopper takes to this horribly (you reshape a vine that has fallen to one of Usopp's stones and keep it relentless across the wave of air) and he grows into the much less cute and broader, more human version of himself to hold his hand out of Franky's view. (Two vines snap together and they take the path to slice through air to where Usopp stands, you hear the cracking of wood as Usopp shouts at you, saying he only wanted to focus on offence. An apology is drawn out with the green arm in the air.)

"Ivy," your eyes flicker to Robin and she gestures to the pile of discarded where the two of spades had been placed on top. "It's your turn." You glance down at your hand, eyes flickering over the collection of 7's in your hand.

"Bomb." (You feel a vine break apart into pieces, think about the fact that it's lucky you've no nerves attached to the tendrils, and keep the one down to give Usopp a little win.) Franky curses your name as Robin chuckles.

Chopper glances at the four 7's with a sense of wonderment that you're sure is too dramatic for the moment. "No wonder I had no sevens!" You give him a sly grin and watch Robin pass her turn, ignoring Franky's levelled glare behind his glasses.

In the end, Robin wins anyways, ridding herself of her hand with her final card being the two of hearts. The loss is taken bitterly by both you and Franky though you think Franky definitely takes it worse than you do as when he stands to sulk away, cards fall out of his speedos, and they leave a trail after him. Robin, in all her morbidity, laughs behind a hand as you and Chopper drop your jaws in disgust.

Chopper collects the cards, hesitating with the ones that had been on Franky until Robin points out that you've all played many rounds and there's a chance that all of them had shared the same fate. (Another vine shutters down to the floor, broken apart and particles flown across the deck.) The cards slowly fall to the floor as Chopper cries out in disgust. Shaking your head with some colourful amusement, you use the two vines fallen to pick up the cards and start shuffling them.

Responding to Chopper's call, Luffy shoots his way from Sunny's figurehead. "What're you guys doin'?" He falls graciously to where Franky had previously been sitting; his eyes are ever so impatient to glance over the cards being shuffled. "Oh," he says with great interest, "are you guys playing 'go fish'?" He leaned towards you— the cards in your possession, actually— and blinks at the shuffling. "Lemme in!"

"We weren't playing 'go fish', Luffy." The little doctor has since calmed down, taking a seat between Luffy and Robin and shaking his head. "We were playing—" he turns his head up to Robin, to which she supplies 'bài tiến lên' with the intricate accents and all, "that!"

A flash of thinking places itself on Luffy's face, crossing his arm and tapping the side of his sandals on the deck, then it's gone. "Let's just play 'go fish' then."

Chopper whines, saying that 'go fish' is boring and that Luffy always snatches more than one card from other people's hands, which is cheating, and that he doesn't want to play.

Luffy turns to you with a pout, eyebrows furrowed at the dip where his nose bridge starts and then straightened out towards the end. The two vines that had been expertly dodging all of Usopp's shots and taunting him by doing silly dances and twisting into words in the air both crumple down to the floor at the same time, they follow the curve of your spine as you double over, a breath stuttering in your throat. You hear Usopp call your name and the deck of cards slip out from the vines that had been shuffling this entire time, your hand wraps around your throat and you hack out a cough you've managed to choke on.

"Are you dying?" Chopper shoots up, frantic as you keep coughing and choking— both violent in temperament, and scampers around, shouting for a doctor.

Footsteps tap closer as a shadow forms over you, Usopp's hand patting your back ferociously comes after the sound of shoes stop.

The blur that came with tears invading your eyes gives you the confidence to look at Luffy again before you're calling Chopper to a stop. "I'm fine, just choked on air."

You don't mention how it felt like you were breathing through a cheesecloth, how your lungs feel so restricted with every inhale as you all compromise on 'chase the ace' and how easier it feels when Usopp pushes his way between you and Luffy, too intimidated to pick from Robin's hand; when you all finish up for dinner, Robin is looking at you in a way that makes you think she's caught onto how you've been struggling.

Dinner is a strange ordeal. It's characterised with its usual events: Luffy sneaking his hands into people's plates though his stands full, Usopp trying to hold his plate out of his way, Zoro tending to his glass bottle of beer, Sanji making some quip about Zoro's show of alcoholism, Nami getting increasingly annoyed by the noise around her, Brook's laughter, Zoro escalating the situation with Sanji, Chopper screaming when Luffy clears Usopp's plate and then goes for the doctor's, Robin watching the scene with the patience of a saint, Franky pretending he was better than the rest, Usopp exacting revenge on Luffy by swapping their plates. It all ends with Nami telling them all to shut up and Luffy taking one final chicken leg from Zoro's plate. You stare down at your plate and count the missing bits, Luffy hasn't really touched any of the potatoes or asparagus, so you finish them up.

Two chicken thighs sit in stark contrast to the plate, thinking about having them anywhere near your mouth makes you a little sick for some reason, the weight of them in your stomach, the taste of caramelised skins, crisped with wells of juice sat next to a tinge of burnt flesh; you push the plate over to Luffy and detest the way he can take the colour of well–done oranges between his teeth and not care about the juice dribbling down his chin.

Luffy says thanks with his mouth full of chicken; Nami glares at him and turns a more concerned face to you (that also makes you sick) and inquires about you not eating. You mumble out some excuse about not being hungry, not feeling well, having a little bit of a headache, feeling tired— something along those faux lines, you don't remember but you remember that you don't tell them the truth exactly. "Sorry Sanji," you fix into your shitty excuse after, running a hand through your hair, to make yourself feel better about the entire ordeal.

He offers to make you a more palatable porridge or soup instead.

You take a cigarette and a red apple, going to bed hungry and angry at some unknown thing that brews on the tip of your tongue.

The next island is of great interest to Luffy.

The entire crew knows that its history nor culture was not either reason behind his excitement, only the mere prospect of digging his sandals into new, uncharted land is why he's running around the deck, filling up the empty spaces with bubbling laughter. Sanji finishes up bentos for those that are leaving, taking unnecessary extra care with Nami’s, and wishing he had it in him to starve Zoro whilst Nami is giving everyone an allowance. You take two bentos, yours and Chopper's, and head out onto the deck. Luffy only seemed momentarily sad that you were going with the doctor but bounced back immediately after when the trees come closer enough to intimidate so you push down the offer to join him instead. Franky joins up with Usopp, Luffy'll run off alone regardless of who he ends up going with, Nami ends up going with Zoro (to Sanji's displeasure), and you and Chopper make plans to find a pharmacy and a library for Robin.

Being around Chopper is easy enough with this unsettling prick of poison that's forced minimal responses, curt words, a flurry of tiredness, a sickening chill through your days recently. The little doctor is a lot more mindful of changes in mood, it's not any imminent injury either so he doesn't press to know why. Out of guilt (for being a brooding asshole lately), you ask him about his rumble balls and all his different forms. He answers cheerily and you can only pick out every other word with a persistent headache as the smell in the air changes from salty skies and bloody fish to sweetened foods and something unfamiliarly clean.

It's a bright island. You hear a faint bell in the distance that is traced over with the sound of children and stall owners; Chopper's hooves rhythmically sound beside you on the pavement and you find yourself counting them in groups of four. "Ah, there." You pick up your head and turn to follow the direction of Chopper's eyes. A sign is hung on the side of the building, the library. "Robin wanted a book of North Blue diseases for some reason," Chopper mumbles to himself as you two push open the door.

It's a small bookstore, walls lined with books and the paths carved with more standalone bookcases. "North Blue diseases?" You repeat, confused, "do they have North Blue exclusive illnesses?"

Your question goes unanswered, though it looks like it opens a vault of new questions for Chopper. Books aren't of great interests to you, so you follow behind Chopper as he walks through each section and grab whichever book he tells you to bring down for him. On the way back, you tell Chopper to keep going and change your course in search of something you're not too sure of.

You stray away from the town centre and head deeper through the small alleys of the town, there's no destination in mind; without the urgency of a fights and with the domesticity of a small knit community, you wander adrift. There's a dampness in the air to the walk around a shadowed hide of the place that loosens up the tension below your ribs, many different eyes follow after your form as the heel of your shoes click against a null path; shadows ooze around the soles of your shoe and lacquer up between the carved maze of black rubber of your soles until you find your way into a dead end.

It's a little bit of a cliché to be met with a ragtag group of delinquents when you turn to go back. Your eyes trace over them. In the hand of the one closest to you sits your wanted poster.

Something blooms inside you again— it's a much more pleasant feeling than the unmoving sap of ire that's been invading lately. Each man before you is physically bigger, towering over you ominously and shadows eating you but they all have swords and guns in their hands and that's why they lose. You, to the detriment of all life around you, are a weapon in and of itself; you choke out the vitality from others and steal their nutrients. They strained against their confines as their skin blossoms through shades of blooms, you are not the merciful rubber of a human, so your constraints don't relent, they squeeze and squeeze until the bark splits apart, until blood is cut off at the source, until they wither, until you are full.

On the way back, you buy a gift for everyone with the money you hadn't used and when they take to it, all in their varying degrees of joy, you feel less bad about the dead end alley full of brothers and sons. You tell yourself, handing Zoro a gift of alcohol, if not them, then it'd have been you.

You end up staying anchored to the island for a week to your displeasure. The longer you're stuck there, the closer you are to exploding; you always keep an eye out on the log pose strapped to Nami's wrist like you could quicken the process if you stare enough. Usopp starts avoiding you out of fear you'll blow like a poorly constructed cannon, Zoro makes you train with him to see if it'll help blow off some steam, Sanji brings you iced drinks at a rate that keeps you dizzy but you always feed it to Luffy or redirect it to Chopper's or Usopp's office with a little note.

On the third day, you follow in Zoro's example and sprawl out on the deck to rest your tireless mind. You've always wondered how sleep was ever a possible option for him when the feet thundering across the deck came with obstructive vibrations, no doubt slapping any chance of sleep away from his mind, but you find that it's almost pleasant. Beats all from familiar loves translates through the groves of wooden planks and etch through the back of your spine, you feel a bone fall back into place after Nami's heels against the floor and the thunderous kick that lands where Zoro was standing manages to work its way up your head to ease a headache.

The sun burns cries into your eyes and the skies move fluidly, they don't ripple as clouds shrivel against a light blue you're unfamiliar with; even as you close your eyes, you continue to feel the burn of the sun. The slapping of weaved straw against a sticky, sweaty sole then the deck comes as you slip into sleep.

Dreams have never been so amicable enough to become a recurrent in your life; more often than not, you're shown memories all blended together into a mess that leaves you sick, the abhorrent now and the nostalgic then bleeding past their confines until you see your mother stood next to that deceitful Marine admiral, both with that same look in their face. You wake up with a start when a loud bang scours its way through a flurry images you're unfamiliar with and then your body escapes you. Your head weighs with the heaviness of the bodies dropped to the floor, arms cold as if dipped into the river Styx, bones locked in place with a restrictive pain, muscles burning, aware of every breath that shivers through your suddenly odd body.

"Owww," three Luffys blur around each other as you pushed a hand to the floor to straighten up, you try blinking away the other two, but they're glued to the captain reflecting in your eyes; he looks down at what he's tripped on and follows it back to you. Your hand is met with something curved in shape when you go to push yourself up and when you look down, you see vines underneath you. You realise then that a burst of them had grown beneath you, splitting through the lawn deck and uplifting some of the planks underneath the greenery and inching upwards towards the guard rails of the ship. They take the form of something you think you met in your most recent sleep.

Luffy has managed to crawl his way towards you in the time you spend wondering why your devil fruit had been acting up— in your sleep no less and he wraps a hand around your ankle to get your attention. "Hey, you're really cold." He pointed out, eyes flickering down to the flesh between his fingers and then trailing his fingers up your thigh as he shifts closer to you on his knees.

The touch makes you violent and tender. "Really?" You managed to puff out, giving too much air back to the world with how much you're panting, "I feel a little warm though."

Luffy hums, clapping his hand over your cheeks with gentleness he only shows to those he loves, and it feels wrong. You get an itch underneath your skin that urges you to move, move, move but you can only push Luffy away with a ferocity he'd never shown you as you tremble under the bursting of violent air hacking up your throat, your shoulders strain as you wrapped your arms around your stomach, trying to heave out something that wasn't there.

Luffy scrambles back immediately, not caring for you shoving him away, and soothes away the rattling of your core with his clammy hands on your arm. "Are you sick?"

No, you think as a retch comes up your mouth; maybe, you correct as the path is marked by drool slipping down your chin and tears streaking across your cheeks. You shake away Luffy again. He's less submissive this time, his legs open over yours to plant his knees by your thighs. You hear him call for Chopper and it's obvious he has something of a frown marked on his face; you keep burning beneath your skin, but Luffy keeps rubbing his palms over your arms like you're cold.

You realise what your vines had drawn underneath you when Chopper comes out, fretting over you as he takes Luffy's place close to you. A grave. The image makes you laugh as the reindeer instructs his captain to haul you up after you'd ignored his inquires on if you could walk; your arm bends around the shape of Luffy's shoulder and your laughter erratically convulses into a collection of coughs from the skin on skin high.

You forced into bed rest after Chopper does a preliminary round of tests on you and declares you've simply gone down with a cold. You take to the diagnosis apprehensively, though in Chopper's defence, how was he meant to accurately diagnose you if you don't tell him all your symptoms? Instead, you sit in his office and spend the minutes, all alone, trying to retch out the feeling of having a piece of hair down your throat; you claw at the blanket and keep hacking until you've got a blanket full of tears and spit. The feeling does not pass.

At lunch, you get a visit from Franky who comes by to complain that you've made unnecessary work for him. "—seriously, how did you manage that in your sleep? Were you having a nightmare?" He ranted, legs crossed and leaned back in the visitor chair in a way that pushes his skinny, hairy legs close to your face.

Scrunching up your face, you sit up. "It was the future." You rebut, in between all his fantastical stories of his nightmares and talking about how he'd never attack Sunny even if Chopper grew a mechanical, giant arm and overthrew Luffy to become their captain. "A future," you correct yourself before turning to Franky with eyes judgemental, "are you scared of Chopper?"

"You weren't there at Enies Lobby," he tells you, which serves as a cruel reminder of sorts. You think about all the scars you've seen littered on the crew's skin and wonder which ones they've collected while they were with Luffy and who knows of which. The faint, protruding marks underneath Nami's tattoo, the stitches around Zoro's ankles, the ones pulled across his chest; you wonder if Sanji's got one hidden underneath his bangs. "The future?" Franky repeats after a moment, "are you a prophet?"

"It's a working theory," you brush off instead. "Though I can see in my mind's eye that Luffy is currently eating all the food and you’ll be left to starve if you don't go back."

Franky scrambled up from the seat not a second after your words.

With him gone, you settle back onto the bed and wonder about too many things to recall.

Between the hours after lunch and before dinner, Luffy comes by. He settles himself on the bed and forces you up as well, the shifting causes another cough to burgeon in your throat and you turn your head the other way to spit it out in an uncontrolled group of four. "You're not feeling better?" He frowns.

You see now that he's holding two pieces of barbequed meat in his hand, he's got the bone in his palm as he holds it upright like a sword, juices from the flesh dripping down to his hand and the smell gives you a headache. "Do you want this?" You move your eyes to Luffy, he's got his eyebrows furrowed together and his lips straightened out in a line when you don't answer. "Both?" He looks over at you, then the meat, and then you. "You," he swallows, "you can have them," his knuckles turn red around the bone, "since you need energy and you're sick." You think he's trying to convince himself to give them up.

You reached out and watch Luffy's face turn sour as his expression squeezes altogether around a midpoint trapped in his nose; you retract your hand and watch his face relax and his body unwind, you think he's moved his hand back a little. You repeat it again a few more times until laughter comes up and dislodges the uncomfortable feel of hair set deep in your throat. "It's fine, Luffy, you can have 'em."

"Really?"

"Mhm, go for it."

He moans around a bite of meat, crying your name as he chews and says thank you. The feeling is back as soon as it left.

No one comes to visit after that. Chopper comes by before he heads off to bed to make sure you're all set for the night and tells you that he expects to be woken up if you feel any symptoms get worse. You agree to his conditions, though can barely make yourself seem like you were taking him seriously with his cute face scolding you, but it seemed to work well enough as he's gone after he leaves a cup of water by your side. Sleep lingers around the corner, shirking away from your twitching fingertips and restless eyes; you give up after a few minutes, thinking about Robin who'd been thrown on watch tonight.

After going back and forth on the details, you bundle up yourself in the blanket (not wanting to have to mimic any semblance of serious guilt to get through Chopper's less than intimidating scolding if you get any sicker in the morning) and wander to the deck. The darkness of the sea would be safe for you, twisting around every limb extended to grope your way through your chosen path and oozing out from strands of hair to empty at your feet if not for the lamp of the moon ahead of you. Its light a forecast of tragedy, reflecting off a blade that would drive through the blood of a man who faced an unlikely love with only disgust and betrayal. "Robin?" The light hangs onto your word with a vehemence to uncover your unjustifiable deeds.

"Ivy," a shudder of surprise rattles your head to duck to your shoulders as you turn around. "Sorry, did I scare you?"

You give Robin a frown, tugging your lips down. "Yeah, my weakened bones nearly fell to the floor." She huffs a laugh. "Please announce yourself before you appear." Robin traces over your palish face and your features soften into a smile when your eyes meet.

"Can't sleep?" She asks once you two settle at the side of the Sunny where you'd napped earlier today, some of your vines still wedged between planks and parts of the floor haphazardly missing. You lean your back against the side of the ship and lower your eyes to the floor.

It's a total void, welcoming you back home. "No," you answer, a little breathless. The moon doesn't shuttle into the hole of the deck and something reaches a hand out for you between the atoms of a black hole. Roots twist out, easing close to your feet and sinking beneath the soles of your shoes. "I napped a little earlier." It's safe.

Robin hummed— I know rattles through her hum— and her elbow falls onto the guard rail of the ship. For the next few moments, you regret coming out. Robin's always been more receptive to the details and fine lines; it's not surprising that she can nitpick through a flurry of fronts and covers to the feelings you want to hide. They beckon out to her, wanting to fill that hole that's grown smaller with every day she wakes up to the open seas and the lively sound of her crew. "Chopper said you were sick?"

"A cold," you sniffle, bringing the blanket closer to you. Finding some semblance of confidence inside you, your eyes flicker over to Robin but she isn't looking at you— only turns when she feels your gaze levelled on her. You hesitate, searching for something to say and land on extending an arm and opening the blanket to invite her into your bundle. "You cold?"

She laughs, "it's fine, you should go back in if you've got a cold though." Her head tilted with a smile, "it'll be bad if the night air makes you worse."

Not wanting to find yourself softened in moonlight nor her eyes, you nod and bid her a goodnight before shivering your way back into your room. The door opens and light from Sunny's hallway is swallowed into the darkness of your room before it's banished out with the slam of your door, you shuffle around odd things thrown on the floor and slip into bed.

Your sleep is broken through with intervals with coughing, curling into yourself, shivering still though you burn in the night like a sibling of a star. When you wake up, sometime in the afternoon, you're heaving and reaching out your arms all around your duvet to haul together the skin that feels like it's melted down. Your palms prick against the leaves of vines that have overtaken your room, they fluoresce around your body and branch outwards to all corners of your room. The mess all blur together as your brain thrashes in your head with every splutter, you shake and twitch, trying to make sense of anything. Skin burned raw as you attempt to kick away the shrubbery that's keeping the blanket contorted around your body.

Your throat skinned and crude with its imminent thoughts of water.

A hand reached back blindly to grope at your bedside table for the cup that Chopper left for you last night. What you find instead is the burning touch of the sun, it seeps through the micro wounds stabbed through lines of your fortune and inflames every nerve straight to your heart. Your hand snaps back towards your body, the bones shivering from the imminent heat. Your entire body twitches at different paces, an invasive and hungry need drowns your senses. You need water, you need not for this to happen, water, you need for your sleep to be calm, you need to stop burning, you want to stop losing control, water first. You want water. Water— you turn your head to find the water, you need— Luffy?

Luffy is sat on a chair that you don't remember being there and when you look a little closer, you see that your vines had granted him a throne to comfortably lay on, other than that, they avoid him like the near plague. His body is leaned forward, his chest laid against the side of your mattress and arms crossed on your bed to sleep on like a pillow. You retch up some acid and, like the bowed head of a priest, a gentle petal disrupts the stream, flowing against the tide. It's a beautiful purple colour that's light against the transition to white towards the middle and an eye-catching yellow streaking against the white; lines of a deeper hue stretch through the petal and it's oddly reminiscent of veins.

The petal sits on the puddle of stomach acid that warms your thighs, your head bowed down to stare at it; you feel your soul unfurl at the sight of it, branches stretched outwards over a riverside, the heavy head of buds pulling weighted branches down to drink from the stream. Everything else blurs with a ripple, the petal is withstanding no matter no much you try blinking away an oncoming headache. The river near dries up in your attempt to wash down this unnerving disgust; you hunger for more.

Little changes when you find out what this 'cold' truly was. The lighting in Sunny's library is several shades warmer than the light of the sun, it draws upon the hunched shoulders down to your back as you tilt your head to hear the bones crack under your ear. Four syllables, that's all your death is. A lot of words are four syllables. Anonymous; unfortunate; hilarious; adventurous; hanahaki. It doesn't mean a lot by itself, so you try giving it some context. You pretend to tell Chopper that you're dying, you have hanahaki and that it's something he can't cure in a way you'll accept and you still feel nothing. You think about Chopper's face. He adamantly tells you that he'll cure you, he'll do it. The you in your imagination tells him no. Faced with your refusal, Chopper cannot do anything. In the end, it is a grave that cures you.

Death, as it stands, was something you had accepted when you stepped onto a pirate ship. Even someone with as stubborn a character as Zoro could be welcomed in by death, even Luffy. For a while, you wonder about death. The air in the room pauses as if to grace you with the silence to ponder on it, all you hear is the sound of your own breathing.

The closest thing to death comes searching for you a few minutes later.

You've always been interested in Brook. A skeleton with nothing but a sword; he has no lungs yet still sings, no heart and still smiles, dead but human in all his actions and behaviours. "There you are." He sneaks up behind you, bones falling onto your shoulder as you think, he smiles down at you. "Luffy asked if I’d seen you earlier.” He looms over you for a moment before he's straightening back up and calling out loudly, "but I'm a skeleton so it's not like I have eyes to see anyone anyways!"

It's the two syllables 'Lu–ffy' that shakes you the most. You stifle a cough in your chest and feel it tear through your ribs instead, searching for a path out. "For what?" The breaths rattle in your chest and shudder through your words.

"He wanted to show you a beetle." He takes the seat next to you, peering down at the picture book that you have open. You wait for him to make a comment about seeing what you were reading before disregarding it all with a lack of eyeballs so he wasn't seeing it really but he doesn't say anything, so you're forced to talk instead.

"Brook."

"Yes?"

It takes a single breath to prepare you to say this, it's warm and evident that you've not yet truly succumbed to your illness. "Do you see yourself as dead?"

Death is the art of those who do not live. It's something that keeps people tethered to the moment; it's the one thing that keeps humans humane. It's evidence you've lived, no matter how full nor how long. She's beautiful in her own right.

"I cannot see myself as anything because I am a skeleton with no eyes!"

Brook does not get to elaborate because Luffy shuttles in moments later, whispering loudly. (He'd learned somewhere that you're meant to be quiet in a library when he was younger but his whispers still manage to shake the room somehow.) "You're here! I found a beetle to show you!" He tip–toes to your side, "what're you reading— oh, hi Brook! The flowers here are pretty!" He points a finger down to a sunflower; his index covers an entire petal and he strokes it upwards to the middle. "Do you think they're edible?"

He turns to you with a smile.

You meet him with the same, "their seeds are." He gasps and picks up the book to scour through the letters in search of a name of these seeds. You take in a shuddering breath and when you feel another urge to cough, you cannot stop it.

When vines splatter around the room, they uproot the place; they've always been disruptive in this way. A wave of them washes various bouts of furniture to the floor, through the pounding of your ears, you hear the sound of books thudding as green appendages snake through bookcases and rattle them at the base; Brook's chair collapses as a vine chokes out one of its legs into splinters, the world blurs into a hue of greens and purples. A hand reaches from down in your throat, you heave around gaps of allowance for air and gag, cough, retch up more acid and some tea that Sanji brewed earlier this morning in lieu of breakfast. It's unpleasant. It's ugly in a way death should not be, though you guess the dead don't get to choose how to live in the same way the living cannot choose their death.

You're hauled off to Chopper again.

Chopper's voice comes as the hollow sounds of keys on an old piano. He does another round of tests on you— this set lasts a little longer than the previous and he takes extra caution with some. He finds that your heart is a little faster than it should be, he nitpicks at the bluish tint around your fingers and notes the concerning amount of weight you've lost in the past few weeks. When he asks you, what's wrong, you tell him that that's what he should be telling you.

Hypoxia; another four syllables for your cause of death. "Some of the symptoms are there," Chopper frowns, mumbling to himself. "It's when your tissues aren't getting enough oxygen, do you have difficulty breathing?"

You placed your cheek into your palm, elbow on Chopper's desk. "You're a pretty good doctor, Chopper."

The effect is immediate, he starts blushing and kicking his legs in his seat, a hoof goes to rub at the back of his head and nervous laughter comes from him. "That isn't distracting me at all, you bastard." You smiled and watched the compliment break any semblance of professionalism in him.

He gets back on track a little while later, placing a stethoscope on your chest and asking you to cough. You're not sure exactly what he's looking for but you give a soft cough into your elbow and you can say for certain— just based off the way he jumps back and looks at you a little quietly for a second, it's nothing good. Chopper spends a few minutes looking at your fingertips, then your lips, then some other parts of skin already exposed and humming to himself, troubled.

For now, he says, he wants you to try not to exert yourself— maybe leave fighting to everyone else and focus on resting until he can figure out a better way to confidently diagnose you. His lips are pulled into a frown, hands in his lap and trying his best to be professional and keep his emotions at bay. Before you know it, your hand is on top of his pink hat and fondly rubbing over the material softly. "Thanks Chopper, I'll keep that in mind."

He nods. You hesitate for a second before you're getting up to leave so that everyone else can see that you're not dying— or maybe you should tell them you are, you're not sure you could take another session of Franky accusing you of destroying the Sunny to create more work for him.

Your hand wraps around the doorknob and twists, stopping when Chopper speaks again. "You're not hiding something from me," he accuses gently, "are you?"

Your hand tightens around the doorknob. A flash of that imaginary Chopper comes back to you— heartbroken and confused at your refusal to be cured— you steal an unnecessarily large breath from the world. "I get sudden cravings for sweet things if that means anything."

Chopper, unbeknownst to you, takes those words and carves them true and raw into himself. His eyes are unwilling to leave you for more than necessary during the times you eat together, he watches you push aside the food on your plate, tearing small bits of meat off the bone to chew on it for a couple minutes too long before swallowing. He makes note of the way you have no problems finishing up everything but any sort of meat, sliding them over to Luffy, or one of his victims.

You're met with another blossom soon after lunch. You've made a bad habit of leaving the table early to escape the smell and resign yourself to the open deck, sprawling out on the grass like Zoro usually does. You're certain you're about to fall asleep shivering but the slap, slap, slapping of your captain's sandals are nearing closer so your brain kicks awake with a start; your eyes twitch, eyelashes shuddering in the wind. The darkness over your eyes morphs into a shadow of Luffy hovering over you, head tilting with a hand on his hat— your mind supplies you with the frown— and then you hear him taking a step back and sitting down next to you.

A troubled melody hums through his lips and when you open an eye to peek at him, you see his hands wrapped around his ankles, legs loosely crossed; he turned back to you and you quickly close your eyes. Here is where you finally learn that when Luffy touches, he's never placated with a simple tap, a light knocking between skin— no, he must stroke, he drags his fingers up the side of your thigh, he shivers from the coldness of your flesh and, even then, crawls closer. Then he's silent for a worrying amount of time and for a moment, curiosity takes you over. You find yourself wanting to draw light upon the disgusted features when he's met with someone he thinks close to him is growing closer and closer to a grave amongst the roots.

He leans his forehead against yours whilst you shuffle through the despicable crawl of your heart through your bones, something shifts in you and when you reach to itch at your side, it dislodges. It takes no more than a simple flip for your entire world to shift; you think you saw Luffy hovering over you momentarily before you had snapped to the side.

A fragment of the world greets its end.

Something strangles you, a hand of a giant pressing two fingers against the sides of your neck until everything in you bursts and splatters against parts that have gone unknown until now. There's nothing new to the tremor of vine that erupts through your skin, bubbling through the surface of flesh like a geyser; the tentacles claw their way your throat until you're choking around them, searching for an allowance for air. Your knees shuffle up to find some balance, head ducked to meet the lawn across the deck and elbows digging deep into the dirt. Your spluttering comes in time with the sound of Luffy calling your name, shouting for Chopper; there's a knot tied inside your mouth, you shake away tremors and tears all the same. You erupt yet there's nothing to be burnt, it's only ash that leaves your mouth— only the colourful petals of the wisteria plant that wash over the green of the open deck, burnt in hues with blood.

The next island is a spring island, known for their sweet peaches and sweeter music.

You watched Luffy devour two peaches in his hands, the ripe skin melting underneath his teeth— pale with a dusted blush until it snapped into a bloody red, melted at the pit. Then he's gone with a rustle of mikan trees as you held out a basket for Nami to delicately place her mikans in; apparently, she'd managed to catch the attention of some peach vendor with her sweet tangerines and swindled the poor man out of his money for a basket.

The streets are lined with lively hums and a strumming of odd instruments, music escapes through every crevice of a worn-down building as Luffy jumps from stall to stall, drooling over the goods before you're beckoning him back with his lunchbox and a promise of meat after you finish this errand for Nami. On your way to the stall, you hear faint chattering that doesn't interest you but Luffy straightened up beside you and turns to stare at the people as they argue on who had managed to grow the biggest peach this year.

You sigh, grabbing hold of Luffy's collar when he stops to stare at them and drag him off to the stall vendor who had fallen victim to Nami's schemes. The exchange is easy enough— give him the basket (ignore the fact that Nami had managed to make it look like it was overflowing by artfully bunching up a cloth on the bottom and filled gaps between the fruits with flowers) and make sure you've got the correct amount of money. It's when Luffy asks the stall vendor who has the biggest peach this year that things begin to go downhill.

Rather than answering Luffy's question, the man goes on a tangent about some kind of festival for a God and how the biggest peach will be the offering to said God this year— apparently, Shumi (the woman who owns the fabrics shops) had managed to get her hands on this, that, or the other to help her husband grow a peach large enough to bring doubt to the fact that Gyupuri had managed to grow the largest peach (again) this year.

Luffy insists on tracking them both down to help the people come to a decision as he wiped away the drool on his chin. Resigned, you managed to find Shumi first with her shop being the only one in town that sold fabrics and she denies you both permission to see the peach; Gyupuri, on the other hand, is more than happy to show you to the peach he grows. He takes you straight out of town, into the forest, and then up the mountain to where there's a clearing full of nothing but flesh coloured peaches.

As you listen to Gyupuri's story on how he was merely taking after his father to grow these strangely sized peaches, you have to keep Luffy in your hold so he doesn't go running to the giant peach and take a bite out of what could be for a God. Somehow though, he manages to get a handful of flat peaches when you weren't looking and when you attempt to apologise to Gyupuri, he doesn't seem to be fazed, shoving a few more peaches into your hand and telling you it's fine.

"So, who is this God anyway?" Luffy asks, his legs wrapped around your waist and chin hooked on your shoulder as he leaned back, satisfied with cheeks full of the peach you were holding in your hand. You turn to give him a look, but he merely stares at you back.

The people here must have made a unanimous decision to answer questions from the left side of the field because Gyupuri only tells you the name of this God when he drags you and Luffy up a hill to stare at a statue of this God carved out of generic stone.

To be polite, you call the statue pretty; Luffy feels no need to be polite, so he says it's not really. When you look at him to furrow your eyebrows at him, he's already looking at you.

When you're back on the ship, money handed to Nami, you think about that moment so much that it grows moss in your mind and vines burst through the crevices of the worn–down artifact you've made out his gaze to be. You throw up everything you manage to eat and feel hollow and worthy when you meet Luffy's eyes in Chopper's office again.

There's a chill that follows your days after that.

It's persistent and stubborn in a way that cruelly reminds you of Luffy. On a brighter side, you've got an excuse to be lazy in bed though it irks your bones not to have the weight of you walking thrumming up your body. You get visits from the Strawhats, get your food delivered to you, some of the crew shuffling into your room to keep you entertained with some card games and the likes— you get Luffy consistently making his way into your room and treating it as any other room on his Sunny. He comes in, always makes himself home on the bed, and talks about what he did today. At some point, it becomes less endearing and more annoying to be treated as though you were actually dying. (You hadn't told them for a reason.)

Four days after Chopper had resolutely punished you with bed rest, Luffy decides that he was going to start sleeping in your room. Apparently, your face had translated over what your head was thinking too quickly because he starts whining, saying that he wouldn't get to see you enough if he doesn't do this and, well, since you've always had a tender, raw, skinned soft spot for the boy, you end up saying yes.

He spends his first night telling you what he was going to spend tomorrow doing and you come to the realisation that every other sentence contains you. (Going to find more beetles to show you... Chopper told Sanji it'd be good to get more meat into your diet... Zoro accidentally cut snakes and ladders in half so Nami is giving me money to see if we can find one for you so we can play... Robin said there's a really pretty flower on this next island… For you… For you...) It’s all there laid bare and you cannot face it. You hide your face into the crook of your elbow and wretch out a cough. Luffy frowns but doesn't mention it. He talks himself into sleep and you lay awake to him, trying to keep yourself from blooming throughout the night so he doesn't wake up, cold and still.

When you're startled awake with misty embrace in a dream, you see that Luffy has gone.

What he has left is his straw hat and a mouthpiece of his greatness. The straw is rough against your fingers, resembling the thorns that grows along roses and you stare at it in your lap until you can feel the roughness in your throat— just when you think you need to get water, Sanji shows up with breakfast. You eye the cigarette in his lips and ignore the settling of the tray on your bedside table, watch the smoke fight the smell of scrambled eggs and bits of bacon to take over your room.

"We're at an island?"

Sanji walks around your bed, finding himself comfortable on the couch across the foot of your bed. "We docked early this morning," you watched his smoke rise, ash falling to the wooden floor of your room, waving and grasping hands up to God. Sanji keeps himself entertained by looking around your room, his foot pushing around odd leaves and petals on the floor before he nods over to the plate. "Eat." Then he's gone.

You stare at the tray, settling Luffy's straw hat aside, you shuffle to the end of your bed and take the fork in your hands— you look at the plate until you swear you can taste the eggs in your mouth and the slight bursts of saltiness that'll come from the bacon and you have to wash it down with the glass of water he's given you. You push it aside and opt to go back to sleep.

You dream of a still life on top of a hill, overlooking a dock as the Sunny pulls back out into the sea; you thrash but find every part of you rooted down to one spot, the wind picks up and you feel tangles of what could be hair or leaves hitting against a part of your body. You're still rooted despairingly in a garden of silks and duvets when you wake, Luffy had found himself unable to keep away from your breakfast but when you sit up and look a little closer, you see a pile of the diced bacon bits shoved off to the side as he shovelled eggs into his mouth.

Shattering free from the earth with a faltering cough broken into four, you shuffled yourself up and spit out a cluster of wisteria. At this point, you do not need to look at Luffy to know what his face looks like; he turned to face you, cheeks full and quickly finishing the eggs to shuffle closer to you on the bed with a book in his hands. "You left your book under the plate."

It's a hardback children's book, pulled out of Sunny's library and coloured a light blue that resembled the sky and broken apart by a sunflower in the middle and petals around it, the title curled around the sunflower. You know that the book was left in the library when you were having your episode. The cover is smooth to the touch as Luffy gives it to you and ends up knocking his shoulders against yours in his attempt to get closer; your eyes moved over to the tray of food and you think of Sanji, who'd grown up in the North Blue where this children's story was more popular amongst the romantic commonwealth.

He knows, you think, and it fills you with a dread that the wisteria blossoms feast upon delightfully; he knows, and he could tell everyone, the vines throb over your heart as Luffy opens the book over your lap and looks up, expectantly at you.

Myrsa was a pretty girl, enough so that praises sang for her ended up calling upon the scorn of love's Goddess. The depiction of her getting cursed is almost comical, stricken by lightning as she returns from a forest with a basket full of flowers and mushrooms. "What happens next? What happens next?" Luffy pushes his face closer to the book, tangling a rubbery leg with yours as he moves impossibly closer. "How does Myrsa beat up the God?"

It's the certainty he holds that Myrsa will beat up God that makes you laugh, it's the fact that she does not beat anything that makes you tremble, shaking coughs and petals out your throat. Luffy seems to think that the book is too excitable, trying to pry it away from you and saying that he can ask Robin to read it to him later so you should just rest. "Don't you want to know if Myrsa will beat up the God now?" You ask instead, knowing the answer will be yes.

Perhaps they were the wrong words to convince Luffy because when you're on the last page, Myrsa buried in a forgotten land and her love used as fertiliser for a field of sunflowers, he's threatening to beat up a God made up to exact revenge for Myrsa. It's a lot more cheerful than you had expected— all the characters drawn with round faces, small bodies, and black dots as eyes. It makes death seem redeemable.

After Luffy hauls himself out of your room, in search of the God had turned Myrsa into sunflowers, you force the bacon down your mouth and bring the tray out to Sanji. You linger in the kitchen, eyes watching him as he scrubbed the dishes and danced around the kitchen, no doubt knowing why you were there. He doesn't seem to want to be the one to approach the topic just based on the way he refused to stop even for a moment for the past fifteen minutes you've been there.

You know nothing about Sanji past the fact that he's blond, he's a cook, and he used to be a prince from North Blue's Germa Kingdom.

"You know Myrsa didn't die because she had hanahaki." Your hip meets the edge of an island, arms crossed over your chest as you watched Sanji finally slow to a halt, throwing a glance over at you. He takes his cigarette between two fingers, breathing in for a moment and then takes it out, holding it out to you. "What she was cursed with, wasn't ever meant to be able to kill her."

"I know."

Sanji takes the cigarette back after you shake your head, shrugging a little as he continued. "Myrsa died."

You laugh a little, "I read the book."

There's a point he's trying to make that's as foreign to you as the notion of a love that doesn't hurt but he turns a glance to you that almost reads like he's disappointed in you and it settles nicely against the vines choking you through. You straighten up, uncrossing your arms and his visible eye wanders back over the pots he has boiling on the stove. "You liked the ending?" The ending of the North Blue story was a two–page spread of a sunflower field, a planet of bright yellows and a dull light blue, clouds breaking apart overwhelming tones of sunny golds and drowning diamonds.

A tree split awkwardly in half due to the spine of the book, curved in shape and pinched in the middle until you held the pages at the edges and pulled to straighten in down. "It was pretty," a gentle breeze running through the leaves shedding from the tree, a shiver to the wooden flesh that split apart if looked at the right way by the right man. Myrsa was beautiful, even in a death she didn't pick treated her well.

How could you hope to live when she did not?

You find a lot of things pretty now; you wonder if that's the dead crawling in you that is beginning to appreciate the life around. Robin sat on the deck with a cup of cooling coffee on a table in front of her and a book in her hand, Nami stood between her rows of mikan trees, Zoro straining under the weights of his responsibilities, Brook with a violin to his shoulder. The sky drowned over the ocean as Luffy leaned his head against you on Sunny's figurehead, his voice a soft beat over the water rushing against the hull of the ship. He's talking about Shanks and his dream and your heart aches selfishly; his skin gulps down the orange light of the dawning sun and you resigned yourself to a death loving him.

You wonder if Luffy still thinks of his dead brother, your tongue slips against the bark of your gums, and you open your mouth without thinking. "Luffy," you hear spoken into the wind, "will you tell me about your brother?"

"Sabo?" He's clapping his feet together excitedly, turning from the sky to you with a large grin on his face, "he's a part of the Revelation Army— no, wait revocation? Revenge Army? Renovation Army! Wait— that's not right."

"No, the other one." A whisper haunts the wind, 'the dead one' written in its movement.

There's a certain hesitation to his words that brings you to the realisation that being loved by Luffy is a wonderful thing. He's never been one to be articulate with words, picking the simple ones that come to mind first without a moment's hesitation but strangely the simple–minded way served him well when it came to love. Love is not articulate either— it's one of the simplest things in the world— so when it's met with someone like Luffy, it blossoms into an art form of all things beautiful.

You regret have not meeting Luffy when Ace was around. Dancing around his features is a tender skip of tightness; his shoulders pulled up to his ears, head ducked down, lips awkward and tongue thick as he told you the story of being accepted to be Ace's brother. Hues of embers fluoresce, dripping down on Sunny's figurehead as you reached an arm around him; his words are stained in blood and adoration, strained and slow but Luffy persists, his love persists.

"You should've met him!" He finishes, turning to you with a light chuckle. "You would've loved him."

Your hand falls onto his shoulder, pulling him closer despite the crawl of vomit up your throat and you leaned your head against his straw hat. "Maybe I will."

Death is another thing you think is simple. It's as easy as slipping into Chopper's office to find him hunched over his desk, his hooves holding onto a pestle as he circled the butt around in a mortar. "Ah, you're here?" He glanced over his shoulder as you walked around him and settled onto one of the beds he has in his room. "Give me a second! I nearly have your medicine ready."

"Chopper," you think you've played this out in your head before, "I have hanahaki."

His arms slow down to a halt, his face dropping by several degrees; the previous petals that made up his hopeful and cheerful expression flutter to the floor, guided by the winds you'd altered with those four words.

"Hanahaki?" Chopper's words are slow as he settled the pestle down, "I thought— but it doesn't exist?"

"Funnily enough, it died off." You tell him with a little laugh. "As more people took to the seas and chased after the one piece, less people fell victim to hanahaki." The Chopper you've told this to before in your mind was definitely less devastated and surprised to be greeted by the fact that you have hanahaki.

He's stumbling over his words, trying to pick something to focus on first as his face was scrunched up, eyebrows furrowed, and lips open into disbelief. "How long have you known? Why didn't you tell me? You'll have the surgery, right? You can trust me; I'll definitely save you. When did it first start?" Your head is pounding with the incessant questions he spits at you, unable to answer any of them as any allowance for a response was filled in by another inquiry. Suddenly, he's pulling his mind to a stop as he turned back to you, solemn and sad and asks, "who is it?"

It's easy to tell how Luffy has touched people, Chopper makes note of the way your head tilts and you smile and it's obvious that there was no one else capable of calling upon your love.

"And the surgery?"

The look on your face, although foreign to you, tells him all he needs to know.

That doesn't stop him though, he keeps himself by your side and urges (pleads) you to have the surgery; his constant presence becomes a problem when he makes a point of forcing Luffy away from you. It's small at first, trying to distract Luffy with other things, claiming to want to be the one to watch over Luffy when you all dock so you're not given the chance, clinging onto your arms and demanding your attention when Luffy threatens to take it away from him. Then, when Luffy notices that he's been holding onto this flower for hours, fingers pinched around a sunflower stem to ask you how you get seeds from the flower to eat, and every time he's seen a speck of your colour from corners, Chopper shows up to drag you away or points a finger somewhere to shout about a meat mountain, he has a problem.

You notice it's about the meat mountain at first though.

He's slamming the door to Chopper's office after the fourth time, shouting, "Chopper! Where's the meat mountain you keep talking about?" He doesn't seem to care about the fact that Chopper is checking up on you as he stomps into the room, plopping himself down right next to you. Chopper pushes him away when your shoulders brush against each other and you're coughing out bloodied petals. His attention diverts when he hears the shaking of your cough, how you knock into him uncontrollably as your torso leans to meet your thighs, hands deep into the foam edge of the mattress. Petals splatter onto your shoes, clinging to the leather with saliva and re–painting the laces in a sickly red. Luffy’s touch is intrusive, a hand tightened on your thigh that burns your skin to ash and forces vines to splutter out your skin. They attack him, you reel yourself away from Luffy in hopes that they don’t reach him but in some disgusting way, they force themselves to new lengths to coil around his limbs. Spindling up and up and up and you can’t see his face anymore as a thick rope of vines in the shape of his hand reaches out for you, they keep moving up until you only see his hat— your back knocks against the wall. You sternly tell yourself this death is acceptable; the vines grow limp.

When you’ve calmed down enough, the first thing Luffy asks you is, “why aren’t you better yet?” And you feel as though you’re being scolded for some reason; your eyes flicker over to Chopper, fingers tangled together in front of your thighs from the corner of the room you’ve forced yourself into. When Luffy catches the wandering glances— as if you’re trying to keep him out of something— he treats you exactly how you’re acting. Like a criminal.

“Chopper?” It’s unnerving how his eyes are still on you, no trace of expression on his face, “out.”

“But—”

“Out.” Chopper throws you an unhelpful glance as he passes you to get to the door.

You’ve always had the wrong impression of Luffy— everyone that doesn’t know him has the same image; he’s a pirate that has taken down warlord after warlord, who has brought horrifying change and shifts the balance of authority wherever his feet take him. Hearing hushed whispers of him and his close affiliates in the lightened haze of booze, to distract from a tooth getting knocked out of place never does much for his image either. Though it wouldn’t be right to say that Luffy is wholly good either— he’s selfish. Selfish and impossibly kind and downright disgusting with the handling of his own needs; the sound of your name fizzing between his teeth has you startled, nodding your head back to him on the bed you’d left him at.

“You’re hiding something.” It’s not a question nor is it an accusation of any kind. It’s an observation. Luffy slides himself off the bed, his sandals comically slap against the floor of Chopper’s office, “tell me.” His hands fall onto your shoulders, one stays there and the other slides down. He treats your skin like an amusement park for his pleasure; his nails drag across the goosebumps of your bicep, pressing down on raised scars and then splashes into the palm of your hand, dragging ripples in the centre.

You hesitate, twisting your fingers together and pulling as if to attempt to dislodge the odd feeling that follows his fingertips. “Are you asking as a captain?” Despite how general expectations of Luffy remain pretty low to those who do know him, it’s also known that Luffy has a nerve in him that’s impossibly receptive to hurt. There’s a certain way to activate it and when it’s on, it doesn't quieten down until its idiot owner is pleased. Luffy scrunches his face up in an odd way, displeasured at your question as if he couldn’t believe you’d ask him something that hurtful, and his head tilts.

“Tell me.” You’re met with an unwavering stare, the hand on your shoulder tightens and there’s a hardness to it that you’ve never associated with your rubber captain— you can feel the bone in his fingers, stern and undeniable. Your eyes trace over the exposed, tanned skin of his bicep and you wish that you could force your vines through his skin to crawl into his chest and listen to the tremors that’ll run up your devil fruit from his beating heart for some kind of answer. There’s a sudden breath that’s available to you that isn’t tainted and clogged, trapped before it even meets your lungs, but it burns in a new way as you stare at Luffy, scared and terrified of a new life that’ll be forced upon you if you tell him what’s wrong with you.

You open your mouth with an excuse, but Luffy huffs and the words shrivel in your mouth, collapsing to a grain on your tongue and when you close your mouth, you taste dirt. “Luffy,” you beg, “I can’t— just, I’ll be fine.”

There’s a hint of some anger in his gaze before it turns into a haunting realisation, “Chopper knows, doesn’t he?” He pushes you aside, “I’ll just ask Chopper.”

There’s a ringing distant in your ears that chimes like the bell of the church from that place two islands ago, maybe three— you haven’t been too good with time recently. Sunny shakes like the earth as a body hits the pavement, you feel disgusting and heavy and an itch claws through your palms where Luffy’s hand has just been. You’re sure it’s Chopper he’s shaking an answer from but you hear Robin’s voice, calling for him to calm down and when that doesn’t work, Sanji cuts in. It all gets further and further away, you think about the planks of Sunny opening to welcome you back into that darkness from nights ago, you think about being choked by one of your vines, you think about the wisteria blooming whole in your lungs— you think and you think and think and suddenly, it’s all nothing. You’re dying, you think, that’s a fact, what else? Luffy is the reason. Or maybe you’re the reason.

“Luffy,” were you the one talking? “Luffy.” The voice comes again, stern and your eyebrows furrow with the same tension that the voice is carrying. “Thank you for being my captain.”

Not that it surprises you, Luffy punches you.

#౨ৎ luffy single!#౨ৎ op single!#one piece #monkey d. luffy #one piece angst #one piece x you #one piece x reader #luffy oneshot #luffy angst #luffy x reader #luffy x y/n #luffy x you #op luffy #monkey d. luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy x you #op x reader #op angst

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hauntedwitch04 · 6 months

Text

Just a Mirror

Sam Winchester x plus size!Reader

Words: about 6.3k words

Warning: saddy sadness, and some allusion to sexy time, eating disorder, hating on your own person, please be careful if you sensible about this themes

REQUEST: Hi :) I saw that your requests are open, and I was wondering if you could do a Sam Winchester x plus sized reader; an angsty fluffy friends to lovers that has some smut and reader hating herself in the mirror and possibly problems with eating

Author’s note: Hi love! Thank you @desicroft02 so much for your request. I felt really inspired by your idea love and I hope you like how it came out, if you don't find yourself with what i wrote, feel free to say it to me and I'll write to you a new one !

p.s.I got very caught up in the topic, since it is something I feel very close to. I was never the skinny girl, but with the years I've grown used to feel different to others girls, and even if sometimes I really hate what I see in the mirror, I kinda arrived to the point that I see both the flaws and the strenghts of my body and I love both, but some of my closest friend and this kinda of disorder and I tried to help them the way aI could so this one is for them too.

In case you need someone to talk to, I am always here, don't be afraid to seek help because often having someone close by to remind you that the volume of that evil voice we hear inside can be lowered or eliminated is important.

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Why?

This is the only question that floats in your mind, while, with thick tears in your eyes, you try to read the enormous book about whatever monster you are hunting with your friends in this little city, forgotten by God.

You and your childhood best friends are hunting some monster that you still haven't been able to figure out what it is, despite the fact that you are reading yet another list of monstrous animals in the story, while Dean and Sam are still out at the bar where you had decided to spend the evening, and from which you had decided to escape as quickly as possible, without giving any kind of explanation to the two hunters, holding back tears and trying not to meet their confused gaze

You and the boys have been friends since you were six and they were seven and eleven. You met on a rainy October day when you were still living at Bobby's house, after your father had died in a hunting accident after leaving you with him, and being his friend and seeing him almost as a brother he couldn't help but welcome you and raise you as if you were his own daughter.

Dean and Sam had just been left in the rain on the narrow dirt road by their father when you looked out and saw these two cold, sad, and at the same time angry children. You could see the resentment they felt for the man who looked less and less like a father and more and more like an army general, ready to train soldiers and not raise children. Immediately you went to Bobby and told him of the presence of those two unknown children who were in your driveway. He had immediately run to get them and brought them inside the house, worried that they would get sick from standing in the rain, and wondering why their father had left them there, without saying anything.

"He said he didn't have time to explain and that he had to get there as fast as he could, but that he would call you this evening." Said the older of the two once they were seated on the couch in what must once have been a beautiful dining room, and was now more like an ever-growing mountain of books. It is to your adoptive father that you owe all the culture and ability to read texts on the supernatural that most hunters would not even know how to open.

As he spoke you could see the blond child trying to hold back the sadness within himself and show himself as a big boy, almost pretending to understand why his father abandoned them like that without saying a word; in contrast, the one who was supposed to be the smaller of the two, with unruly brown hair, looked more like a beaten puppy, as he wetly moved his feet lazily on the floor, listening to what his brother had to say, but not hiding his sadness and anger at his daddy's decision.

"Baby, couldn't you get Sammy a glass of water for him while Dean and I go make a call for a minute?" Bobby then asked you suddenly, and you realized that you were lost in thought as you watched and studied those boys. You nodded quickly, trying not to let it show that you had spent all that time staring at them, as you heard Bobby's voice and that of the blond boy, apparently named Dean, drift away, only to hear the front door open and close.

After a few minutes you returned to the living room with a glass in your hand, and walked over to the brown-eyed boy, who was now looking at you and smiling shyly. You handed him the glass with a beaming smile, and he could do nothing but blush a little and retract his body a little, letting shyness take possession of him as he took the glass.

"Thank you." He told you in a faint voice.

"You're welcome." You replied as you sat next to him on the sofa.

"My name is Sam." He said, only to freeze and blush again as he held out a hand for you to shake, just as grown-ups do. You told him your name, and he commented that it was a very nice name, and that he liked it a lot, before going back to being silent and staring into the sad void.

You not being able to see what you considered a new friend feel so bad, you shamelessly asked him why his father had left him there and if that was why he was sad. He turned to look at you, and unknown how, he burst into tears, while with his hands he covered his face, not wanting to be seen as weak with someone he had just met, but you didn't give a damn.

Immediately you hugged him and listened to him talk about how his father was behaving with them, how his brother was struggling more and more to hide that he was tired of his parent's behavior, and how he was lonely and sad, constantly changing towns and seeing nothing but his family. That poor seven-year-old seemed to be thirty years old because of the problems he was telling you about, and as much as you were even younger because you were only six, you felt like you could understand him, because for a while that had also been your life before your father passed away.

You remained thus cuddled on the couch and fell asleep, lulled by the warmth of the fire slightly away from you and the new friendly presence that had entered your lives that afternoon, so much so that when Bobby and Dean returned after trying for a varied amount of time to contact John, and finally once succeeding in being insulted and put down by him, they both smiled at the sight of those two small and defenseless children embracing each other, as if to protect each other from the world. But no one knew that night before you fell asleep you had promised to protect each other forever, no matter how, when or why you would always be there for each other.

That was how you got to know the Winchester brothers, and the hatred for their father also began.

You awaken from your thoughts when you hear the motel door open and close, realizing that another time had gone into the whirlwind of memories and you were lost in remembering again when life was easy. You hear someone coming toward you with heavy footsteps, so you wipe away the tears you didn't know were there on your cheeks, which like small streams had almost made a furrow along your skin by now.

You sense right away who it is, but you don't have the strength to turn around so you continue to cry silently as you feel two arms wrapped around you, and Dean's warm body resting on your back as he leans down so that he can put his head in the crook of your neck and hold you better. Ever since the two of you met it was immediately like big brother and little sister between the two of you, and even now despite the fact that it has been a long time since you were children and in your spare time you enjoyed stealing cherries from the neighbor's tree, there is still that complicity and understanding between the two of you that once existed.

He knows exactly why you escaped so suddenly from the dive bar you were both in a few hours ago. Sam had seen a beautiful girl, the classic cover model of some magazine, slim and with all her shape in the right place, taking a drink at the bar, looking seductively at him as she put the drink straw between her lips. Sam's hormones had not let him repeat twice that clear call to fuck directly in the bar's bathroom, a bathroom from which you were coming out as he was sticking his tongue down the throat of that fake and at the same time perfect babe, who in his arms looked so small and yet in the right place, toned against his strong muscles, as opposed to how you would have looked with your shapely body. You couldn't stand there and watch the boy you love for so long now make out with someone else, so without explanation you left and went back to the motel where you took two bedrooms for the case. Usually you take two rooms only when Dean wanted to find someone to take to bed, unlike Sam who kept his sex life much more private than his brother, but since he and Cas had come out a few months ago you had not taken the second room, having practically grown up together and thus having no problem sharing space. That night, however, when you had arrived in the small town Sam had insisted on taking a second room, and stubbornly had not told his older brother why when he had asked him, and somehow your heart was preparing for what would happen, but in fact nothing would totally prepare you for what you would see in that bar and how your heart would break.

Dean squeezes you tightly, as if he is afraid you will disappear at any moment, and that heartfelt squeeze only makes you break the weak dam you had built when you saw him come in, and you burst into endless weeping.

"I know baby, I know." That's all the blond man can manage to say to you, as he gets you up and carries you toward the bed, so you can lie down and take off your shoes, before coming close to you and holding you in his arms, until exhausted, you fall asleep safe in Dean's strong hold, while he whispers soothing words to you.

The next morning you wake up with the sun gently caressing your face from over Dean's shoulder. You smile for a second, imagining what it would be like to wake up in the other Winchester's arms, and soon after your heart, as if pierced by an arrow, bleeds at the memory of what happened last night. You get up, shifting your friend's arms, and go to the bathroom to wash and freshen up, when you hear the door to your room open, and a male voice, known even too well, shout to your still sleeping friend.

"Dean, wake up!" Sam yells, and you behind the door hold a hand over your heart, just imagining her beauty after her usual morning run to stay in shape. Her long dark hair tied back in a light bun, her forehead sweaty and muscles still tense from exertion.

"I'm awake, you asshole." Dean replies, as you hear him get up and go get some coffee. "You could have deigned to make less noise last damn night, you know there were people here who wanted to sleep."

You hear Sam snort at his brother's words, then respond to him in an aggressive, cold tone.

"Well then there are people who wouldn't want to see you run off to fuck wherever we go, hold hands all the time or make love wherever you are. And you know something else too Dean, I thought you were a better person. Why her? Come on you've had a lot of girls, and it wouldn't cost you anything to find a thousand more, why did you have to choose her!?" Says the younger brother, before leaving the room, slamming the door behind him.

You close your eyes and try to control your breathing as you feel yourself lacking oxygen. You feel tears coming to your eyes, but you try with all your strength to push them back down. You take a few minutes to control your emotions as all you want to do is fall to the floor on your knees and scream until you can't hear yourself anymore, but you stay strong and open the door to see Dean immediately in front of you, looking pained and guilty, seeing your state.

"You didn't tell him." You say in a calm, quiet voice, not asking, but stating that your best friend had not told about his new relationship with our angel friend.

"I never found the right time." Dean tries to say, then looks down. "I never had the courage, every time I seemed to miss the words."

"Sam would never judge you, and you know that." You say as you feel a pang inside your heart, remembering the words the man you love had used a few minutes earlier. You feel your clothes sticking to your body like glue, too tight, so tight that you feel as if they have pre torn. You feel how the floor gives way under your feet, you feel how a billion eyes are on you ready to judge you, you feel something inside you break, but you can't let anyone but yourself see how mere words have hurt you, so you grit your teeth and continue to look at Dean stoically, as you feel a single and only tear escape down your face.

"I know, but I'm afraid in the same way, I don't want it to end like last time." Dean confesses, still looking at the floor, but crying clearly, as his words take you back to when you were nothing more than kids and he had come crying to you one night, confessing that he had fallen in love with a boy he had met during his last case, and that his father after finding out had beaten him so badly that his scars remained, and had forced him to watch pornographic movies, reminding him how "a real man acts." No one had ever seen you as angry as Dean, and Bobby when he heard you scream and came to watch that night as you swore to heaven that you would kill John Winchester. Dean had never told Sam about that episode, not wanting to worry him since he had just run away to study at Stanford, and asked you to do the same. It has been so long since that night, yet the memory of that pain and that man still frightens the wonderful person in front of you.

"But I swear I will. He has no right to think such things about you! I-I will tell him-" He begins to say, as he tries to wipe away the tears running copiously down his face. You, moved in turn and knowing that like you he too was remembering that fateful evening, take his face in your hands and bring his eyes to gaze fixedly into yours.

"No, you won't do it now, you will do it when you feel like it." You comment chuckling as you caress his face. He looks at you unconvinced and you see his inner battle inside whether to accept your proposal or to be as always too good and allow the world to kick him in the balls.

"Please be selfish for once. And if I serve as your cover, so be it, not that I would have had any chance with him anyway." You continue, smiling at him as you feel your heart slowly shatter. You see Dean ready to retort, but you have already disappeared back into the bathroom, crying silently. Once the bathroom door is closed, you stop to look at yourself in the mirror and realize how disgusted you feel about your body.

There is not a single thing about you that you like: your thighs, your arms, your stomach, your chest.

The more you look at yourself, the more you want to break that all-too-truthful mirror, which tells an unfiltered reality, a sad truth that for so long you had tried to ignore, but which now that Sam had spit it in your face you could no longer pretend not to see. So you decide at this very moment that everything was going to change, you don't know how, but it was going to happen.

So weeks go by, Sam still won't talk to you, and slowly you continue to sink into the stupid realization that he doesn't because only he, like you, can really see your body, and that he hates you for it, so now convinced that you have to change your body to be loved, you begin to eat less and less and more rarely, and what little you put in your mouth to make Dean happy, who sees you getting sadder and more tired, is rejected from your stomach just moments later when no one is looking at you. This situation hurts your body and your heart, but you do it so that you can look at yourself in the mirror without wanting to punch him, but things seem to get worse and worse. You look at yourself and you never fit, before you saw a body you didn't like, now beyond that you see a person you don't like.

Dean is getting more and more worried about you, seeing you getting paler and paler and thinner, but every time he tries to talk to you, you put on a smile and pretend that everything is going well and that the only reason your shirts now look huge on you is that you are working out more, but he knows that you never liked sports and that is why he knows you are lying to him. He tried to talk to Sam about what was going on, but all his brother managed to say by pouting was that if he needed relationship advice to go somewhere else and that he didn't want anything to do with the two of you.

Dean was on the verge of smashing the plate he was holding in his face and yelling at him to open his eyes and see that you love him more than Dean does right now and that he is fucking in love with their favorite angel, but then he had seen Castiel's face and knew he couldn't let him down after he asked him to keep a low profile and let as few people as possible know about their relationship.

Dean had never felt so lousy as deciding between the love of his life and a friend in need, but he knew that if you found out what he had done you would insult him, so he played it cool and moved on, as if nothing had happened, while he continued to try to take care of you, with little success.

It's been almost a month since Sam had said those horrible things, and you're not getting worse and worse, but in order not to show it in front of your friends, you keep doing the same things as before, trying to have the same cheerfulness.

You are now hunting a werewolf in a remote town in a state you don't even remember. Your body is weak, you haven't eaten anything Dean has brought you in the last three days taken at the various fast food restaurants and bars he had found along the way, and what little you had put in your mouth had gone down the drain shortly thereafter, hating yourself just for having the idea that you could eat something. You feel your eyelids as heavy as shutters, the muscles in your body are nonexistent, and what few are left ache from the mere effort of standing and walking, while your head throbs incessantly.

In this you are scouting around where the last victims had been killed, to see if you can find any more information, but so far you have not had much success, so you decided to split up.

You are barely holding the flashlight in your hand, too heavy for you, when you feel a sudden dizziness that forces you to lean against the wall. You stay a few minutes trying to catch your breath, eyes closed, breathing in the cool night air around you, when you hear a noise coming from a short distance away from you, like a dog growling. With difficulty you open your eyes and see before you a sight that is frightening to say the least: the werewolf you were looking for is looking at you ravenously, while a dark laughter rumbles from his belly to his mouth. Quickly you try to pick up the phone to call Dean or Sam, but unfortunately your mind is so clouded that you can't even do simple things like this and the phone slips out of your hands to the monster's feet.

"The Winchesters' little friend!" He says, seeing who you were trying to contact. "I've heard a lot about you, among the monsters you are known as their true weakness: so small and helpless, you wouldn't even survive my bite, I'll do you a favor and eat your miserable heart." He continues as he gets closer, and you do whatever comes to your chin at this moment, as you feel death coming slowly but comfortingly too, like an old friend you haven't seen in a long time. You scream Sam and Dean's name as loud as you can, hoping that at least one of them can hear you, your lungs aching from how much breath you had to use and your throat burning from the effort as you feel your strength failing.

You lean back against the wall again, this time with your back, and let yourself slide down to the floor, as your vision goes completely black and your ears become plugged as when you go too deep underwater, and the world seems more and more distant. You have one last flicker of life before you pass out completely in that dark alley, at the mercy of that monster, and you hear Sam's voice call out your name for a moment.

Your heart loses a beat, and then completely dark.

You awaken with a jump and a gasp as you sit up on the bed on which someone has carried you. Your head immediately begins to spin like a spinning top, and your vision fails again as you feel a warm hand settle on your shoulder and bring you back to lie down.

"Relax, you're safe now. It's okay." Says in a low, soft tone a rough voice, leading back to Sam. You, shocked to know he is there next to you, open your eyes with difficulty and find yourself lying on the bed in your room, in the bunker, as you see him kneeling beside your bed. His face shows the weariness he feels, but in his eyes shines a strange hope as he looks at you mixed with sadness. You place your gaze on the rest of the room and see your favorite chair, where you usually sit to read your books or do your research when you are tired of sitting in the library, covered with blankets and pillows, making you realize that your favorite giant has been sleeping there for what seems to be even more than a couple of days, otherwise everything looks the same, unchanged, and strangely everything now seems to make more sense with the presence of Sam and some of his things in the room. Immediately you slap yourself in the face at that thought, reminding yourself that he hates you, and that the reason he is here is because Dean will have had better things to do than watch you sleep.

You're about to tell him that he can leave, and leave you alone, knowing that he doesn't even want to be in the same room with you, as he has shown recently, and that in case his brother asks you, you won't tell him, but he beats you to the punch and starts talking.

"First of all I want to say I'm sorry, you don't even know how much, and I certainly understand if you never forgave me in your life, because I wouldn't forgive myself." Sam says, as you see tears forming in his eyes. You try to stop him, confused as to why he was making that speech, but he stops you in turn and begs you to let him finish.

"We found you just in time, by "luck," if you can call it that, that asshole had decided to torture you a bit before eating your heart, and we got there before he could do it, but when Cas touched you to treat you he said he didn't know if you would survive anyway because your body was too weak since you hadn't eaten for too many days. Dean insulted me and even beat me up a bit before explaining the matter from his point of view." You can't help but widen your eyes, and Sam chuckles seeing your expression, as two tears run down his face, and he darkens a little again before continuing, without looking you in the eye.

"Yes, he also told me about Cas, and also about that affair with our father to make me understand why you decided to cover for him."

You close your eyes for a moment, expecting a series of insults, but you only feel his lips rest on your hand, so you open them again and see him leaning over the bed, as you feel his tears coming hot to contact your cold hand.

"Thank you." The boy confesses in a whisper. "Thank you for everything you did for Dean, thank you for always taking care of him when I couldn't or was too blind and stupid to, I don't deserve to have you in my life."

You can't find the words, and so you do the only thing you can think of this moment, and you take his hand and squeeze it, while barely smiling at him.

"We will always have helped each other, you remember. Then Dean will be your brother, but it's like he's my brother too." You say as you pull his face up and force him to look into your eyes. You see him cry even harder, a few sobs escaping his lips, as he squeezes your hand even tighter.

"I'm sorry, I promised I would always protect you, and instead I was so stupid and jealous that I didn't realize what I was doing." He tells you again, only to stop for a moment and look at you this time with a resolve he lacked until a few seconds ago. "Why did you stop eating? How come you covered your mirror in the bathroom? Dean found the remains of the one from before in the garage, thought you didn't like it and got a new one, so he changed it for you."

Immediately you remember, one night in a rage after looking at yourself in the mirror for the umpteenth time, you had started punching it until it had become nothing but stardust under your bleeding fingers, and the next day when you had returned from your walk with the dog, you had found a new one, with a note from Dean who had said that seeing that you had taken it off, thinking that you didn't like it anymore, he had bought a new one, so realizing that you couldn't escape that vicious cycle and knowing that if it happened one more time it would arouse even more suspicion, you had simply covered it up, and hoped that no one would ever learn of that dirty secret, and instead, here it all was for all to see.

You look at Sam in those damned puppy-dog eyes of his, and burst into desperate weeping. He, seeing you in this state, instinctively picks you up and holds you in his arms.

"I disgust myself Sam." You finally manage to utter those damn words, and immediately you feel as if your soul lightens as you feel his arms grip your body even tighter as if you could disappear at any moment, and at the same time he does it with an innate delicacy, as if it were a precious crystal figurine that can be broken under his gaze. "I'm disgusted by my body, I'm disgusted by every single thing about me, and you're disgusted by it too, don't lie to me. I thought if I lost weight things would get better, but they don't, I feel worse and worse." You continue, while somehow trying to get away from him.

"In what sense would you disgust me? When would I have ever said such a thing?" He asks confusedly as he looks at you, tears have dried on his face. His eyes range and seem to want to imprint your every little detail in his memory. His gaze makes you blush as you try to find the words to tell him how his words have done nothing but unleash a storm that had long been locked up somewhere inside you and was just waiting to be released. So you take a deep breath and tell him everything, while he looks at you attentively and astonished, his arms still around his body, as if he needs reminding that you are there beside him, and that you are not just a product of his mind.

You tell him everything, every little thing you had felt hearing his words while you were locked in that damn bathroom, your feelings and emotions in the month to follow, along with all the thoughts and all the actions you had put in place in the hope that he would no longer hate you, and that maybe you would hate yourself less, too. He starts crying again, and hides his face in the crook of your neck.

You stay a few minutes clasped to each other, in silence, after you have poured your heart out in front of him, ready to suffer the consequences, when he takes your face in his hands and stares at you steadily with those chocolate-colored eyes of his, and for a moment you feel your breath short.

"Don't ever think of such a thing again. Never. You are perfect exactly as you are, there is nothing I would change about you, there is nothing I don't love about you." At his words you stand still, as if petrified, afraid that a single movement of yours could mean the breaking of this beautiful illusion. "Yes, I am tired of holding all this in, I love you, I love you so much that I am sick just thinking about not having you near me for a second, I love you so much that I would have been ready to kill my brother for stealing the girl I love all my life, I love you so much that I would be ready to climb the highest mountain in the world and scream it to everyone!" He continues as he stands up on the bed, and begins to move his arms quickly, just enough to make you laugh. At the sound of your laughter he turns to look at you, and smiles even more, to return next to you on his knees and cup your face in his hands. "I love every little, tiny thing about you madly. I'm crazy, crazy in love, and I was a fool because I was so convinced that getting away from you would be better for you, that I didn't realize that you were suffering because of me, and I'm sorry. On the one hand I would like to let you go and make you happy, but on the other hand I am an extremely selfish being and I only want you for myself." He continues as he rests his forehead on yours, whispering the last words. "I love you, and I'm sorry."

You look at him, and not even realizing what you are doing, you take his face in your hands and bring his lips to yours. The kiss you exchange arises as sweet and gentle, like two flames dancing in an elegant dance side by side, testing each other's reaction, in the same way your lips move over each other, slowly tasting that new sensation. You feel her soft lips caressing yours, until neither of you has a single breath left.

"I love you too if you hadn't realized it idiot." You comment making him laugh. "I love you, and for so long I would have preferred not to because it made me sick, yet I could do nothing but love you. The only reason that kept me alive was my love for you, even though it was also my poison." You continue by looking into his eyes, and you see the pain in his.

"If you forgive me, I will do everything to correct what I have done." He looks at you, with a penitent and pleading gaze, as he takes your hands in his, before you release one and place it on his right cheek, and he instinctively leans into your hands, seeking that simple contact.

"I've already forgiven you moron." She laughingly comments, before throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him again, but this time the air in the room is different. The atmosphere becomes more erotic and intriguing. You feel his hands carefully explore your body, running his hands down your sides from your breasts to your butt, where he rests his large, warm hands, before slipping them under your T-shirt and caressing the skin of your back, making you shiver. You feel his hand rise higher and higher to the level of your bra and undo the hook that held it, but then he stops. Parting your lips he looks into your eyes for a second.

"If you don't feel up to it it's perfectly fine honey, we can stop here-"Sam says unsure, but you stop him.

"Afraid it's too much for you Winchester?" You ask as you raise your eyebrows, and see him smile, before resting his lips on yours, then creating a trail of kisses from your mouth to the chest exposed by the shirt you are wearing, down your neck.

"God, how I've missed you." He comments between kisses, but then stops again and looks at you seriously. "Anyway, I wasn't kidding myself, if you don't feel comfortable we can stop here."

You look at him, in his eyes only the pure affection and love you feel for him, and then put an end to all his doubts.

"I want to do it Sam." You say in a whisper as you take the bottom of his shirt with your hands and slowly slip it off, thus also dropping the bra he had unfastened a few minutes ago. "I want to do it with you Sam."

He looks at you and doesn't let you tell him twice, and he resumes his attack on your neck, leaving obvious signs of his passage, and then moves on to your breasts.

"God, you're perfect." He whispers before teasing one of your nipples. You moan softly at that sensation, feeling his teeth clench, his lips kiss and his tongue lick every single inch of your body, worshipping you like a goddess, a queen, tasting every inch of your skin.

This wonderful moment is interrupted, however, by the unannounced entrance of Dean, who, seeing the scene of his brother splayed across your body as he kisses your breasts, and with one hand explores the rest of your body, while you clutch his long hair in your hands, moaning his name shamelessly, lets out a small scream, before closing the door again.

"Damn you guys could warn." Comments the older brother, as Sam with speed grabs a blanket to cover you.

"Should we announce? You're the one who entered the room unannounced!" Sam replies in turn, making an expression that makes you laugh. "You can still come in now jerk."

"Bitch." Dean retorts, to open the bedroom door again and have a stupid grin plastered on his face. "So, I see Sam hasn't exactly figured out how to talk and resolve a situation, usually the mouth should be free to talk, not busy sucking-"

"You try to say one more Winchester word and I'll tell everyone about Christmas with Cindy McWood." You threaten him, and see him whiten, before his smile returns to its former self.

"Well what can I say in that case guys, good conversation and be sure to use protection, I'm not ready to be an uncle." He says closing the door behind him, then opening it again. "Not that I wouldn't make a great uncle, but I would say I'm too young and then-"

"Out!" You and Sam scream in unison, and the only thing Dean does is give you the finger before walking away. The two of you stand still for a moment weighing what just happened and burst out laughing, before Sam's lips find yours again.

"Where were we?" He asks you next, and you can't help but smile and moan at feeling his lips on you again.

It's shaping up to be a very interesting night, long but interesting, and you know that in the end maybe by tomorrow morning you can slowly look at yourself in the mirror, seeing the reflection of the man you love behind you supporting you.

TAGLIST

@supernatural-lvr @itzdarling @newtdumbledoorstarksoot @evansstan-akya

#hauntedwitch04's writing #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader smut #sam winchester smut #sam winchester x plus size reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x plus size reader #dean x castiel #supernatural x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #sam winchester #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester imagine #becky's favorite #castiel x dean #castiel novak

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hollyhomburg · 10 months

Text

Before I Leave You (Pt.58)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Your nightmares are a troubling development but the pack won't let you drown. They have different ideas on how to help you. Some more damaging than others.

Tags: Angst, Hurt/comfort, Fluff, Cuddling, scent marking, Nightmares, graphic depiction of fake character death, Discussions of past rape, No explicit depictions of past rape/sexual assault, past domestic-abuse, flashbacks, safe-wording during sex (Sorta), unpleasant sexual encounters, under-negotiated kink, mentioned sex toys, crying during sex, Sad blow jobs, small dick jungkook, allusions to past eating disorders, anxiety, implied self-hate, self-esteem issues, non-verbal main character.

W/c: 12.9k

A/N: this chapter was originally supposed to be a lot longer- but i got too in depth with it and had to split it up. This is easily one of the more heavy chapters of bily (and that's saying something), so please be mindful of the tags! For anyone wanting to skip the super triggering parts in the next chapter i've highlighted a sentence in red font both after the first triggering section and before the very triggering ending.

Special thanks to @imperiussexrex for helping me with jk's part <3 they're the bestest <3

Previous Chapter- Masterlist

"Sleep well, my lovely little spy."

Jin’s eyes flutter open, looking up at the beta who's watching him with a gentle but noticeably tense smile. Jin’s mouth is dry, he could pretend he didn’t hear anything but there would be no use. The truth wouldn’t change.

"Holy shit.” Jin’s whole body is ridged. Ready to run. In panic mode. But Yoongi’s hand settles on his shoulder. It’s the same touch as always and just as gentle and kind as it was both this mourning and 6 years ago. Yoongi has always been a kind soul, regardless of every secret Jin's ever learned to love about him.

Letting himself be known in return feels a little bit more perilous. Jin’s heart thuds against his fingertips. He swallows hard.

Yoongi hums, agreeing with Jin’s assessment. He runs a hand gently through Jin’s hair. Tugging away loose a knot. “Holy shit indeed.”

Everything is fine. In the wake of the dead body, everything in the pack is absolutely fine.

(That’s a lie, everything is definitely not fine, everything is in fact- falling apart. Like a butterfly larva worming its way to crystalize. Carving its way towards both womb and tomb. Something that changes you or destroys you.)

Jin and Yoongi can only hope.

It’s only hope after all. How much damage can it really do?

~-~

Your unraveling starts with the Nightmares.

Tonight, it’s a dark tangle of half-forgotten moments. A movie with all of the scariest scenes copied and pasted. Bright punctures of feelings like blood dripping down your chin and the tang of it in your mouth. Geumjae’s scent in your nose as he shoves your mouth against his skin. All of it. Every unhappy memory that your psyche has locked away for later drags you down like the tide would drag a stone to a watery grave.

Until the moments condense like a figure rising through fog and you’re sitting in that house again. The one with the yellow brocade curtains pulled closed across the windows so that no one sees what happens inside.

You're sitting with Geumjae at the dining room table. The elaborate meal in front of you rises with steam and smells divine calling you like a moth to honey. The cutlery is polished so clean that you can see your reflection in it. A million dancing tiny versions of you stare back with vacant doll-like eyes.

You remember this meal; you remember what happened to you on this morning. The soreness between your legs reminds you of that horror. You remember how hard you worked after he left in the morning after leaving you in a bloody heap on the bathroom floor. You remember hoping that if you did everything you absolutely could to prepare this meal, He’d be satisfied and he wouldn’t hurt you again.

But avoiding rape is never quite so easy.

It was foolish to hope back then. Geumjae was a man of routine and he required your body every morning and evening without fail. But hoping is so hard to avoid, like an itch under your skin that demands biting nails, a furious sort of wanting. Hope is nothing more than a chain that drags you through the sludge when you think it might be your buoy.

In this nightmare, the other chairs at the table aren’t empty like they usually are. It’s not just you here.

He must have taken a needle and stitched your mouth shut (like he always threatened) because you feel powerless to scream at Namjoon to get away to stay back. You can do nothing more than watch as he leans over and says something to Geumjae that makes him smile. His smile makes him look like Yoongi; who sits at the head of the table and nurses a glass of wine while scowling.

Jin is on Namjoon's other side, hair combed back from his face in a way that makes Seokjin look absurdly pretty. The picture of delicate omega composure. Each of them eats like they haven't in days, shoveling food into their mouths like it’s their last meal.

Jungkook is by your side and asks if you’re going to eat your dinner roll. Puffy and crusty bread that he never would be able to eat in real life. You watch powerlessly as he scarfs it down like he hasn’t ever eaten anything more delicious. Licking his fingers from the crumbs when he finishes.

Tae is dressed in your jewels this time, not Jimin's. The necklace Geumjae gave you for your second anniversary digs into her collar bones as if it was pinned there. Like a butterfly on a piece of cardboard. Glittering with more diamonds than seem possible. Like one of those Instagram filters, every reflection mark turned glittery. Jimin’s suit is like something out of vogue.

One moment you’re looking at the perfectly edible food and the next you’re watching it rot before your very eyes. The meat greying and melting. The salad wilts gooey and spoiled. The fancy porcelain plates writhing with worms and maggots and creepy crawlies that slither out of nowhere. A spider inches its way up your fork.

No one notices. No one realizes that the bites they bring to their lips are poison. Jin licks his lips, the skin already greying and cracking.

Geumjae looks up at you from his plate, grinning all the while. Collar starched white. You haven’t heard his voice in so long but your mind remembers the exact cadence of it in perfect detail.

“What’s wrong princess? Aren’t you going to eat up?

When you look back at them it's already too late. Namjoon’s slumped in his chair staring blankly forward with bloody eyes. When you look Jin’s got his head half gone. Cut away. Wriggly things curl behind what's left of his eye.

Tae’s collarbones are bleeding where the diamond collar sits. Ribbons drip down her bodice. Jimin’s white shirt is slowly blooming red too. Bullet wounds pepper his chest. One on his shoulder and a cluster of them over his heart.

Jungkook slumps over his plate seizing until he’s still. Still the way that dolls are. Dead. Looking at you with wide vacant eyes that go grey with congealing blood.

Yoongi's hands are burning, fire licking up his clothes and he does nothing to put it out. Burning and bubbling and boiling. Skin peeling up like paint beneath the flames.

Hoseok is the only one not at the table.

Across from you, Geumjae smiles again. Baring his teeth in that animal way of his. “What’s wrong princess? I thought you said you loved them- aren’t you going to try and stop it?”

One moment he’s across the table and the next he’s leaning over you, back in that bedroom that was your hellhole less than a year ago. Pulling you by your hips to the end of the bed when you try to twist away. He fumbles with his belt buckle.

The sheets burn against your skin like its rug burn and although you weakly push at his chest. It feels like you're moving in slow motion. Your strength is nothing compared to his. It never was enough in real life anyway.

“No- no I don’t want- please don’t,” you choke. Trying to get him off of you, when he opens his mouth there are maggots there too.

You never did find out what they did with Geumjae’s body. But now you know as the rotting corpse of your dead husband assaults you. Boney hands grab your wrists as the worms drip out, dangle, and wriggle, falling onto your face and-

One of the terrible things about the big nest upstairs is that it’s really easy to get trapped in the middle with no easy way out.

Hobi finds himself in that position when he wakes. It’s the middle of the night, nearly 3 am probably when he’s roused by the familiar ache in his stomach that tells him he needs to pee.

The shades are pulled across the windows keeping the light out, and what little slips through is kept out by a thin curtain that sections off the nest from the rest of the room. Shielding the familiar lumps of packmates buried beneath the nest slumbering away.

It feels good to have all of you sleeping in one space, the instinctual pleasure flutters and builds on the edge of Hobi’s consciousness as he lifts his head. Barely opening his eyes. It feels homey in the way that Namjoon's rut nest hadn't. It's a true nest, Smelling thick and cakey sweet all of your scents drench it now after a few days of you all sleeping here. After finding the dead body, the decision had been unanimous. No more sleeping separately. No more splitting up between the upstairs nest and the remnants of yours downstairs.

Even though it's a new space some things never change. Jimin still sleeps at the edge near the bottom, guarding the nest from the most logical point of vulnerability. Although that might be because of last week.

The pack has made a few other adjustments in terms of safety since you and Hobi found the dead body. Many a moment has hobi walked into a room with Jin and Yoongi only to have them fall silent. But he doesn't have to ask what new precautions they've agreed upon.

They’ve fallen back into the habit of letting each other know when they get to work safely and when they leave, and when to expect them home (the same habit they had just after yoongi left actually) Phone locations are perpetually turned on just in case. But Hobi knows the only time any of them feel truly settled is when they’re all up here.

The nest is big. Big enough for all of you to sleep comfortably, even all sprawled out. But as thoughtful as Yoongi was when he constructed the space he certainly did not think about how hard it would be to leave for a midnight bathroom break given the walls that close in on three sides.

Now, Hobi is trapped and bound by blankets and fancy pillows and the gently sleeping bodies of his pack all around him. The border is high and fluffed. It’s in an alpha's nature to be careful around his packmates and it goes against something very basic in Hobi to even think about disturbing the carefully placed pillows and blankets, the general purposeful disarray of such a cozy nest. Alphas simply don’t fuck with omega nests.

But on the other hand, he’s seriously stuck.

Namjoon, Jimin, and Jin are at the bottom blocking off the most logical point of egress. Jin’s head rests on Jimin's shoulder, dark hair fanning. Yoongi is tangled up with Tae (her hair in these little puffy rollers). And Jungkook’s star fished and spread out by the top edge, right where Hobi was. His fingers rest under his shirt like he’s been rubbing at his stomach. Snoring softly.

Hobi’s heart swells just looking at them.

The only safe avenue of exit where Hobi won’t be climbing over two people is near the bottom left, close to Jin and Namjoon, where you lie on your side, cheek pillowed. Chest rising up and down a little rapidly in the darkness. It’s so dark that Hobi doesn’t see it at first.

Hobi’s so half-asleep that he doesn’t even realize right away that you’re not as undisturbed as the others. That you occasionally twitch like a puppy.

Hobi is no stranger to maneuvering his lithe body around sleeping packmates, muscles straining as he very gently pulls himself over you. Depressing the mattress by your side. His baggy sleep shirt momentarily brushes your face as he shifts over you.

Your reaction is instinctual, one moment asleep and the next awake. Your scent going sour all at once. Exploding in a rush. You push out with your arms, still in the nightmare.

One second Hobi’s on the bed the next he’s stumbling out of it, Barely keeping himself from falling face-first onto the floor. Bare feet slide on the polished wood when he gets them under him. Cursing out a brief “What the fuck?” looking back, ready to be angry at being shoved.

But then he sees that you're sitting up, trembling so hard that your hands can't grip the blanket to get it off of you. Eyes wide and glassy with panic. You blink and blink, lower lip wobbling.

There is a single moment where he just looks at you, but then you let out a small (and admittedly pathetic) chirp.

There is nothing like a chirp that tugs on an alpha’s hindbrain, that drags Hobi's instincts to the forefront like a hook in a fish's mouth. He's honestly surprised that the sound doesn't wake anyone else. Maybe because it's so quiet, so small.

It’s just a dream, just a very bad dream, and your pack is sleeping softly around you. The next thing you feel is Hobi gently crushing you to his chest. Smelling like caramel and boy. Tenderly whipping back your hair from your face. His warm fingertips press against your tender temples dislodging the last bit of you that can't tell if this is real yet.

“Pup? What’s wrong- what happened?"

Hobi looks about as different from Geumjae as anyone possibly could, his jaw slender where Geumjae was wide, eyes bright where his went dark and hooded. Unthreatening and normal brown in the glow.

But just like the dream, you can’t fucking speak.

“Fuck- it was just a dream, whatever it was- it’s not real- I’m-”

You’re shaking and crying and you can’t respond. Your throat is all tight. All of you that is usually happy and gentle is reduced small and scared and quiet. You can't tell where the shadows end and where reality begins. You can only feel his hands. That's the only thing that feels real beyond the terror.

You can't look around; you can't look around at the others- too scared that they'll be dead.

Thank God for the physical nature of Hobi’s job. Herking bags of soil and 30-gallon trees has honestly done him good because it means he can carry you downstairs with a little effort.

Real panic circles his head like a bunch of buzzards, threatening to pick his heart clean. "Hang on- here we go." He turns on each of the lights one by one by leaning into them. Shoulder hitting the plastic, the two of you safer with each click. "See- there isn't anything to be scared of! There's no one here but us."

Hobi is right, Hobi would never lie to you. This kitchen is not the same one from your nightmares. The blinds are blinds and not curtains, drawn to keep out the streetlights not any prying eyes. The old rickety table where the pack has their meals isn't piled with food at all. Only some tangerines in a wooden bowl in the center.

You’re small and shaky in an extra big shirt of Namjoon’s that pools on your thighs when he places you on gently the countertop with a small 'oof'. You're already a little more lucid, eyes darting from the light to the shadows and still trembling faintly. Hobi knows instantly from the stillness that you’re nonverbal. Mouth uncooperative. Your brain is a mix of misplaced adrenaline and cortisol. You smell terrified.

“It’s okay, it’s just a dream, here-” Hobi fills up a yellow plastic cup with water and tips it against your lips. The cold soothes your throat but not to the point that you can speak. You’re unwilling to detangle yourself from him. Real and warm and there now that you’ve got him. hand tangled in the front of his shirt, clinging to him.

He hums as he dabs a cold dishcloth across on your hot cheeks. “You’re okay- I’ve got you.” You lean into his hands, legs parted so that he can stand between them. You look so sad and so small that Hobi’s heart hurts.

You don’t want to speak, really don’t want to but you force yourself anyways. “Don’t remember them- usually- Or wake up in the middle- sorry- M' sorry.”

Your eyes itch, and your face feels all puffy as he continues to dab at it. The cloth is rough and Cold, but hobi's warm where his skin touches yours.

Alive and safe. you barely want to blink incase you miss it.

“Don’t apologize, it’s okay.” Hobi continues to dab at your cheeks, “You get them often?” You shake your head instead of responding and Hobi’s scent goes thick with upset, burning sugar ever so slightly smokey. You sniffle still sort of crying and Hobi does the only thing he can think of.

Maybe it’s just that he’s half asleep himself, or an expression of his alpha protectiveness. The ringing in his ears says protect packmate, provide for packmate, soothe.

Hobi’s scent gland brushes against yours with an electric zing. Pushing you from shaky to boneless nearly instantaneously. He drags his throat and chin across your left shoulder, and then your right.

it takes real effort for him to keep his palms pressed flat against the kitchen counter while he does it but at least it has the desired effect of banishing the last bit of sogginess from your cakey scent. Your instincts purr alphas here, alphas going to keep you safe, keep the shadows at bay.

Your scent goes sweeter and your half-asleep body goes mailable as you lean into him. Resting your cheek on his shoulder, Hobi huffs a soft laugh. It feels sort of nice, having you close like this. He knows how omega's get, Jungkook goes sleepy puppet soft when he's scent marked this close to sleep too.

Yoongi would want Hobi to do this right? Yoongi would want Hobi to comfort his mate. He’d do it himself if he was awake. Hobi’s just being a good packmate. Right?

The hair on the back of your neck stands on end as he pulls away. Is it just your imagination or is he a little reluctant?

A startled chirp bursts from your lips, and you clamp your hand back over your mouth. but hobi's laugh echoes loud off the high ceilings, "It's alright pup." You try to speak again but Hobi shushes you, there’s no need for you to push yourself. Not with him. Not right now.

The slant of the light across Hoseok’s face isn’t right. Too grey and yellow from the light in the hall. It’s too late for it to be morning yet and too dark for you to quiet your heartbeat. Hobi can feel it, jackrabbit fast against his throat.

If he's here, that means the nightmare really was only that. A nightmare. Hobi wouldn't be wrapped around you if the rest of the pack were dead. You don't need to go back upstairs and double-check.

Now if you could only stop crying.

“Here,” Hobi starts to pull away and you make a panicked sound, fingers tangling in his shirt. “I’m not going anywhere, let me just get my bag-” You shake while he’s gone, sitting on the countertop, stumbling when you get off of it, knees weak. Holding the edge until he comes and gets you with an arm under your shoulders, transferring you effortlessly to the couch.

When did Hobi get so good at this? You’d be inclined to think this was just another dream (one of those shameful ones that you don’t even mention to Yoongi) but you’re not sure you could have dreamed this up.

“Lights off or on?” You shiver so he goes one by one turning on the overhead lights and then the lamps, the ones under the cabinets in the kitchen too. There’s not a hint of shadow here, no monster that he couldn’t guard you from.

You can still see the light behind your eyes when you close them. Blinking slowly like a cat would. Hobi has his headphones in his hand, not his usual earbuds but the dilapidated black over-the-ear headphones with peeling stickers on the sides that have been his almost as long as Yoongi has (they might have been stolen from the record store- back when Yoongi's rebellious streak ran a little wider).

The second they go around your ears the world dampens and your heartbeat slows.

“I’ve got you.” Hobi mouths, reaching to pull your head to lie against his shoulder, the blue light flicker of his phone screen hurts your eyes as he scrolls through some songs and puts one on. It’s slow and soft, mostly instrumental except for faint vocals. You can’t hear what Hobi says but he pulls you to rest against his side. Settling.

He doesn’t make you talk about the nightmare. Doesn’t make you talk at all. You melt, pressing your face into his shoulder as hard as you can, your shaking relaxing with every word. Every soft hum. It’s working, your trembling is only skin-deep now. In a few minutes, you won't be shaking at all.

“Go to bed,” he asks, even though you can't hear him. Pillowed against him. The songs shift quietly. Your hand somehow gets under Hobi’s shirt and presses against the skin of his hip. Holding it softly so that he doesn’t go anywhere, it feels like a bit of a thank you.

You cling to him and he lets you. You probably can’t hear him but he still repeats, “I’ve got you.”

I’ve got you.

~-~

Yoongi’s never shot up faster in his life, leaving part of himself in the dream. He can feel the panic down the bond as he stumbles. The nest is too empty. Yoongi’s sleep-sluggish brain counts the number of bodies and he goes cold when he counts five and not seven. Pure shuddering terror bleeding down his back like he's just been doused with cold water.

Where are you? Where is Hobi? There is something wrong- something seriously wrong. Yoongi can feel it on the back of his tongue, the taste of your despair acidic. Once a familiar feeling, now lashing him like lightning.

Communicating directly through the mating mark isn’t something that happens often anymore for the two of you. It did when the bond was fresher, but now that it’s settled the connection has dulled. In the way that clothes go worn and comfortable. It’s not usually a stabbing pain like this. Such a visceral feeling that it wakes Yoongi up from it.

Yoongi stumbles to the door following your scent like a man possessed. The way it shifts from the nest. Panicked to not alone. Hobi’s panic too saturates the air. Yours is rainy wet and Hobi’s is burnt and over-sweet, faintly medicinal.

There are sounds on the stairs. Footsteps rouse Hobi just as he’s finally fallen asleep. His neck aches from how he’s been leaned back against the couch And he winces as it cracks.

“Hobi?” Yoongi calls cautiously. At his waist, your fingers tangle loosely in his shirt holding onto him like he’s a lighthouse in a storm, clinging to him even as you sleep. Hobi realizes he’s got a bit of your hair stuck to his lips. Spitting it out.

“Over here.“ Hobi’s jaw pops when he yawns. Yoongi stumbles to you because he can’t stay away when you’re like this. When you need him. You don’t rouse when Yoongi touches you, cupping your cheeks. Eyes feasting on the crusty salt around your eyes, the faint silvery shimmer of dried tear tracks across your cheeks.

“She had a nightmare- couldn’t sleep with the lights off so- thank god you're here I have to pee like so fucking bad-” Hobi says quietly.

Yoongi definitely does not eye the way that your hand stays loosely knotted in the front of his shirt, or note verbally the way that you smell like him. Drenched in hobi's scent and clinging to him.

“Daisy,” Yoongi says, sounding a bit surprised and alot in love, tucking his Hobi’s hair behind his ear. Standing over the two of you looking a little shaken. Yoongi is an expert at moving you softly detangling your hand from Hobi's shirt without waking you and freeing Hobi from his self-imposed prison.

He's still shaken when Hobi comes back from the bathroom. Hobi can’t blame him. You don’t really have the best track record when it comes to disappearing together. First the car crash last month, and now the dead body. It’s understandable why Yoongi’s panicked a bit.

But now he just looks at Hobi. Eyes scanning his face, a small smile beveling the edge of his lips.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Hobi says. The faint murmur of music is barely there, you're still asleep with his headphones on. Hobi had panic made a playlist on his phone after you’d fallen asleep. Putting only the most gentle instrumentals on it.

So what if he’d saved it with a cat emoji and a purple heart? Yoongi can’t possibly know that just by looking at him.

Yoongi doesn’t respond and Hobi tucks his chin, looking down at you, sleeping soundly still. The nightmare must have really tired you out because you're out like a light. His voice goes softer, like the emotion in his throat is constraining his vocal cords.

“What was I supposed to do? Let her panic? That wouldn’t have been kind.”

Yoongi's hand falls onto Hobi's head, rubbing through his hair. the touch feels like a reward. Hobi's not sure what for. “No- it wouldn’t have been Daisy.”

“Like it when you call me that,” Hobi says. Eyelashes flutter as yoongi scratched at the nape of his neck, head bowed. and he can hear the laugh in Yoongi’s voice. Hobi’s not really awake either.

“You don’t have to worry,” Hobi says “I’m not gonna like- freak out and run away if she needs something, like the first time.”

Hobi feels embarrassed about that when he thinks about it. Embarrassed and a little bit fond of the memory every time he sees the train ticket still in his wallet. The top edge is so chewed up that you can hardly tell it’s a ticket anymore.

“Sure,” Yoongi says and Hobi knows he hasn't fooled anyone, least of all your mate. hobi stands up properly, and when his hand falls, yoongi just tugs at his wrist, the callouses on his hands comfortably rough against hobi's skin. “Come on.”

You wake bleary for a handful of seconds when Yoongi puppets you, moving to sprawl out while Hobi discards the back cushions. Yoongi slips Hobi’s headphones off your ears and puts them safely to the side. wordless and publish while yoongi gets one of the blankets to tug it over your form.

Yoongi tuts and doesn't let hobi avoid the same predicament. although it's Infinitely more comfortable than his prior half-crunched position. If Yoongi’s being honest, it sort of looked like Hobi was guarding you. body curled over in a protective stance.

Alpha's are so funny.

Hobi ends up face-to-face with you. His flannel pj set un-buttoned to the middle tugged loose from your tugging earlier. the triangle of his bare chest presses against the bare skin of your collarbone as he shuffles away from the edge of the couch. Your own pj set pulled off one shoulder. Yoongi’s sitting up, his thigh warm against the top of Hobi’s head.

You’re running a fever maybe, worming your way closer to Hobi like you need it. Your nose presses into Hobi’s chest, a little cold at the tip and ticklish. Hobi squirms and Yoongi huffs. Overly fond.

“She does that to me in her sleep too sometimes. Means she likes your scent.” Hobi feels warm, and it’s no secret that his scent fluffs up sweeter, as if encouraging you to enjoy it. You re-settle. falling asleep with your nose tucked into Hobi's sternum.

Fuck you’re both so cute, your hair mixing colors on the pillow- sharing the same one because even being that far apart is too much. Hobi falls asleep with Yoongi combing gentle touches down his back. His favorite way to fall asleep- being touched so casually and consistently. You breathe against his skin, cradled to his chest. Sleeping soundly. Finally soothed.

Hobi watches you until sleep takes him.

~-~

Unfortunately, that’s not the last time you’re woken by a nightmare in the coming weeks

Over the next few days, it seems like more often than not Yoongi and Hobi wake to the scent of your terror in the air. Quieting your little sobs with soothing touches in the bathroom. Blankets are brought into the space so that you can curl up in the bathtub, darkness kept at bay by the overhead lights, its lingering shadow curling underneath the doorway trying to drag you down.

They don’t mind, at least they tell you they don’t mind when it eventually comes time to wake in the morning and your words are barely intact. Soft and rough in a way they haven’t been in months.

For you, it feels infuriating. Your non-verbalness might only be a temporary state but that doesn’t mean that overcoming it isn’t tiring. It’s frustrating. Working so hard each day to speak only to have it wrenched away again at night.

Always.

Always you wake up from your nightmares non-verbal. Guided to somewhere light by Hobi so that your fear of the dark won't rouse the rest of the pack. Soothed back to sleep by his music and some scenting. Waking up sometime after sunrise, struggling but better. A routine.

As for the pack…

“It feels like she’s going backward,” you hear Jin confess one morning while he brushes his teeth in the upstairs bathroom. he sounds afraid (he is afraid after waking up to you gone from the nest yet again for the 5th time this week- and it's only thursday). It's obvious Jin doesn't know you're within earshot but the double doors that lead to the bathroom are wide open.

Hobi sends you a fraught look. You’ve just come back upstairs after spending a few hours in the Living Room. You're only able to risk a few more hours of sleep because the sun is turning the sky all grey-blue.

“Do you think-” What he says next is jumbled by the sound of someone turning on the shower, Jungkook or jimin maybe (the upstairs shower is large enough that honestly- all eight of you might be able to fit given you where willing to risk any soap related injuries).

Namjoon’s answering hum is all dark thunder. jin's proposed solution a mystery. “No, I don’t think that would help.”

Sometimes it’s not just Hobi and Yoongi who wake up with you.

Sometimes it’s Jimin. Holding your shoulder with that firm touch looking like he’s about to snap his teeth at any incoming shadows. Sometimes you wake and he’s already sitting at the edge of the bed watching the stairs and the windows. Shirtless, legs splayed with his handgun balanced across his knees.

Or is it just your imagination? Is that just another dream because you certainly don’t see any weapons when he and Hobi pull you from the bed a few seconds later?

They take shifts. Jin and Namjoon blanket you on both sides, soft rumbles soothing you, their quiet banter a welcome melody in your private nest downstairs. Jungkook the next night- who admittedly just wraps his body around you and goes back to sleep so quick it makes you jealous, curled around your spine while you listen to Tae read you a late-night story.

Tae’s delicate murmur does all the character's voices just right. Her lips are both mystery and familiarity. She always seems to crack open the world with the first line.

“Look, I didn’t want to be a half-blood.”

They never make you speak; never treat you like they’re too tired even though you know they are. You can see it on their faces, on Hobi’s eyebags getting greyer by the day. Hobi’s the only one who's there every time a nightmare drags you awake. Even Yoongi doesn’t wake up every time.

(Although you confess it's more because you develop a routine. You and Hobi sleep by the side of the nesting nook, where it’s easy to get out without moving around too much. Close enough to each other that he often wakes smelling like you and you always wake smelling like him).

You try to talk with him about it. Guilt makes your heart feel all stuffy. Is it possible to get a heart cold?

“You know, you could just leave your headphones out-"

“No- don’t worry about it, I’ll just make it up later.”

Always. Always Hobi wakes and plops his headphones on your ears. Sometimes he seems awfully lively, grinning and cracking jokes when you burrow into his chest and wipe your tears on his shirt.

“I am like- among the top 10 worst sponges in history you know?”

Sometimes he wakes you from the nightmares before you’ve had the chance to jerk awake. He recognizes the tell-tale stillness, the quick breaths. He never lets you suffer for long. Waking you with a hand on your shoulder. Allowing you to shove him just a little because he knows you're just reacting to your dream and him bleeding together.

"It's just me- you're okay, I've got you."

Sometimes, you wonder if you’re not the only one who can’t sleep lately.

During the day you spend a lot of time in the nesting pod, catching up on sleep while it's still light outside. dreading the afternoons and evenings when the shadows linger like a looming storm. Alone and safe and quiet.

Occasionally you're joined by noodle, purring up against your stomach. Meowing at you until you lift your arm and he can cuddle close. Sometimes you feel like he knows you’re sadder than you say you are. That when the others aren’t there to watch you, you’re stiller, less mobile than normal. You don't even click away at your phone, half the time you forget to charge it anyway.

Hobi would never tell you- but a few afternoons ago he’d come home to Noodle waiting for him on the front step. He’d lead Hobi inside, little kitty face glaring back at him every few steps. Circling his curled form and yowling when he dared to take a second to take his shoes. off. Panicked and nervous, all but biting on his ankles before he led Hobi into the sunroom. His bushy tail held high.

There he’d meowed woefully at your nesting pod where you slept soundly. So loud that Hobi was worried it would wake you. As if he was trying to say “Aren’t you going to do something?”

Hobi had just quieted the cat with a soft shush and picked him up. Closing the door behind both of them. “Let her sleep nu,” he’d gotten nothing but a tearful meow in response. Some squirming, but no claws. “What do you expect me to do? I’m trying my hardest.”

Noodle keeps his secrets. Hobi’s question goes unanswered by the cat- who’d simply squirmed out of his hold and gone to wait by the door to be let back in. Glaring at Hobi’s retreating figure like he’d been betrayed.

Noodle seems to know something that the pack doesn't. He's sat in your lap during dinner and breakfast every single night this week, especially on the days you’ve slept more.

Hobi continues to try his hardest. He brings home flowers from the shop. He says they’re for Jin but puts them by the nesting pod and no one even bothers to tease him. He makes sure that you don’t fall out of the habit of going on late-night drives. Even though you don’t go back to the beach again quite yet. The memories there are too prescient.

Hobi takes you to the winding mountain road again. Drag racing one night with Jimin, because what good is trying to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before sunrise when you’ll just wake anyway? You might as do something fun until you’d wake up normally.

You leave that night a little more wobbly-legged than Hobi will admit to Namjoon when he asks later. "I'm never getting into a car with you again Minnie- what the fuck."

But sometimes the alphas do use the sunroom when you’re there.

It’s kind of nice to hear them on the other edge of your senses. When you’re dozing and Tae and Jimin want to play video games. their shouts of happiness and false outrage better than their screams of terror.

When Hobi and Jungkook want to do some stretching before they take an afternoon run, their giggles push out the memories of cruel words that ring in your ears. Yoga mats all stretched out and noodle perched on the edge of Hobi's multicolored one. Watching you, tail flicking back and forth.

They'll never know how much they help just by being there.

Or when they work on rearranging Hobi’s plants around. Fitting them into different spots like a jigsaw puzzle and moving them from room to room. He doesn’t mean to be indecisive about it, he’s just trying to find the best home for each of them.

They take the big banana tree upstairs to put it in the nesting room because that honestly has really good light and Hobi’s baby can’t be compromised. They move the monstera there too and switch the string of pearls for three big ferns hanging above your nesting nook. Shifting A big fig tree that honestly looks kinda pretty from the entryway to the corner, hanging part of the way over the small sectional.

A leggy orchid that someone bought Namjoon as a “thank you for not letting me go braindead” present is the wimpiest and smallest of the bunch. Hobi's in the process of rehabilitating it. For now, it sits on the window sill growing a single pathetic leaf.

Hobi tries to spend a lot of time nearby when you’re trying to sleep, he always seems to show up when you're having the hardest time ignoring your thoughts.

They're getting tired of you being a goddamn mess every time. Why can't you just get better? It's pathetic, Hobi is fine. Why are making such a big deal over this? But deep down you know it's not just the dead body that caused all of this.

Things are slow at the flower shop in the fall with only the occasional wedding until the Christmas season starts up. Hobi talks to you about it while he waters his plants and trims up some leaves that are dying. He’s definitely not looking forward to making bows for the whole month of December and wrestling with wreaths. He’d much rather talk to you about his ferns. The big stag leaf one that’s in the corner by the tv. And the big fluffy ones that hang above the nesting pod.

“I know they're messy but If I overwinter them we can hang them back on the porch next year, They looked so nice!”

You hum from the pod, turning your cheek to look up at him. he's got his flannel rolled up to his elbows, a shirt underneath that looks homey and warm. Hobi’s scent grows sweet. “They did look really cool this year, kind of like big green soot sprites.”

“We should watch spirited away again.”

“We should.”

You stretch out in the nesting pod while he fiddles with one of the fronds, pulling off the dead leaves with a crumple. You stretch your curled-up legs, toes brushing the ratan sides of the pod.

“If I was a plant where would you put me?”

“Probably where it’s sunniest.”

You can hear his smile on the words, you hum and go back to sleep while he works. Hobi checks your breathing every few minutes, just to make sure you don’t need to be woken up again.

Hobi never talks about the nightmares and never asks what they’re about. Which is something you’re thankful for as the days go on and they get worse and worse. You don’t know how many more nights you can wake up gasping without telling them what you're dreaming about. That it's the idea of them dying that has you so panicked. not to mention the nightly revision of the worst parts of your abuse.

Yoongi doesn't always let you escape without a bit of interrogation. Badgering you until you tell him that he needs to stop.

Jin’s just as bad, constantly hovering. You found your sleep schedule, an estimated hours of sleep you’ve gotten scrawled on the edge of a newspaper in Namjoon's handwriting. He's a little generous with his calculation- You know you haven't slept 13 hours in the last 4 days. You’d crumpled up the page and thrown it in the garbage.

In the morning you find out their motive behind it. Blinking down at your cereal and at the red raspberries bobbing in the milk. You can't help but get defensive about this; because really when you go non-verbal so often about this- what good would talking do?

“Jin, I’m not going to therapy.”

Jin looks a little bit less like his usually put-together form, button-up shirt a little looser than it might have been a few weeks back. Yoongi rubs down his shoulders as he passes. Work has been keeping Jin later and later- anytime someone asks he says something about a problem child at the home for forgotten pups that needs Jin's full attention.

It's so very like him to suggest therapy.

He pulls his fingers through his hair, trying to comb it into something orderly. Abandoning his usual routine of gel and mouse. “I’m not saying you have to go consistently- just once or twice, you went through something-“ he breaks off when Yoongi taps his hip, shaking his head.

You’re twisting your hands over your lap, again and again. But the word lands even though it was unsaid. Whereas before you and Hobi had a smart retort- now- the word feels less hollow, more heavy.

And Jin's not just talking about the body.

Jin doesn’t want to be frank, but you don’t look the best. Maybe it’s because you’d been so steadily getting better that they hardly remembered what sadness looks like on you. But now it looks like this; you sitting at the island counter, looking at your food, too nauseous to eat. Actually worried you're going to vomit if you try.

Any other morning, Jin would sit by you and coach you through it, would sit and wait for you and move you somewhere safe, somewhere softer to prod. He'd chase this worry with gentle touches. maybe he'd give you a gentle settling if you were feeling like you needed to reach that happy hazy head space to eat.

Any other morning Jin wouldn’t leave you.

But this morning, the clock says that Jin has exactly 20 minutes before he has to leave for work or else he’ll be late and miss the debriefing on the latest string of murders and drug-related reports. including a very well worded anonymous tip. it's important that jin's there for that.

It’s not enough time to drag you to some corner of the house and scent you happy. Or better- scruff you down into omegaspace where you’d be mailable and more agreeable under his touch.

Yoongi's eyes say, go I've got this, and Jin has never been more thankful for lovely enemies and a partner in crime.

But Jin simply does not have enough time to love you as he should. If Jin has to choose between making you feel loved and making you more physically safe he'll choose the latter every single time.

Baby steps. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and criminal empires won’t fall that quickly either.

“They’ll go away, I know they’ll go away because they did last time,” you reaffirm, only half believing it. You and Yoongi don’t talk about when you first moved into this house, but the truth is these nightmares aren’t really anything new for either of you.

At least this time they don’t come with you hurling your guts up every night. At least this time your words return in the middle of the day. At least you feel somewhat human right now.

Jin sends a fraught look in Hoseok ’s direction. Clearly requesting backup. He holds his hands up, straw in his mouth and ice coffee in his hand. “I’ll go if she goes.” Is all he says backing away. Clearly not ready to take Jin’s side with this. Late for work himself.

Jin almost misses when you guys were adversarial, rather than banded together as a unified front.

I never expected the pups to unionize

He sends Namjoon in a text a few hours later, After no less than 3 separate meetings that have him feeling more than a little tired himself.

Joonie (1:18): Really? I’d thought you would have been ready, no plans to destabilize the monarchy up your sleeve?

Jin can’t stop his smile, he’s conscious of who might be watching, so he hides it with his palm. Flirting on the FBI’s time has never felt so good.

What would you recommend?

Joonie (1:23): Spanking and sweets probably.

That at least had made Jin feel a little bit more at ease. But he knows what Namjoon really means, that he’s saying they should talk about this later face to face. Or worse there isn’t an easy solution. Namjoon had warned him that a request for therapy, however gentle and well-worded it was, might not go over well.

But what else can you do when someone won’t accept your concern? When love falls short? For the first time ever Jin is unsure what you need.

Over the next few weeks, you can tell that they’re being overly gentle with you. Treating you with velvet gloves.

Namjoon barks an order at Jungkook and Hobi when they rough house too close to you. jostling you where you stand unsteady in the bathroom. Tae lets loose a sleepy growl when Jungkook back hugs you one morning- something ordinarily innocuous but now makes you flinch hard. hand pressed over your heart to stop its thundering. Both times Jungkook tucks his tail smelling sour at being scolded even though it's really not his fault.

Everyone's instincts are running on high. Your scent is so off these days. Something about it muted and only getting duller. Jin didn't realize until the other day when he tried to find a pillow that smelled like you while nesting and couldn't.

The head of the FBI's largest organized crime task force, brought to sniffles over not being able to find the right pillow. What would Jin's enemies think?

Yoongi had only sighed, and relinquished his shirt to Jin's nesting. At least that was the next best thing.

but it's not only the little things that they're holding off from; it's sex too. You can clearly tell that they want to instigate something when you come upstairs one night after spending a few minutes with Tae in the library room.

Jungkook sat's tight across Namjoon’s lap. Moving his hips in a way that's sensual clinging to the pack alphas bare chest and licking into his mouth like an omega starved.

You know what they want to do- christen the nest in a way, truly break it in and make it smell like the pack.

But they'd stilled at your appearance and you'd made yourself scarce, clearly not ready to be asked to stay (or scarier- asked to leave). When you'd come back after showering the room had smelled of sour unhappy arousal and Jungkook had been pouting on the other side of the nest from Jin and Namjoon.

You hadn't heard the whispered argument. "You're treating her the exact same way you treated me when my seizures went bad."

"That was a different circumstance Koo and you know it."

"Still- it doesn't change the fact that you're making the decision for her instead of making a place that's safe enough for her to decide what she wants."

The idea that Jungkook and the others are holding off for your sake has you feeling even more guilty.

Even Tae- once insatiable, now hardly lifts her head from her computer when you walk into the library room wearing next to nothing. You know it’s just that. Just busyness that she's been spending every available second writing her new story.

But you can’t help but feel odd about it. Half guilty and half extra. Unwelcome.

Neglected isn’t the right word. Neglected is the word that Hobi would use for his orchid or the cactus that he accidentally forgot about outside. Two plants that are equally as finicky, opposites but maybe not in terms of difficulty. One praised for being beautiful, the other coveted for being hard to take care of.

It feels like that a lot of the time, that you're just hard to take care of. you're an adult you shouldn't even need to be taken care of at all.

That night- you toss and turn in the bed. Unable to sleep because you can't help but think about it, your thoughts a rushing torrent of you're such a bother. Maybe they're just trying to let you down easily. Maybe all of the love is a lie. You should try harder, if you try harder to overcome this then maybe they won't ask you to leave.

Sadness has rotted your brain a little, you don't know how to get back, how to stop the spiral. Until your hands are so tight that your nails dig into your palms. Leaving bloody little crescents.

The next day you try to catch up on sleep. In the nesting pod. A dark spot. Out of sight and out of mind, where all broken things go when it's clear they can't be fixed in a way that makes them useful. But it feels like you've only slept a few minutes when you're roused- not from a nightmare, but because someone gets into your nesting pod with you.

You smile in your sleep at the scent of honey, rich and golden. So nice and sweet that it makes you get goosebumps. Jungkook noses at them, dragging his cheek along the hair on your arms, soft and pleasant in that sensory sort of way.

Even though the nesting pod was a gift from Namjoon you'd been clear to Jungkook and Jin that they could use it whenever they wanted to. They're always a little bit more inclined to nest upstairs.

You sleepily hold out your arms for Jungkook, only cracking your eyes a little. You're not prepared for the sight of him in a crop top. blinking as you register it. Your pulse climbing higher. Jungkook doesn't say anything, doesn't say anything at all as he pulls his body along yours, settling mostly on top of you. quiet until you query "Kookie?"

He smells a little like the gym, but more like he'd showered there and then come home. You don't remember what day it is, what his schedule was. But the house is quiet around you, it must be one of his early days then?

His nose rubs smooth little circles along your neck, and when you pull back his eyes are a little glassy. "I miss you," he says, voice cracking a tiny bit. You don't have to ask why he misses you when you're right here. You know and your heart clenches painfully.

you laugh, "you just saw me this morning." but his lower lip wobbles, and you know thats not what he meant. it's frightfully easy to knot your fingers in his hair and pull him down to eye level. "c'm here."

You can tell by the way that Jungkook kisses you that he wants you, his arousal burning skin deep as his tongue laves against your lower lip and his hand slides down your chin to cup your scent gland, fingers pressing over the sensitive skin delicately.

You're so fucking tired.

Jungkook’s sex drive is honestly the highest in the pack, and you know that they usually keep him well tended to. But you also know that because of your predicament, no one’s tended to his needs in the last few days. You can smell it on the edge of his scent. Sweet but overly sweet, like a hovering cloud of settling perfume, unable to settle. Just getting stronger.

It’s not your job, and it shouldn’t be anyone’s job per se, but the idea of turning him down is so displeasing that you won’t even if you’re not really in the mood right now. You're so fucking tired. There isn't room for anything else. you don't have the energy to want this, you don't have the energy to want anything but sleep.

You kiss back, a little gentler than he wants, the soft needy noise he makes against the seam of your mouth tells you just how welcome it is. Your arms are sluggish as they go around his shoulders. He grins happy, and you grin too- because Jungkook’s joy is honestly so infectious. You let him tug you up, tug you out of the nesting pod even though your heart lurches.

This is your use to the pack, isn't it? The youngest omega, the lowest one in the hierarchy. You shouldn't say no and deny Jungkook what he wants. This is the way that he feels free, the way that he makes himself better.

After the pack's sleeping quarters had changed, there’d been a whole debate over where exactly to put the pack's sex toy collection and what to do with their old bedroom on the first floor. The side closet is no longer big enough or in use.

Installing some shelves in the bedroom had been the easiest solution. now they frame either side of the windows, holding Tae's overspill of books at the top and a few display cases. You remember the first day you'd wandered in here in search of your mate and found some suspicious-looking brackets installed along the ceiling studs, sawdust piles sweeper up on the floor.

“It’s totally not a sex dungeon.”

“Babe, you’re making a display for Jungkook’s dildo collection with a built-in sex bench.” At least you can still tease your mate when you're sad like this. Every little semi-normal comment you make feels like seeing the sun during a break from the storm. Even Yoongi's pout is half a smile.

“Just because I want there to be a bench doesn’t mean It’s a sex bench. It could be for like- watching tiktok and stuff. You know Hobi likes to find a spot where he won't bother us.”

“It’s totally a sex bench.”

“Is not.”

Yoongi is too fun to rile up. You'd watched him blush as you and Jungkook had playfully grabbed and swung on the ropes Yoongi was hanging, the heavy thick cotton ones soft to the touch that won’t irritate his loves sensitive skin. testing out the brackets meant for suspension.

Jungkook’s just as giggly and happy when he drags you there now, and your smile is very real pressed to his shoulder. The farthest thing from fake. it might be the first time you've smiled today. Jungkook always makes you feel this way; a little younger, a little bit like you’re sneaking around. That at least feels right.

You're very good at concentrating on the parts of sex that feel good, the parts that you want and not the ones that you don't.

(This morning the others had talked about it with Jungkook. Jimin and Tae had cuddled close to brainstorm. The way they often talk about sex things and pack things. Jimin's snorted honesty still stings.

"I don't know if Yoongi could literally fuck the sadness out of her, but at least it's a suggestion."

Jungkook had felt petulant and whiney, "But why doesn't he just try- if anyone's got a magic just right dick it's him-" Tae had chased Jungkook's disappointment with a kiss.

The truth is; the pack is mostly at a loss with how to help you this time. The most they can do is just stay close and make sure you have everything you need. But lately, not even that has felt like enough. Tae had scrapped her nails down Jungkook's abs, soothing him, with a bit of tingly pain pleasure.

"You're the only one whose bad mood can literally be cured with a good fuck bunny.”)

Yes, Jungkook is trying to make you feel lighter in the only way he knows how right now. But there are different medicines for different hurts for a reason.

Jungkook guides you down to the sex bench, tugging at your shirt a little. Still kissing you. Up close you realize it's actually more of a daybed, styled very attractively with a few throw pillows. One that's more memory foam and sturdy for propping bodies up.

It's no secret how sweet turned on happy Jungkook smells from just a little kissing, just the bare minimum. Jungkook moans- a crocked needy sound, scent pulsing richer in the air. He squirms a little bit, reaching over to one of those shelves. Rummaging in one of the frosted acrylic buckets.

“I’ve had this idea for weeks now that you've taken Joonie’s- fuck- I just- I didn’t know when you’d want to try it but I saw this video online with two omegas and Jin said no but- ha! Here it is!”

You gulp.

The big purple thing is a veritable monster, glittery and double-ended, ridged not like a regular dildo but more like a tentacle. It's about as thick around as your wrist. Namjoon’s a little thicker but still-

it makes fear trickle down your spine, warm and almost bleeding.

Jungkook reads your expression. And the disappointment crests his cheeks, his bunny smile falls, and you feel like you’ve failed already.

At the thought of being filled right now. You feel like you might want to vomit. You try not to have any sort of expression, just a small smile- but fall abysmally short. You’re too tired, too sore, too tight to properly enjoy that.

The idea that your sadness is enough to get in the way of this, what Jungkook so clearly needs is suddenly too much for you to bare. Jungkook needs sex, doesn't he? He needs it to make the seizures feel not quite so damning. He'd told you once- how much he required sex to feel loved. It's his love language right? Isn't this what people always say when they want physical touch?

Who are you to say that your needs are more important than his? You certainly do not love yourself as much as you love him.

Jungkook’s frown is heartbreaking and you easily kiss it away. Making your kisses more eager. You’re a good kisser and a good actor. Your kisses make Jungkook feel all fluttery and hot in the chest, quickly forgetting about the dildo and whatever plans he might have had.

"Just want you- don't want-" words get in the way of kissing, sucking, you mouth at Jungkook's lower lip, making him groan.

Jungkook’s scent gland is a semi-swollen little lump under your teeth as you nibble on it, making him part his legs, grinding up into nothing and letting out a breathless whine. You set yourself across his lap and his big hands quickly fist on your waist pulling you snugly.

You don’t mind this, you really don’t.

It's too routine for you, the first thing that you reach for to avoid saying no. His belt buckle is warm against your palm as you shift so that you can slide to the floor. Pulling your body away from him. he lets out a needy bereft sound. stopping you as you start to tugg at his waistband.

his cheeks are pink, lips red from kisses when you pull back. "I-"

"Let me kiss you here Koo." Let me at least do something. Let me stop feeling so guilty, I know how to fix the guilt even if you don't.

Jungkook catches your chin before you sink to the floor. Jungkook has a hickey on his abs glimmering there just along his hipline. The crop top pulled up to right under his pectorals in a way you know would have the alphas growling and mouthing at his stomach. That's probably how he got the hickey in the first place.

“But you don’t like it.” He says, not quite understanding. Catching your hand as you slide it across his knee.

“I want to try.” You lie, "I-I feel like I’ve lost practice, need to be taught how-” You bat your eyes, looking down and away like you're embarrassed. Just let me do this and make you cum. Just let me get this over with so that we can go back to cuddling and I can feel safer. Jungkook always gets especially cuddly after he's cum too. “I don’t- I don’t do it for the alphas like at all." Your stuttering isn't all faked. You’ve lost practice in a lot of things, but lying clearly isn’t one of them.

“Or Yoongi” Jungkook notes. A little too quickly.

Your heart pulses, Bruised a bit at that. You've never explicitly discussed the abuse you underwent with anyone but Yoongi and Namjoon. You didn't think anyone really noticed how much you don't like giving blowjobs. It's not that you don't want to reciprocate or touch- it's just that once with Geumjae, the choice to reciprocate was taken away from you. The choice to get anything at all was always taken away. It's hard to forget that, to want it again.

You remember his words. He'd always been violent with words before he'd ever gotten violent physically with you. Coercion doesn't feel like it has the same weight compared to that (Hobi would probably argue with you- but his case was different wasn't it?)

"You're so fucking selfish, you could help me in like- 10 minutes but you're choosing not too. We could go back to having a normal fucking evening. I do so much for you and even now when I can't fucking sleep you won't just do this one fucking thing- it's not like I'm asking for much. You're too young, I should have known you wouldn't know how normal relationships function."

It's foolish of you to think that you could be selfish forever. You should get used to this with Jungkook so that it's not so bad with the others later. In case they ever realize how selfish you've been.

“Yeah,” you swallow back a lump in your throat. “But can I? I want to-” You make your eyes wide, biting your tongue hard so that your scent doesn’t go sour.

Jungkook looks like he’s warring with himself for a second but then the hornyness wins out. He pulls his pants down his thighs and you help him, big and muscular as he stands, you on the floor before him. It feels right in a twisted way. See I know my place, see I'm not trying to get away with anything.

Jungkook almost trips when he moves to get a pillow for your knees because he’s not a monster. Namjoon and Jin have taught him well.

Jungkook is not a monster.

If you said no, if you said that you wanted to stop you know he wouldn’t hold it against you. At least not at first, at least not this time. After the 4th or 5th or 10th attempt you know that wouldn't be the case.

Jungkook doesn't even have large enough of a cock for it to feel like a real blowjob. His bunny eyes are wide and eager as you give it a first little kiss. Tentative. You kiss the head again, focusing, dragging your lips up the sides and nuzzling into the skin of his hip, indulging in his scent because at least Jungkook smells nice, smells clean, before you take him into your mouth

Geumjae always smelled a bit like piss. Tasted like it too. At least Jungkook's not like that.

He can be forgiven maybe, for not noticing right away. For not asking if you want this twice. A muted curse falls from his lips instead and he carefully cradles your head. A little startled.

"Fuck- ah-" The muscles of his abdomen tense beneath your touch, startled by the sudden influx of pleasure and the wet tight hot heat of your mouth. "I don't think you need any practice- fuck-"

Omega cock tastes less bitter than alpha cock does. And Jungkook’s dick is honestly so small you can’t even choke on it properly. He doesn’t hit the back of your throat when he rocks it into your mouth. Eking pleasure from the tight seam of your lips.

He doesn’t even hit the back of your throat or engage your gag reflex. So, you wonder why your eyes start watering. One of his hands fists (albeit a little bit too sloppy to be totally gentle) in your hair, using it to keep you stationary while he fucks your mouth. Little rolls of his hips that end in cute, "ah-ah-ah" sounds leaving his lips.

Good, you're doing good. Your nose is buried in his skin. With the little tuft of hair there, Jungkook must have showered at the gym because it doesn't smell like anything. Just breathe.

You know Jungkook doesn't get stimulation to his cock often. The others much prefer to fuck his hole rather than pay attention to it and that works in your favor now because Jungkook's so sensitive. You feel his cock jerk a little, tensing as his abdomen does, flexing up against the pallet of your mouth. Especially when your tongue teases at the head. Finding the ridge of his frenulum and pressing up.

Your lungs sting but you keep your tongue flat, lapping up at the underside, keeping your mouth wet and messy and not swallowing yet. Jungkook's precum tastes a little salty, not as salty as alpha cum would taste like but still not bad. Just a little bit like sweat and a little bit like honey.

Jungkook looks down at you, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead his lips falling slack in pleasure. Hips twitching up, looking debauched and lovely from it already. Pride swells, even as you have to fight back the urge to gag. Quieting the revulsion in your stomach through force of will alone.

You can do this, you don't have to make a big deal over it-

Jungkook tips his head back, closing his eyes, and you're free to shudder unwatched. "Fuck- just like that- you're so good at it, fuck-" You wonder if you get this same wide-eyed subspace look when you’re sad if that’s why he doesn't notice. Your knees burn, hands tighten. One on his hips the other digging into your thigh.

You hear someone outside in the hall and before you have the chance to even think about pulling off they're opening the door. Jimin almost trips, Clearly not expecting to see you on your knees or Jungkook with his legs splayed and shirt rucked up to show his tummy.

You pop off Jungkook’s cock easily, jaw aching already (you really are out of practice) Jimin’s look is all predatory, alpha pheromones bubbling up. One second startled, the next prowling in your direction like a jungle cat.

“Ah pups, getting into trouble? Pups having a treat?”

Jungkook giggles, spreading his knees wider, fingers stroking down your cheek as you catch your breath. Wiping the spit from your lips. “We’re not done yet,” he huffs. You blink up at Jimin and the touch he drops on your head is everything. Soothing your frantic panting. You push up into it, eager for a casually loving touch.

"Wanna make some trouble with us?"

“maybe, think i'd much rather watch" He teases, jutting his chin at Jungkook and settling down next to him, leaning on his chin to watch you as you're urged back to it. You kiss Jungkook's cock again as the alpha guides him into a kiss. Settling his happy-turned-on pheromones into a thick bubble that bursts.

You lap at Jungkook’s cock head, making it messy. Watching the two of them get distracted by kissing, licking into each other’s mouths. Jungkook's hand falls from your hair in favor of cupping Jimin's thigh.

And you below them, an afterthought.

You ignore the longing in your chest and go back to sucking Jungkook off. After a minute or two, Jimin's hand returns to your head, his knuckles rub against your cheek in lazy circles.

It would feel loving any other time but not right now. Not when you're trying to ignore the voice that whispers in the back of your mind that this is all you're good for. On your knees, mouth open. Finally useful. Finally worth the bother of loving. A voice that doesn’t come from any of them but sounds suspiciously like Geumjae's occupying your thoughts.

Jimin's hands are on your head too, rubbing against your cheek. Wiping away a little bit of spit on the corner of your lips. He clearly thinks you're deep in omegaspace. Interpreting your quiet softness for that sweetness and not this devastation. there is always a moment of quiet before a disaster, an intake of breath where everyone braces for impact.

“My good little princess, making your packmate happy, look at you pup,” Jimin croons. Clearly enjoying the pretty picture that you and Jungkook paint.

If anything, it's hearing that old pet name that makes you break. You're fine until you're not.

You're just so tired.

There is wetness on your face and it’s not spit or slobber or cum just tears. Little sniffles. your first one goes un-noticed by them, but not the second or the third. Jungkook freezes. And suddenly the fingers on your cheeks aren’t pulling you closer to Jungkook’s hips but off. Tilting your face. Jimin's hands quickly push Jungkooks away.

Jimin has stoney eyes, his mouth hard and discerning, lips parting. “Pup?” Jungkook’s already got his hand on your arm bunny eyes the soft opposite to Jimin’s. Jimin effortlessly transfers you from the floor to the couch. "Oh pup."

You wipe at your tears stubbornly. “Just one second, just give me a second and then I can keep going I promise, I’m fine- I’m fine” you keep repeating it, keep saying it but you smell so sour-sad. Your pout wobbles hot tears welling up threatening to spill over renewed.

But in what world would they ever let you cry during sex without pre-negotiating? In what world would they let you cry without comforting you?

“I don’t even know why I’m crying but I can't stop-”

No sooner have the words slipped past your lips are they pulling you up from the floor and into their laps, manhandled and small. You fight it a little. but Jimin crushes you to his chest and you sag. t

Jungkook has never gotten less turned on quicker, a packmate's distress takes so much precedence over this. Pulling up his pants. His pleasure isn't even a thought in the back of his mind. You take precedent.

Jungkook thought you knew that.

He feels helpless, helpless as you scrub angrily at your mouth, he uses his sweatshirt sleeve to wipe the saliva and spit from your mouth, then your tears from your cheeks. "Oh fuck- I'm so sorry- fuck I-"

And oh, you're crying into Jimin's chest now, real tears. Sobbing harder.

Jimin glances up and for a second he looks a little angry. He has every right to be angry at Jungkook for this. He's barely been here for like, a minute and a half. But the anger isn't welcome, you're too close to Jimin's scent gland, flinching when he starts to smell sour. Pulling back, so so so terrified, quivering in his lap.

"I'm sorry alpha, just give me a second and I'll get to you too-"

Now Jimin's angry for a whole new reason, angry at people he can't punish, people who are already dead. Jimin feels his anger in his hands. Struggling to stay gentle on you.

Oh fuck that.

Jimin’s fingers pinch at the back of your neck, scruffing you until your scent mellows out a little. "None of that now." He snaps, sharp shifting from concerned packmate to commanding dom effortlessly. "You'll do no such thing. You're going to stay right here until I tell you I'm done holding you."

Jimin's firmness is exactly what you need. You feel his power in his arms, crushing you, restraining you. Jungkook is not a dom, and that has never been clearer than right now. if he was than you would have never gotten into this predicament. "Can't you be good and do what Alpha asks?"

"Yes Alpha" you sob.

Jungkook looks at you guilty, eyes swimming with tears too. He's always been a sympathetic crier but he doesn’t let them spill. Even if Jimin spies them. His lower lip wobbles as he looks at you. Reaching out to hold you too and then snatching his hands back at the last second. If Jimin's touch is your remedy then Jungkook's is surely poison. “Why didn’t you-”

“I just- I just didn’t want to be bad.” You know what they’re about to say, that saying no wouldn’t have been bad but your brain is all terrified of it.

“M’sorry” Jungkook wants to say that there’s nothing you’ve got to apologize for that it’s him that should, but it’s difficult. It’s so difficult when you’re crying so hard it kinda feels like you might pass out. hyperventilating a little. He can do little more than loop his arms around Jimin's waist and trap you between the two of them, sandwiching you. Applying pressure. Holding you tight. In a way that has you instantly plummeting. Down past subspace, past omegaspace, where everything is dark and bland and nothing. Where you're nothing.

“M’sorry Koo-” He doesn’t trust his wobbly voice to speak as you sob out, “Don’t tell them, don’t tell Namjoon and Jin or Yoongi please- don't want them to worry. It’s not Koo's fault it's mine. I’m fine. m' just feeling off. I’ll be better alpha I promise.”

Luckily there is no one home. No one is home to hear any of this. Jimin has always been perilously unable to deny his girls their silly wishes. And if the idea of Namjoon or Jin knowing has you panicking anew then Jimin will take this secret to the grave.

Jimin soothes you with a happy alpha rumble, feeling exactly the opposite- wishing there was Namjoon or Jin to call for backup. This is clearly not normal crying. Jungkook surely couldn't have put you into subspace but somehow you're dropping. Leaning in to every word that graces Jimin's lips like you need the absolution he brings.

“But you’re already so good for us pup- already so good for saying no even though it was hard. Here. Lie out so we can hold you. Here.” It's what you wanted from the beginning someone close by enough to touch enough to cuddle.

Only this time it feels even less like you deserve it.

You make yourself as small as you can. Jungkook and Jimin alternate, kissing off your cheeks. Until you stop crying and fall asleep. Crying yourself back to sleep. You really were just sleep-deprived.

Jimin's got one arm around your waist, another cradling the back of your head. And only once he's absolutely sure that you are completely asleep does he hiss over the top of your head.

"Jungkook What the hell-"

"I asked, you know I asked. She said she was okay I swear-"

A whispered argument ensues, drawn out until the others come home. Their anger quieting at the sound of them, Yoongi softly calls your name. Mindful of the fact you could be sleeping.

When you wake up around dinner time you're non-verbal and pupish. There are too many people around for Jungkook to be able to pull you to the side and ask, to just talk this out. He watches you close at dinner, watches and waits for a chance to talk to you that won't come. You'll pretend you're asleep tomorrow when he wakes, just to avoid it for a little while longer.

If the others notice anything strange with you at dinner time no one broaches it. Of course, you don't speak at all. Answering their questions with shaken heads and careful nuzzles under Tae’s chin where you sit side by side with her. Your chairs pulled together so that they’re more of a bench. She smells so good- so Rosey that you press your face into her shoulder to avoid the other's eyes.

Never mind the fact that you don't smell like anything at all. Maybe you're dissociating too bad to smell like anything. So disconnected from your emotions that you can't feel them let alone smell like them.

After dinner you take an extra long in the shower so that by the time you exit the bathroom Jin has already scruffed Jungkook sleepy. He looks cute too. Pouting in his sleep, restless.

There's an extra soft nesting space carved out just beside him that he made special for you with a few pillows and his favorite nesting things. It will go unused.

That night, you don't bother trying to sleep.

~-~

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Upstairs floor plan:

Chapter playlist:

Noah Kahan - Call your mom

Coldplay - Sparks

nick cave and the bad seeds - O' children

Pine Grove- Need too

495 notes · View notes

miley1442111 · 1 month

Text

(part 4) wrong choice, wrong move-a.donaldson

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a/n: fem reader but as per usual, imagine what you like :)

summary: when you find out about his betrayal and how your relationship truly ends. (dw there are more parts after this :))

pairing: art donaldson x reader

warnings: angst, feelings of disappointment, hurt, allusions to an eating disorder, depression, fainting, cheating, etc. +

PART 4 of 12

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Art was a shell of his former self. His eyes were constantly blood-shot and sunken, he was losing weight, his mindset was fucked, the works. Yet, you seemed perfectly fine. Your tennis had never been better, your grades were excellent, and you were focusing on yourself. Well, you were trying to, it was pretty difficult when Art Donaldson was constantly over your shoulder, wondering when he could apologise and make things right. You two had promised that you’d go no-contact for a few weeks, giving time to allow the fresh cuts to heal over and then you’d be there for each other after. That ‘no-contact’ lasted a day. Then Art was at your door sobbing his eyes out, and you had to let him in.

“I`’m so sorry to show up like this,” he sighed, tears rolling down his cheeks as he rested his head on your chest, his arms holding you close to him as you played with his hair.

“It’s alright Art,” you promised him. You missed him just as much as he missed you but you were hurt. You wanted a change in behaviour, not just some pretty tears and kind words. “Seriously, we promised we’d be there for each other.”

Art let out a choked sob into your chest and you held him tighter. “It's ok, I’m always going to be here for you.”

“I’m so sorry,” he cried into your chest. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” you whispered, trying to calm him down. “Art you can’t keep doing this to yourself, you have to move on,” you sighed. “I’m not that special.”

His eyes met yours in a disapproving glare as he stood up, pacing your dorm. “You’re so special. You’re so incredibly interesting and smart and driven and I fucking love you! I fucking love you so much that I show up at your dorm room every fucking day looking like a fucking loser and making you comfort me because I fucked up! You’re off doing your own thing, being amazing and I barely do anything anymore! I feel like I can’t breathe when you’re not around, like I can’t think when you’re not there. I need you Y/n. So yes, you’re pretty fucking special to me!”

The room was silent.

“Art, just calm down love,” you sighed, trying to coax him to calm down.

“I’m not calming down. I want you, I want you more than anything-”

“Art that’s not fair,” you snapped. You were angry now. It’s exhausting watching someone be this blind to their own faults. “Art, we broke up because you constantly choose Tashi over me. That’s on you! You need to move on!”

“Have you?!” He shouted back.

“I can’t when you’re clinging to me like a fucking baby!” You shouted. “Go to your friends, not your ex-girlfriend Art! We broke up and maybe yeah, it was your fucking fault but I’ve been really nice trying to not hurt you more because I love you!-”

“Then why are we broken up!?” His voice cracked.

“Because I’m sick of being your second choice!” You screamed.

Art was quiet. He grabbed his jacket from the bed and left your dorm, leaving you to fall apart on your own.

Since Art had felt, your world had grown quieter and quieter, you became more distant to those around you, you were unhappy, you ate less, you trained more, probably too much.

But what else were you supposed to do?

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You showed up to the Challenger ready to win, despite the clear exhaustion you showed with your sunken and dark eyes, horrible posture, and constant yawning.

Art was shocked. He hadn’t seen you in weeks. You were significantly slimmer, you looked awful to be honest, and he knew it was his fault.

You served first, Tashi against you. The serve was good, not your best, but you two were playing real tennis.

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The ball hit the court and the game was over, you’d won, once again. Art and Patrick cheered discreetly from the stands as Tashi smashed her racket in anger. You didn’t even celebrate, just running to the bathroom and into a stall, sitting on the closed seat and passing out.

You were severely damaging yourself. Your entire team knew you were not safe to be playing, but they knew you were at your prime to go pro, so they ignored it. Everyday was like an uphill battle, one that you were losing.

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“Art!” Tashi shouted as Art rambled about how ill you looked. “I don’t fucking care about her form, or how she looked! If she’s ill, how come she beat me?!”

Art stayed silent.

“I cannot believe I fucked you at that party,” Tashi sighed, her head in her hands. You gasped and hid behind the door, stopping your hitting partner from walking into the warm-up court.

Art and Tashi had fucked the night of the party. The party that you and Art were late to because he fucked you before it.

He’d cheated on you.

What?

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You walked into the court, head high in spite of the dizzy feeling in your head.

“Good game, sorry I had to run off earlier, I felt sick,”you explained to Tashi, holding your hand out for her to shake.

"Good game," she grumbled. You caught a glimpse of the horror on Art's face. You'd heard. He was never getting you back, not now, not ever.

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art donaldson masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

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#art challengers #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers #zendaya #mike faist #mike faist x reader #josh oconnor #patrick zweig

658 notes · View notes

andvys · 1 year

Text

We'll burn the sky | part eighteen

Warnings: angst, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of reader throwing up and feeling sick, allusions to eating disorders, reader struggling to eat, weight loss, mentions of drugs and alcohol, mentions of death and sickness

Pairing: Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Fem!Rockstar!Reader

Summary: Eddie confronts you about the secrets you have been keeping from him.

Word count: 8k+

Series Masterlist

Only partly proofread!

Out of all the things that Eddie had expected, this wasn’t one of them.

He thought that it’s the stress and the anxiety that is making you feel sick or that you perhaps caught a bug or just feel a little under the weather.

But he never took this into consideration.

He furrows his brows, tears burn in the back of his eyes.

You’re pregnant?

Eddie holds the pregnancy test with his shaky hands, staring down at it in shock.

Is this why you had been avoiding him all day? Because you found out that you are pregnant and now worry about what he will think if you tell him?

The baby is certainly not his.

You have never slept with each other.

It’s Steve’s.

“God,” Eddie whispers, running his fingers through his curls, he finally tears his eyes away from it.

He wants this with you, in the future. He wants the white picket fence, he wants kids, he wants this but what will happen now if you are really having a kid with his best friend?

Eddie is so in shock, the nausea takes over him, he can no longer think straight, let alone think of any other possibility that might not include you being pregnant. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before he puts the pregnancy test back in the trash, covering it with the paper that laid on top of it.

With a hazy mind, he finishes wrapping up the present, taking a moment to collect himself before he walks out of the bathroom. The TV is still on, the volume is on the low. He glances at you to find you fast asleep.

He swallows harshly, heart already softening at the sight of your relaxed features. He turns away, sighing.

He won’t tell you that he knows, clearly you aren’t ready to talk about it yet.

Eddie hides the present in his suitcase before he walks over to you, taking his hoodie off, he throws it on the couch and sits down on the bed, peeling his socks off before he lays down next to you.

You scoot closer to him in your sleep, snuggling up to his side. His gaze softens, a smile appearing on his face as warmth rushes through him. He wraps his arm around you, holding you tighter against him.

You sigh in content as you get comfortable on his chest. His heart always flutters when you do this.

He puts his hand on the back of your head, fingertips grazing your hair. For a moment, he pushes all his thoughts away and just admires you. His love for you is something so deep and special, never had he ever experienced something so out of this world. He would do anything for you, he would go anywhere for you, he would wait for you for as long as you’d need him to.

He would raise this baby with you, he doesn’t even care that it’s not his. He just wants you, no matter what but he is uncertain of what you will do, of what you want.

As you shift in your sleep, your shirt rides up a little, exposing your soft skin. He eyes your stomach and his brows knit together.

Eddie was never good at math but if you really are pregnant then you must be 7 or 8 weeks pregnant, give or take. You should be showing already, at least a little, right? But you don’t, if anything you had lost some weight, something that worries him a lot.

Eddie can’t even help it, he places his hand on your stomach.

He wonders what you will look like a few months from now.

He wonders how things will be like between you and him.

For the first time in weeks, your stomach feels a little at ease and you can finally enjoy your coffee without feeling sick. You hold the mug, it’s warm against your palms, you watch the steam rise, bringing it up to your lips, you take a sip of the sweetness.

Eddie stares at you, a smile tugging at his lips. You look well rested today, more relaxed than the last couple of days.

“Do you want to try and eat something?”

“Uh, yeah I should get myself some toast or something,” you nod, putting the mug down, you are just about to get up when Eddie places his hand on your shoulder, “no, please sit. I’ll get you a plate,” he says, urging you to sit, he places the mug back in your hands, giving you a smile before he walks off.

“Okay,” you trail off with a confused but amused look on your face.

“Wow, a real gentleman,” Gareth snorts.

“Yeah, he knows how to treat a woman right, Gareth,” Wren mumbles, rolling her eyes at him.

Jeff chuckles, agreeing with his girlfriend as he bites into his bagel.

“I always treat my women right, what do you mean?” Gareth mumbles.

Wren pops a blueberry into her mouth, squinting her eyes at him, “are you sure about that?” She asks.

“Yeah.”

“You’re a fuckboy, Gareth.”

“Unfortunately, I have to agree,” you chime in, “but that’s okay, enjoy the groupie life as long as you’re still young and desired.”

Gareth raises his brows, “I’ll always be desired.”

“Yeah, we’ll see in 20 years,” Jeff coughs.

“I know that Jeffy will look amazing in 20 years,” Wren smiles as she leans her head on his shoulder, he smiles at her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, “just like you, babe.”

Gareth scrunches his face up in disgust, “you two are gross,” he mumbles as he looks down at this plate of food, “lately, you’ve been more gross than usual. No seriously, what’s up with you two? Always up in each other’s faces all giggly and in… love.”

“Can’t two people just love each other?” Jeff mumbles.

“They can but this… stop.”

You press your lips together as you and Wren share a look.

Eddie comes back with two plates, both filled with enough food for the whole table. He places them both in front of you. One is filled with fruit and sweets, the other is filled with pancakes, toast and scrambled eggs.

“There you go, sweetheart.”

He sits down beside you, grinning at you.

Everyone falls silent, staring at the amount of food in front of you.

You laugh, “that’s all for me?”

Eddie nods. You are eating for two now.

“I can’t eat all of this,” you chuckle, reaching for the toast, you take a bite as you look at all the amused faces.

“You should,” Eddie says, pointing to the plate of fruit, “you need vitamins.”

You furrow your brows, looking into his eyes, you find something that you can’t quite read.

Wren eyes Eddie with a curious and amused look on her face.

“You really do need them, y/n,” Gareth says.

The smile on his face is almost enough to convince you that he means well.

“You're starting to look like a zombie,” he grins at you.

“You’re the zombie, look at those dark circles,” Eddie throws back, glaring at his friend, “you need to sleep more, dude.”

Gareth snorts, “okay dad.”

Feeling eyes on him, Eddie glances at your friend, knitting his brows together when he finds her eyeing him suspiciously, “what are you looking at me like that for?” He chuckles.

She shrugs, smiling a little, “you’re awfully sweet today,” she says, pointing to the food he got you, “why’s that?”

“I’m always sweet to her,” he snorts.

Jeff chuckles, putting his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder, “yeah but today you’re even sweeter.”

You glance at Eddie as you bite into your buttered toast, smiling at the blush on his cheeks.

“Can’t a guy just take care of his girl?” He blurts out.

Jeff and Wren giggle while Gareth smirks at the two of you, wiggling his brows, “since when did the two of you make things official?”

Blushing, you put your toast back on the plate and wipe the corner of your mouth. Eddie suddenly feeling awkward, he reaches for the coffee, just as he takes a sip of it, Gareth opens his mouth again, “what’s next? You’re getting married and having a baby on tour?”

Eddie chokes, putting the mug back down, he coughs.

“Are you okay?” You ask, patting his back.

Gareth laughs, shaking his head at his friend, neither him or Eddie notice the flustered looks on the couple’s faces.

“Yeah.. Yeah, I’m okay,” Eddie mumbles, blinking the tears away that welled up in his eyes from the coughing.

You keep your hand on his back, turning back to Gareth, “the baby is gonna be the new drummer, you’re starting to get on my nerves, Gareth.”

He smirks, “aw but he’ll need a teacher.”

“He?” You raise your brows, “maybe she will need a teacher.”

Eddie stares at you, trying to figure out whether you’re joking or not.

The smirk on your face and the lighthearted jokes tell him that you are joking, that everything speaks against you actually being pregnant but the test, the sickness and everything else just tells him that you are indeed expecting a child, with his best friend.

His protectiveness only grows stronger and stronger the following days. He makes sure that he is by your side at all times, protecting you from any kind of crowds, whether it’s fans, journalists or the paparazzis. He is not risking anything. Every time someone gets a little too close to you, he sees red, especially when you are being pushed. He was ready to fight when someone actually managed to grab your arm, he tore it off of you and pushed the guy back, not even caring who he was, fan or not, he allows nobody to touch you, especially in such aggressive ways.

Eddie takes care of you in a way no one has before. He brings you snacks, makes sure that you drink enough water and get enough sleep. Instead of going to the after parties, he convinces you to have movie nights, you don’t really question it or protest against it, you always enjoyed the quiet nights with him more than the rowdy parties.

Eddie waits for you to open up to him, every morning, he wakes up, hoping that you will finally tell him but days and weeks go by and you still haven’t talked about it. It makes him sad and it frustrates him, when will you tell him? When you are showing?

He wonders if Steve knows, if you called him and told him the news that he must be excited about. Eddie knows that Steve always dreamed of this, a kid. He always wanted to be a dad, have a nice girl by his side and live a quiet life. He could have that with you, after all, you are already expecting his child. Once that realization sinks in, Eddie’s heart breaks a little.

Whilst he felt positive about things at first, he now starts to feel a little less positive.

His mind runs wild and he imagines things that he hopes won’t come true.

Things that he so desperately wants with you, could be your future with Steve.

The white picket fence, the house, marriage, kids.

What will he do if he will have to watch you have that life with his best friend?

Eddie can’t even imagine a life without you anymore, he doesn’t want to. He wants you, only you but what will he do if he never gets to have you?

The thought of losing you, shatters his heart, it brings a deep pain to his soul, one that he can’t even describe with words.

Is that what your dad felt like?

You told him about him, about what had caused him so much pain, a broken heart. He loved someone so much, losing her meant losing himself and the more time has passed after she had left, the more pain he had gone through before he finally decided to put an end to it.

Eddie remembers the night at the beach so well, the conversation you have held about the song you wrote.

The soulmates that never made it because one chose the wrong lover and the other ended up dying of heartbreak.

Is this how things will end for him?

Is his life gonna end the way your dad’s life ended?

Many sleepless nights plague him, he rarely ever makes it through the whole night, usually only falling asleep when the sun begins to rise, like today.

Just as sleep is about to lull him in, he is startled by your hands pushing his arms off of your body, he opens his eyes, watching how you cup your mouth as you bolt out of the bed, rushing into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind you.

His own stomach churns at the sound of you puking. He throws the blanket off of him and follows you without wasting another second. He opens the door, walking in, he scrunches his face up in concern.

You are on your knees, hands clutching the toilet seat as your body lurches forward and you puke your dinner from the night before out. Eddie gathers your hair, holding it back.

“Shit, baby,” Eddie mumbles, rubbing your back softly.

You cough a few times, shutting your eyes as you feel tears rolling down your cheeks. Your throat is burning and your stomach is hurting badly. You flush the toilet and slump against it as a sob ripples through you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers, eying your shaking form with sadness in his eyes. He pulls you into him, wrapping his arms around you. You respond by slumping against him, leaning your head on his chest. Eddie kisses the top of your head, rubbing your back and your arm, he holds your weak body. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Eddie,” you cry.

His heart breaks at your words.

“Nothing is wrong with you, sweetheart,” he whispers, “you’re okay, you’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

“I can’t take this anymore,” you whimper weakly.

He holds you tighter and pulls you closer, “I’m gonna take care of you, just let me, please.”

You hesitate, you don’t want to be a burden, you don’t want him to get sick of you.

“Please,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head.

“Okay,” you sniffle.

Scooping you up into his arms, he carries you back to your shared bed. At this point, the sun is already up, lighting up the room. You place the pillows behind you, opting to sit instead of lying down, Eddie covers you with the blanket and urges you to drink some water. He brushes his fingers through your hair, eying you with soft and concerned eyes.

He knows why you are sick but a part of him is worried that there is more behind it.

“I’m taking you to a doctor, I won’t take no for an answer this time, sweetheart.”

You shake your head, putting the cap back on the water bottle, you screw it shut and look down at it, “I’m going today, Rob scheduled an appointment for me.”

He raises his brows, “he did?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “I asked him to.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

You shake your head, looking up at him, you try to give him a smile, “no, it’s fine. You gotta be there for soundcheck.”

Eddie swallows, staring at you nervously.

“I don’t have to be there, I can go with you–”

“It’s okay, Eddie. I’ll be there too when I’m done.”

He hesitates, his eyes skip over your tired looking face.

“Are you sure?” He asks, cupping your cheek, “you don’t have to come, you can rest.”

“No, I’m gonna be okay, I actually feel better now.”

“You do?”

You nod, putting your hand over his, you squeeze it, “I'm sorry you had to see this. That was gross..”

Eddie chuckles, shaking his head, “it’s just puke, babe.”

“It’s gross,” you cringe. Running your hand down your face, you sigh, “and I look gross.”

“Never, sweetheart. Even with puke in your hair, you’re still the most beautiful girl in this world.”

You blush at his words, heart skipping a beat, though the moment is cut short. Your eyes widen and you put your hand in your hair, “I have puke in my hair?” You gasp, causing him to laugh, shaking his head, he laughs, “I was just joking.”

Slapping his shoulder lightly, you shake your head, “you’re mean.”

He grabs your hand and pulls it towards his lips, kissing your knuckles, “I’m sorry,” he chuckles.

Eddie rarely ever spends a day without you, he struggles to be away from you, especially now. Today, he left the hotel without you though. He reluctantly parted ways with you, not wanting to leave you alone when you are still not feeling well but Rob promised him to look after you.

While he and the guys left for the venue for soundcheck, you went to your appointment.

His mind wasn’t there, not when he talked to his friends, not when he played guitar or sang. You have never missed a single rehearsal or soundcheck, being on stage without you feels wrong and weird and it shows him how miserable he would be with you gone.

Eddie puts his guitar down as he sits down on the floor, looking around the empty venue, he sighs.

“What’s wrong, man?” Gareth asks as he sits down next to his friend, offering him some of his M&M’s. Eddie shakes his head, pushing the yellow back towards him.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Eddie mumbles.

Gareth just scoffs, “right, you’ve all been acting weird.”

Eddie raises his brows, “what do you mean?”

Gareth shrugs, for the first time in a while, Eddie notices sadness in his friend’s eyes.

“I’m worried about y/n, she looks bad– I mean, she’s still pretty as always, I don’t mean it like that, I just, she looks miserable. She’s sick all the time, she lost weight. I know it’s probably the stress ‘cause I remember when my dad left, mom got really sick too, she was anxious all the time, couldn’t keep any food down, she looked like a ghost, man.”

Eddie frowns, nodding along as he looks down at the ground.

“You’re acting weird too,” he mumbles, “I get that you’re worried about her but you’re on edge all the damn time and Jeff is.. I don’t know, he’s cool but we don’t really hang out as much anymore, he’s constantly on the phone with his girl– did you know what he bought last week? A ring, Eddie! A fucking ring!”

“Wait what?” Eddie gasps.

“Yeah!” Gareth exclaims, throwing his hands up, “dude just got famous and now he wants to get married already!”

“Holy shit,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, where’s this all going?” Gareth sighs, “we got one album, one tour and it’s what? Over already?”

Eddie shakes his head, putting his hand on his shoulder, “no, listen to me, it’s not over! We’re gonna record another album, we’ll go on another tour!” Eddie says.

Gareth’s features relax and a smile pulls at his lips, “you think so?”

Eddie smiles, nodding, “yeah, I think so.”

“Cool,” Gareth smiles, eyes flashing with relief. Looking over Eddie’s shoulders, his brows knit together when he finds Rob walking towards them, without you by his side, “hey man, where’s y/n?”

Eddie turns around to look at the older man, jumping to his feet, he looks around, “where is she?”

Rob’s dark eyes are serious, he brings his hands up, motioning for Eddie to calm down, “I took her back to the hotel, she’s okay, Eddie. She just wanted to be alone.”

Eddie’s breathing quickens, he blinks. Worry is written all over his face. Rob sighs as he steps closer, putting his hand on Eddie’s shoulder, “go check on her if you need to or call her, there’s a phone you can use,” he mumbles, gesturing to the backstage area.

Without any more questions, Eddie walks off, not even hesitating to leave the venue in a rush.

After getting back to the hotel, you took a long bath, enjoying the silence and the peace before the show tonight. You shaved and exfoliated your body, using the new body wash that you had bought earlier. You took your time, moisturizing your body and doing your hair, you tried to focus on that, on the upcoming concert, on yourself but instead your mind was elsewhere.

You should feel relieved knowing that your body is well physically, that there is nothing wrong, that you are not sick. It’s just the stress, the anxiety and the past trauma that is causing you physical symptoms, the doctor said. You need a break, peace and perhaps a good therapist and you need to start taking better care of yourself.

You left the doctor’s office with less tension in your body but the moment your eyes met Rob’s serious one’s, you knew that something wasn’t right.

‘Your mother called, she’s been trying to call for a while now, actually. I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to talk to her but I’d rather you talk to her on the phone than have you run into her.’

You are not even mad at Rob for keeping it a secret from you, the calls your mother has been making. He and Sam knew you since you were little and they also knew about your mother, how she came and went how she pleased before she abandoned you for good. The calls she made only ever left you more depressed than ever.

You don’t want to call her, not after she had hung up on you the last time when you begged her to stay on the phone, to not leave you alone. You needed her but she didn’t care.

Now she needs you.

Unlike her, you can’t look away, you can’t move on with your life and abandon your family.

But you stall for as long as you can. You continue getting ready, putting your makeup on, painting your nails and taking your time with your outfit that you end up changing a few times before you finally settle on the black leather pants, a corset and heeled boots.

You look into the mirror as you put your jewelry on, putting your rings on and the necklace that Eddie got you. You stare at your reflection, telling yourself that you will be okay. You take a deep breath and walk towards the bed, sitting down, you reach for the phone, holding the receiver in your shaky hand as you dial the phone number you had memorized years ago.

You close your eyes, you hold the cord between your fingers, playing with it as you wait for your mom to pick up the phone.

You bounce your knee up and down.

She doesn’t pick up, of course she doesn’t. A part of you feels relieved, the other part feels irritated, you want to know what she wants, what she needs.

You slam the receiver back in it’s place. With a sigh, you get up and reach for your jacket. You know it’s not wise to leave the hotel by yourself. Rob told you that he would pick you up himself but you’re in desperate need for some fresh air.

What you don’t expect is to run into her. You don’t even notice her at first, you walk through the lobby with your head down, staring down at your shoes as you make your way towards the entrance when you hear her voice. The voice that used to bring you so much comfort when you were a little girl.

You halt in your tracks, eyes widening as your breathing quickens. You slowly turn around and sure enough, she is here, standing right in front of you. Her hair is perfectly styled just like her makeup and her outfit. You can smell her perfume, it’s not the same she used to use.

“Mom?”

She smiles at you, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She says your name, taking in the sight of you before her. It’s been years since she last saw you.

“How are you, sweetie?” She asks as she puts her hands into her expensive looking coat, not even stepping closer to you. Not bothering to greet you properly.

Furrowing your brows at her words, her voice that is laced with feigned sweetness.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, confused. “What are you doing here?”

She tilts her head, frowning a little, “I heard that you’re here, I figured I’d come see you.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Can’t a mother come see her child?”

No, not when you don’t care about me, you think to yourself.

You shrug, sighing. You know that she is here for something else.

“How are you?” You sigh, clenching your jaw.

“I’m okay, unlike you,” she mumbles as she looks you up and down with fake concern.

You swallow nervously, frowning as you stare at the rings on your fingers.

“I know you’re not doing well, y/n.”

You shake your head, “I’m doing well,” you lie, hating the way your voice begins to shake, “what do you mean?”

“I saw the pictures in the magazines, I read the things they write about you.”

You scoff, laughing a little, “so?”

“Are they true? The things they say about you?”

“You mean, am I an addict, like dad was?”

She nods, without even hesitating.

“I’m not,” You mumble as a sudden flash of anger rushes through you, “would you care if I was?” You snap at her.

“Of course I would care,” she scoffs, “that’s why I came here, to check on you.”

You squint your eyes, a humorless laugh leaving your lips.

“Well, where were you all these years then, mom?” You ask, stepping closer to her, “did you care about me when you abandoned me? Did you care about me when dad died? When I was all alone? When I needed you?”

You look for the regret in her eyes, for the guilt and the pain but you see none, you don’t see anything in her eyes.

“Why are you here now?” You ask, “do you need money, is that it?”

She shakes her head, looking down.

“Then why are you here?”

“I just wanted to see you, y/n.”

You think about the article, the one you still suspect was her doing. You think about the way she left you alone, again and again, you think about the way she pushed you away when you needed her, you know you should do the same but you cannot bring yourself to.

Your shoulders slump and you sigh, “well, you saw me so..”

“You need to start taking better care of yourself, you look sick.”

Rolling your eyes, you look away, “I’m doing just fine.”

“That’s what your father said too before he locked himself in the bathrooms.”

You clench your jaw, closing your eyes, you hold your breath.

“You remind me of him, y/n,” she says, her heels clicking against the floor as she walks towards you, “you look like me but you are just like your father. You haven’t even finished a single tour and you are already losing yourself.”

Irritation sparks at you, you meet her eyes, you want to say something but not words leave your mouth.

“I know that those articles are filled with lies, I don’t believe those but I still came here to see if they might be right this time.”

She is destructive when she’s drunk or high, sleeping with whoever comes her way and snorting whatever comes up in her hands

She touches your hair, staring you down like she used to as she finally drops the act of the caring mother, “they’re not right, at least not yet.”

You tilt your head a little, staring at her in question.

“The moment that boy leaves you, you’re gonna be just as dead inside as your father was before he killed himself,” she says with nothing but disgust in her eyes, “he was weak.”

You hate yourself for it, you hate the way you let her words get to you, the way they cause those tears to well up in your eyes.

“Don’t be like him, y/n. It’s pathetic,” she says, “you build something for yourself, you’re young and beautiful, don’t let anyone take that from you.” She pats your cheek.

You turn away from her, feeling your heart clench in pain.

“He won’t love you forever. He left one girl to be with you, what makes you think that he won’t do it again?”

“Stop,” you whisper, you look down, trying to blink the tears away, not even caring to ask how she knows about her.

“He’ll grow sick of you and then he will leave just like your father left you. What will you do then, hm?”

You shake your head, trying to drown her voice out, it’s almost as though she can read your mind and voice all your insecurities out loud.

“Look at yourself, you’re already a mess. It’s only a matter of time before you drown yourself in drugs and alcohol, I don’t want to see you going down like he did. Get a grip, sweetie. I taught you better than this,” she says as she puts her hand on your shoulder, squeezing it tightly, “be more like me and less like your father, it’ll make your life much easier.”

You look up at her through your blurry vision. Why can’t she just be your mom? Why can’t she just pull you into her arms and tell you that you will be okay? Instead her long nails dig into your shoulder, a stoic expression resting on her face as she looks down at you as though you aren’t her flesh and blood.

Eddie walks into the hotel, a little out of breath. The lobby is mostly empty but he lays his eyes on you, right away. You are standing by yourself, looking down at the ground. Eddie furrows his brows as he makes his way over to you.

A woman walks past him, he glances at her when he feels her eyes on him, the icy glare she has directed at him, makes shivers run down his spine. It’s not hard to recognize her, it only takes him a second. You look just like her.

His stomach churns and worry rushes through him.

He knows of your difficult relationship with your mom, of the cold shoulder and the harsh words she had always directed at you. Seeing you standing there, looking so lost, breaks his heart, he can only imagine what kinds of things she had said to you now.

A part of him wants to run after her and give her a piece of his mind but you are more important than an argument and words your mother won’t even care about.

You don’t even notice that your mother had left, that her harsh hand had left your shoulder, you are too busy trying to blink the tears away, trying to calm yourself down before you do something that you will regret later on.

Only as you feel the gentle touch of his hand do you come back to your senses.

“Sweetheart.”

His other hand cups your cheek, his touch and his presence takes the tension in your body, it eases the pain a little, it should bring you peace but instead it makes you feel more scared than ever.

She is right.

If he leaves you, what will happen to you?

What will happen when you no longer have him?

“Hey baby, are you okay?”

You open your eyes to look at him. His brown eyes are skipping over your face, staring at you in concern, his touch is so soft it makes your heart ache.

“Hi,” you whisper, “I’m okay.”

The forced smile on your face isn’t difficult to read. You’re not okay.

“Why are you here?”

“What do you mean?” He asks, confused.

“Shouldn’t you be at the venue?”

He nods, “yeah, I came to check on you.”

“I’m okay, Eddie.”

He frowns, “are you?”

You nod as you look into his eyes. You think about this morning, the way he took care of you, you think about all his words, all the reassurance he has given you, you think about the way he was so worried for you on Christmas, you think about the way he has promised you to stay.

Is she right?

Eddie can tell that you are hurt, that you are thinking about things that make you feel pained and scared and he hates it. You look into his eyes, searching for something you won’t find. You fear rejection and betrayal, you fear being left alone, he knows all about it.

“Yes, can we go now?”

Eddie worries about you, about your physical and mental health.

“Please.”

He doesn’t want to go without making sure that you are truly okay but he can tell that you aren’t in the right mind to talk about anything yet and you won’t take no for an answer.

He nods.

You plaster a smile on your face, pretending to be okay, you end up doing it all night but you can’t hide your real feelings, as much as you try, you can’t. You are quiet and distant. You greet your fans with waves and small smiles when you get to the venue, your usual enthusiasm and excitement lacking.

The concert goes like any other but he and the other’s notice that you are not doing well. Eddie and Gareth make eye contact during the show, sharing concerned glances.

Your performance is good, the way it always is but they know you well enough to see that you are feeling awful.

You put your hand on your forehead and widen your eyes as though you struggle to keep them open, you clutch your chest multiple times, taking deeper breaths than usual before singing.

Eddie feels tense and worried, the urge to call the show off and take care of you is strong, it’s not just him who feels that way, it’s also Rob who watches the show from backstage, shaking his head and staring at you in concern.

He and Eddie make eye contact, multiple times that night, a mutual agreement in their eyes. You need a break.

Eddie had never felt more relieved to end the show than he did that night but instead of going back to the hotel like he hoped you would, he tagged along to the bar, grumpily. Gareth convinced you and Eddie to come, he didn’t think that you were in the right state to go out for drinks but you didn’t take no for an answer.

He felt relieved when you settled for a soda instead of alcoholic drinks, still, he felt restless. He would rather take you back to your room, take care of you and talk about the things that happened today.

The doctor’s appointment and your mom.

He can tell that you need some distraction though, so he settles for that, for now.

“Are you saying you want to take a break?” Gareth asks, basically screaming over the loud music at the bar.

“I mean, isn’t that normal?” Jeff asks, shrugging, “breaks after a tour?”

Gareth scrunches his face up, turning to Johnny, “do you think it’s normal?”

He shrugs, opting to keep staring at the girl by the bar, “it’s whatever Eddie and y/n decide.”

Eddie, who is not even listening to their conversation, is staring at you with an irritated and angry look on his face. He only left for two minutes and when he came back from the bathroom, you weren’t with Gareth anymore. You’re at the bar, drinking.

You are laughing, throwing your head back at something the bartender said to you. Eddie shakes his head at you. Earlier you were upset, hurt and sad, now you’re laughing as though nothing ever happened.

“Exactly,” Jeff says, “we don’t even know if y/n will stay in the band.”

Eddie’s eyes perk up and with a sigh and a shake of his head, he turns away from you and looks at his friend, “what do you mean?”

Jeff shrugs, “she said she’s leaving. After the tour, I mean.”

Gareth scoffs, shaking his head, “that was months ago, does it look like she wants to leave? Girly is having the time of her life, man.”

“Yeah,” Johnny agrees, “she told me that she’s working on new songs for a second album already, she’s not leaving.”

“Well, a second album will take time. Song writing will take a lot of time, we deserve that break.”

Eddie frowns at his friend, “what’s it with you and that break?”

Jeff shrugs, avoiding his friend’s eyes, he sighs, “it’s just stressful! We deserve a bit of a vacation, go to the beach or whatever.”

Eddie knows his friend, just the look in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders is enough for him to know that he is not telling something.

“Hey guys!”

Looking down at you, his eyes skip over to the new drink in your hand, eyes flashing with anger the longer he stares at it.

“What are you drinking?” Gareth asks, looking at the colorful cocktail with curiosity in his eyes.

“Oh, uh– I don’t know, the bartender made a special one just for me,” you giggle, “you should go over to her, Gareth. She’s cool.”

Eddie watches as you take a sip of it, clenching his jaw in anger, he shakes his head.

“It’s strong,” you mumble, scrunching your face up. Just as you try to take another sip, Eddie suddenly snatches it out of your hand, spilling some of your drink on the wooden floor, he shoves the glass in Gareth’s hand, “here, you can have it. We’re leaving,” he mumbles angrily before he takes your hand, not even giving you the chance to protest before he pulls you away from your very confused looking friends.

He holds your hand tightly as he pushes past the groups of people, guiding you out of the bar. He slams the door open, stepping out into the night.

“What was that?” You exclaim, throwing your hands up, you stare at him in confusion.

Eddie breathes in the fresh air and closes his eyes for a second.

“Eddie–”

“You’re being careless!” He yells, voice echoing through the half empty streets, a few people turn to look at you and it only heightens his anger, “what the fuck are you looking at?”

You scoff, “how am I being careless?” You ask, ignoring the curious passersby, “because I’m having a few drinks? Am I not allowed to have fun?”

He shakes his head, reaching for your hand again, he tugs on it, pulling you along with him. You don’t protest, instead, you just quietly follow him. There’s not much fight left in you, not that you want to fight him anyways. You need peace and comfort more than anything tonight.

His jaw is clenched, a mix of worry and anger has taken over his features, it makes you cower back, knowing that it’s got something to do with you.

“You can have fun,” he mumbles, “but not when you’re..”

“When I’m what, Eddie?” You ask, confused and lost.

He turns to look at you. You don’t know that he knows and clearly, you don’t want him to know. It hurts that you are keeping this from him.

“Not when you’re still feeling sick, you are barely eating, sweetheart.”

“It was just one drink, Eddie.”

His brown eyes are filled with something that looks too close to disappointment. Is he disappointed in you? He doesn’t say anything, only scoffing quietly.

Is he getting sick of you already? Was she right after all?

When you walk back into your hotel room, you let go of his hand to take your coat off.

“One drink,” he scoffs, finally saying something again.

You turn around to face him, scrunching your face up in confusion, “what’s your problem?” You exclaim, throwing your hands up.

He runs his fingers through his hair, rolling his eyes at you.

“What’s with the attitude?” You frown.

“You wanna know what my problem is, sweetheart?”

You nod, gulping.

“My problem is you being careless!”

“Oh my god,” you mumble, laughing in disbelief, “yeah, you said that already. You know what? Let’s just stop right here, I don’t wanna fight, Eddie,” you sigh, running your hand down your face, “I’m gonna take a shower and when I’m done, we can try talking again, okay?”

You can hear his grumble, agreeing with you.

You pick out some clean clothes, reaching for one of his shirts that somehow landed in your suitcase.

Eddie’s hands are resting on his hips as he stares at you, his chest rises up and down heavily.

You clutch your clothes to your chest as you get up, not noticing that you have dropped something as you make your way to the bathroom.

Eddie furrows his brows as his eyes land on the little baggie. His lips part and his eyes widen in shock. He holds his breath as he walks towards it, bending down to pick it up, he freezes, his blood runs cold and a wave of nausea rushes through him.

“Y/n.”

“What?”

You turn around to face him. You’re met with shocked and angry eyes, a pale look on his face as he holds up the drugs that you thought you had hidden well.

“What’s this?”

You freeze. Staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.

You avert your gaze, placing your clothes on the dresser next to you, you sigh.

“What is this, y/n?” He asks with a much angrier tone in his voice now. He walks towards you, placing his hands on your waist, he pushes you back against the wall and holds the little bag in front of your face as he repeats his question yet again.

Eddie’s chest rises up and down heavily, his breathing quickens. You can see the angry tears in his eyes, the worry and the fear.

“What is this, y/n?” He asks through gritted teeth.

For the first time, you feel intimidated by him, scared that you have messed up badly.

“Cocaine.”

He scoffs, a humorless laugh falling from his lips, “that’s not what I’m asking, I can see what this is, smartass.”

“I-I didn’t use it,” you say, panicked.

He raises his brows, lips parting, “oh, you didn’t huh? Did you plan on using it?”

He believes you, he can tell when you're lying and you're definitely not lying right now.

You shrink away from him, lowering your head. Tears burn in the back of your eyes. Shaking your head, you mumble, ‘no.’

“Did you want to?”

You shake your head again, “no, I didn’t want to, I really didn't want to. Jay gave them to me,” you mumble.

Eddie scoffs in anger, clenching his hand into a fist, he looks away from you, “why did you keep them?”

You look up, glassy eyes meeting his.

You shrug but your eyes tell him what he needs to know.

‘In case you leave me and break my heart.’

Are you scared that he will leave because of the pregnancy? That he will hate you and run away from you?

The look on your face breaks his heart, all his anger diminishes into nothing, sadness takes over. His shoulder slump and he sighs in defeat. He steps away from you, walking into the bathroom, he waits for you to protest but you don’t do it, instead you keep standing with your back against the wall and closed eyes.

Eddie empties the bag into the toilet and flushes the drugs away.

Tears roll down your cheeks, your hands are digging into your waist as you keep your head low. Eddie’s heart aches at the sight of you, his own tears make an appearance.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers as he brings his hands up to cup your cheeks, he leans closer to you, “look at me.”

You bite your lip, you’re shaking a little as tears continue to fall. “Please,” Eddie says softly.

You open your eyes.

“Are you disappointed in me?” You whisper.

His gaze softens as his eyes widen, his heart jumps at the look of your hurt and scared expression on your face. Shaking his head, “no! God, no. I’m not disappointed in you, never.”

As Eddie takes in the fear in your eyes, the way you are nervously chewing on your bottom lip.

“I’m worried about you, I’m scared of this,” he mumbles, “of the drugs, of losing you.”

She is not right.

“No, no… please don’t cry, baby.”

You turn away from him, trying to blink the tears away but it’s no use, they are already rolling down your cheeks.

He cups your cheeks again and he wipes your tears away. His eyes flicker with guilt and regret. He feels like a dick. Leaning down, he presses a soft kiss to your forehead and pulls you into his arms.

“I won’t leave you, no matter what, I told you before,” he says, “I don’t know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, I don’t know what your mom said to you but I want you to know that I won’t leave. I’ll be here for as long as you will have me.”

You look for the anger in his eyes but it’s now replaced with sadness, longing and fear?

He takes a deep breath.

“I’ll be here, for you and the baby. I-I know that it’s his but I don’t even care. I can be the dad, I-I mean, we talked about this, right? The white picket fence, kids. We can have all that, you and I, we can raise the baby together, we’ll take a break and I will take care of you and her o-or him,” he whispers as his tears threaten to spill, he cups your cheeks tighter, giving you a sad smile, “I’ll love it like it’s my own because I love you, sweetheart. God, I love you so much, I’ll do anything for you and o-our little family.”

Your heart flutters and begins to race like crazy, like you’ve just ran a marathon. Your breathing quickens as you stare at him in both shock and surprise.

You were so scared to watch him leave, you were so scared to see him walk away from you, you were so worried that he doesn’t want this future with you, you know that he never wanted kids or marriage and you thought that he was just joking when he talked of the white picket fence with the bats when you spent Christmas with him.

Your mother told you that he would leave, your own evil thoughts told you that he would leave.

Yet, Eddie is standing in front of you with tears in his eyes as he promises to raise a child with you.

He loves you.

Eddie loves you.

He loves you so much, he is willing to do anything.

“Eddie,” you whisper as tears of sadness turn into tears of happiness.

“When we get back to LA, we can buy a house– o-or maybe you want to go to Hawkins, we can buy a house close to Wayne a-and–”

You grab his cheeks and slam your lips against his.

Eddie melts into the kiss, right away. Not wasting a single second, he holds you tighter than before and kisses you deeply. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him closer against you, mewling against his lips.

You missed this and so did he.

You haven’t kissed him like this in a long time.

Eddie’s heart couldn’t beat any faster, his skin tingles and a smile tugs at his lips.

“I love you too, Eddie,” you whisper, “but please, shut up for a second.”

You peck his lips one more time before you pull back.

“Y-You think I’m pregnant?”

He shrugs, eyebrows knitting together, “well, yeah.”

Your serious face quickly scrunches up and giggles leave your lips.

“W-What’s so funny?”

“Oh my god, Eddie!”

“What?” He asks, grinning a little.

You cover your face with your hands as you laugh, “you thought I’m pregnant with Steve’s child?”

“Yeah..”

“I’m not pregnant, oh my god.”

“Huh?”

Eddie couldn’t look more lost than he does right now, he scratches the back of his neck, eyes filled with nothing but confusion.

“Where’d you get the idea from?”

Eddie shrugs, “I-I saw the pregnancy test in the trash,” he mumbles, “it was positive and well, you were feeling sick and throwing up all the time..”

“Oh,” you breathe, eyes widening, “Eddie, that wasn’t mine.”

“It wasn’t?”

You shake your head, “no,” you chuckle, “it’s Wren’s.”

It takes him a second to realize what that means. His eyes widen and his lips part, “holy shit!” He gasps, “Jeff’s going to be a dad?”

You nod, “yeah,” you laugh, “she uh, she took two tests, kept one and threw the other one away.”

Eddie brings his hands up to his cheeks, staring at you, “oh fuck, I thought it was yours.”

You shake your head, “no,” you whisper. You kiss him again, “it’s not mine,” you press another kiss to his lips, making him smile, “you love me, Eddie?”

His eyes soften and he nods, pressing his soft lips against yours, “so fucking much, sweetheart. I can’t even tell you how much I love you, I can’t put it into words.”

You take in a shaky breath, leaning into his touch and pressing your chest against his, “show me then,” you plead, “show me how much you love me, Eddie.”

His eyes widen, lighting up with happiness, his lips curl into a smile, “gladly,” he whispers before he pulls you into a kiss.

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