#strangers to lovers speedrun

[watchyourbuck]

One day you’re saving your adoptive parents from a capsized cruise ship with a pilot who stole a chopper for you and your team and the next you’re making out with him in the emergency entrance of a public hospital

[bloody-bee-tea]

IntiMarch 2024 Day 15 - Snark me better

The prompt for this was "Is this your first time?"

Suguru’s hands shake as he slides the lock on the bathroom stall into place. His legs feel like jelly, his body is heavy and he feels hot and cold all over. Suguru curses under his breath.

That fucker Kenjaku must have put something into his drink when he wasn’t looking.

“Suguru!” Kenjaku’s cheerful voice rings out and Suguru feels sick just hearing it.

It’s good he fled to a toilet, he’s probably going to throw up in no time.

“Suguru, what are you doing? Come back out there,” Kenjaku cajoles him, but Suguru doesn’t move a muscle.

Isn’t even sure he could, at the moment, even if he wanted.

“Go fuck yourself,” Suguru growls out and rage curls in his stomach when Kenjaku only laughs.

“I’d much rather fuck you,” Kenjaku gives back and there it is again, that sick feeling. “You know,” Kenjaku says, almost conversationally, “your friends all left already. What are you going to do? Stay in there until they kick you out? I’m patient, you know.”

It makes a shudder run down Suguru’s back and he realises that his situation is not looking all that great. He’s trapped in a sketchy club, in a skivvy bathroom, with nowhere to go and a literal creep waiting for him.

He really should have just stayed home tonight.

Suguru doesn’t deign to give Kenjaku an answer and instead leans his head against the wall. Kenjaku will have to leave the bathroom eventually and if Suguru can manage to get his limbs back under control he can easily outrun him.

Or knock him unconscious. Suguru would be fine with both.

But right now he still feels unstable, his limbs way too uncoordinated to even get the door back open and Suguru wearily closes his eyes.

When someone else comes into the bathroom, he jerks back up, and briefly wonders just how much time he lost, but when he manages to take his phone out with clumsy fingers, he sees that it hasn’t even been ten minutes.

Kenjaku will still be there, then.

Suguru sighs out, his eyes darting over the walls of the bathroom stall, taking in all the horrendous smearings that are everywhere.

His eyes get caught on something fairly legible and Suguru stills. The text simply says ‘Call me’ with a number noted down underneath and even drugged half out of his mind, Suguru knows that this is such a bad idea, but what else is he going to do?

It’s at least worth a try and in the worst case it will give him something to do for a few minutes. A few minutes where he doesn’t have to think about Kenjaku and what might be waiting for him should he go out there.

So Suguru dials the number and presses the phone to his ear. He’s weak enough that he has to prop his elbow on his leg, slumping forward in an almost uncomfortable position, and lean his head against the wall, so the phone won’t fall down.

It rings for so long that Suguru thinks nothing is going to happen, but then there’s a click on the other end of the line.

“What?” a voice drawls out, slurred with sleep and Suguru lets out a harsh breath, tears suddenly pricking his eyes.

“I need you to pick me up,” he says, even though he knows just how insane it is to say that to a complete stranger.

“Huh?” the voice gives back though Suguru can tell that the guy is gradually getting more awake by the second. “Who are you?”

“Suguru,” Suguru replies and he can basically hear the frown over the line.

“I don’t know a Suguru,” the guy says and Suguru chuckles.

“I suppose not. Your number is in a bathroom stall.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end.

“That fucker really did it,” the guy then mutters and Suguru closes his eyes.

He has a nice voice, he finds himself thinking and it’s not good that his thoughts are drifting like this. He needs to concentrate.

“Hey, you said you needed me to pick you up? Where are you? What’s going on? You don’t sound so good, you know?”

“Yeah, duh,” Suguru whispers out and just then someone enters the bathroom, the heavy beat of the music filtering in for a moment.

“What? Got shitfaced and now can’t live with the consequences?” the guy asks and he sounds mean about it.

Suguru likes it, even though he still feels like shit.

“Someone drugged me,” he answers. “He’s still waiting here.”

“Someone drugged you?” the guy calls out and he sounds outraged. “Where are you?”

“Why, you coming to get me out of here?” Suguru almost sounds hopeful, but he can’t help it.

Kenjaku might try shit with him, but he would never if someone else is there, if someone else pays attention. He’s a sketchy little fucker, adamant to stay in the shadows as much as possible and Suguru curses the day he was ever nice to that guy.

“Yeah, I am,” is the answer he gets before some rustling can be heard. “My name’s Satoru, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” Suguru weakly gives back and swallows back against a wave of nausea. “Sorry to bother you like this.”

“You’re way too polite for the situation you’re in,” Satoru grumbles. “So tell me, Suguru, where am I going?”

Suguru tells him the name of the club and Satoru huffs.

“Sweet, that’s not even two blocks, I can totally walk that, no need to wake up my driver.”

“Ehm,” Suguru says, not really knowing what to make of that now, but he can most definitely not walk that. “I’m kind of indisposed. Can barely stand, let alone walk.”

“No worries, I’ll drag you home without problems,” Satoru promises him and Suguru hears keys chime.

“I’m kind of big,” Suguru admits, because his stature is nothing to scoff at and yet Satoru only laughs.

“I’m over 6'3″, I think we’ll be fine,” Satoru flippantly gives back and Suguru silently raises an eyebrow.

It is kind of tall, but that’s really not all they need.

“I’m around the same but—”

“Great. Listen, you wanna stay on the phone? Is that creep still there?”

“He said he’d be waiting for me to eventually come out of here, so I’d guess yes.”

“Oh, great, I hope he tries shit when we leave. I haven’t punched anyone in the face in so long,” Satoru gleefully says and Suguru briefly wonders just what the hell he’s getting himself into.

“I’m kind of tired,” Suguru slurs out, exhaustion hitting him like a brick and Satoru hums.

“Men’s bathroom?” he asks and Suguru makes a noise that hopefully means affirmation. “I got you. You go sleep for a while,” he tells Suguru and the words barely left his mouth before everything around Suguru goes dark.

He comes to with a start when someone knocks at the stall door.

“Yo, Suguru, you in there?” Satoru’s voice calls out and Suguru slumps with relief.

“How the hell did you get in here?” he asks, because there is no way that Satoru just walked past the bouncers out front. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t be stupid now, no one can resist my charm,” Satoru replies. “Except you maybe, because the door is still not open.”

“Gimme a moment,” Suguru pleads, because coordination is hard and his head is pounding now.

He fumbles the lock twice and then almost faceplants into the door when he tries to pull it open and by the end he’s sitting on the ground, sweat-soaked and exhausted.

“There you are,” Satoru says and the most gangly creature Suguru has ever laid eyes on squats down in front of him.

“You’re lanky as hell,” is the first thing Suguru says to him and watches how Satoru’s eyes sparkle as he laughs.

Surely that must be a trick of the light.

“Strong, too, you’ll see, my muscles keep all this lanky-ness together,” he promises. “You ready to leave this place or what?”

“Did you—see a creep with a scar across his forehead?”

“The guy who drugged you? Sorry, I didn’t really pay attention to anyone, but seriously, don’t sweat it. If he does something I’ll punch him, no problem.”

“You’re kind of insane,” Suguru mutters but he does try to drag himself to his feet.

“Kinda have to be to pick up random strangers in filthy bathroom stalls, no matter if they’re hot,” Satoru cheerfully says and reaches out, sliding his arms around Suguru and simply yanking him up. “You good?”

“That’s kinda hot,” Suguru admits, because he’s by no means a small man but Satoru made that move seem effortless.

“I know, right.” Satoru smiles as he says it and when he winks at Suguru, he thinks he might have laughed but his head hurts like hell and he actually just wants to get out of here.

“I’m so ready to leave this place now,” he says, repeating Satoru’s earlier words and Satoru only grins at him before he slings one of Suguru’s arms over his shoulders, one sliding behind his back and then he marches them right out of the club.

Moving is hard, and Suguru is too busy to try and at least keep up with Satoru’s long strides, so he doesn’t get a chance to look around and see if Kenjaku is really still around and waiting for him or if it was just an empty threat.

Suguru isn’t sure how they make it to Satoru’s place but he is certain that most of it is thanks to Satoru. There’s no way Suguru would have managed three steps on his own.

“And here we are,” Satoru finally says, not even sounding slightly out of breath as he deposits Suguru on a comfortable couch.

“You really did it,” Suguru mutters, quickly fading now that there’s no danger lurking around anymore and he longs to simply fall back, into the comfort of the couch and not have to think for a while.

“Told you I would,” Satoru says with a shrug. “I’ll go get a blanket for you and some painkillers for tomorrow, but don’t stress yourself, just pass out like you so clearly want to.”

“Promise to be better company tomorrow,” Suguru mumbles, barely audible, and the last thing he knows is Satoru patting his head and saying “I’m counting on it.”

And then there’s only blissful darkness.

~*~*~

Suguru wakes up to the smell of coffee. It’s the only pleasant thing that morning, because his head feels as if it’s being split open and there’s a strange taste in his mouth. Suguru lets out a deep groan. It doesn’t help with the headache.

“Morning, princess,” a cheerful voice calls out and Suguru forces himself to blink at least one eye open.

When he sees a mop of white hair, sparkling blue eyes and pure lanky-ness in front of him, it all comes back in a rush.

“Fuck, Satoru.”

“Always an option,” Satoru blithely says as he squats down next to the couch. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Suguru honestly gives back and then gives Satoru a grateful smile when he holds out the painkillers for him.

He quickly washes them down and then falls back into the couch.

“Let that sit for a while. You want pancakes or waffles for breakfast?”

“How are those my only options?” he groans out but when Satoru only shrugs he gives in. “Waffles, please.”

“Will do. Join me when you feel like you can move again,” Satoru says, already marching off towards what Suguru assumes must be the direction of the kitchen.

“You got coffee for me?” he calls after him but Satoru doesn’t even stop.

“If you can make it into the kitchen, sure,” he easily says and then vanishes through a doorway.

“Asshole,” Suguru grumbles under his breath, though he’s not really mad.

This is all rather—comfortable, if he’s being honest, apart from the splitting headache and the shit that happened last night.

Suguru stays on the couch for a while longer, but soon the smell of waffles joins that of the coffee and that’s enough to get him moving. Fuck painkillers. They’ll do their job eventually.

“Oh, look who made it!” Satoru greets him and immediately puts a pot of coffee and a stack of waffles down in front of him. “I have sugar and milk and every syrup you can think of but you strike me like the kind of guy who prefers it black.”

“Not true, caramel, please,” Suguru gives back because overdosing on sugar this fine morning seems like a good idea.

He deserves it after last night, anyway.

“Wow, a man after my own heart.” Satoru dramatically swoons before he quickly gets the syrup and then they fall into comfortable silence as Suguru demolishes his waffles.

It does wonders for his stomach and his head and his general mood.

“These are amazing,” he says between bites, because they are but Satoru only smirks at him.

“I know,” he replies and then leans closer to Suguru. “So. Is there anything you want me to do to that creep of yours? The options are varied and I’m willing.”

“Huh?” Suguru asks, still chewing his last bite because surely Satoru cannot be serious.

“I’m very intolerant when it comes to drugging people—and everything that usually comes after—so I’m offering my services.”

“What the hell could you even do?” Suguru wants to know, not because he’s seriously considering it, but because Satoru sounds so sure about himself.

“I’m very smart, very bored, very rich, and come from a very influential family. Just say the word. I can get him fired, evicted or arrested for some made-up bullshit. I can also just go and punch him in the face, if that’s more to your liking.”

“Very humble, too,” Suguru mutters but then he allows himself to imagine it for a moment. Satoru proved last night that he’s strong; strong enough to carry Suguru two blocks, even though Suguru is more muscle than anything else. But it would put Satoru on Kenjaku’s radar and he’s not going to risk that.

“Nah, the punching is out, I don’t want you near him. Who knows what he’d do in retaliation.”

“Aww, you’re worried, how sweet,” Satoru says, smiling brightly. “But with that option out—any of the others catch your attention?”

“I—kinda like the idea of having him fired,” Suguru admits. “Or evicted.”

“Make that an ‘and’,” Satoru nods, as if it’s already decided. “I can totally do that.”

“You seem awfully comfortable with this. Is this your first time?” Suguru wants to know and decides that the tingly feeling in his chest has nothing to do with the way Satoru smiles at him.

“Picking up hot guys in bathroom stalls? Yeah. That’s a first for me.”

“Could have fooled me,” Suguru mutters under his breath and Satoru reaches out to pat his hand.

“No worries, you’re very special that way.”

Suguru might still feel like shit and Kenjaku might still be out there, but right now things are somewhat good and Suguru decides to take a chance.

Satoru is just his type after all. Snarky and hot and strong enough to hold his own.

“Special enough to be allowed to save your number and see you again?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee in an attempt to hide his blush.

“See me again? You’re thinking about leaving already? Shame, I kinda wasn’t done with you,” Satoru almost purrs out and Suguru refuses to admit how hot that is.

“Oh? Tell me more about those plans of yours then,” Suguru demands and leans forward, putting his cup of coffee down.

“First of all, you’re going to shower,” Satoru starts off. “Coming out with my clothes, of course.”

“Possessive, I see.”

“Then you’re going to trash talk the most atrocious movie I can find with me, before you let me drive you home, so you can change into real clothes and I can take you out for lunch.”

“Not dinner? You wound me so.”

“I’m not really good at planning that far ahead,” Satoru shrugs. “We’ll have to make new plans during lunch. I’m sure we can think of something.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely certain about that,” Suguru agrees and he marvels at how easy things with Satoru are.

It’s almost as if they have done this a thousand times already.

“I’m picking the place for lunch, though, because I know a restaurant that makes the best tiramisu. You’ll like it.”

“That’s bribery,” Satoru immediately says. “And not necessary, because I’m already interested. In case that wasn’t clear.”

“Yeah, no, I picked up on that,” Suguru says with a laugh. “Now. The shower?”

Satoru pouts at him when he gets up.

“What?” Suguru asks, though he can guess.

His fingertips tingle with anticipation.

“I valiantly come to your rescue in the middle of the night, take you away from bad, no good people, give you shelter and then feed you and I don’t even get something in return?”

He dramatically blinks at Suguru who thoughtfully hums under his breath.

“Mh, I mean—I can get you a plant as thanks, if you really want.”

“Suguru!”

Suguru laughs.

“Or I can do this, I guess,” he goes on and leans down to kiss Satoru.

He keeps it short and firm and by the time Satoru blinks his eyes back open, he’s almost to what he guesses is the bathroom.

“I expect a change of clothes to be ready when I’m done,” he calls over his shoulder and he hears Satoru make an annoyed sound.

“I charge a kiss per piece,” he calls back and now that makes Suguru stop, just in the doorway, turning around to give his most flirty smile at Satoru.

“Better dress me properly then,” he says and then firmly shuts the door behind him.

This is going to be fun.

[tailorvizsla]

A small intro to my current fic.

Title: The Diplomatic Incident Rating: M Universe: The Orville Pairings: Human f!OC x Krill m!OC Note: tfw when there is no more Orville so you decide to write a 150k+ fic so you can have a hot Krill husband

Under the cut for length. :D

The door swished open, startling her from her reverie. She managed to not drop her tea.

"Morning, Ensign," Captain Mercer said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Uh, not really," she admitted. "You?"

"Not at all," he said with a shrug. He looked down at the coffee. "You are a lifesaver." 

He grabbed one of the mugs and sat down before drinking it down. Once he appeared properly caffeinated, he spoke again. 

"Your report?"

Nia swallowed anxiously as she forwarded it to him. Captain Mercer picked up his pad and started skimming through it.

"I have read over Ambassador Crovrel's notes, and everything seems okay," Nia said. "I genuinely cannot tell what she could be doing that would be causing offense to the Za'ari. However, body language is quite important, so there may be subtle cues that she's missing or weird vibes that she's giving off, so to speak - "

"Captain, we will be rendezvousing with the Sarakev in eight minutes," came a voice over comms.

"How are we an hour early?" Captain Mercer asked.

Her stomach dropped through her feet. She hadn't even gotten through the first paragraph. She had no idea if her plans were even acceptable. What if she had made a mistake? Nia felt her heart starting to race.

"We have not altered course. The Sarakev has chosen to meet us here. They must attend to another incident."

"I see," Captain Mercer said. He gave her a look. "Well, let's go meet our guests, then."

Nia nodded in silence. She followed after him obediently, her stomach twisting tighter with each step. Commander Grayson came to join them about halfway there. She had a frown on her face, and her lips were set in a thin line. Nia noticed that her mug of coffee was much larger.

"Did you get a chance to review everything?"

"Nope," Captain Mercer said. "It should be fine."

Nia gave him a look of horror as she trotted along behind them. Commander Grayson sighed and finished the last of her coffee.

"Ensign Hreevan, could you do me a favor?" she asked. "Can you throw this into the recycler?"

"Of course, Commander," Ensign Hreevan said, giving them a curious look.

All too soon, they came to the shuttle bay, where a Krill vessel had just landed. The back ramp dropped, and a group of four Krill stepped off. A few more unloaded some boxes and crates behind them. They exchanged a few words. 

Just as quickly, the shuttle left, leaving the four individuals and a pile of crates behind. Captain Mercer stepped forward. Nia shuffled forward a step, trying her best to hide behind Captain Mercer and Commander Grayson without actually looking like she was trying to hide.

"Hello," Captain Mercer said, putting on his most welcoming smile. "Welcome aboard the Orville, gentlemen."

"Captain Mercer," said the Krill who looked like he was in charge. "My colleagues and I thank you for assisting us in our diplomatic mission."

Oh my God. The holographic videos had not done his voice justice, Nia thought to herself.

"It is our pleasure to help," he said. "Please allow me to make introductions. This is Commander Grayson, my second in command." Captain Mercer seemed less than impressed when he realized she was trying to hide behind him. "This," he said, shuffling her forward, "is Ensign Bridges, our resident expert on Za'ar and her people."

Nia suddenly felt tiny as they scrutinized her. She swallowed and tried to give them a welcoming smile. 

"Hi," she managed to say.

Their eyes met, and she suddenly felt like she could not breathe, an odd electric feeling starting at her toes and working its way up. He tilted his head in acknowledgement and diverted attention from her. Her heart thudded wildly in her chest. Her hands and knees felt oddly shaky after that brief encounter.

[dadsbongos]

he's in a band

12.8 K words

warnings - female reader, you are specified to have a step-father and step-brother, the dark crystal is referenced especially towards the end, sorry if i tagged you and you didn't like it i'm just that kid that asks their mom for attention just to fail a back flip

summary - You and Eddie are forced to team up and make him into Snowflake King material so that you can beat Jason Carver in a bet (for fifty bucks and the success of Lucas Sinclair’s high school basketball career).

You’re certain that if Eddie were just a little less forward about his interests, he’d be popular. It’s fucked up, certainly, but it’s also nothing new. Stacey Bennett pretends she doesn’t like science fiction or comics, Chrissy Cunningham acts like she doesn’t go bird-watching every weekend, and Trin Saelim purposefully misidentifies every actor in the Star Wars trilogy.

Eddie has the charisma and the looks and the hair for 1,000 jocks and you just know that with the right nudging, he’d have this school eating out of the palm of his hand. And that’s what you think of as you watch him speak with his freshmen worshippers at a level of respect and kindness you don’t often see between peers of the same age.

“Hey, creeper,” Chrissy bumps her shoulder into yours, “What’re you doing starin’ at him, huh?”

Stacey and Trin snap around to where you stare and you so despise their eagerness.

“Nothing,” you lie, then decide against it, “Munson- Eddie Munson, he could be popular. I think.”

Immediately, there’s the overtly mocking, painfully cynical laughter that peels from Jason. None of you can quite shake him despite the fact Chrissy dumped him eons (months) ago, but also - none of you can quite gather the courage to speak up against him or his friends.

“Right, the freak could be popular,” Jason turns to Patrick McKinney in a histrionic ‘look at this guy’ way, “That fucker couldn’t win Snowflake King, and Fred Benson won Baron sophomore year.”

“Eddie Munson could win Snowflake King and be more popular than you if given the proper push,” you narrow your gaze at him, “And I’ll put money on that,” when Jason doesn’t take the bait, you continue, “He’s in a band, he’s got charisma!”

“You know what?” Jason extends an arm across the table, a hand straight out and brows raised - challenging you, “I’ll take that.”

“Alright,” you catch his hand with yours, squeezing, “but, you, Patrick, and Andy can’t run against him, and if he wins then I get fifty bucks and Lucas Sinclair has to be promoted to actually playing on the court next season.”

Jason takes in the conditions, nodding, “He loses, I get fifty bucks and Lily Pham has to go on a date with me.”

Times really have been rough since Chrissy left if he’s this desperate, you suppose.

Jason squeezes your hand tighter, the sides begin to ache and your fingertips go numb from his force, but you clench his hand right back before storming off to the most avoided lunch table since Billy McFeely puked on the right column’s middle bench.

As you approach the Hellfire table, the freshmen stare and you feel their judgments linger. With scorching gazes and iced tongues, they observe as though you’re a small speck under their microscope. Eddie’s gaze is the hottest of them all, has been since you first met the so-called Satanist from Forest Hills.

“Munson,” you smile saccharine sweet though, leaning onto the sticky, off-white table by your elbows, “I’ve got a proposal for you.”

“Ah, sweet princess,” Eddie tilts back, hooking his hands behind his head, “how I love our talks.”

You two have spoken a mere handful of times, at best. You’re pretty sure that if you weren’t best friends with the cheerleader trifecta then he wouldn’t even know your name. Though, to be fair, if he wasn’t the renowned freak then there was zero shot you would know his. It’s like how two celebrities could speak about one another in an interview without ever having actually met the other.

Eddie would be Vincent Prince only in The Fly and only post-transformation.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you smack his arm, “Listen. You need to win Snowflake King lest we both be subjected to the humiliation of Jason ‘pigskin hero’ Carver proving us wrong.”

That makes the other boys actually look at you, rather than the ill-wrought attempts to pretend they didn’t care.

“What’s in it for me?”

“Dude,” Dustin pipes up from beside you, leaning over and brushing against your arm in a move that you’re certain he’d never pull under normal circumstances. His eyes are wide and brows high, “take the deal!”

Mike nods eagerly, “If you win, maybe people will stop shoving us into lockers.”

“People actually do that?” you grimace.

Will Byers nods, looking a little more kicked-puppy than human-boy, “Swirlies are real, too.”

“Alright, then,” you click your tongue and look back to Eddie, visibly already working the idea in his head, “You win Snowflake King and nobody will touch your kitten litter,” you point across the table to where a collection of upperclassmen in Hellfire shirts sit, “or your older cats. And I’ll split the fifty Jason’s forking up.”

“Twenty-five, twenty-five?” Eddie tilts his head, tone lilting.

“No shot. Forty, ten.”

“For all the work I’d be putting in to win?” he mocks hurt and leans forward, copying you and settling on his elbows. Your noses are mere inches apart and it feels like the least deadly stand-off is about to commence, “How about thirty, twenty?”

You ‘hmph’. Earnestly about to call the whole thing off if this is how he’s going to be to work with, when you hear sick witch cackles from Jason Carver and his jesters. You don’t have to turn to know that they’re pointing as they laugh, their delight thickens as your patience thins.

“Fine,” you hold out the hand Jason didn’t maim, “but you get the twenty.”

Eddie doesn’t look at you. His gaze flickers straight over the doughy pulls of his dearest sidekicks. Companions more like, he’d say. You don’t know the guy extremely well, but you’ve seen the way he intimidates and shoves people away when it comes to his friends. It’d be sweet if it weren’t, you know, Eddie Munson.

“I’ll take the twenty,” he takes your hand and shakes, firm but not so evil as Jason’s, “And you edit my papers for the rest of the semester.”

“Unfair to add that while we’re already shaking,” he still hasn’t let go of your hand, but you haven’t dropped his either.

“I know, right?” he smiles right at you this time, not entirely genuine but not so twisted into cynicism to be lost, “Come by the theater room at four, my little Satan club should be done by then, ‘kay?”

“Sure,” you rip your hand from his now, swiftly carding between the packed tables and back to yours.

Dustin, Mike, and Will watch you as you go - Will is the first to return, brows furrowed at Eddie, “Hey, doesn’t Hellfire start at four?”

Eddie hums, nods, and tosses up his hands as though he’d forgotten, “I guess it does!”

...

When you walk in, it's as though you’ve entered a meeting in the damn White House.

Eight heads swivel directly toward the heavy door you creak open as soon as you enter - seven pairs of lit, wide eyes aim at you like war machines. Lucas waves shyly and you return it.

“Hi?” you step into the cold, stiff room and jump when the door slams on its stopper behind you.

Eddie, from the head of the table, puts a finger up to his lips - lips that stretch wide with glee as he loudly “shhh!”s you.

The heads turn back to their dreaded Dungeon Master, and you’re suddenly left in the dust of forgotten chip crumbs that crack when you step forward. A boy in red flannel and rosy cheeks glares like you’ve killed his mother and it stops you with the full force Medusa was rumored to have. You haven’t felt so unwelcomed since accidentally walking into the teachers’ lounge.

“And out from that rusty, chipped, half-hung gate crawls a hideous, toothy, bloody-nailed beast,” you would’ve assumed it was typical Dweebs & Dorks talk for a campaign if Eddie hadn’t been staring at you the entire time he said it.

But he’s the literal crux of your plan, so what is there to do except bite the bullet and huff your way to an abandoned table pushed straight into the wall? You plop yourself onto the floral-engraved wood and pull out the statistics homework due tomorrow. Typically, you wait until you’re actually home, but with however many hours to kill left you’ll make an exception.

Eddie, on the other hand, is having the time of his life forcing you to wait on his little “nerd games”.

Eddie hates you. He hates your manicured nails. He hates your 1970s dresses. He hates the rusted silver ring from middle school on your finger. He hates you.

He hates you because you’re popular and rich and don’t have to work the way that he does, and as much as he wants to go against the grain and never judge a person before he meets them - he isn’t that mature. He’s angry that you don’t have to worry about your water going out in the height of July heat. He’s bitter about the fact he had to work three jobs over his freshman year and you haven’t so much as clocked in for a part-time gig.

So, really, irritating you like this is the least he can do.

And besides, it isn’t like you particularly care for Eddie “the freak” Munson. Not his reputation, not his music, not his tattoos, not his obnoxious hair or laugh or way he speaks. None of it.

...

“It’s way too late to stay here, you have to come over so we can discuss the plans.”

Eddie rolls his eyes as you walk in front of him, out the double doors, and into the (mostly) barren student parking lot.

“Alright,” he calls after you, wrangling his keys from the belt loop they hang off, “but I want a meal and to meet your parents.”

“Why in God’s name would you ever wanna meet my parents?” you snicker when he doesn’t use his infamous gunfire wit to respond immediately, “Well, I guess that’s not fair - I know you haven’t heard of the big guy upstairs.”

“The big guy upstairs hates masturbation and people of the same sex fucking, I don’t think he’s quite the role model you want, dolly.”

You swat his arm, “I never said he was my role model, and don’t call me ‘dolly’.”

“But you’re so pretty and sweet,” he pouts, turning to walk back towards his van, “like a little doll.”

You groan and sigh your way into the shredded, puffing leather of Eddie’s passenger seat. You usually save judgments of people’s cars to the jocks that mouth-breathe around you and your friends, but the sheer amount of fast food wrappers and soda cans that orchestra with every shift of your foot seem to justify it.

Eddie picks out the morph of disgust on your face as soon as it appears, “What?” he grins like he’s having fun, “Never been in a guy’s front seat?”

You glare through your peripherals, crossing your arms tightly, “I’ll kill you for that.”

You’d figuratively kill him for less.

“I just don’t like the sound of wrappers- “ you squeeze your hands mid-air as if that portrays anything, “crinkling and making noise.”

“Well, do you happen to like the sound of fucking awesome guitar solos and screaming?”

Your eyes stick to his hand on the stereo's volume dial, “Not particularly.”

“Great,” he turns the dial almost entirely to the right.

You cover your ears, just to really rub it in how you detest his music, “You, Munson, are absolutely insufferable!”

He can barely hear you over the music, but he nods excitedly - curls bouncing, “Yeah! Totally!”

The van bounces and rattles and you think you hear a tire pop every few minutes as Eddie speeds through the streets of Hawkins to your house.

When Eddie steps into the plush beige carpet and yellow floral wallpaper of your cutesy 1970s home, he thinks that bubbling hatred solidifies. At least a little bit. A nicer TV than any that he’s ever seen is settled on a polished, mahogany stand in front of your family’s white couch.

Susan Harris’ Golden Girls is playing and three smiley, sweatered figures lounge about the cushions.

“Take off your shoes at the door,” you very specifically point to a small shelf of sneakers and boots and flats and heels, but Eddie just works off his mud-caked kicks on the carpet and leaves them there. Slightly to the side, so that if somebody tripped over them he could claim he tried to move them.

Your step-brother, a shitheaded eight-year-old you’d live and die for, doesn’t bother hiding the way he sneers while looking Eddie head to toe, “Did you bring home a criminal?”

Your mother swats his shoulder and Eddie can see the resemblance between you two.

If it were any high schooler, then Eddie would be a little more reactive, but this is an actual kid. He can’t bring himself to be mean to a child, so he just laughs and waves off your mother’s concern, “It’s fine, I get that a lot.”

“Well now, that’s a shame,” your stepdad shakes his head in a way you usually see from dads in movies. He sips the beer your biological dad always said he hated and points at the jean jacket adorning Eddie’s torso, “Nice patch, kid.”

Eddie follows the gesture, finding the DIO patch Wayne taught him to embroider for his seventeenth birthday. He’s surprised that your suburban step-dad with the pretty wife and popular step-daughter and snarky son knows what DIO is.

“Didn’t know you knew what DIO is,” Eddie moves into the living room, like a predator encroaching your territory.

You take the time to settle your shoes in their proper slots, and you even move Eddie’s sneakers to an empty spot (one at the very bottom).

“Just ‘cuz I got one foot in the grave doesn’t mean I’m clueless.”

You can hardly stop yourself before you’re snapping, “Stop saying you have a foot in the grave!”

He just chuckles and your mom rolls her eyes. You stroll straight past them and into the ugly mint kitchen your mom insisted on, where a large, water-speckled and soup-drool-stained pot lays on a cooled burner. Like a stray puppy, Eddie follows.

“You know what?” Eddie leans into the counter, head tilting into the white dips and lines of your fridge.

When he fails to continue on his own, you quirk a brow and turn the burner on, “What?”

“I was not expecting your family to be actually decent,” he murmurs, staring into the distance as if revealing a great truth.

“Even my step-brother?”

“Even.”

You shrug off the way his tattoos and veins reflect into your chest - past your ribs and breastplate and through the heart. It’s embarrassing. So you move on.

“My mom was a flower child in the 60s and 70s, so she gets counterculture.”

“And the old man?”

“Been taking care of other people since before he even got a driver’s license, so he’s seen worse shit than a dork that pretends to be intimidating.”

“Oh, am I- “ he points at himself, “am I the dork?”

Before you get the chance to reply, your very dear and precious shithead step-brother runs in. Wondering eyes stare up at you and Eddie, flipping back and forth until they settle on your metalhead guest, “Do you wanna see my room?”

Eddie presses his lips, then grins and nods curtly before pushing himself off the fridge, “Of course, little man.”

Your brother runs faster than Eddie does, but Eddie’s footfalls are nearly millions of times louder when he goes up those rickety stairs yet to be replaced.

You lean out of the coffee bean tinted doorway and shout after Eddie, “Don’t try and convert him to that Satanism shit!”

A quick, simple, “hey!” from your mother follows your outburst and Eddie pops into view long enough to stick his tongue out at you.

Eddie Munson is criminally overconfident and part of you detests that. Another part of you, a growing part perhaps, admires that in him - the ability to be himself even though everyone hates him. He’s a symbol to the geeks and a terror to the general public.

To you, he’s the monster about to gorge himself on homemade soup for the sake of fifty bucks, freshmen safety, and edited English papers.

How stupid.

...

When you go up the stairs and down that creaky floorboard hallway, Eddie is already in the final stretch of a tic-tac-toe game - you hear his win at the doorway when he cackles as your brother whines.

“Wisdom comes with age, big guy.”

Funny way of saying he’s dumb.

But your brother accepts it, weirdly enough - the only reason he got genuinely upset was because you had to drag Eddie away. Funny ways for a funny kid, you suppose.

“Why do you think I have all this untapped potential?”

You don’t hear Eddie’s question, too focused on the sloppy way that he lets soup dribble on his lips. It isn’t until he repeats himself that you take notice, “Hm?”

Eddie tilts his head and winks, “I know I’m hot, baby, but try listening when I talk, yeah?”

“Shut up, you’re a mess,” you snap a napkin from your mom’s pink-stained wooden holder and wave it in front of his face, “Ever used a spoon before, or am I popping your utensil cherry?”

“You think you’re hilarious,” Eddie steals the napkin, wiping down his lips and chin, “I said, ‘why do you think I have potential?’”

Your parents have gone up to bed, the living room lights turned out and long shadows cast along the checkerboard tile by lemon fluorescents. The looping shadows of Eddie’s hair against his rosy face are even worse.

The best course of action is to pretend you haven’t been pondering that exact question just to justify why he’s in your head so often.

“You have this, like, draw. I dunno. You smile like you have something important to say, even if nobody is listening. I think that’s really important. And you’re kinda pretty, but that’s the only time I’ll say it so don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late, that’s all I’m gonna be thinking about now. You think I’m the hottest guy in Hawkins.”

“I never said that.”

“Well, if I said you’re the hottest girl in Hawkins, would you admit that’s what you meant?”

You freeze. It feels childish to be so caught off guard by someone like Eddie Munson. No, even worse because it was Eddie Munson. Once the shock washes away, though, you abandon your dumbfounded gape and twist up your lips like the cat that ate the canary. You gobble up all tells of naivety and swallow them, talons and teeth that would’ve frightened anybody but Eddie. He was borne of talons and teeth.

You don’t blow the steaming spoonful of your soup before you eat it, though, and that does frighten him.

What else frightens him, is the rolling chalkboard you sit him in front of while he desperately tries not to fall back into your marshmallow bedspread.

“The tenets,” you slap the powdered chalkboard and kick at Eddie’s shoe to make sure he’s paying attention, “of popularity. Also known as - the four-step plan to make you Snowflake King material.”

Eddie follows your manicured finger to a big, circled ‘1’.

“Don’t stand out - this includes your insane personality, your nutty clothes, and your dingbat rings,” your finger drops to a similarly styled ‘2’, “Get good grades. Jason should be enough to say you don’t have to be perfect, but if Coach G would bench you, then you’re out,” Eddie goes to gag, but you silence him with a glare before he gets the chance, “Three: get a hot date.”

Eddie drops his head to one shoulder, squishing his lips to show you an upcoming protest, so you simply cross your arms and wait, “Why don’t you just be my ‘hot date’? Gross phrasing, by the way,” he points right at your eggshell white bookcase, “Maybe open those feminist theory books I see on your shelf.”

“Shut up,” you take a fire engine red copy of Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique and chuck it at his head, easily caught in one of his hands, “It’s too obvious if I do it. We have to find somebody else willing to go out with you. That one’s gonna take work,” you draw an imaginary line beneath point four, “Mystery.”

“Hell does that mean?” he cracks open The Feminine Mystique, seemingly reading from it until you snag the copy from his hands.

“Pay attention. And you’ll see, just listen.”

“Alright,” he throws his arms wide, smiling thin, “so explain. What’s the point of these?”

“To make you popular, like I said, dipshit,” you return the book to its shelf, matching Eddie’s poorly veiled vexation, “If you keep going at the rate you are now with a terminal case of oneirataxia, we won’t get anywhere. So, we’re gonna start employing these.”

“Alright, we’re basically just changing everything about me and hoping it works out?”

“Mhm. Yeah. Just for now,” you step around your wheeled chalkboard to stand directly in front of Eddie, “And the first thing we’re gonna start with is,” you clap your hands and grin-

Don’t Stand Out.

Your mother raised both brows when you told her that Eddie was picking you up for school in the morning, but it was absolutely vital that you ensure he actually put on the clothes you made him take home. Your ex left a plain white T-shirt, burgundy letterman jacket, and simple jeans during an open-door-policy’d sleepover and Eddie dry-heaved at the very sight of such a pile.

You dry-heaved when he was sat beside you in his rustbox on wheels in the letterman jacket, shirt, and black jeans.

“I thought I gave you blue.”

“You did, and I decided it looked weird.”

Your eyes scale him from head to seat, “You look weird anyway.”

“Thank you, delicate princess.”

By the time you and Eddie have parking in the student lot, you’ve pinpointed what it was that made Eddie more unsettling than usual.

“Take off the jacket.”

He nearly chokes on the air between his ribs, “What?”

“The jacket, hair-for-brains,” you pluck at the fitting material, “it makes you look weird.”

“You know,” he unbuckles and shucks forward in his seat to tug off the offending thing, “I was thinking that exact thing.”

Eddie’s tattoos come to life in the sun slivers that beam through his cracked windows. A demon puppeteered by the undead, two dice rolling on the inside of his wrist, and an old faded stick-and-poke heart on the side of his middle finger - to name a few. It’s weird.

Is it weird?

It is, right?

How speechless and dim it seems to render you when his red-sprung, vein-flicked, tender hands bunch up the letterman and throw it into his backseat. It’s all so weird.

You rush out, slamming his scratched door and rushing to the side doors of Hawkins High only to realize when going to tighten the straps, that you’ve forgotten your bag in that scratched van.

Turning, you huff, “Shit!”

“Aw, poor thing,” Eddie, ever the sweet savior, dangles your backpack from two fingers as he waltzes your way, “What would you do without me?”

“Be studying for my bio final,” you take the bag and swat Eddie off when he tries helping your arm through one of the loops, “Okay, remember- don’t bring up your freak stuff so much today. We’re starting off on a new foot, Munson!”

“I know, baby, I know,” he pats your shoulder just a tad too hard, then, suddenly, his lips fly to your cheek, and cherry ripe softness presses a kiss to the skin there, “Thanks for the threads!”

A wolf whistles from behind you as Eddie prances into the building, waggling his fingers at a few staring jocks.

A lithe arm slithers over your shoulders and silky black hair flutters into view, Trin raises a brow at you, “What was that?”

Chrissy and Stacey bounce onto the scene in tandem, the prior speaking first, “Yeah, getting all buddy-buddy with Eddie, huh?”

Stacey leans forward, beaming with perfect pearly teeth, “You two make an adorable pair, ya know?”

“Shush,” you can’t block out their teasings, especially as Trin insists on hanging off your side and smushing lipstick-stained whispers into your ears about how exposed and eye-catching Eddie’s tattoos are. As if you don’t know.

Chrissy and Stacey giggle at your apparent agony as you pass Eddie and his gaggle of goons. All of whom are similarly teasing him for the aesthetic shift.

“Watch your mouths, I’m still in charge of the campaigns,” Eddie snaps, glaring rather lightheartedly at Dustin, Mike, and Will.

Dustin squints, disbelieving, at the outfit his friend had squeezed into, “This isn’t you, Eddie. I’m worried.”

“If this is for the bet, I’m not sure it’ll work,” Mike agrees, leaning slightly into Will’s side, “You still look like you.”

“Just a teeny bit off,” Will smiles slightly, nothing but assiduous.

A girl of yellow cardigan and brown plaid skirt pauses before the group, eyes shameless as they crawl Eddie’s tattooed frame free of its usual baggy attire. She smiles and bunches her shoulders, “Lookin’ good, Munson.”

“You too, sweetness,” Eddie winks.

Mike’s jaw drops flat as the girl scutters off, “Who was that?”

“No clue,” Eddie follows her with his gaze, “I think we have econ together. Maybe.”

“Well, I guess this bet will work perfectly fine, then,” Will muses.

You watch from Chrissy’s locker. A technical success that still burns like the vilest of cough syrup as it goes down.

Eddie, despite the compliment, searches for you as soon as the girl is officially gone. His face sings the sonnet of a boy waiting impatiently for approval, so you eagerly hand it over with a nod and grin.

Good job, you mouth and Trin giggles at your expense.

“And when I finally blend in with the rest of you?”

He folds his arms and twirls a lock of hair around his fingers, sheepish is a new look on him. He’s jabbed in the ribs by Dustin and you’re grabbed away for AP biology by Trin and Stacey.

“Then, we get to something that actually might benefit you. We have to get you some- “

Good Grades.

Ms. O’Donnell is certified in creating pain-in-the-ass tests. Forty-five multiple choice and two free response questions in fifty-five minutes happen to be one of those pains in said ass. As far as you’re concerned, the only bright side to semester exams like this is the seat changes beforehand - and the only bright side to this seat change is that you now sit next to Eddie Munson.

You finish with ten minutes left of class and find yourself entirely unable to resist how you immediately look over to Eddie. You two have studied for weeks in preparation for this, most of which was you just grilling him over raw flames about both minute and exaggerated details in Hamlet.

Not that William Shakespeare was usually anything other than ham-fisted in his works.

Eddie continues to struggle.

You can’t say you’re extraordinarily surprised, Eddie was a serial fidgeter and - no matter how much effort you both put in - was usually useless in recalling information. Not that he didn’t try, typically it was as simple as forgetting. Any which way you put it, Eddie wasn’t failing his classes on purpose. Not at all.

So to watch him violently scratch at the side of his head with the eraser tip of a pencil is painful. Both from phantom sensation and knowing how much he genuinely struggles with classes.

So you reach into your English folder for a stray piece of loose leaf, tearing off a quarter and numbering to forty-seven.

Eddie feels helpless. He’s reread the same question, number fifteen, for what seems like centuries, and yet he’s nowhere closer to actually getting that higher grade you were pushing him for. With someone else depending on him, there’s a new pressure.

Usually, when he’s only disappointing Wayne, it’s a regular soul-crushing experience that’s smoothed over by the fact that Wayne doesn’t prize academics the way he does a “good man”. Now, though, with you - there’s a lack of familiarity that leaves room for the overwhelming sensation he’ll be stabbing someone in the back.

Or through the heart?

Sharp lead jabs the exposed flesh of his arm. Right under the navy blue polo you’d literally strong-armed him to put on this morning. Eddie flinches back, retching his arm from the faint sting. You hold out the pencil, folding your hand in a way that has to be uncomfortable.

He pulls up his own pencil, glaring like you’re a moron.

When you harshly stick him with the lead again, he rips the wood from your hand and a folded piece of paper flutters to his dick-graffiti’d desk.

This time, as his eyes meet yours, you glare at him like he’s a moron. Good God, does he feel like it now, too.

Unscrambling the tightly wound pot of gold, Eddie checks his first fifteen answers and is - though he’d never admit it - overjoyed at the fact that they all match with the ones you have written down. The detail seems small to most, but progress is progress and Eddie can barely believe he’s actually able to understand the connection between question and answer for the remaining test questions.

After class, you wait on linoleum that shines under sickly tube lights for Eddie to walk out with his jingling keys and skunky black lunchbox and torn, weathered, black backpack.

“I should say, I intentionally put a couple wrong answers on there. So she doesn’t assume you cheated,” you pat his shoulder, preparing to walk away when Eddie takes your hand.

It’s warm.

You don’t know why it matters.

“Any of the first fifteen?”

Your brows knit, palpable confusion, “No.”

“Dope,” Eddie takes your bag and throws it over one of his shoulders despite your huffs, “Where to, sweetness?”

Fighting Eddie is pointless, especially on menial tasks such as carrying your backpack to a class. A class on the opposite side of campus from his, might you add.

“AP stats,” you point loosely, as if the class is actually anywhere within this hall, “You know, for extra credit, Mr. Abrahms - the stats teacher - has a band and if you go to a show, Ms. O’Donnell slaps on some bonus points to quizzes and tests, but not book reports.”

“Right, and why does she do that?”

He holds the door to the math sector of Hawkins High, filled with posters advertising the wonders of division and variables and dividing to find variables. For a laugh, he pretends to drop it when you walk through, only giggling as you lour.

“They’re married.”

“No fucking way.”

“Way.”

“Well,” he follows you down the hall, past lightbulbs that short and flicker and mud-stained tile, “I’ll only go if you come with, princess.”

“I’d love to, as long as you don’t talk shit about how it isn’t metal,” you give a pointed stare when he guffaws, slinging over your bag all while playing innocent.

“No promises,” he sings, slamming the door to AP stats behind you.

“And after we get your grades up, we- “

“Well, hold on. We should probably do something that’s actually for me, right?” he removes the leather jacket hung over his shoulders, slowly as though this is some twisted rom-com produced by John Hughes, “I think I need a little thanks for going along with this.”

Your eyes roll almost on their own, “We already discussed payments, Munson.”

“Yeah, but how about something on top of that? Something a little more fun.”

“Ew.”

Get a Date Corroded Coffin Concert.

“I’m serious, honey, I see all about these things on the news - local and national, and you need to stay safe. And if I so much as smell a little alcohol on your breath, you’re grounded until,” your mother pauses, mouth opening and closing as she flounders, “Until I’m dead. So. Be safe and smart.”

“Yeah, Mom, I know,” you climb out of her car and shut the door, but before you’re released, the window slides down.

“Keep a good head on your shoulders,” she smiles, eyes moving past you and towards The Hideout. She gasps and pouts, tone immediately drawling up from the scolding it had been the entire drive here, “Is that your Eddie? Oh, he’s waiting,” she waves you aside and calls, “Hi, Eddie!”

“Mom- !” heat rushes your cheeks and you flip Eddie off from the hip, just out of view from your mother when he hyena giggles, “I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, honey,” she waves out the window, “Bye, Eddie!”

“Bye,” he practically sings as you stomp up to the stained metal door, “I didn’t think Mommy would be dropping you off; where’s your sack lunch, Mary-Sue?”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d be waiting so patiently for me,” you stretch to hold a hand up, pinched as though holding a treat, “Good boy!”

Eddie knocks his hip with yours so hard that you almost fold over sideways, “You wouldn’t have been let in without a fake ID otherwise, sweetpea. Sadly your reign on the population’s feeble minds stops here.”

He holds the door for you and you terribly despise the way it makes your chest thump, so you poke with a forked tongue instead, “Must’ve been mega important for you that I’m here, then.”

But Eddie is typical in that he doesn’t bite. Not in the way you want him to anyway, “Well, duh. How could I not foam at the mouth having you, princess of Hawkins High, at my little show?”

And despite your lack of involvement in the metal scene, and despite how much you wanted it to suck more than your neighbor’s hyper-speed and hyper-light vacuum, the show is good. You swear to God he even winks at you during the third song.

Following a call to your mom on the bright red bar phone, you wait outside with Eddie while his friends pack up.

The moon night is in full swing, a pale face among the stars. Thin purple and black clouds ribbon over the spectacle of craters.

“I really like the moon,” Eddie is a loudmouth at best and sporadic at worst, but something about his timber entrances you, “it reminds me of my mom.”

You hate when he tries to be mystic and poetic.

“Is she nice?”

“She’s dead,” Eddie laughs, but it feels like he’s at gunpoint, “She was nice. She told me once that whenever I feel alone, she’s just one look up away,” he sniffles and that’s when you see a spring of fresh tears, desperate to cling at his waterline, “This is nice. I don’t usually get to talk about stuff like that.”

“It’s nothing, Munson,” you huddle just a little closer, and if he asks you’ll say it was the cold Hawkins’ night. Winter is rough these days, you know, “I’m glad you can get it out.”

He digs deep into the pocket of his jeans and plucks free a pack of cigarettes, “Well, I’m sure it’s a downer on your rainbows and sunshine.”

Perhaps it’s just in your ears, or perhaps the world realizes what a terrible thing to say that was, but you swear that there’s a stock sound record scratch directly overhead, “What?”

“Oh, come on, I don’t call you princess for nothing. You’ve got it all,” he places a cigarette between his lips and your budding resentment blinds you to how they plush around the cylinder, “You’re popular. You’re pretty. You’re loved.”

“Are you kidding me, Eddie?” for some peculiar reason, his first name scalds worse than his last name would have, “Did you miss the part where we’re wiping away who you are to make you popular?” you shove him by the shoulder and he stumbles enough to know you’re far past joking, “So what the fuck do you think I’ve been doing for the past four years?!”

“I think you’ve been having the time of your life getting your ass kissed by a loving, comfortable family and everyone at that stupid fucking high school that I’ve been cursed to repeat!”

“You don’t know anything about me,” you laugh, no humor, and grin, no joy, “My dad was an awful drunk that stopped calling because I tried holding him accountable while he wanted to be the big victim!”

“Yeah, and my dear ol’ dad was a criminal that hated me until he needed somebody small and nimble to hotwire or sneak into a place.”

You’re nearly speechless.

“So you should understand!”

He should understand, and on some level he does. On another level, he’s intimidated by what you represent, and that’s why he fights you.

Your world and his might as well be Mercury and Pluto. You have a two-story house with a loving family and he’s got a trailer with his uncle - God bless Wayne’s heart. You can walk by old ladies and children and housewives and businessmen and CEOs and jocks and be adored. He can’t go to Melvald’s General without being scorned and pointed at and avoided. He hates to say it but it burns, like a live fucking roast.

And it burns even more because he’s obsessed with you. Your manicured, polished nails. Your 1970s dresses and ribbons. Your rusted silver ring with the braid pattern you’ve had since middle school.

Worse than John Bender, he fell for the school princess, but at least Eddie managed to have been around you for more than a day.

Two months, in fact, you two have been working together to make him more popular and even if it’s steadily working, your circles are still entirely different.

Not unlike a wild animal, Eddie bites back when he’s scared, and when he saw you on the empty, beer-mudded floorboards of The Hideout just for him - he realized he was downright terrified.

“Like,” you hiccup, no tears have caked your face quite yet but the way your breathing is so choked, he can sense you’re close, “I really just feel like I ruin people’s lives sometimes and you don’t even know me like that- “ you look away and he sees how bloodshot your eyes are, “It’s so unfair of you to judge me like that. My life isn’t perfect just because Jason Carver thinks I’m cool.”

“And what about you and your friends?” he’s quieter than before, “Judging me and mine over what? A dice game and some loud music?” the quiet splits as he remembers why was ever put into this position in the first place, “Fuck you.”

Your head bubbles. Air clicking between where the gears of your brain should be. He doesn’t know anything deep about you, sure, but you know much less about him. That didn’t stop you from listening to your friends bitch about him.

With no defense to that point, you turn away from Eddie and stare forward. Blank and gagged. Eddie copies.

You want to say something. An apology. A comeback. An expletive. Something.

Eddie wants to say something, too. Similar sentiments and entirely new ones. He’d even promise to do everything you say - head in the sand, hands on his ass levels of ignorance if it meant you’d forgive him. Or just look at him again. Let him delight in the sugar of your perfume once more.

Neither of you knows how, though.

Both of you do know, however, that despite different paths of life being paved, this time together is nice. So maybe it’s best to swallow pride and get over yourselves - for the sake of each other and a tasty, crisp fifty bucks (to split).

But Eddie is better at filling silences than you. So he does what he’s best at.

Almost.

Eddie whispers, so low it rattles between his teeth, “I didn’t say anything.”

It takes you a moment to register that the shithead spoke, “Huh?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he looks at you now, smiling big and wide as if he didn’t just almost make you cry.

You glare and he sees the sprinkles of crystalline in your eyes. Maybe the ‘almost’ isn’t so far back that he can actually begin joking again.

“Okay,” you huff and cross your arms, stiff.

“I shouldn’t have judged you,” he admits, “I’m sorry. It was wrong and unfair and I’ll be better to you. Promise.”

That makes your guarded stance drop, melts like dropped blueberry slush under Arizona sun before rolling into leaf-stuffed grouts.

“I shouldn’t have judged you either,” you drop your arms wholly, and Eddie despises the way he finds you so adorable. Your arms come out to your sides, wide and awaiting. When he refuses to immediately get the sign, you jerk your arms in emphasis - eyes shooting impossibly wide, “Stop embarrassing me and get over here.”

Eddie tosses his head back as he laughs, nose scrunching, and you know that if people put their egos and prejudices aside then they’d be in love with him. Not like you.

Sure, you’ve put those aside, but you’re not in love with Eddie Munson or anything. He’s just helping you prove to Jason what an idiotic, pea-brain he truly is.

Eddie gives nice hugs though. The kinds that squeeze and lock you into the comfort. You can feel his arms around you, leather squawking with your movements. His hands are warm and comforting, pressing you as close to him as you can get. He’s back in his ripped jeans and leather and T-shirt logo'd with a band you don’t recognize, it’s like returning to an old dream from childhood. Kindly and tangerine sugar in your head.

Your cheek smushes against Eddie and you can’t help the way your eyes butterfly shut from the fire that sweeps off his body and homes you.

“Sorry for flipping out.”

“It was justified, I’d say.”

“Still. I feel like I can’t complain to people because I know, realistically, I don’t really have a reason to complain unless they see what I do in my life. So I just say everything is great. So I can see why you’d think everything is great.”

“Still,” he copies your tone on that word, even dragging his pitch up to plop a cherry on the sundae, “as someone who says the same shit to my group, I should have known better.”

Maybe the hug is too long at this point, but something about Eddie catering to you like this feels like when your bedsheets are tucked tight for slumber.

“You wanna go out and look at suits tomorrow?”

“I’d rather die, but please, yes.”

There’s a blotch of inky thick silence. Tar and mud, until Eddie does as Eddie does best and wades through it for a question.

“Do you wanna talk about your dad?”

Nobody has asked you that before, and you agree in full.

“He was just. Nutso. Picking fights ‘cuz he could and nobody would fight back. Stupid power moves just to prove himself as man of the house. It was always about him and when it wasn’t, he lost his shit.”

“I’m sorry,” he squeezes you again, kissing the crown of your head, “I’m really glad he’s gone.”

“Me too,” your arms begin to let and Eddie copies, the two of you splitting apart like sweating popsicles on Summer hazy noons, “My stepdad’s sick to death, though. If I get married, he’s walking me down the aisle. I’m not even calling that asshole.”

“Yeah, well, be careful or else your beloved is just gonna hang out with him instead.”

“You saying he’s cooler than me?”

“Way.”

“He’s cooler than you, too.”

“As if I was gonna say otherwise.”

“Speaking of…” you face forward again, but this time your shoe kicks into the dirt, toeing up daisy roots and grass blades, “my brother wants you to go to his class play, but he was never gonna ask,” you look at Eddie again, grinning, “It’d mean a lot.”

Eddie thinks this is it. Under the pale moonlight his mother always told him was angel’s kisses, his stupid rage and dislike dissipate and that’s the moment he also realizes that maybe he never hated you as much as he proclaimed he did. He was bitter over an idea and he was foolish.

“Fuck yeah, I’ll go. I’ll even wear my fancy ‘I fuck on the first date’ shirt.”

“Shut up,” you toss your head back and smack his arm in a giggle, “It’s tomorrow night at nine. Hawkins elementary. And my parents aren’t going. Grandma’s cousin is sick or something.”

“Sounds incredible.”

Tomorrow night at nine, at Hawkins Elementary School, Eddie shows up in a white shirt with black, bold letters that spell “I fuck on the first date”. You’ll jaw drop, caught in the middle of disgust and humor, but when your brother is up on stage and spots you both in those uncomfortable metal folding chairs with the rest of the audience, he waves. All smiles and excitement and sunshine. And when Eddie is dropping you both off at home, he tells your brother to leave a watermelon on the porch of the boy he hates - for free, legal confusion. And your brother will beg to see him again as soon as his whistling, rusted van is out of sight.

Tonight, though, before suits are found and plays are attended, your mom’s car pulls up to a dingy little bar called The Hideout.

Eddie stops you before you can step forward, though, “Is there anything you’d say to your dad if you saw him again?”

There are so many things you could say. You could weep and cry and yell and scream and break things, if you wanted to. You could be shrill and pathetic, you could be evil and vindictive, you could be devastated, you could be lots of things.

“No.”

Because what in God’s name would actually make him change?

You smile shortly and bounce as you head for the passenger side door of your mother’s car. You stop halfway, putting up a single finger in wait, and running back over on shoes that sort of squeeze your toes when you run. Snagging his leather jacket by the lapel, you pull Eddie down so that the rosy apple of his cheek is exposed.

Pressing a cherry chapstick kiss to his cheek, your plans of leaving him daydreaming for more are dashed like meaningless soot under Eddie’s battered sneaker in a snap second. Before you can return to that car with the broken heater, Eddie grabs you by the elbow and tugs you to his side.

He slings you back enough for it to count as a dip, and pauses, rearing back with a giggle long enough for you to stop him and command that you be let up. But you don’t, and you don’t want to, so Eddie leans forward as you do.

It’s more of a peck than anything - certainly more tame than what John Bender and Claire Standish pulled at the end of The Breakfast Club, but most especially tamer than what you might expect from Eddie Munson.

But may your soul be forfeited if that mere peck doesn’t snatch the air straight from under you. He tastes like strawberries and cigarettes and even though his lips are chapped, they’re loving.

Eddie lifts you slowly, shooting a wink, “See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.”

You hate feeling shy and coy, it’s embarrassing, but something inside you just sings at his voice. So, sure, there is a shot that you’re shy when he whispers so low it rattles.

There’s a titter in your voice as you murmur back, “See you tomorrow.”

Eddie gnaws his bottom lip when you scamper off into the car. You slide onto the leather of the passenger seat and your mom is comically wide-eyed, “I’m gonna forget that for now, and ask if that young man needs a ride.”

“What?” your mom leans over despite the sudden thumping in your chest, “Mom, no!” She sucks in a breath to shout but you work faster, rolling up the window as you repeatedly mutter, “Just drive, just drive, just drive!”

Eddie laughs, open-mouthed and thick, his curls bounce when he tosses his head, waving you off before he slinks back into the loud, musty bar.

You’re damn near stuck frozen as your mother settles back into the driver’s seat. She raises her brows and points right at you, “I want answers out of you when we get home, young lady,” she wags a finger in your face before reaching for the knob of her stereo, “But right now, we’re listening to Billie Holiday. So I don’t wanna hear it yet.”

You nod curtly, face igniting like Satan's very inferno, “That is not a problem.”

“After I go to your concert, will you finally follow my actual plan?”

“Yeah, sure, let’s go, baby. What’s next?”

“Next, you finally- “

Get a Date.

Eddie makes his walk of shame back towards you after an absolutely brutal rejection from the only girl in Hawkins with more than her ears pierced (not that the eyebrow bar looked anything other than infected).

Wait, he thinks.

Did he mention that he’s in a band?

Shit.

Should he have mentioned that he’s in a band?

Maybe that’s the way to a punk’s heart.

He thinks of asking you - you would’ve said no (that’s only for you).

Either way, he ends up at your side, right in front of a trashcan by the straw station of Hawkins’ Theater. You don’t know what it is, but a deep thing inside you actually feels relieved that Eddie got rejected. Similarly, a deep thing inside Eddie just wishes you’d choke back the caveat to this step and let him take you on the damn date.

“No luck, wonder boy?” you pout.

“No,” he copies your expression, twisting his hands into his pockets, “I’m hopeless and in desperate need of guidance, dear princess.”

“Hm,” you flip around the theater lobby for a potential date, ignoring the rolling muck that clunks your lungs and throat, “Not a whole lot of options for the local metalhead and Dungeon Master, I fear.”

“What about…” Eddie purses his lips, eyes narrowed in search, “her.”

A woman with a toddler on her hips is watching with exasperated, wide eyes as a young man struggles to tear her ticket stub. You shake your head, posture straightening, “No way. She’s looking for something serious if she’s looking for anything at all.”

“You don’t think moms want flings? Shame on you.”

You’d actually feel ashamed if he meant it, instead, you roll your eyes, “I guess, but how would you even get with a mom? They’ve gotta be harder to impress.”

“Easy. I’d go over in a wife beater and offer to mow the lawn, and then halfway through I take off my shirt.”

Good God, he’s so stupid. You love it, though. It, surely.

Boots thud on the colorful, confetti-styled theater carpet, jewelry jingles and clings as a couple looking straight from the posh, wine-dry era of Victorian London passes by. Arms looped and loving, they reek of haughty money.

You jerk your chin towards the couple, “What about them? How would you seduce them?”

Eddie clears his throat, brows furrowing, “Let’s see… I’d book a table at a really nice restaurant under the name Ricky Schroder because nobody else is named Ricky fuckin’ Schroder.”

You can’t help but laugh, “And what if the staff ask where Ricky Schroder is?”

“‘He’s gonna join us later,’” he shrugs, “You know what? Anybody here would be lucky to have me. I’m the ideal woman with no high school degree at 19-years-old and children as my best friends,” he cringes suddenly, shucking out his tongue like something vile died there, “Gross when I say it like that.”

“Always was,” you punch his shoulder.

Eddie suddenly perks up, and that typically would be no stress, if only you hadn’t trailed his line of sight. He gestures loosely, doing an excellent job of pretending he was disinterested in the development, “What about Chris?”

Chrissy Cunningham. Utter queen. Warmhearted. Peachy beautiful.

“Chris?”

Nobody but Jason called her that, and she and Jason dated. What the fuck is Eddie doing?

“Yeah, Chris. Sorry, that’s what I call her. She’s a friend, she’d get the situation.”

“Oh,” you hate the way you seethe, “Yeah.”

“See you in a bit,” Eddie waves gingerly, “Snowflake King is in the bag, baby.”

Peachy beautiful. Peachy fucking keen.

Eddie and Chrissy are a little too giggly familiar for your tastes. It’s like moldy cheese between your cheeks, watching Eddie try (and horrendously succeed) to ask out your very own friend, Chrissy. You should’ve thought this through, maybe, just how much you now hate the idea of Eddie going out with a different girl.

But to be fair to you, he never asked you out on a date following that Hideout kiss, and to be equally fair to him, you never asked him out following that same Hideout kiss.

Part of you rears back at the idea of taking that first step, though. It’s easier when other people come to you, and unfortunately - Eddie either knows what you’re attempting to goad him into, or he’s simply that dense.

You made the rule his date couldn’t be you before you two even really knew each other anyway.

“Alright,” Eddie pinches your arm and you cuff his hand sharply, “it’s a done deal for Thursday. Enzo’s. On me.”

You bare your teeth in what is a desperate attempt to smile, “Awesome!”

It is decidedly not awesome.

“Well,” he fidgets with the twisted, folded material of the letterman jacket you made him give another whirl - you notice it suits him more than it did last time, still weird though, “I can take you home now, dearest.”

“Oh- uh,” flashes of Chrissy in her sweetheart neckline dresses and pleated skirts across a table alone with Eddie make you suddenly ill. Violent heat flashes that blot sweat along your brow and twist your gut into something wretched, “No worries, Eddie, I’ll get one from my mom.”

Before he gets the shot to check again, you’re darting out the push doors and to a pay phone, coins slick in your palm when you tug some from your pocket. Holding the potentially spit and gum decorated receiver decently far from your actual ear as the tone sings.

Later on, when you’ve actually been taken home, your instinct is to call Chrissy. Bizarre. Your step-father and brother are watching reports on the Saturday news that follows the cartoons - a young man injured by a drunk driver, and you immediately rush to the kitchen phone. No wonder John Hughes and neurologists are so obsessed with the teenage mind.

“You don’t actually like Eddie Munson, right?”

Chrissy giggles in that classic way she does when you’ve been foolish, and you can imagine that she tosses her head back - part exasperation and part humor, “Jesus- you two!” an overly long sigh follows, “Good God, no. I love Eddie, but I don’t love Eddie. He’s great, but definitely not for me. You, though. You know. You two would be great.”

“Okay, okay,” you sigh something guttural, “Enough teasing. I was just asking a damn question.”

“Yeah, right. You’re so jealous and nothing’s even gonna happen.”

“I’m not- “ she hangs up before you can even get the words out.

You groan and let the receiver tumble back into place, moving into the doorway between kitchen and living room to finally get an eyeful of the news.

“Holy shit, Keith got hit by a drunk driver?”

Your step-father raises a brow, sipping his beer - entirely unimpressed.

“Then,” you tap Eddie’s forehead when you notice his attention drifting to a string of polaroids around your vanity mirror, “we get to add a little bit of- “

Mystery.

Before you are two suits - both purchased in kind by your step-father. One blush pink to compliment Eddie’s complexion, and the other a pale arctic blue to pair with the actual winter wonderland dance theme. A white undershirt for either. It’s a truly difficult choice when Eddie Munson could pull off either color and still be your top choice for Snowflake King. And not just because you want to win that damn bet.

Your savior from the truly world-bearing decision comes in the form of your bubblegum phone prattling. Your hand flings for it loosely, making contact after two tries and yanking it to your ear.

“What?”

“Wow, aren’t you a bowl of candy?” it’s Eddie, undeniably, but he’s hissing in pain after the question.

That makes your brows screw closer, “What’s your problem, Munson? I’m trying to pick your tux.”

You hear him swallow thick and noisily exhale, “Yes, that sounds very hard, babe,” a gruff and he finally spills the beans, “I’m getting a rib tattoo, we took a break,” he blows thinly between pursed lips, “Can you come down here? I’m about to puke.”

“You’re getting a rib tattoo?” you press the phone closer and stand up from your comforters, “Are you insane?”

In your head, Eddie’s eyes shoot up to the water-browned ceiling as he speaks, “I dunno. Maybe. They’re mysterious, right? And cool, yeah?” he sighs, “Come down here. Please.”

You grumble, naturally, but there was never a chance you could turn Eddie down when he needs help, “I’ll be over in ten.”

There’s one parlor in Hawkins, and you assume that’s where Eddie got a majority of his tattoos. If not all. It’s twelve minutes from your house, closer to the outskirts of town than even most of the rundown bars, but you make an effort in rushing there. Probably more effort than what somebody keeping this sort of bet strictly transactional would, but still.

Eddie sighed in relief when he saw you and if he hadn’t been in the midst of a raw tattoo then perhaps he would’ve hugged you in all his shirtless glory. He now lays on his side, squeezing your hand like a nutcracker to shell, “This really fucking hurts.”

You brush tangled curls from Eddie’s forehead carefully, “What’re you getting, big guy?”

“Surprise,” he snickers until he hisses, “Fuck.”

You scratch your brain for anything he might enjoy. Anything that may distract.

“You ever seen The Dark Crystal?”

Eddie would show his utter shock in a gasp if there wasn’t a needle in his ribs, “You’ve seen The Dark Crystal? No way.”

“Yeah,” you squeeze Eddie’s hand as he presses yours, “my brother owns it. Wanna watch it after this?”

“God yes,” he sounds breathless and you hate how your heart seems to twist at the sound, “who’s your favorite character?”

“Kira. I also liked Chamberlain.”

“No shit, I love Kira and Chamberlain,” Eddie beams up at you, “I know that it isn’t very good, but I fuckin’ love that movie.”

“Even the Poddling slave scene?”

“Hm. That one might be terrifying, actually. Still a good movie.”

“Well, my brother never watches it, so you can come over and we’ll have a viewing party whenever you want.”

He releases your hand and motions as if to brush his fingertips gently over your cheek, “Sweet, sweet angel, how I adore you.”

“Shut up,” you hate when he flusters you. It’s embarrassing.

When Eddie stands straight before the parlor’s mirror, he looks at you with big, bright eyes. Once again, like a puppy for praise.

A full moon in front of a starry sky and clouds paint his pale ribs, raw at the outlines.

“Aw,” you twine your fingers and let the excuse of his tattoo explain why your eyes linger by Eddie’s chest, “for your mom?”

“For my mom,” he confirms, quieter. Baby cow eyes flip to his raw flesh, “Do you think she’d like it?”

Realistically, you never knew her, and you have no idea - Eddie knows that, most definitely. But you know Eddie (somewhat) and if she was someone worthy of his time, then she would’ve adored him now - and his tattoos.

You take one of his fidgeting hands in yours, “Absolutely.”

“And what after that?”

“After that,” you settle your hands on your hips and nod assuredly, “you win Snowflake King.”

Snowflake Ball.

It’s been a solid handful of months, Eddie is far more popular than he was before and you genuinely think he has a chance. And not just because of your desperate need to win this bet.

Before you, on the floor by your feet, are your step-brother and his date, Carrie Kith, to their own winter dance at Hawkins Elementary. Carrie turns to you, wide crystalline eyes and freshly braided hair, her cherry button nose turned up as if to say that one wrong answer may set her off.

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Who?”

She points at the staircase, “Him.”

Your eyes flit to the clock your mother has hanging above the TV, "No."

"Why not?" she tilts her head, golden braid falling to her shoulder.

You shrug flippantly, "Boys are a waste of time.”

Carrie visibly considers the wisdom, nods, turns to your brother, and says, "You're a waste of time."

"What did you teach these poor kids while I was away?" Eddie stands at the final step of your stairs, holding his arms out wide and giving a twirl, "What do you think?"

You pick up your jaw and cross the carpet to where he stands. Pale arctic blue suit to match your dress and you can see the faintest touch of the tattoos that terrify locals through the low-cut chest.

"Incredible, you're- " you stop yourself, "Incredible," Eddie looks ready to tease so you speak before he gets the spotlight, "If you lose in this, then maybe I'm not the fashion genius I think I am."

“Don’t put that much weight on it, sweets,” he digs into his pocket and pulls out a closed fist, "You should wear these."

The first uncurls and in his palm - bitten red raw from the cold - is a pair of glittering rubies.

"They're fake," he lampshades, moving the earrings slowly closer, "but… here."

You take the jewels and find yourself biting your bottom lip to contain the bubbling affection in your chest.

"I wanted to get you something nice," from his voice, you can hear shame and nervousness. It's nice to know you aren't alone, then. Eddie cards his fingers through his hair and brushes a lock behind his ear. A ruby gem sparkles through stray tresses, "I wanted people to know who I was with. Don’t need them mistaking me as Chris’ new boyfriend.”

"Thanks," you press your thumb into one of the pointed edges of your gifted earrings, "you didn't have to. Really."

When you look back to Eddie, he mouths shut up and holds out his hand, "I'll put 'em in. And yes, I did have to get them. I saw them and thought of you and then couldn't stop thinking about it until I bought them."

"So you think of me?"

You don't think you're teasing when you ask that.

It stills.

Eddie pauses.

Your brother gags and Carrie joins.

"Yeah, yeah," Eddie rushes to click the earrings in place, pecking your cheek before running to the door. He puts his hand on his hip and you're frozen in the living room as he speaks, "Alright, rugrats, you wanna go to your dance or no? Train's leaving the station."

You're so stupidly muddled that you don't even comment on the way Eddie's van has been cleaned out. No cans or wrappers or empty bags to crinkle or shriek when you shift your legs.

By the time you're actually inside the gymnasium's snowed-in forest set, voting has begun. You put on the theatrics of disappointment, but you can't pretend to not be grateful you missed the Jason Carver power hour. And you can't pretend to not be shocked when you see your name under the title of Snowflake Queen, right between Stacey and Chrissy.

"You know, I think you deserve a win tonight. In case I don't," Eddie ticks the box next to your name.

"Chrissy is gonna win," you x the box by Eddie Munson for Snowflake King, "We both know that."

"I guess," he checks himself for King as well, "but what kind of king would I make if I didn't support the woman that got me here? Hm?"

Not one at all.

You roll your eyes at his jest and Eddie checks the box by your name on your ballot. Snatching the paper from your hand, he practically skips to the locked box for votes and slips both ballots between the top slot. On his way back, Eddie hops and clicks his heels like a showtunes all-star.

"You're ridiculous," you simply watch as he takes your hand.

"And you're stunning," he kisses your knuckles.

You look away as he peers at you through his lashes. Heat fans your face and there's the sudden, unwelcomed concern that he may think you look sweaty,

"I've gotta powder my nose."

"Coke?" he gasps sharply, all for show, all so you laugh, "I can't believe you."

You grant his desires as you shake your head, "You know what that phrase means."

"I just like teasing," so you've gathered.

…

By the time you return to the cornstarch-stenched gym floor, principal Higgins is on stage with the band forced behind curtains. How cruel.

Chrissy flutters to your side in a lavender ball gown and wraps her arm around yours, "You're gonna miss it, we're getting called up!"

"Huh?"

Trin picks up the train of her periwinkle mermaid dress, "Nominees for royalty are being called to the stage. Duh!"

Stacey nods and presses a curl back into place as you all walk, "Honestly, what would you do without us?"

"Not be on stage," you climb the carpeted, moldy steps to where Higgins stands, "Which is actually looking pretty good right now."

Snowflake King nominees line up on the other side of Higgins. Eddie at the very edge, closest to you - at the head of your own line. You do your best to not squint under the harsh stage lights that beat on you.

Eddie, meanwhile, can't help but watch how your ruby earrings move as you do. He likes that you went with them. That you matched a dress to his suit. He likes that people can tell you two came together. Because he really didn't want people thinking he was Chrissy's boyfriend, but he wouldn't mind them assuming he might be yours. The stage lights cast a shine like heaven and the brief idea of you being an angel doesn't feel so lost when you two make eye contact. Painted lips stretch and you wave, he's utterly helpless to return it.

On his other side is the student council vice president, Thomas Heron. Somebody has to hear the good news, and Eddie decides it's him.

He turns and Thomas doesn't flinch away like he would have before you popularized him. Eddie jerks his head towards you, "God, isn't she beautiful?"

It echoes around the otherwise silent gym and that's how he realizes the microphone in front of him is still on and incredibly sensitive.

“Dude,” you tilt your head, chuckling.

He’s embarrassed. It’s nice to see things come full circle.

“Sorry,” he tries speaking into the mic, but now it’s suddenly dead.

Principal Higgins leans into the head microphone, and reads the letter handed to him by counselor Kelley, “And for the moment I know everyone has been waiting for… our Snowflake Royalty.”

Your heart echoes thickly in your ears, skin chills and bumps and you feel the telling of ants in your stomach. Butterflies in your dress.

“Snowflake Queen,” Higgins turns to your line and smiles, “winning by a landslide is…” students stomp in a makeshift drumroll and you already know who the winner may be, will be, “our very own - Chrissy Cunningham!”

No shit.

You, Trin, and Stacey lavish her in applause and hugs and lipstick-printed kisses to her cheeks as a bouquet and crown are slung to her sides. She’s nothing if not modest, and there are tears of joy springing in her eyes while the plastic crown of snowy clouds and crystal is laid on her honeyed head.

“And our Snowflake King…” he trails as the students drumroll stomp again.

Chrissy leans back, nudging you with her tulip bundle, “Nice earrings,” her eyes move to Eddie and she whispers, “Matching with your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my- “ you stop, glaring, “Hush.”

“A surprising usurp of our Homecoming King!” Higgins gestures to the line of nominees.

Eddie’s fingers knot together and this is the first time you get to see how much this bet actually means. Originally, you assumed he was in it for the twenty and your brains on his essays (figurative), and maybe - just maybe - he grew to love your company the way you did his. But you never quite thought he really cared.

Now, though, he watches with wide and petrified eyes as Higgins moves to stand between him and Thomas Heron, “It’s a close call, folks,” he claps both boys on the back, “With only a two-vote difference! Our winner and Hawkins High Snowflake King is…!”

The student body freezes as one. Your breath tightens and chest sticks together by the ribs.

The moment feels like eons.

You hear Chrissy crinkle the wrapper of her bouquet and you wrinkle your nose at the sound.

“Thomas Bradley Heron - our senior class vice president!”

Confetti in whites and blues of varying shades rains down upon the winners and the royalty rejects.

You deflate, the confetti shredding through your bravado like glass to a balloon. Even Chrissy’s disappointment is palpable until she remembers she’s illuminated by a spotlight. Eddie hisses a “fuck” and tosses his head back, though he does clap for the sweet puppy incarnate that resides in Thomas Heron.

“Congrats, man,” Eddie mutters to Thomas - and nobody flinches when he speaks or raises his hand.

The bizarreness is not lost on Eddie. That everyone hated him and now waves when he walks by in the corridors.

You meander to Eddie’s side as a bedazzled crown is laid on Thomas’ head. He holds out a hand and assists you down the stage stairs, “Well, that was a major bust.”

“Yeah,” he reaches out and delicately picks a confetti sprinkle from your shoulder, “but we had fun, right?”

“Hm,” you rustle a few confetti slips from his hair, “we did.”

When Eddie was younger, he used to think that the vows said during weddings were “in sickness and in hell” - it was only when he was sixteen and ring-bore for Wayne’s best friend that he learned otherwise. He likes his childhood version better though, “in sickness and in health” implies that there is only a desire to stay if better times are promised. But since being corrected, he’s known it as health. However, with you, Eddie now wonders if the difference even matters. He also wonders if maybe in a dream world there’s the chance you’ll let him swear to you that he’d crawl through hell for just a second of your time.

God, he’s changed.

Jason, in all his usual assholery, slow claps as he approaches you and Eddie at the landing of the short stack stairs.

“Not now, Carver,” you groan.

“Yeah, you’ll get your money, just back off,” Eddie shoves Jason back by the shoulder.

But the dimwit remains unperturbed, Jason steps closer and purses his lips, “You’re not so tough when your Satan disguise isn't on, are you, Munson?”

Eddie grabs him by the collar and throttles him a little, grinning “Don’t be too excited, Josie, tomorrow is business as usual,” his grip tightens, choking Jason a little, “So just be patient, okay?”

The venom with which Eddie spits his words proves too heavy on his shoulders, and Jason scutters off to where Patrick and Andy stand in plain, vomit-inducingly boring black suits.

You watch as the trio high-five and circle jerk over their victory.

This is technically the end.

You and Eddie don’t need each other.

Tomorrow, he returns to Hellfire and you’re back with the jocks and preps. It isn’t like you two are dating. Just a couple of good months. A handful of memories to giggle at until you two eventually grow so distant that you won’t even wave at each other in the hallways.

Your eyes drift to Eddie, cluelessly picking confetti out of his twisted hair under golden and cornflower lights, and you can’t help but shrink at what a miserable existence that will be. So you prolong your delight now.

“Wanna watch The Dark Crystal again?”

He sighs deep and plucks another confetti slice from you, “Absolutely nothing sounds better.”

…

You can’t believe that you didn’t notice how clean the van floor bed was until now, “Holy shit. Was this already done when you drove us here?”

“Yeah,” Eddie laughs, glancing at you through his peripherals, “Damn, what had you so distracted?”

“I don’t even know,” a terrible lie, but you don’t bother to rectify it. Something weary rests on your bones. Dies there and rots. You lean back into the passenger seat and stare at the full moon, its beams hit Eddie’s face lovingly, “You know, we may have lost, but at least you don’t have to clean out the van post misery. Still impressed, by the way.”

“Just didn’t feel like hearing you complain the whole way home.”

You pointedly ignore the way he refers to your house as home, “Aw, you remembered I hate wrapper crinkles.”

“Of course, I did, I’m in love with you,” he says it like he’s talking to a friend. So casual and at ease until he realizes exactly what it was that he really said.

You rock forward and bang your chest, breath hitching, “You’re what?!”

“Nothing,” he blanches, “A dick. I’m a dick, that’s what I said.”

“No way, I totally heard you, Eddie! Just say it again!”

“Why?”

He looks at you and you smile, head tilting with all that charm he so desperately fell for, “Just say it again.”

Eddie matches your expression and shrugs, tense, “I’m in love with you.”

You suddenly feel the urge to make him pull over. Just to be closer than what the center console allows.

But you were never the best at speaking so plainly, “Of course, you are.”

“Okay. you know what?”

He glares thinly.

You giggle and he joins.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

You're quiet, but he hears it. Most definitely, he did - he was searching for it, in fact.

Eddie tries to smother the lopsided grin that surfaces, but you most assuredly see it, “Of course, you are.”

The beloved rustbucket van sputters as Eddie pulls along the curb of your house, and you two hurry inside. In the doorway, you peel off ache-rucking heels and leave them in one of many cubbies, Eddie copies.

“So, what should we- “

He takes your cheeks in both hands, pausing long enough for you to stop him if you so desired. Then he commits to the possibility of rejection, “Can I kiss you?” he breathes in shaky, nervous, “Please?”

You cup his face in your hands, giddy and heart thrumming at the warmth there, “Yes. Please.”

Eddie lets his eyes flutter shut, whispering against your lips, “Thank God.”

He kisses you there, sweet and adoring and all things you never would’ve assumed from Eddie upon first meeting him. He tastes like strawberries and cigarettes and he smells like weed and cheap cologne and, faintly, gentle wafts of your own perfume.

When you two part, it’s like the confetti is raining again - but this time, you are the winner. Maybe not Snowflake Queen and King, but something sweeter. Ambrosia and nectar.

Eddie simpers, then rears his head further, brows rising as he “Hmmmmmm”s in an imitation of Barry Dennen’s Chamberlain.

“Ew, don’t- “

He bounces off towards your living room, clinging to one of your hands, “Come on, you promised The Dark Crystal,” when you refuse to immediately jump to his side, he inhales and calls out just as Kira does to beckon her animal friends, “Kame-le-ahhhhh!”

“Alright, jeez,” you yank Eddie back to yourself and kiss his cheek, “You, Eddie Munson, are despicable - just using me for my possession of The Dark Crystal.”

“And you, sweet angel, are evil for making me wear letterman jackets,” you both gag at the very memory.

“Rest assured, that’s never happening again,” you kiss his lips again, another peck that he seems desperate to elongate, “You look hotter in your clothes.”

“Really?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Then let’s get me outta this itchy suit, yeah?” he winks.

You roll your eyes but already begin pulling him towards the staircase for your room, “Yeah. Okay.”

Even if you have to put up with Eddie reciting half of The Dark Crystal in a holey black shirt and checkered boxers on your couch by the end of the night, you’d still gladly consider yourself a winner. And that is worth more than any fifty bucks or a Snowflake royalty title. Fewer crowns, though :(

~~

rbs appreciated (slay)

tagging people i think would maybe enjoy this

@kitmon @chainsaw-man-inserts @punk-in-docs @ramona-thorns @indouloureux @bbylogs

[marioxdk]

mario x donkey kong where mario falls into the jungle kingdom instead of the mushroom kingdom?

Falls into jungle kingdom

Instead of meeting toad first, he ends up meeting Diddy Kong

Mario: I need help saving my brother!

Diddy Kong: I know just the guy to help you out...

Mario is taken to meet Donkey Kong and because their first interaction isn't inherently hostile they hit it off immediately

(DK/Mario: Oh... he's cute)

Donkey Kong agrees to help Mario find his brother

But obviously he needs to figure out how to fight in this world

Donkey Kong can't let this adorable man fight Bowser without any actual combat knowledge

Cue a training montage filled with longing glances and pining

They grow closer, and by the time Peach comes to ask for the help of the Kong army, they're absolutely smitten

(DK would never admit it but he would do anything for this human)

So when Peach asks for help, Mario immediately sees the benefit in an alliance

(Mario: They also want to defeat Bowser! This could be my best chance to rescue my brother!)

Cranky is apprehensive about helping them, but DK immediately starts convincing him to help on his human's behalf

Cranky: I'm not sure we should trust the Mushroom Kingdom...

DK: But Mario needs them to help his brother!

(Cranky: Oh no, he's simping)

To shut DK up, he agrees to have the army help the Mushroom Kingdom

Things now progress pretty similarly to the movie, but now there's sweet mariokong moments

Telling each other to be careful before they leave the Kong Kingdom

Protecting each other on Rainbow Road because they can't handle the thought of losing the person they've come to care for

Confessing to each other when they worry that they'll both be digested by a sea creature

(In case we die, I just want you to know...)

Maybe they kiss...

Escaping together and now facing the upcoming fight as a couple

When the battle is over Mario and Luigi hug and celebrate their victory as brothers

And then Mario and DK run to each other and embrace and are so happy that they both survived the battle

Maybe kiss again...

Now everyone knows that they're dating

[queer-coded-camaro-driver]

Steve and Billy's Dune-themed couple's Halloween costume, circa 1985.

The Paul Atreides and Feyd Rautha energy is strong with them.

[dawn-t0-dusk]

#71: my liege, my knight

Where do you plan to go?        Tell me, warn me                 before you are just a memory of long ago        I can't read your mind, even if I wish I could.        I want to protect you,                but my wish is never understood.

Don't follow me        Stop clinging to my back        I don't want to be trapped in a castle,                let me be free, even if its in a shack        You can't understand this,                All you know is how to protect and attack.

Where are you going?        Please let me come with you.        Without you, i don't know what to do                I don't have a single clue        I am your knight, your sword.        I do as you say, and i will always come through

Stop following me        This is an order        Stay here and make your sword a little sharper        I don't need a guard for this next adventure                Just a companion and someone who can barter.        Just stay here, maybe go learn a skill from the baker.

How can I let you leave?        When It is against everything I had sword to achieve        It matters not if you call this treason or deceit                Just as long as you are there with your peeve        I will make sure that there is never a reason to grieve        Just please-                This companionship is one i hope you will receive

Hand to wrist,        Heart in my throat- Pulse fluttering even as I keep you afloat Water rushes over us, but I will not let you go There is no satisfaction, no words to gloat Just relief that I could be here to help you float.

[puppetwoman17]

I’ve been wanting to talk about this but I thought it would sound weird and kinda Mary Sue like! Glad to hear that I’m not the only one.

I’m very adamant on Cap being a pillar in not only the magic community(cause of his Champion role obviously) but the hero community as well. He’s well-known for his heroics and impossible stories about battling sentient worms and being diplomatic with alien dinosaurs.

He’s also loved for the advice he gives. All Billy wants to do is bring smiles to these peoples’ days. He dishes out advice like it’s candy and always sees the good in people. He’s great at looking at situations through multiple viewpoints and understanding everyone’s thought processes. This in particular helps with the Superman and Superboy problem. He tells both of them individually that both of their hardships are valid. Clark is allowed to feel violated because his DNA was stolen and mutated in a way that was against his consent. Connor never asked to be created, always wanting Superman’s love but never receiving it.

They reconcile, and Billy doesn’t think much of it, because it’s what anyone would do, right? No biggie. He even does something similar with Red Arrow, convincing him that he’s not just a clone. He’s his own person. He built his own life. He has his own achievements. He shouldn’t feel bad for any of this because none of it was in his control. And Roy is so damn grateful because it feels like a weight has been taken off his shoulders.

Marvel just shrugs. No biggie.

He talks Leaguers through both personal and professional problems and guides them onto a simple, honest path because adults make everything so damn complicated so why can’t you just sit THE FUCK DOWN—

Ahem.

So he helps with that too. No biggie, right? Just another good deed.

He expands his one-way business to other teams too, like the JSA, the YJ team, the Teen Titans, etc. Spends time with each of them, helps them solve their own problems whether they’re big or small.

No biggie, right?

Fucking. Wrong.

The world of heroes absolutely adores him! The other hero teams look to him like he’s the cool uncle. Despite no one knowing jackshit about his personal life, they trust him wholeheartedly. They know he’s got their back.

That’s actually what hurts, tho. Whenever anyone asks him about his life outside the cape, he gets tongue-tied. Panicked. Silent. Doesn’t say a word until a new topic is brought up and then changes wheels like it’s nothing. It hurts, knowing he doesn’t trust them. They know it’s stupid, he never had obligations to tell them anything about the real him, but it stings. Where does he go when he isn’t Cap? Does he have family? A lover? Hobbies? Pets? Why is he like a brick wall with them? Did they do something wrong?

Things get especially annoying when characters like Booster Gold(from the future) and Doctor Fate(Lord of Order, basically on the same pedestal as the Champion) know his identity and don’t even bother to hide that fact. Leaguers will frequently catch Booster making knowing jabs at the Captain, winking and saying strange things that get the Captain riled up and shaking his head profusely. Nabu is no help either, with Leaguers catching him and Marvel quietly conversing. When someone, say, Barry, shows up, Marvel stops talking.

It fucking hurts. A lot. And Billy doesn’t even notice the looks of jealousy cast at his future teammate and fellow Lord by his coworkers. The YJ team is not taking that shit because that is their den dad. Diana doesn’t appreciate that these strangers know more about her brother than she does. Flash is all confused and slightly annoyed because when are they gonna play another prank on Hal? Is he just gonna keep talking to those weirdos all day? And the next?

Billy’s honestly just happy to be here. He never thought he’d get past the age of ten, so doing all of this, helping these heroes while learning more about himself, is just great. He’s speedrunning his way through every moody, self-righteous, hurt, traumatized hero with no sweat on his back.

So yeah, he is beloved and he doesn’t even know it. You betcha that when Cap’s identity is revealed, everyone goes full mama bear/papa bear/protective older brother or sister on him. No way is he leaving without supervision.

Nabu and Booster are rolling their eyes cause hello? That’s the Champion of Magic. If anything, he’s the one they should be worried about.

Yeah, they are politely asked to leave after that. Anyhow Billy, wanna go get some hot chocolate 😘😍

Excuse the word vomit.

[theharrowing]

Collateral 🗡️ 21: It's now or never

Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You.

But was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or has he always had his sights on you?

PREVIOUS | INDEX | NEXT

🗡️ Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon, Jungkook x Female Reader

🗡️ word count: 19.4k

🗡️ mafia au, strangers to lovers, graphic violence, major character injury, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit 21+ 

🗡️warnings: anxiety spiraling; Yoongi's scar; baby Jimin is still in a coma; explicit smut (oral, vaginal, and anal sex; face riding; squirting; spitroasting; getting messy with cum; all holes tended to; ass eating and mutual fingering; some very interesting positions that i don't know how to name; subby Yoongi; mc being a bit more dominant; Namjoon is Namjoon; subspace; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; semi-public sex); graphically violent dreams; mc has a lot a lot a lot a lot of feelings.

🗡️note: we're speedrunning the healing time of a headwound okay medical professionals. ignore how fast Yoongi heals. anyway, big should out to @sweetestofchaos for the existence of Dionysus, the club in this fic. more details in the end notes so please check those out!!! also lmaooo this chapter made me and my beta reader cry so good luck!!!

🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin!

🗡️ posted on dec. 2023 | read on ao3

The flight to Hong Kong is a little over three and a half hours, but you are so antsy the entire time that it feels like it takes all fucking day. Namjoon attempts to distract you with episodes of an anime that involves demon hunting, you think, but you are unable to focus on the plot.

He even attempts to distract you with his hands and lips, leaving warm kisses along the expanse of your neck while his hands push up the skirt of your floral sundress, charting familiar paths they took only a few hours earlier and so many times before—many times which had ended with your thighs wrapped around his neck, begging for reprieve from overwhelming pleasure. 

But you are unable to stop your mind from running in circles. You cannot relax.

All you can think about is Yoongi and his wound. Yoongi and his distance. Yoongi and whatever the fuck he is doing in Hong Kong. Yoongi meeting with members of the Busan family—meeting with his ex. 

This morning, lying in Yoongi's bed, it was much easier to relax and let go of your worries. But now, in the air, on your way to see him, you cannot quiet your mind for the life of you. 

Mere hours, laying in Yoongi's large bed with an afterglow from Namjoon's talented mouth and hands, the two of you had a nice talk about his fears and worries, putting a lot into perspective and assuaging all the feelings of bitterness and frustration that you felt over the last several days. You truly do not blame him for needing to have some time and space to himself—he and Yoongi have a bond so deep, it is no wonder that Namjoon's thoughts become insurmountable. 

Namjoon admitted that he had actually not been able to get ahold of Yoongi and that you were going to surprise him with a visit tomorrow, having already spoken to Uiseok about dropping in. Everything he said about Yoongi regretting creating distance and all that was just him babbling because he was high and stressed out—something you relate to after the night you and Jeongguk shared. He was desperate to keep you from worrying as much as he was.

But then Yoongi finally responded to Namjoon's texts and it changed the trajectory of everything, spurring you two to get onto a plane as quickly as possible. What was originally meant to be a trip to bring him home tomorrow became a mad dash to pack a suitcase and get onto a flight as soon as you could. The piggyback ride from Jeongguk's place was only about nine hours earlier, yet it feels like so much time has passed. 

And if all of this is not enough, you spiral thinking about the whirlwind of returning to Namjoon's arms after the tumultuous night spent with Jeongguk, barely able to fathom the fact that you are closing in on Hong Kong and that in the next hour or so you will be back in Yoongi's arms. It takes all the effort you have to not think back to Jeongguk asking those fateful words. Do you think you could fall for someone like me?

All that matters to you is that you, Yoongi, and Namjoon will soon be back together at last. It feels like each time you make progress in your relationship and something good happens that pulls you closer, something terrible happens that rips you apart. You are certain that you cannot possibly handle another thing ripping the three of you apart. Not after all you have been through. 

When the plane finally begins to descend, your heart goes haywire. All you want is to wrap your arms around Yoongi and bring him home. There has been too much distance between the two of you lately, and you are beginning to feel sick with worry. Instead you hug your purse tight to your chest, feeling cool black leather against your palms.

You operate on autopilot as the cabin door opens and Namjoon ushers you out into the cool evening. Once more, you are landing in Hong Kong in the later hours of the day, and once more you have no intent on enjoying your stay, despite how much a small part of you wishes that you could. 

Uiseok and the rest of The Tigers have done absolutely nothing wrong, as far as you know, yet they are the last people you want to sit and schmooze with. Your nerves are too on edge and fragile, and you are not sure you have the patience for any amount of socializing at the moment. 

You practically insist on the pilot keeping the engine running, and you are thankful that the two of you have packed nothing more than a suitcase each with the bare minimum items that you need in order to enjoy a brief stay away from home. A member of the family's staff rolls the suitcases behind you, and you have half a mind to tell him to just leave them on the plane.

"Worst case scenario, we should be able to sleep in Taehyung's suite," Namjoon says as you stomp toward the familiar red and white car, hoping to find Yoongi inside—hoping to drag him out by the lapels and usher him straight onto the private jet. 

You hum in response and round the back of the car, bending low to peer inside, feeling your anger rise when you realize it is only Sohee who waits for you and no other passengers. A low, impatient grumble works from your chest through your lips and you sigh, then reach for the door handle and yank. 

"Welcome back," Sohee sing-songs with a sweet smile, body rotated to face you as best as she can.

Although it feels unconvincing, you smile back, doing your best to appear as friendly as possible given the current circumstances. It is not her fault that you are so pissed off, and you do not wish to take your anger out on her. 

Namjoon surprises you by approaching the front passenger seat and sliding in, and you huff out a sigh as you reach for your seatbelt and fight the urge to insist Sohee drives now before you lose your fucking mind. 

"I would have brought the lover boy but Uiseok mentioned it was meant to be a surprise," Sohee explains as she drives off, away from the jet. "I have a feeling the surprise has already been ruined, however; he was getting into the shower shortly before I left and muttering about getting presentable."

What kind of state is Yoongi in, you wonder. Has he been drinking and doing drugs? Has he been busy with new ideas for keeping the family safe? Is his hair still the same? Has he let himself go? More than a week has passed but it feels like it has been months.

Although you have only been here once, the scenery looks familiar. Green makes up the bulk of the neon lights, with bright bursts of red, yellow, and blue, and you allow your gaze to linger on details just long enough to capture them but not long enough to try to decipher anything. You even space out long enough that when Sohee pulls past a familiar restaurant front, you feel a burst of anxiety and begin to somewhat mindlessly pick at the hem of your soft light blue sweater sleeve. 

Without a word, the three of you exit the car as soon as she pulls up across the street from the pseudo restaurant. If you had a key to the place, you would be sprinting ahead, but instead you linger back and stumble forward at times, unsure what pace your body wants to keep; unsure whether you can handle being here at all. 

Namjoon's hand finds your lower back and the warmth is nice, but everything else about this trip feels ominous and off. There is something in the air that you cannot sort out the weight of, and it makes you want to squeeze your eyes closed and curl into a ball. 

Only when the door to the fake restaurant is opened and you enter the fluorescently lit space, do you realize Namjoon and Sohee are carrying on conversation. But what they are talking about flies right past you. 

That is, until Namjoon says, "Nah, I haven't spoken to her in years."

"Hmm?" you mutter as Namjoon's warm palm guides you to the right, through the kitchen and toward the walk-in cooler. 

"She was much more soft-spoken than I expected," Sohee says, and you turn your attention to your left, to Namjoon, waiting for what he has to say next, in search of context clues because you do not want to admit that you have not been paying attention. You step into the cooler and blink as your eyes adjust to the much darker room.

Namjoon cracks a smile but his eyes are glazed over and distant as he stares ahead. "Her being soft-spoken is a mask, but so is any show of confidence. Truth be told, I don't think her father ever allowed her to learn how to express herself genuinely." He turns to you with a wink and adds, "Which is probably why Yoongi was so drawn to me while they were together," and you realize they are discussing Ryujin. 

"Was she here?" you ask as the three of you exit the cooler and you are forced to go in front of Namjoon while entering the narrow hallway. 

Sohee hums an affirmative with a shrug and halfway glances over her shoulder at you without looking past her curtain of dark hair to say, "But don't worry, Yoongi didn't seem too thrilled to see her."

The implication that you may be jealous makes you somewhat mad but you are in no mood to voice it. Sohee is not exactly someone you are eager to be on friendly or unfriendly terms with, and saying anything one way or another might sway you out of your current stance of perfect neutrality. You would rather keep your mouth shut and accomplish the task that you came here to see through without any conflict. 

You do hum, however. A burst of sound that is vaguely a drawn out consonant. Namjoon's hand rubs a small circle, and you keep your eyes on the furnishings that come into view when you enter the large chaotic maroon and gold space at the end of the hallway, doing your best to avoid looking at Sohee and anyone else who may be in the room. You can already sense that Yoongi is not present because neither Yoongi or Namjoon would be able to keep his presence a secret. 

"Like I said," Sohee yawns, tilting her head toward a hallway to the left, "in the shower."

As soon as the words leave her lips, you can hear the unmistakable sound of running water coming from a room down the hallway, and you toe out of your black sneakers and begin to make your way toward it. 

"Guest room is the third door on the right," Sohee informs and you nod while making your way to that very doorway without hesitation. You can sense without looking that Namjoon is following close behind. 

With heavy footfalls and a light sway to your step, you feel drunk—senses heightened yet somehow dull; details bright and twisted as if through a kaleidoscope. How many more times are you going to have to feel this dreaded anticipation laced with hope? This cannot be the lifestyle that you grow accustomed to and yet, you cannot stop your body from moving forward. 

The door is closed and you do not bother to knock before reaching for the small brass knob and pushing your way through. A terrible, dark part of you expects to find some sign of Yoongi's ex lingering in the room as if she has been the one to keep him company in your absence. But all you find is a small bed with the sheet pulled down on one side, one pillow that is indented and one that looks perfectly untouched, and a metal rack on which several black suits hang. 

A suitcase is sprawled open beneath a window that lets in the glow of streetlights and light reflected from the nearly full moon, and there are shirts, joggers, ties, and a square black bottle of cologne sitting on top. No sign of Ryujin, because why would there be?

The water shuts off in the bathroom, and rather than join Namjoon, who takes a seat at the foot of the bed, you yank the bathroom door open and call, "Yoongi!"

"Darling?" Yoongi responds through the fog and your legs turn soft, threatening to topple you over. 

Somehow your limbs manage to carry you forward, and you step into the yellow tiled room and come face to face with the man you love, gaze gravitating straight to his wound. Yoongi keeps the injured eye closed and you can see the stitches that run over his lid and brow and down to the apple of his cheek, along a reddened gash. Nausea rises, and you stumble to the right, hand gripping to the edge of the sink. 

"Fuck," you mutter before you can stop yourself, but Yoongi's smile does not falter.

He stands before you dripping wet and nude, and if you were not so overcome with the urge to vomit and run far, far away, your hands would be reaching to explore. How could you have done this to him? How can he smile at you as if it is nothing?

"Just a scratch," Yoongi says as he steps close, failing to assuage your anxiety. It almost angers you how nonchalant he is about it. 

"No," is all you can bring yourself to say, voice shaken and deep.

"Darling, please," Yoongi tries, stepping close with a pastel pink towel dangling from his fingertips that he makes no move to use on his wet skin. "You didn't come all this way to be too afraid to look at me, did you?"

Consonants and vowels attempt to pass through your lips as you shake your head, eyes and mouth worried and wide. "N-not— I'm—"

"Hey handsome," Namjoon says from behind you, ripping you from the trance you feel stuck in, and you twist quickly, slamming into Namjoon's chest before scrambling around him, out of his weak attempts at grasping you as you stumble back to the bed. 

All at once your body disagrees with gravity and you fall to your knees, arms reaching out to the bed but barely able to hang on. "What have I done?" you mumble weakly under your breath. 

Your head shakes listlessly while your eyes attempt to focus on the patterns of the comforter that you can feel but cannot see—lines of embroidered thread in shades of pink and red. You feel frantic and dizzy; sick to your stomach, and you are tempted to ask Sohee to drive you back to the jet. 

"I imagine it can't be easy," you hear Yoongi say sweetly in that kind and gentle voice that is reserved for you and Namjoon. "I am not offended in the least."

"Sweetheart," Namjoon calls, forcing your shoulders to lift to your ears. Why can't you disappear, just for a moment? Poof into thin air and become a dust mote while you get your bearings and stop panicking. "Did you take your medication this evening?"

It occurs to you that you have not. You manage to slide your arms down and rotate until you are on your butt on the floor with your shoulder leaning against the side of the mattress. You open the flap of your black leather purse and reach in to grab your phone, wondering why your daily alarm never went off, and you pull the device out only to realize that it has died. 

With a sigh, you rummage further in search of a little square pill packet. Before you can ask for water, you hear the bathroom sink running and a moment later, Namjoon emerges and hands you a small, dark yellow glass cup, which you reach for with shaking hands. You take a gulp of tepid water before setting the cup onto the floor and ripping open not only a packet of your medication, but a packet of Xanax, as well. 

"Would you prefer to stay here for the night or in Taehyung's suite?" Namjoon asks as he crouches before you, lifting a hand to gently rub the backs of his knuckles against your arm. 

"I wanna go home," you mutter weakly before knocking the pills from your palm to your mouth and swallowing them down with another gulp of water. Your eyes stare ahead to the side of Yoongi's open suitcase and the pile of black linen that pours from it.

"We could go home if you wish," Yoongi says, legs coming into the periphery.

You drink the last of the water and clench the small glass tight in your hand, then say, "I'm sorry," while closing your eyes.

"There's no need to apologize," Yoongi responds, voice close as if he, too, is crouched beside you. 

You keep your eyes closed as you mutter, "I didn't mean to react so poorly. It's been a long day…a long fucking week." 

"Care to talk about it?" Yoongi asks.

Namjoon's knuckles continue to run up and down your arm, pushing and pulling gently at the fabric of your sweater, and you squeeze your eyes tighter and shake your head. "I want to sleep."

"Here or in Taehyung's suite?" Namjoon asks once more. 

"Or in the jet?" Yoongi adds. 

What you really want is to turn around and go home. You feel exhausted and seeing Yoongi is much harder than you expected. But it feels like a waste of time and resources to fly all the way here only to go straight back, so you concede to a night in Hong Kong and even allow yourself to consider doing a little sightseeing tomorrow if the three of you feel up to it. 

"The suite," you finally say, and Namjoon stops caressing you in order to stand and place a phone call. 

"Darling," Yoongi tries, and you finally pry your eyes open, finding that you have to blink a couple of times. When you turn to him, his injured eye is still closed and his open eye is downturned and concerned. "Is it really that horrible to see me?"

"No," you admit, because you really ought to stop being such a baby.

"I've missed you so much, but if I am being honest, this is one of the reasons I have been keeping a distance."

Guilt overtakes your fear and you suddenly feel terrible. "Oh."

"I thought that maybe if I healed first, you would want to look at me like you used to," Yoongi says with a frown. 

You begin to peel yourself off the end of the bed and rotate fully to face Yoongi, who crouches in just a pair of black briefs with the pink towel slung around his shoulders. His hair hangs like a damp black curtain around his pretty face, cheeks a little flushed, and you feel the sudden urge to crawl into his arms. 

"It's not that I don't want to look at you," you respond weakly while Namjoon paces around the bathroom speaking into his phone, presumably to Taehyung. "I just feel so awful, and seeing the injury is a reminder of how I fucked up."

Yoongi sighs and his lips turn up to a soft smile. "Darling, I can never hold an accident against you and Namjoon. Please know that I am not upset with you."

"Alright," you respond, unsure whether you are fully ready to accept what Yoongi says, but willing to at least try.

Namjoon returns and says, "Tae's calling the hotel now."

"I took a Xanax," you admit with a frown and both men begin to chuckle. 

"Do you want to try to eat something before you get too sleepy?" Namjoon asks, and you shake your head, making his smile widen. "Alright, then we'll order room service once we get there, because I definitely need to eat something."

The rest of the evening is a blur, in part because your emotions are all over the place, and in part because the medication completely dulls those emotions as you begin to shut down. Yoongi takes no time at all to get dressed and pack his suitcase once Taehyung calls with the confirmation that he has booked his suite for the three of you. 

Rather than ask one of The Tigers to drive you to the suite, Yoongi calls a driver who picks you up in the same type of armored vehicle that the men drive back home. You close your eyes once you are settled in the backseat and barely register Namjoon carrying you from the sedan to the penthouse and tucking you into bed. 

Thrice you wake up—once to pee and once because you hear a loud sound from the main room of the suite, you presume from the television. And then you wake up to the feeling of the bed dipping on either side of you and warm arms wrapping you in an embrace that feels like home.

You are somehow the last to wake up in the morning, and you find both Yoongi and Namjoon getting dressed in black tees tucked into black slacks. Yoongi wears his black eyepatch and has the top half of his hair pulled into a bun atop his head while the rest hangs almost to his shoulders.

"Are we leaving?" you ask, catching the attention of both men, who turn to you with smiles.

"Is it alright that we do?" Yoongi responds, threading a black leather belt through the loops of his slacks. "I know we have never done proper sightseeing here, but I am somewhat eager to get home."

"We can go home," you say as you sit up, stretching your stiff limbs and feeling groggy from getting too much sleep. 

Namjoon adjusts the Rolex around his wrist, then approaches with a smile, kneeling on the edge of the bed to lean close and give you a kiss, which you meet him halfway for. "After we have some breakfast," he says, and you smile widely and nod. 

Part of you laments going home already because you do not wish to return to a world where Yoongi has responsibilities. You imagine how nice it would be to stay in bed all day with the two of them and it tugs at your heartstrings. 

What would it be like to have a couple of days off like regular people? Sure, Yoongi has the money and influence to go anywhere and do anything, but it only feels like an illusion of freedom.

By the time you roll out of bed and stumble into a pair of black leggings and tug on a black sweater, room service is delivered and causing the entire suite to smell of eggs, meats, sweet breads, and coffee. The three of you share an easygoing breakfast with Namjoon and Yoongi discussing the deal that was struck while you space out and stare ahead at the table of food. 

And once you are finished eating, the three of you head back to the airport for a nice flight just short of four hours that involves the two of them talking over the same demon hunting anime that you struggled to pay attention to the first time.

Hoseok greets the three of you at the airport, and you are pleased to see his smiling face. You even surprise him with a hug when he exits the vehicle to hug the men, and you assure him that you have been taking good care of the pajamas he so graciously gifted you.

"So, the deal," Hoseok prompts as soon as everyone is settled, with Namjoon in the front seat and Yoongi joining you in the back.

"The girls are going to back off," Yoongi responds through a sigh as if he is bored of talking about this already. "We are keeping the dock in Busan and I am offering them a higher cut to keep them off our asses. With Jimin still injured, there is nobody I trust to oversee Serendipity aside from Jeongguk, so I have offered it to Ryujin as a consolation prize."

"Eager to keep Jeongguk home?" Namjoon asks.

Yoongi hums in agreement. "We just got him back here full time and I would like to keep it that way. Once Jimin does wake up, he will need all the help he can get at Paradise."

"And did they have anything to say about the attacks?" Hoseok asks, causing you to feel uneasy.

Yoongi hums and takes his time responding, reaching across the empty middle seat to find your hand and hold onto it. You lace your fingers with his and stare down at your conjoined hands, waiting for him to continue.

"Ryujin apologized and admitted she was being a brat. She had the gall to say she was only sending out pawns to shake things up a bit, and that she never expected any of us to get hurt."

"Fucking bitch," Namjoon grits just barely loud enough for you to hear, and although you agree, you are surprised to hear him say that.

With another sigh, Yoongi adds, "She seems very remorseful for Jimin and offered a handsome sum of money to assist with his hospital bills, but I turned her down. The last thing I need is to give her a reason to hold anything else over my head…plus I don't need her fucking money. When she promised never to attack again, it felt genuine, but I suppose we will have to see how it goes."

"And Hyungseo?" Hoseok asks.

"It seems Ryujin has given over responsibility to Hyungseo but still calls the shots in many ways. I can't quite figure the two of them out."

Namjoon turns enough to look over his shoulder at Yoongi. "What do you mean?"

"They seem…close," Yoongi says, gently squeezing your hand as he pauses. 

Hoseok's voice is dripping with intrigue. "Close, how?"

"Too close to just be friends," Yoongi responds, "but maybe I am just reading into things too much. Either way, she kept her distance from me when we met, so whatever Hyungseo is doing, it is keeping her distracted."

"Thank god," you mutter before you can stop yourself, earning another squeeze from Yoongi's hand. 

Before anything else can be said, Hoseok makes a right turn and you hear the telltale sign of the metal gates scraping open, gaining you access to the mansion. And as soon as Hoseok pulls into the driveway, your eyes land on a sleek dark grey Porsche that sits in front of the garage. Atop the sports car is a giant red bow, and you know before asking that it is a gift for you.

"We're still two days away," Yoongi explains, referring to your birthday as he squeezes your hand once again, "but we couldn't resist."

You are so focused on the Porsche that you do not notice Jeongguk until Hoseok pulls up beside the car and he comes walking over from the mansion's front door, twirling the key fob around his index finger. 

Jeongguk is dressed in satin as if he is headed off to Paradise next, and the thought makes you feel sad; you wonder if they will bother to open it back up before Jimin recovers. The feeling does not have a chance to linger, however, because before you can hone in on the thought for too long, Jeongguk is opening your door with an impatient smile, eyes wide as if wondering what the hell is taking you so long to unbuckle your seatbelt. 

"Dollface," he says, kicking up butterflies and anxiety in your tummy.

"Gguk," you respond softly as you reach for the seatbelt and undo it. 

Everyone else is out of the vehicle by the time you are shoving Jeongguk out of the way and placing your feet on the ground. Your legs are tired from sitting for so many hours, and you stand on your toes to stretch before reaching for the key to your new car, which Jeongguk predictably holds over his head. 

With a huff, you reach, but it is no use, making you frustrated enough to shove at his chest with your palms, barely making him stumble backward. Thankfully Namjoon is on your side, and he reaches for the key fob and frees it from Jeongguk's grasp, making the youngest pout. 

"Thanks, Joonbug," you say with a wink as he hands it over, leaning close for a kiss before he lets you have it. 

The car is gorgeous, but there is only one problem…

"I haven't driven in years," you admit sheepishly, feeling your palm begin to sweat as it grips onto the key fob. "I don't know if I even remember how."

Namjoon says, "We'll teach you," at the same time Jeongguk says, "We can take her for a spin," making your cheeks warm. 

You turn to the left to find Yoongi—who has been awfully quiet—leaning against the nose of Hoseok's sedan. He smiles and nods his chin to Namjoon, saying, "He's an excellent teacher," and that settles it. Or, perhaps you will allow both men to give you guidance, and Yoongi if he wants. It takes a village, and all that.  

Although you are thrilled to be trusted with this symbol of freedom, you are also swallowing back so many emotions. This car has to have cost them quite a lot.

"She's armored," Yoongi says, pulling your attention back to him. As he steps toward the car and rubs his palm over the curve of its hood, you laugh to yourself over the way he is already personifying it. 

But then his words sink in, and you understand the gravity of them. Your concern must show, because he cocks his head, searching your face before adding, "As an extra precaution. We armor every car that we buy, darling; no need to worry."

"Of course," you mutter, returning your gaze to the car, then looking around to the men present. Your eyes trail from Namjoon to Jeongguk as you say, "Thank you," before returning to Yoongi.

"Yoongi bought it," Namjoon says playfully. "We just helped pick it out."

"It's beautiful."

"This is the first of many gifts," Yoongi says as he approaches, dragging his fingertips along the hood of the car until he no longer can and letting his arm fall to his side. "You will have plenty to unwrap in the coming days."

Your heart pounds and you smile, taking a step toward Yoongi and reaching for his belt loops, giving him a little tug that makes his smile widen. 

"And what if I just want to unwrap you?" You ask, causing a sigh and a groan from two of the four men present.

"This is my cue to leave," Hoseok announces while Jeongguk mutters, "Take me with you, hyung," and you laugh softly, eyes never leaving Yoongi.

He says, "That can be arranged, darling," and you raise your eyebrows, eager to find out just how much he means it. It has been far too long since you have gotten to enjoy him and now that you are home, you would like nothing more than to climb into bed.

"Alright, peace out," Jeongguk shouts, followed by the chime of a bell, and you turn to find him riding away on the mint green bicycle that feels more like a thing of legend than a real object. 

Without saying goodbye, Hoseok simply drives off, leaving you, Yoongi, and Namjoon alone with your suitcases standing on the driveway. 

"Shall we?" Namjoon asks, and you nod, turning your gaze to him as he begins to unlock the mansion. 

"Yes, please," Yoongi responds, taking your hand and leading you toward the door. 

"The luggage," you say, pulling toward where the suitcases sit, but Namjoon says, "I got it. You focus on unwrapping your present," with a wink.

You are pulled up the steps into the mansion, stopping just fast enough for both you and Yoongi to kick out of your shoes—Yoongi never dropping your hand—then through the mansion and up the stairs to the second floor. Yoongi yanks one of the bedroom doors open and tugs you straight to the bed, then he spins and releases your hand to take you gently by the face and pull you in for a kiss. 

Yoongi's lips are soft and his scent is familiar, causing you to instantly relax into the feeling and lift your hands to rub over his ribs and chest, palms gracing over clothed nipples until he gasps against you. When he mutters, "Missed you," it is into your mouth and chased by his eager tongue, giving you no time to respond. 

As Yoongi begins to pull at your clothing and undress you hastily, you close your eyes and sway to the movements, lifting your arms over your head and slowly lowering them back to his chest. The air hits your bare skin, causing you to shiver, and when he eagerly shoves at your leggings, you begin to giggle, opening your eyes to find him staring at you with his one good eye.

"You're so beautiful," Yoongi mutters softly, squeezing at your heart.

All you can do is complain, "Stop," but he shakes his head and says, "It's true."

Footsteps travel up the stairs and you hear the sounds of small wheels rolling over marble and softening over a rug before the noise ends. You expect Namjoon to join the two of you, but then the sounds of slippers slapping against the steps recede, likely to continue collecting suitcases. 

Yoongi continues to paw at you, leaving the thin lace bra and panties on and pulling you at the hips to get impossibly closer while you begin to untuck Yoongi's black tee and gather the bottom hem before lifting the garment over his head. His hair is a bit wild when you toss the shirt away and you reach to push your fingers into it, mussing it up just enough to make him laugh and shake his head. 

"You're so beautiful," you say with a grin, watching as Yoongi blushes so slightly.

Namjoon's footsteps return and you begin to undo Yoongi's belt, slotting a thigh between his to apply just enough pressure to his crotch to make him hiss. Hands reach around you to assist with undressing Yoongi, and when his pants are dropped to the floor, you turn so Yoongi can assist you with undressing Namjoon.

Without words exchanged, you kiss and touch, caught between bodies, eyes cloudy. The three of you tangle together on the bed and slowly explore one another as if the time spent apart has made your fingers and lips uncertain despite following expertly charted paths. 

You make love, taking turns to focus two on one at a time, worshiping to the point of overwhelm, murmuring soft promises and professions of love. Your heart feels full and your limbs light as a feather, tingling from pleasure as you drift to sleep, unsure how much time has passed save for the gradually shifting light that comes in from outside. 

Even from the moment you wake up, you feel emotionally heavy. Your sky is overcast and the clouds are thick and threatening to burst, unlike the bright evening that greets you from outside. 

Yoongi and Namjoon are fully dressed and curled on the couch watching something on the television while Namjoon plays with Yoongi's hair. As you stir and stretch, both men notice, and Yoongi begins to sit up with a loud yawn, stretching his limbs. 

"Hey guys…" you begin, uncertain. Lately you have really been wanting to visit Jimin. And you are not sure why asking for it is so difficult, but you swallow thickly as the two of them watch you with soft, patient expressions, and you ask, "Do you think we could go see Jimin?"

Yoongi beams and Namjoon nods, and you let out the breath that felt trapped in your lungs. 

"I can call Tae and find out whether we could go right now if you want to," Yoongi suggests, and you nod, stretching one more time.

You hobble out of bed pad over to the closet to change out of the joggers and tee you slept in only to grab a new set. Your sweaters are in your own closet, and you make your way out of the master suite and over to your room, feeling like a zombie with legs that are too heavy with each step. 

Without turning on a light, you reach into the dark space and feel for a cotton sweater, yanking the sleeve out enough to see that it is a nice forest green and then yanking it harder to free it from its hanger. Since you are already in your bedroom, you brush your teeth in your own sink, then you haphazardly yank the sweater over your head and make your way back to where the men are. 

Yoongi and Namjoon stand beside the door to the master suite, and you nod to indicate that you are ready despite nobody asking, then the three of you make your way down the stairs to the main hall. You slide into some black sneakers and open the front door, greeted by a cold wind and warm sun. Winter is on the horizon. 

The walk to Taehyung's place is quiet, save for the crunch of gravel and fallen leaves underfoot. You hold Yoongi's hand on the right and Namjoon's on the left, letting go of Namjoon when you come out of the clearing at Seokjin and Hoseok's home to wave hello to the two of them who smoke on their front stoops, dressed dapperly in black and white. 

Jeongguk is also outside when you come upon his property, and he asks whether you mind that he joins you, stepping in line behind you three and filling the air with weed smoke and light conversation about the quickly changing weather. 

Once you arrive at Taehyung's house, you feel antsy. You have never seen someone in a coma before and you are scared of what you may find. 

Taehyung greets you at the front door, taking the joint from Jeongguk and offering it around before stamping it out. Being high will only make you sleepier, so saying no is easy. 

He leads you all downstairs to a large fluorescently lit space, to the right past several doors. "It is likely that he can hear you, so try not to say anything you wouldn't want to hear while in a coma," he instructs, and you swallow thickly and nod, steeling yourself for whatever state Jimin could be in. 

Only, as you enter the room and approach the bed, you find Jimin looking just as he always does—angelic and beautiful. He lays on his back with his eyes closed and his arms at his sides with various tubes attached to his hands, and there is a steady beeping coming from a monitor on the other side of the bed. 

Chairs already surround him, and as you step closer, Taehyung calls out, "You have company today, Jiminah!"

The way his silence and stillness tugs at you makes tears break instantly. You sit in the center chair closest to where his hand rests, and you take it gently in both of yours, careful not to pull on anything attached to it. 

"Hey, Jimin," you say weakly, fighting the tremble behind each word, "I've missed you a lot. I'm sorry I haven't visited yet."

The others take their seats, Yoongi and Namjoon to your right and Jeongguk and Taehyung to your left. They greet Jimin and tell him the good news about the deal that went through with The Tigers and the Busan girls. Yoongi tells him about your upcoming birthday and you tell him that you wish he could be there as tears pour down your cheeks. 

It feels surreal. Jimin appears completely unharmed and yet he lays there, succumbing to and healing from a pretty serious injury. Taehyung informs the group that the wound on his shoulder from the bullet is healing nicely, but that they are just waiting for him to wake up. He sounds hopeful that Jimin could wake up any time—that his brain is functioning and every once in a while, his fingers ever so slightly twitch. 

The mood is somber but also happy, and you are glad to finally see your friend again. Taehyung and Jeongguk offer everyone a drink, to which you all agree, and Namjoon follows the two of them out, leaving just you and Yoongi at his side. Your hands sweat from holding onto Jimin's so tightly but you refuse to let go. 

Yoongi places a hand over yours, and when you turn to him, tears fill his eyes. Then he blinks and they run down his cheeks, followed by a sniffle. 

"Baby," you mutter and Yoongi shakes his head, wiping at his cheeks with his free hand and saying, "It's alright. He'll come back to us."

The two of you sit a little while longer and the others return with glasses of whiskey. They regale you with stories of the crew from the early days, commenting on how young and innocent Jimin has always seemed but especially back then, and you have a hard time believing his soft cheeks wide eyes could have ever been more cherubic than they are now.

By the time you all decide to head back home you feel much lighter, and with a kiss to Jimin's forehead and cheek, you promise him that you will see him again soon. And then you exit the room beside Namjoon with Yoongi and the terror twins close behind. 

"Do you shave him?" Namjoon asks once you are out of the room.

"Of course I do," Taehyung responds as if offended. "Can't have our angel laying there with a beard sprouting from his face. He would kill me."

You laugh in tandem with the group and imagine Taehyung shaving Jimin's pretty face with a straight razor, or even a knife. The five of you convene upstairs and have one last drink, then you head home for the day feeling a bit tipsy from enjoying so much whiskey on an empty stomach.

"Pizza," Namjoon announces once the mansion is in sight, and you and Yoongi hum in agreement. Pizza sounds amazing.

After a post-pizza nap, you wake up with the desire to touch and kiss the men who hold you on either side. Yoongi is pressed against your back and you arch your body to rub your ass against his crotch while your lips and teeth find Namjoon's neck. 

Namjoon is the first to stir, groaning and sighing as you suck and kiss harder, right hand drifting across his chest and down to his cock which is already erect. He stretches and begins to shift around, pressing against you and muttering, "What's this, sweetheart?"

"Need you," you whine in return, still on the edge of sleep but eager to shake it away as one hand gropes Namjoon and the other reaches behind to paw at Yoongi.

Yoongi finally grumbles, and you look over your shoulder at his pretty, groggy face while Namjoon begins to pull off his clothing and settle on his side. You allow Namjoon to undress you, kicking your joggers and panties down under the comforter while your shirt is tugged over your head. 

With Yoongi waking up and stretching his limbs, you roll onto your side to face him and begin pulling at his clothing. His eyes open and he cracks a sly smile, saying, "Well hello, darling," in a tone that is extra gravely from sleep. 

"I need you, kitten. How should we have you?" you ask, fingers moving to his button and zipper, eyes never leaving his face.

Yoongi's lips open but no sound comes out, and you kiss along his chin and neck, reaching your hand into his slacks to give him a squeeze over his briefs. 

"Excellent question," Namjoon says from behind you, mouth dragging over your shoulders and neck.

You swish your bare ass against Namjoon, causing him to hiss and groan, hand gripping onto your hip as if desperate for you to be closer. You shove at Yoongi's slacks until he finally begins to kick them down, then you yank at his t-shirt, giggling as he groans half asleep and struggles to help pull it over his head.  

"I have an idea of how I want the two of you," Namjoon continues as his hand moves from your hip and gently grazes over your labia in the faintest touch. 

"Oh?" you ask with a shudder, eyes on Yoongi, who settles on his side.

Yoongi leans in close and slots your bottom lip between his, sucking and nipping hard enough to make you groan. You open your lips for him to explore but he sticks to the bottom one, licking and teasing it with his teeth and tongue. 

"I want you to sit on my face, sweetheart," Namjoon says, voice deep and low beside your ear. You feel him reach around you and begin to stroke Yoongi, who whimpers against your lips. "And I want Yoongi to fuck you while I eat you out."

Before you have a chance to say anything, Yoongi deepens the kiss, licking against your lips before probing his tongue eagerly against yours. Namjoon's mouth finds your neck and you gasp and shiver into the feeling, body turning to hot wax between them, melting into the mattress.

"On your knees," Namjoon instructs, and Yoongi breaks the kiss to smile against your lips.

You do as you are told, rotating onto your knees while Namjoon scoots down the bed away from the pillows. Once he is settled you crawl over to his head.

Your panties sit bunched up beside Namjoon’s knees and you grab them and reach back to shove them into Namjoon's face, giggling to yourself as he groans but opens his mouth to accept his fate. Then you settle back onto your knees and straddle Namjoon's head with your hands beside his knees, keeping your hips lifted so that he has to reach for you. 

It is futile to be a tease with two men who are much stronger than you, but you try your best, lifting your weight when Namjoon attempts to pull you into place, giggling and trembling when he gives your ass a playful smack before somewhat roughly forcing you to sit back. 

Your panties are still bunched up around his chin when he holds you in place and begins to lick and suck at your pussy lips and clit, sending a burst of arousal through you. Behind you, the bed dips, and you do your best to sit tall with your back straight, hands anchored against your thighs for stability. 

Namjoon's talented mouth and the sounds he makes when he savors you—hums and groans of satisfaction—work you up quickly, and with each lick and suck your body quakes with pleasure. Yoongi's arms wrap around you, hands claiming and squeezing your breasts while he gets close enough for you to bow your spine and rest your head against his shoulder. 

"Just look at you," he mutters against your neck, teeth grazing over your skin and adding to the overwhelm of bliss. "I want you to cum before I fuck you. Can you do that for me, darling?"

"Yes, sir," you all but moan as the steady tongue and lips work you over and send you close to the edge. 

"That's our good girl," Yoongi praises, pinching and rolling your nipples between his thumbs and index fingers. "Always so perfect for us."

The way the two of them make you feel has your head spinning. Yoongi's words of praise rasped in his deep voice while his hands tease; Namjoon humming and groaning while he pushes you quickly toward orgasm, gripping your legs so tight that you have no choice but to stay in place; everything is a lot. 

"I'm gonna cum," you whimper as your quakes deepen, making your body jerk uncontrollably. 

"Of course you are," Yoongi teases, nipping at your neck, making you feel somewhat humiliated by how he always has to tease you for being easy. "Make a mess of our Joonie."

The thought of Namjoon's handsome face glistening with your cum is the push you need to plummet over the edge, and you bow your back further, digging your head into Yoongi while broken sobs and moans fall from your lips. You cum hard, pressing your pussy against Namjoon's mouth as your body trembles through each heaved breath. 

Namjoon lays his tongue flat for you to use and each movement drags your lips and clit over it, feeling heavenly. That is, until the overstimulation kicks in. 

"Fuck," you whimper as your hips continue to convulse, unable to settle and relax. 

"Bend," Yoongi instructs, releasing your breasts to rub his hands over your back and shoulders only to begin pressing you forward. 

You obey, leaning forward until you are down on your elbows and close enough to Namjoon's cock to begin teasing the tip with your lips and tongue. Namjoon moans and you giggle as his dick jumps from the gentle touch. Precum dribbles from his slit, inviting you to lap it up and tease him with your lips.

Namjoon's lips and tongue continue to pleasure you, and you are thankful that from this position you are able to relax a little more, settling on one elbow while you lift your other hand to slowly stroke his length. Namjoon is vocal, moaning and groaning muffled sounds against your cunt that encourage you to not to stop.

Two hands grip your ass and you expect to feel the blunt tip of Yoongi's cock. In fact, you are so eager to feel him that you clench around nothing in anticipation. When Yoongi's tongue greets you instead, probing into your dripping hole and then dragging up, over your ass, you squeal and dig your face into Namjoon's pelvis. 

Two tongues as skilled as these are dangerous, and you do your best to breathe through the quick pace at which your pleasure builds and threatens to drown you. Yoongi focuses on your asshole, licking and teasing, digging the very tip of his tongue inside and making each breath come out ragged and quick despite your best efforts.

"Oh my god," you moan as the pleasure feels too intense you fear you might not make it out of this alive. You knew it would feel amazing to be devoured by the two of them, but never could you have imagined it would be this good. 

When Yoongi's tongue laps over you one last time and you feel the mattress dip while he adjusts behind you, there is a brief moment in which you are disappointed. But then his cock rubs over your entrance and you feel the eager thrill fill you once more. 

However, before Yoongi presses into you, he drags himself lower. Namjoon's lips leave your cunt and you hear a gasp and a hiss come from Yoongi that makes your heart pound. Yoongi holds onto your hips, digging his weight into you as he thrusts downward and you wish you could watch his cock disappear between Namjoon's full, pretty lips. 

Then Yoongi spreads and slightly lifts you, and before you have a chance to anticipate how he may feel, he thrusts deep in one swift movement, spearing you wide. The stretch makes you shout and whimper, and you bury your head into Namjoon's soft thigh skin while Yoongi pulls back and snaps forward again and again.

Sobs and broken moans fall from your lips, and a second pair of hands grabs your thighs and holds you in place. You feel Namjoon's lips and tongue drag over your clit in broad, sloppy strokes, and any ounce of sanity you had left crumbles away. 

Namjoon's skin is hot and moist against your lips, and you lift your head just enough to take a mouthful of his cock and do your best to suck while Yoongi fucks you. Precum leaks from Namjoon's tip, heady on your tongue, and his thighs quake as he moans loud and eagerly against you, urging you to suck and stroke as purposefully as you can.

"God damn," Yoongi groans as he gives your ass a firm stinging smack, causing a muffled squeal from your throat. "I missed you two so fucking much."

Namjoon groans, "Gonna cum soon," against you.

"I want you both to cum at the same time," Yoongi instructs. Luckily for him, you are very close. 

It is almost comical the way you and Namjoon both suck and lick with a little more intention, eager to push the other over the edge. And it works. 

You feel yourself climbing higher and higher toward the precipice of bliss, and you are right on the edge when a wet finger rubs over your asshole with a hint of pressure. A squeal sputters from your lips, and you drool around Namjoon's throbbing cock. 

"Fuck," Namjoon attempts to warn, but there is no need. You can feel him pulsate against your lips, and you relax your mouth while stroking his shaft in anticipation. 

Namjoon's deep voice cracks as the first spurt of cum hits your tongue, and he muffles his voice against your clit and sucks hard enough to make the dam break once more. Orgasm rushes over you so intensely that you struggle to keep your head steady and end up with ropes of his warm release on your nose and lips. 

"That's it, baby," Yoongi praises, pressing the tip of his finger deeper into your ass and intensifying every little sensation. 

"Fuck!" you scream, drool and cum dribbling down your chin. Yoongi fucks at the perfect angle to make you feel like you might squirt, and you attempt to warn Namjoon, but all you can get out is, "I'm gonna—oh fuck, I'm—"

Yoongi's grip is firm and his hips are punishing. Your body goes limp before it tenses once more and pleasure rushes from you, covering Namjoon. You think you hear deep moans and deeper praise, but your pulse is loud and heavy in your ears and all of reality seems to slip away from you. 

It is a mercy that Namjoon stops licking your pussy and slides back until you are straddling his chest. Little by little, your senses return, and Yoongi adjusts his position, anchoring one foot on the mattress as moans pour from his lips. 

You can hear Namjoon's mouth working Yoongi over, undoubtedly eating his ass, and you wish so badly that you could see it. But hearing it is enough, and you grip onto Namjoon's thighs for stability as Yoongi continues to fuck you at a punishing pace. 

Slowly, Namjoon begins to slide down the bed, out from under you, making you sit up and attempt to give him space. Yoongi very gently pulls you by the shoulders and forces you to stay sitting high on your knees while Namjoon repositions himself on his knees, facing you. His face and neck are drenched and his short dark hair is a wild mess. 

You weakly lift your hand to reach for him, beckoning him close. Namjoon smiles and knee-walks closer, taking you by the chin and rubbing a thumb over the cum that has begun to dry against your chin. "I see we both made a mess," he teases, and you nod as best as you can while moaning through Yoongi's deep, quick thrusts. 

"Fuck, I'm close," Yoongi grits between his teeth.

Namjoon licks his lips with a smirk. "Want you to cum in my mouth, baby," he instructs with his eyes on Yoongi but his lips closing in on yours. 

You lean ever so slightly forward and press your lips to Namjoon, moans and sobs falling with each quick exhale, some of which he swallows and some he merely licks around. Your tongue darts out weakly in an attempt to return Namjoon's sloppy kiss, but you struggle with each movement, hypnotized by pleasure. 

"Joon," Yoongi moans, hands gripping you tightly while he pulls his hips all the way back, pulling out and shifting his body to the side. 

You are held in place while Namjoon drops to his hands and leans forward. Although you turn your head to the left in an attempt to watch, all you see is Namjoon's head bobbing while Yoongi trembles and muffles his mouth against your shoulder. 

Yoongi moans and sobs and Namjoon groans, all the while you catch your breath, sitting in place until you are given instruction for what to do next; unsure whether you could control your body if you tried. 

The room quiets and Yoongi leans a little further into his hold on you before sitting back, causing you both to fall onto your butts against the mattress. When Namjoon returns, taking your face in his hands and pulling you into a slow, deep kiss, his tongue is coated in Yoongi's release, and you lean into it and savor him. 

"More?" Namjoon asks against your lips.

You feel exhausted, but you definitely want more of these two. Anything they have in mind. 

"I wanna fuck Yoongi. How does that sound to you, sweetheart?"

It sounds amazing. "I want to watch you fuck Yoongi."

Namjoon sits back with a grin and nods, then he pats the bed off to the side from where you sit and says, "Come right here, baby. You can watch me stretch him."

It takes a moment for Yoongi to release you, and as soon as you crawl to your spot in the center of the bed, all the sweat and cum begins to turn cold, and you settle with your legs pretzeled and reach for the comforter to drape over your shoulders. 

Namjoon crawls past you to the small table on Yoongi's side of the bed while he instructs Yoongi to get on his hands and knees and crawl just enough that his ass is in view—perky and soft. He settles on his elbows with his forehead pressed into the mattress, and Namjoon opens a drawer and closes it, then returns with a clear half-empty bottle of lube. 

With a chance to settle and catch your breath, you are eager for more. But first, you want to watch Namjoon pull Yoongi apart. You have no idea where you may come into this equation, but you are unconcerned; they will make space for you. 

Namjoon sits behind Yoongi, takes his ass in both hands—dropping the bottle of lube to the mattress—and leans forward to lick over his rim, groaning and devouring him the way he devours you. Yoongi moans into the sheets, reaching for the bunched up comforter and squeezing it in his fist and you feel hypnotized watching Namjoon's tongue lap over him in firm, broad strokes. 

The vision is sinful, stirring arousal deep as you watch as Namjoon's hands squeeze and smack, making Yoongi moan and shake with each movement. Then you watch as Namjoon slicks up his fingers and buries them deep inside Yoongi one at a time. 

You wonder what it feels like to finger Yoongi and you get onto your hands and knees and crawl close, shivering as the comforter falls away, leaving you bare. Three of Namjoon's fingers disappear inside him, and you sit close on your knees, watching intently while reaching first to cup and squeeze at his soft ass and thighs, and then to tease the stretched skin of his stuffed rim with your fingertips. 

"Can I?" you ask, rubbing a finger between two of Namjoon's to slick the tip with lube and gently prod. 

Namjoon twists his hand and pulls nearly all the way out, pointing his knuckles downward and giving you an opening in between his fingers that are in almost a v-shape. You lean close and dribble spit onto his fingers, and then you slide your pointer to fit snug with his and slowly join him in stretching Yoongi wide.

"Oh my god," Namjoon groans as Yoongi trembles and sobs. He feels warm, tight, and soft, and you do your best to match Namjoon's pace pulling out and back in, out and back in. 

You ask, "You like the way we feel, kitten?" as you reach with your free hand to gather the precum on Namjoon's hard, neglected cock and give it a stroke that matches in pace. 

Both men moan and you pull your gaze from Yoongi's greedy ass to look at Namjoon who stares at you with a hunger that only excites you more. You bite your lip and give him your widest, cutest fuck-me-eyes and giggle when his expression morphs from pleasure. 

"You are so fucking sexy," Namjoon groans as he pulls your fingers out completely and takes your hand to lift it to your mouth. "Taste him," he commands, and you obey, lifting your finger to your lips and darting out the tip of your tongue.

Yoongi is heady and tangy-sweet, but his delicate natural flavor is masked too much by the artificially sweet lube. Still, you suck your finger into your mouth while holding eye contact with Namjoon, then you place your palm onto the bed and lean toward Yoongi, eager to taste him a little more. 

You feel a bit shy as you drag your tongue over his rim, but the way he moans and clenches around nothing urges you to do more. Namjoon slowly crawls forward, dick still trapped in your hand, and you spin your tongue over Yoongi, letting drool gather and drip to make him nice and sloppy. 

Namjoon settles with his cock so close to your mouth that you turn and take the tip, sucking in your cheeks just hard enough to make him whine before turning back to Yoongi to lick and tease. You can tell by the quick huffs and sounds Namjoon produces that he is growing impatient, and you continue to alternate sucking and licking until you feel satisfied with how worked up they both become. 

With one hand, you search for the bottle of lube while the other strokes Namjoon against your tongue, which is held out flat and drooling. Then you give his tip one last suck and sit back, popping open the bottle and squirting a generous amount of the sticky liquid onto your palm. 

You warm the lube in both hands and then smear some on Namjoon and some on Yoongi, dipping the tips of your fingers inside him to get him nice and ready, grinning when he trembles and sobs. And you stay on your hands and knees and rest your cheek against Yoongi's hip, spreading his cheeks wide and staring up at Namjoon as he shifts forward and lines the two of them up. 

Namjoon towers over the two of you like a god and you hold eye contact as he slowly begins to press his cock inside. Yoongi quakes and gasps, and you lift your head up just enough to watch as Namjoon carves him open. 

"Wow," you mutter, mesmerized by the sight of Yoongi's tight, perky ass swallowing a cock so big. 

With a deep groan, Namjoon asks, "Like what you see, baby?" 

You look up at him through your eyelashes and nod, responding, "Yes, daddy," in the cutest voice you can muster. Then you sit up on your knees and begin to crawl to Yoongi's head. 

Namjoon begins to fuck Yoongi hard and fast, punching sharp breaths from him and making his voice break. You sit on your knees in front of Yoongi and take a handful of his soft, sweaty hair, then you lift his face out of the blankets and force him to look at you. 

The scar takes you by surprise, making your stomach churn, but you quickly notice the rest of his fucked out, reddened face, and you lift your other hand to slot two lube-sticky fingers into his mouth giving him something to suck on. 

Yoongi sputters and sobs, lips gripping tightly to your fingers while his eyelids flutter, barely open. You very gently say, "Eyes on me, baby," and delight when he opens them wide. 

"Do you like how daddy fucks you?" you ask, giving his hair a gentle lift, causing his eyes to momentarily roll back before he focuses them on you. 

He attempts to say, "Yes, baby," but the words jumble cutely around your fingers.  

A loud smack makes Yoongi squeal, spit sputtering from his lips, and you glance up at Namjoon who stares down at you with a crooked grin. "I have an idea," he says, and you lift your eyebrows and cock your head.

"An idea?"

Namjoon hums. 

"And what is that, daddy?"

With a deep groan, Namjoon slowly pulls out, causing Yoongi's face to screw up with pleasure and then impatience. You keep your fingers nestled between his doll lips, watching as he breathes deeply through his nose, then you turn your attention back to Namjoon. 

"Yoongi baby, lay down on your back."

You slide your fingers from Yoongi's mouth and sit back, watching him flop down to the mattress and roll onto his back. Namjoon grabs his hips roughly and yanks him closer, spreading his legs wide. He wastes no time sliding his dick back inside, saying, "Now you sit on his face."

"Oooh, yes, daddy," you say excitedly, crawling over Yoongi's face. His cock slaps against his tummy, leaking precum, and you settle against him and waste no time reaching for it, eager to suck. 

Yoongi grabs onto your hips and wastes no time licking your pussy, surprising you with his sudden burst of energy as he reaches with one hand to finger you while squeezing your ass in the other. You attempt to moan as you swallow his length, sucking eagerly the moment a mix of his and your fluids grace your taste buds. 

You keep your eyes open to watch Namjoon's cock disappear inside him, and you make loud, needy sounds with the hope of urging one of them to cum again. This time, you want to be the one to swallow. 

Only Namjoon has other plans.

"On second thought, you should sit on his dick, baby."

You suck in your cheeks nice and hard one last time, then open your mouth wide to let all the drool that has collected on your tongue drip down his length. When you begin to sit up and move away from Yoongi's face and hands, he whines and attempts feebly to keep you in place before giving up and letting you go. 

Without anything obstructing his mouth, Yoongi's moans are loud and raspy; music to your ears. You turn around and straddle his waist, then reach between your legs and grab onto his length. 

With one pump of your hand, you line him up and slide yourself down, back bowing from pleasure and causing your head to gently bump into Namjoon's shoulder while you and Yoongi moan in tandem—his trembling from his lips at the rhythm of Namjoon's hips and yours falling short at the end. 

Namjoon wraps his arms around you, holding you in place against him while he fucks Yoongi—one hand slides to your throat and the other grabs onto one of your breasts—and you swish and circle your hips, burying Yoongi deep inside you and reaching spots that make your eyes roll back. 

Pleasure with these two feels like something out of a dream. Yoongi reaches with a slickened thumb and twists it over your clit, and you grind harder, matching Namjoon's rhythm and chasing your next high. You have no idea where you end and where one of them begins, and the sounds the room fills with—the moaning and sobbing; skin against skin—is absolutely hypnotic.

You cum without warning and scream, back arched and eyes wide to the tall ceiling. Namjoon fucks Yoongi hard enough that you barely have to move, body jerking uselessly while your senses tingle and dull once more and you fight your body to stay upright, thankful that you are held in place. 

"Look at him," Namjoon instructs, and you slowly drop your gaze to Yoongi, who lays with one hand high above his head gripping to the comforter and the other reaching for you. His eyes are closed and his mouth is agape, lips trembling around unvoiced sounds. With his dark hair fanning wildly against the bed and his skin slick with sweat, he is breathtaking. 

"F-fuck," he mutters, eyes opening only to roll back again. "I'm gonna— oh my god."

"Cum for us, pretty Yoongi," Namjoon says, hips never losing their steady pace. 

Yoongi moves his lips as if to respond to Namjoon but he appears too lost in pleasure to form words. You swish your hips and squeeze your pussy around him, pleased with yourself when his back bows and he begins to sob.

"What a fucking sight," Namjoon groans and you nod, unable to take your eyes off Yoongi as he squirms and pants, reaching his high. 

Without warning, Yoongi cums, filling you with his warm release while he gasps and continues attempting to form words that never make it past his pretty lips. Namjoon picks up his pace, cursing under his breath as he rattles and shakes Yoongi into a trance with his mouth and eyes wide.

Somewhat frantically, Namjoon gropes your breasts and tummy, squeezing as he huffs and moans against your shoulder, sucking harshly against your skin. He quakes and then freezes momentarily, moaning warm, moist breath into your neck. Then his hips rock in and out and in before he pulls all the way out with a groan. 

"On your back," he commands through an airy tone, and you do as you are told, not sure how he plans to continue going considering all three of you are fucked past the point of exhaustion. 

You hobble off of Yoongi and throw yourself down onto the bed, barely able to adjust before Namjoon has your legs spread wide and his face buried between them. He slurps at your dripping pussy, tongue pressing as far into you as it can, causing you to quake from overstimulation and pleasure as he laps up various fluids inside you. 

And then he breaks away and falls into a seated position and then further back onto his elbows, tilting his head to the ceiling and panting heavily. Your feet slide against the bed and you relax in a heap, instantly turning cold as the sweat settles on your skin.

"Bath," Namjoon mutters, and you nod in return. 

Yoongi grumbles incoherently and you cannot help but giggle.

"Fucked him stupid," you say, staring up at the ceiling and smiling as Namjoon begins to laugh.

After a bubble bath the three of you go to sleep, and you do not dream at all. Endless darkness holds you in its embrace. You sleep until an early hour of the morning, only to wake up and tiptoe to the bathroom, then return to sleep some more. 

You feel rested and happy when you fully rise several hours later, and a little shy when you find the room has been covered in vases full of roses and wildflowers of various colors. 

It has been years since you have celebrated your birthday.

Yoongi and Namjoon dote on you from the moment you wake up until it is time to get ready for your party, bringing you pancakes and mimosas in bed and taking you for a spin in your brand new car to get manicures and pedicures together. You allow them to insist on having your nails painted white with gold french tips, and you delight in how ticklish both their feet are as the poor technicians pamper them. 

Namjoon drives around the city until you find an ice cream stand along the river, and wearing average casual attire with masks covering your faces and baseball hats worn low over your faces, you almost feel like normal people doing normal everyday things—despite the security detail that stays ten feet behind you at all times.

And you capture everything. The flowers, the nails, the ice cream—everything is photographed and added to a folder to be uploaded to Instagram once you return home. Being that you are a semi-public figure, you worry that if news got out about your birthday and you did not post, people might start whispering. 

Yoongi takes a scenic route back to the mansion, holding your hand while he handles your sports car with ease, and you allow yourself to bask in an absolutely perfect day, thinking about how nice it would be if the three of you could exist this simply all the time. 

When you return home, the men kiss you and tell you to wait in your room while they get dressed for your party. Yoongi informs you that you have time to shower if you would like, and Namjoon says he cannot wait to see you all dolled up later. 

You do not feel the need to shower, so you strip down to a little black thong and find a black silk robe to lay around in, holding your hands up high to inspect your manicure and kicking your feet as you smile to yourself. Then you imagine how the giant engagement ring would look shimmering on your finger, and you hold your hands close to your heart.

In the quiet moment all to yourself, you drift in and out of sleep, unsure what to expect from the evening. And although you feel groggy when there is a light knock at your door, you sit up with a start and prance over quickly to greet your guest. 

With Jimin absent, a soft-spoken woman with long, dark brown hair and foxlike eyes named Yeji bows in your doorway. She is dressed like the family men in a black button-up tucked into black slacks, and carries a charcoal grey garment bag draped over her arm and a large black makeup case in her hand. 

You lean-sit against the edge of your bed, suddenly feeling a bit bare in your silk robe while she sets the case down and begins to unzip the garment bag and pull your gown free. To your surprise, the dress is off-white and all you can think about is how much it reminds you of a wedding dress.  

Yeji hands you the gown and turns her back to you as you stand, shed the robe, and begin to delicately step into the garment. You are going to need to swap your black thong for a white one, but otherwise it is perfect.

The top gathers in a halter over your chest, wrapping in a circle around your neck and leaving your back bare. Gold embroidery accentuates the neck and waist, and the skirt flows in layers of chiffon with high slits up the both sides, making you feel like a Greek goddess.

Yeji produces several blue Tiffany boxes and opens all but one of them. She adds beautiful gold bracelets with delicate diamond encrusted vines to your wrists and a matching gold and diamond vine ring to your right hand. Then she recommends several pairs of gold strappy shoes and offers a pair of gold ballet flats for later in the evening, smiling shyly the entire time. 

Your hair is pulled and twisted from your head and your makeup is minimal—hints of black with a dusting of gold on your lids and gold highlights on your cheeks. You assume there must be earrings in the final Tiffany box, but she leaves it untouched and gently lifts her fingers to your chin, urging you to straighten your posture as she scrutinizes your appearance with a soft smile.

"You look like a princess," she says, blushing and averting her eyes as you stand before your vanity and dance your fingertips over the skirt. 

You feel like a princess, and you smile widely as you say, "Thank you, Yeji."

A familiar knock on the door kicks your pulse into high gear and you hold your breath as Yoongi walks in wearing all white. A ruched, tunic-style linen dress shirt with long fluted sleeves hangs somewhat loosely but fitted in a way that shows off his broad shoulders and firm muscle. He wears fitted white slacks, gold necklaces, and his hair is styled in beautiful waves around his face. 

But what really takes your breath away is that for the first time since the accident, both of Yoongi's eyes are wide open and his stitches have been removed. A deep, pinkish-red gash greets you, making Yoongi's fierce dark brown eyes seem even more menacing; a fitting scar for a man in his position.

Your heart sinks at the sight but it also stirs something inside you. Somehow, the scar makes Yoongi even more attractive—a thought that you will need to unpack some other time. 

"Wow," you say, ripping your tear-filled gaze away from Yoongi's face and studying his outfit once more. "You look amazing."

For once, Yoongi is speechless and it makes you feel somewhat antsy. Rather than respond, his eyes continue to take in your outfit and his silence feels maddening. Is he also thinking about how much this gown looks fit for a bride? Is that why he looks at you this way? Luckily Namjoon appears and breaks the tension.

Also outfitted in all white, Namjoon wears a dress shirt tucked into fitted slacks and a white leather belt. His jacket has gold and clear gems embroidered in decorative bursts on the left shoulder and right breast, and gold gems line the wrists of his sleeves. His short dark hair is styled back from his forehead, and he wears dainty gold chains and bracelets, and small gold hoop earrings.  

"Sweetheart," Namjoon mutters as he steps up behind Yoongi and rests his chin on his shoulder. "You look…"

"Incredible," Yoongi finally says, eyes wide and teary with his arms straight down to his sides. 

"Just missing a couple more things," Namjoon says with a smile that dimples his cheeks as he turns to the vanity and grabs the final blue box. "While we were in Paris, Jimin and I went shopping for all of this jewelry. Do you like it?"

You lift your hands and inspect the vines that grace your wrists and finger, and you feel your eyes well with tears thinking about Jimin and the Paris trip that changed everything in more ways than one.

Your voice is soft and laced with emotion as you say, "I love it."

"I was particularly fond of these," Namjoon says, pulling your attention with the sound of the last box opening, "and we crafted the rest of tonight's theme around them."

Diamond encrusted gold earrings in the shape of vines shimmer from the soft blue box, and Namjoon lifts them for you to see. 

"May I?" he asks, and you nod emphatically, tipping your chin to give him access. He gives you the box, which you take in shaky hands, and then he delicately adorns each of your ears, warm nimble fingers working swiftly, giving you shivers as they brush against your skin. 

You glance into the mirror then take a step forward to get a view of your reflection. It appears as if the dainty vines climb up your lobes and they are absolutely stunning. The thought of Namjoon picking out the jewelry makes your heart swell with affection, and when you glance back at him and Yoongi, they watch you with reverence.

"Thank you," you say, eyes roving between the two of them. "This is too much, really."

"Nonsense," Yoongi responds, "you deserve the world. And Namjoon and I intend to give it to you."

Suddenly you feel shy and you lift your hands to cover your face, doing your best to hold back tears. You know in your heart that these men mean it when they say such ridiculous things. And you love them so deeply for it, even if the prospect terrifies you.

Your left hand is gently tugged away from your face, and before you can inspect who is responsible, you feel the cool kiss of gold on your ring finger, followed by the weight of the diamond it holds. Your heart pounds harder, and you continue to swallow back the urge to cry. 

"Shall we?" Yoongi asks, letting go of your hand and revealing a gold and diamond Rolex hiding under his long sleeve. "The party has begun but I thought we should be fashionably late."

Namjoon holds you in place as Yoongi helps you step into gold strappy heels, then he drapes a white fur evening jacket over your shoulders that barely covers your torso. Hoseok is in the driveway sitting behind the wheel of a red stretch limo sedan, and you shake your head at the emissions a beast like this must give off as you approach. 

The door opens from the inside and Jeongguk’s smiling face greets you. Taehyung is in the seat beside him and they are dressed in white fitted tuxedos and gold bow ties. 

“Dollface,” Jeongguk beams, taking your right hand while Namjoon steadies your left arm and you hoist yourself into the vehicle. 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” you laugh as you get seated facing the partition behind the front seats. Jeongguk and Taehyung have their backs facing the partition, creating a large square shaped space littered with gold confetti and buckets containing iced bottles of champagne. 

“How is our honorary buttercup?” Taehyung asks as he pops a bottle open. Yoongi enters to your left while Namjoon gets settled on your right. 

“A little overwhelmed,” you mutter while Taehyung pours a flute that Jeongguk holds onto before handing it off to you. 

“Well, I hate to break it to you, darling, but the night is young."

You turn to Yoongi and lift your brow. From behind the black partition, Hoseok begins to leave the driveway as you ask, "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Jeongguk pipes up, "Means you're gonna be overwhelmed as fuck when we get to Dionysus."

Everyone laughs and you join in, only somewhat showing your unease. The cold, bittersweet champagne helps calm your nerves, but it is difficult to feel settled when four pairs of eyes pierce into you—even Taehyung stares more openly than usual. 

You are tipsy by the time Hoseok reaches the city, and you silently pep talk yourself as the vehicle pulls up to a tall marble building with a red carpet outside. To your surprise there is a crowd waiting.  

Namjoon gets out first and steps aside, offering you his hand, and cameras flash in your eyes as you take it and slowly climb to the rug below, attempting not to stumble and struggling to lift your eyes. Although there is a stir from your presence, people begin to clap and cheer when they see Yoongi. 

You cannot fathom who any of these people are, nor can you imagine so many strangers so openly recognizing him. Are all of them somehow involved in the syndicate, as well? Does Yoongi have another reputation that you are unaware of?

The unmistakable whispers and murmurs begin about his scar, about your dress. Once Yoongi is by your side, crooking your arm into his elbow, Namjoon gets back into the stretch sedan and Hoseok drives off, leaving the two of you to make an entrance. 

You keep your eyes ahead, too shy to look at the crowd, and you walk under a large white and gold awning that stretches from the sidewalk to the large glass doors. Camera flashes threaten to temporarily blind but nobody stands in your way, and when you enter the hotel, everyone follows behind. 

Large gold and crystal chandeliers brighten the massive hotel lobby, and the red carpet stretches through the space, stopping at a set of gold elevator doors. You glance around at the light marble, white furnishings, and confused hotel guests littered throughout, noticing several armed guards stationed around the space dressed in white with gold bow ties, similar to your friends.

"What is this place?" you ask with wide eyes. 

"This is the hotel that I sold to lady Choi, the woman who was friends with my mother," Yoongi mutters close to your ear while you walk ahead, eyes dancing over the marble and gold, appreciating the extravagance. "What did Hyungseo refer to it as? One of my less flashy hotels?"

You remember the night in front of Paradise when Hyungseo taunted Yoongi—the night Jimin was shot. If this is what she refers to as less flashy, what do Yoongi's other hotels look like? Surely, she was just trying to rile Yoongi up, and you can see why it may not have worked. 

Yoongi leads you through the lobby to a gold elevator, and you are not in the least bit surprised when it takes you to the uppermost floor. You are surprised, however, when the doors slide open and the scene before you is somehow more decadent than the one you left. 

"This," Yoongi says magnanimously, "is Dionysus."

The tall walls and high arching ceilings are made of white iron and glass, allowing the glow of the moon and light pollution to add to the ambiance. Large arches of elegantly designed iron spandrels and ornate columns draw the eye to a second floor mezzanine that wraps around the space where guests stand with drinks, some dancing along to the music that sounds modern and downtempo but unidentifiable to your untrained ear. 

The floors are ash grey hardwood, and the furnishings are white and gold with the exception of  a massive oval-shaped bar made of dark hardwood in the center of the space. Tracking lights hanging from the grandiose ceiling assist delicate white and gold sconces that are placed throughout to brighten the space. 

"For obvious reasons, we chose to move your party," Yoongi informs as you step forward, gaze landing on more people you do not recognize than those you do. Changkyun and the rest of the members of the security team wear white tuxedos with gold bow ties, as well. Other guests are dressed in an array of colors, but it appears that nobody else wears white. 

An attendant approaches to take your jacket and you bow your head at him, shivering from the lack of warmth as Yoongi continues. "We renovated Paradise for this occasion, but I felt that having the party there might be too painful for all of us. Of course, a larger venue called for a larger crowd."

You hum in response, still taking in your surroundings, undoubtedly with your mouth hanging wide open. "Wow," you finally mutter, lips moving like a fish out of water as you struggle to find the words to describe the way you feel.

Dionysus is massive, and the lengths staff members must have gone to in order to decorate for your party do not go unnoticed. Gold streamers and green vines entwine, snaking up columns and along the edge of the mezzanine and bar, and gold balloons are placed throughout accentuating corners, tables, and various other points, along with piles of gold disco balls scattered around shimmering with reflected light. 

The staff wear gold leather and latex. Clothing is scarce, barely covering them, and they are painted from head to toe in gold glitter as if carved from the shimmering alloy, carrying intricately carved golden trays of food and drink. 

"Are you pleased?" Yoongi asks. 

You nod emphatically and turn to Yoongi with tears forming, forcing yourself to look into his eyes and not stare at the reddened slash that cuts over one of them. Although the sight makes your stomach momentarily ache, you are undeniably happy. 

"Yes," you say, taking a step forward and placing your palms over Yoongi's chest. The giant rock on your left hand shimmers in the bright light of the venue, sending a pang of uncertainty and worry to your gut that is only somewhat masked by your joy.

"Let's get you a drink," Yoongi says, gently grabbing your wrists before spinning around and linking your right hand in his left while tugging you toward the bar. 

A nearby server carries a gold platter of champagne flutes, and when Yoongi reaches for one and hands it to you, there are even gold flakes floating around inside. Ridiculous, you think to yourself, but also very thoughtful.

One sip of the champagne takes you by surprise; it is light and sweet, different from what you are used to. And, to your delight, the gold flakes seem to have no flavor. 

"Ah, here they are," Yoongi announces, and when you look up, the other five family men—dressed in the same white and gold attire—are approaching, holding matte black gifts of various shapes and sizes.

"Oh, no," you mutter to yourself, feeling your cheeks become hot. "This party is already enough."

"Nonsense, darling," Yoongi whispers close to your ear, voice deep and inviting. 

The music changes and suddenly the entire room is singing happy birthday. You feel embarrassed enough to hide behind your hands, but Yoongi gently takes your champagne flute and sets it aside, then tugs your wrists downward, forcing you to watch as the family men approach with their gifts.

"I thought the switchblade was my present," you tease, looking between Jeongguk and Taehyung the moment the song stops. Of course, since that fateful night, you have not moved the switchblade from where it sits in its case atop your bedside table in Yoongi's bedroom.

"Well, since you must announce the elephant in the room," Taehyung teases, holding out a rectangular box about five inches long and two inches tall, "we worried that you may hold some animosity toward that weapon and decided to gift you another option."

Another weapon, he means. You already know from the size and weight of this box that Taehyung is gifting you a handgun. Still, you tear at the matte black gift wrap and pretend to be surprised as you reveal a black velvet box containing a subcompact Glock. 

You do gasp, however, when you notice the beautifully carved flowers and vines along the handle of the gun, and you feel somewhat emotional when you look back at Taehyung and say, "Wow, this is beautiful."

"We have a variety of holsters that you can choose from," Taehyung says with a proud smile. "Come by anytime to rummage through our collection."

"Alright," you respond as you turn to hand the gun off to Yoongi. Staff seem to have carried over a round high marble-topped table and he sets the box in the center.

Next is Hoseok, who gives you a stunning Tiffany statement necklace that is shaped like a gold scorpion tail, and Seokjin gives you a dainty gold Rolex watch with a mother of pearl face.

Jeongguk steps forward and hands you a box that contains a little metal cocaine vial and you laugh so loud, your voice echoes through the large venue. "I have one more for you," he mutters quietly, "but it would be inappropriate for you to open it here, so you'll have to come by my place some time soon."

Namjoon kisses your forehead with a smile, making your cheeks warm at the thought of the crowd noticing as he says, "The rest of my gifts are at the mansion." 

You shake your head, knowing that all of the jewelry you wear is from him, muttering, "You've already done too much."

But then he hands you a small gift box and says, "This one is from Jimin."

Suddenly your heart feels heavy, and you accept the box with a tremble in your hands. You rip at the matte black paper but your hands shake so hard that you have to turn and set the box onto the table just to open it. 

You expect more jewelry to greet you and it takes a split moment to process what you are looking at. In a small pile against black velvet is a gold keyring containing three keys and a golden dove charm. You lift the keys to inspect them, finding each one inscribed with one word: Paradise, Studio, and Home.

Tears well and you drop the keys back into the box, cursing the universe for being so unfair. Jimin has given you sanctuary in so many ways and you are unable to thank him. 

Shaking your head in an attempt not to cry, you are hit with a dizzy spell, but in an instant, arms are around you on three sides, pulling you into a soft shield of material and warmth. You keep your head tilted upward, worried about staining anyone's white jacket, then take in a deep unsteady breath. 

All you can think about is how happy Jimin had been for your approaching birthday—how excited he seemed about your gift. Although you just visited with him yesterday, you miss him now more than ever.

Yoongi, Namjoon, and Jeongguk take a step back, and you smile, wiping the tears from your face and gently as you can, worried about smearing your makeup. 

"Thank you," you say weakly, causing the room to erupt with cheers and clapping, reminding you that you are surrounded by strangers. 

Another table has appeared while you were not paying attention, and one after another, strangers bring gift bags. You are informed by a member of the security team that each gift has been carefully inspected, but you feel too embarrassed to watch as guests come and go, bowing and muttering words of thanks without looking anyone in the eye, and turning instead toward the bar. 

Yoongi sidles up to your right and turns you gently by the shoulders to face him, rubbing his thumbs beneath your eyes. To your left, Namjoon orders seven glasses of neat whiskey. 

Guests come by to wish you a happy birthday as you wait for your drink, and you thank them politely and glance around the space looking for somewhere to go to have some privacy. When Namjoon finally hands you a glass, you waste no time gulping down some of the rich liquid. 

"Do these people know who I am?" you ask into your drink while smiling and waving to strangers who greet you from a distance. 

"In theory, yes," Yoongi responds, placing a hand on your elbow and leading you past dancing bodies to the far side of the space. "They know who I am, and they know about the ring you wear."

"They're treating me like I'm the queen of England," you complain, slamming back the rest of your drink.

Yoongi's voice gives you chills as he leans close to say, "That's because you're the queen of Seoul, my love."

Ahead, under the mezzanine and past a group of partygoers, is a black curtain hidden somewhat inconspicuously with Changbin clad in white and gold standing guard with a wide smile.  Changbin greets you with a warm hug while Yoongi pushes the curtain aside revealing a door through which you quickly walk, finding a carpeted storage room full of cardboard boxes and stacked tables and chairs. 

"Thank god," you grumble, turning to Yoongi to begin searching his pockets for his cocaine; yours is out on the gift table. "This is a lot more overwhelming than I expected."

"We could find another way to overwhelm you, if you'd like," Yoongi offers with a grin, leaning his forehead against yours as you unscrew you the vial and lift piles of white powder to one nostril after the other.

You inhale harshly and rub a knuckle against your nose, asking, "We?"

Seconds pass before the door opens and in walks Namjoon and Jeongguk. 

"We," Yoongi finally responds, lips tugging into a devious smile. The cocaine shimmers through you and you waste no time taking him up on his gracious offer. 

"Yeah, okay," you say, grabbing a chair and sitting with your legs spread wide, bare from the high slits in the skirt that make it fall open on each side and between your thighs. "Do your worst, gentlemen."

The three of them drop to their knees, Jeongguk crawling forward first, hands rubbing over your calves, up to your thighs. "I should be quick and get back out there," he says, wasting no time lifting the skirt flap that covers you and burying himself beneath. 

He makes a mess of your panties, nipping and sucking over the mesh, driving you wild with anticipation long enough to make you begin whimpering, "Please, Gguk. Please stop teasing me."

Jeongguk yanks your panties to the side and devours you, lips and tongue dancing a familiar, glorious dance over your clit, making you sink in the hard wooden chair while doing your best not to let your hair touch anything. Although you are sure nobody on the other side of the door can hear you, you muffle your voice with the back of your hand and use the other to grip Jeongguk's head as best as you can with layers of fabric in the way. 

It takes very little time for Jeongguk to make you cum, back arching off the chair and hands falling to your sides to grip its wooden edges to keep you from sliding to the floor. Jeongguk appears from under your skirt, face flushed and hair tousled, wiping your release from his lips and chin with a dopey smile. 

"Bathroom is to the right when you exit," Namjoon teases as he begins to use his fingers to fix Jeongguk's hair. Jeongguk stays for a moment longer on his knees, searching your face as if he has something he wants to say before finally getting to his feet, leaning close, and pressing a heady kiss to your lips.

"Happy birthday, beautiful," he mutters, though his eyes say a lot more. 

"Thank you," you respond meekly, struggling to hold his soft, caring gaze. Your mind echoes, Do you think you could fall for someone like me? And once again you think that you could.

As soon as Jeongguk turns to leave, Namjoon lifts the center flap of your skirt and tosses it over your hips, revealing your cunt, which feels cold behind wet mesh. Yoongi spreads you further as he crawls beside Namjoon, and the two of them take turns using their hands and mouths to slowly pull each thread of sanity from you. 

You cum twice more and the two of them keep going, ignoring your pleas for mercy, teasing as they say, "I can't take anymore isn't your safeword, baby."

"Too bad we can't make a real mess of you," Namjoon complains as he nips against your thigh and keeps the thrusting of his fingers to shallow movements. 

"Tonight," Yoongi insists, and you nod robotically, feeling too fucked out to do anything but let pleasure overwhelm you, just as Yoongi promised it would.

Your legs may as well be cooked al dente by the time they finish and you stand in an attempt to straighten yourself out. Spit and cum cause your panties to stick uncomfortably but you feel too blissed out to care. 

Namjoon goes ahead, placing a soft kiss against Yoongi's lips and then yours, and Yoongi delicately does his best to clear away any makeup that has smudged beneath your eyes. He kisses you deeply, moaning in tandem as you melt against him and taste yourself on his lips, and you think to yourself that this night is nearly close to perfect.

"I have one more thing," he says, and when you meet his gaze, it is soft and a little worried. "I hope you don't mind how unromantic this room is…I just can't bear to wait any longer."

You continue to catch your breath after the orgasmic ringer those three put you through, and when Yoongi reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small blue box, your brain screeches to a halt before attempting to make sense of what you are seeing. 

Yoongi holds up the box and says, "I just want you to know that when you feel ready, this one is the deal," but the words do not compute. That is, until he opens it.

Nestled in blue velvet is a platinum band adorned with three diamonds. Although the center stone is much smaller than the ring you wear, there are two pear-shaped stones on each side. Tears cloud your vision and the sound of your pounding heart is deafening. 

"Namjoon helped me pick it out," Yoongi continues as if you are not in total physical distress, falling apart with each second that passes. 

Your next breath heaves from your lungs and you feel your knees threaten to buckle. Is Yoongi actually proposing to you on your birthday, tucked away from everyone else? A promise for when you are ready to receive it is still a promise that is spoken in real time, and the weight of it is crushing. 

"Darling?" Yoongi tries, but his voice feels distant and you stumble backward, feeling as if you might faint. 

Yoongi is quick to catch you by the elbows and sit you back down on the chair. "Darling, are you alright?" he asks, but you feel too sluggish to respond, heavy-blinking but unable to focus on him. 

Yoongi takes out his phone and thumbs around. "Taehyung," he says, voice laced with worry. "Come to the storage room quickly."

Although you want to shake your head and insist that everything is fine, you are not sure you can do that much. Time and space elude you, your ears ring a high, terrible pitch, and you squeeze your eyes closed, only opening them when a cold compress touches your forehead, zapping you into the present.

"There you are," Taehyung responds, gently rubbing his knuckles along your cheek. "We lost ya for a bit."

Your skin is cold and clammy, and you shiver, wishing you had your jacket. To your surprise, Yeji is at your side with a stoic expression, and she opens her black makeup case. 

"Sorry," you mutter, dizzy and uncertain of what just happened. Yoongi and Namjoon stand behind Taehyung watching you with concerned expressions, and you begin to worry about how long you have been away from the party. 

"You didn't miss much," Taehyung says as if reading your mind. He lifts a small flashlight to your eyes from the side like he did the night he checked you for a concussion. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," you admit with a sigh. "Hungry."

Taehyung hums and nods, saying, "Once she touches you up, come back out to the main hall. I'll tell them to bring out the cake."

Cake sounds incredible and you nod, mouthing, "Thank you," with barely a sound coming out. 

Yeji touches you up quickly, blotting away sweat and applying a little makeup before bowing and taking her leave. And when you stand, you feel much steadier on your feet, albeit a bit jittery. 

When it is just Yoongi and Namjoon left in the room, the two of them kiss before Namjoon kisses your forehead and leaves. Yoongi swallows thickly and watches you as if he is waiting for you to speak first, so you do, voice trembling and weak.

"That wasn't a reaction to the ring," you lie. It may have been, but you do not want to face that possibility at the moment. "I don't know what came over me. Sorry, baby."

With a nod and an uncertain smile, Yoongi takes your hand in his and tugs you to the door, out into the small dark space and past the black velvet curtain. And in an instant, you remember that you are completely surrounded with strangers and that you need to keep your cool and stay on your feet. 

As soon as the two of you walk out into the main hall, staff members cart out a massive cake while more of them carry bottles of champagne crackling with sparklers. The room erupts into shouting and clapping and you feel yourself go hot under everyone's stares, wondering whether anyone is speculating on what happened while you were away. 

You eat a slice of decadent strawberry jam cake, and once you feel better, you drink and dance and drink some more, doing your best to push out all thoughts of that ring. Felix even joins you, spinning you around and laughing like old friends. Euphoria kicks in with the family men around, and you find it easy to return to the feeling of joy, eager to face everything else in the morning. 

By the time you return to the mansion, you are stumbling from your feet aching but also from all the champagne and whiskey. Namjoon carries you from the stretch sedan to the front door and Yoongi peels away your strappy shoes before taking you into his arms so that a drunk, clumsy Namjoon can get out of his shoes. The three of you make your way upstairs and you bury your face into Yoongi's neck as you ascend. 

"We still have more gifts," he mutters and you sigh happily, insisting, "Tomorrow."

"Would you like to sleep now?" Namjoon asks. "Or shower first?"

Although you know that you should clean your face, you are exhausted and whine to be taken to bed. Thankfully Yoongi carries you into the ensuite first and sets you onto the cold marble counter so that he and Namjoon can gently wash off your makeup, remove all of your jewelry, and encourage you to brush your teeth. 

They help you undress and step into warm joggers, pulling a soft black tee over your head. And the moment your head hits the pillow, you are out like a light. 

You are riddled with nightmares and toss and turn, struggling to stay asleep but too groggy to stay awake. 

In some, Yoongi's wound bleeds while you grip onto the dripping knife. In another, he and Namjoon have cast you aside and left you to fend on your own with nothing but the little black dress and combat boots that you wore into the mansion on the very first day they kidnapped you and brought you home against your will. 

They laugh and tease and make you feel foolish. Like a conquest and nothing more. Cheap, tossed aside, and all used up. 

But the dream that really shakes you to your core is one of Jimin's funeral. He lays in a glass casket wearing a gorgeous black lace gown and veil, face pale and lifeless as marble, and you sob uncontrollably, throwing yourself at the glass and begging for him to wake up. 

The funeral crowd erupts in cheers and laughter, and when you glance up, hundreds of the man who shot him surround you, holding out his smoking gun. You lift your gun and shoot, sending hundreds of the man to the floor with his brains leaking through his many foreheads. 

And then you wake up screaming. The room is empty with the exception of the many flower vases that surround you, and you feel dizzy as soon as you quickly sit up, grabbing for your pounding head.

Moments pass with nothing but your own sobs and you cry loud and horrific, clenching the black and gold comforter close to your chest with one fist, desperate to get the image of Jimin lying dead out of your mind. But it is no use; you can feel residual anguish leftover from the dream clawing its way into your heart for safe keeping.

Footsteps rush to the door and you hear Namjoon barrel forward, shouting, "Sweetheart, what is it?"

Unable to speak, you shake your head, but then a piercing pain around your temples and in the back near your neck halts your movement and you cringe and grab once more onto your head, leaning forward. 

You hear, "Darling," but Namjoon quickly says, "Get Taehyung!" and Yoongi's voice drifts away as he shouts for him. 

You wonder if they have been meeting in the main hall, and you thank your lucky stars that they are all there. Then you feel the urge to vomit, scrambling for something to get sick into before everything fades to black.

In a blink you are on your back, laying in bed with a cold wet compress against your head. The family psychiatrist Christopher is there and he and Taehyung are muttering about medication side effects as you blink them into focus and stretch your limbs. 

"Buttercup," Taehyung says softly as he approaches and leans close, feeling your forehead. "What do you say we take a trip to my examination room so I can have a look inside that pretty little head of yours, hmm?"

"Oh," you respond sluggishly, licking your dry lips and weakly nodding your head. You ask, "Did I faint again?"

With a frown, Taehyung says, "I'm afraid so."

Namjoon approaches with a hoodie and Taehyung helps you sit up. In the back of your head there is a sharp pain, and you feel nauseated the more you move. They slide one arm after the other into the sweater and then Namjoon sits on the edge of the bed with his back to you and tells you to climb up. 

It takes effort but you knee-walk to Namjoon and fling yourself over his shoulders. He stands slowly and adjusts your legs in his hold, and you bury your face against his neck while he carries you from the room, down to the main hall, and out the front door. 

You hear the voices of the other family men but none of them regard you, and for that you are thankful. The air is chilly and you hold tightly to Namjoon, listening to the familiar crunch of gravel and leaves underfoot while Yoongi and Taehyung chatter lowly behind you. Briefly, you think you may begin to fall asleep. 

The examination is not so bad, but the MRI makes you nervous. The whir of the machine is scary, and although your eyes are closed, you feel claustrophobic inside the enclosed space. After getting a good look at your brain, Taehyung checks your heart, draws blood, and leads you to a small bathroom where he asks you to pee in a cup. 

Then he asks you to meet him in an examination room where he will join you shortly, but you go to a different room instead. With a sigh pouring through a smile, Taehyung assists you with gently moving Jimin's arm, making space on his small bed, careful of all the wires and tubes.

You lay on Jimin's bed, head against his chest and listening to the steady beat of his heart with your eyes closed against bright white fluorescent light. Namjoon and Yoongi sit on the other side of the bed with their heads leaned close, not speaking a word, and after you find yourself drifting off for a moment, Taehyung returns. 

"I can't determine a physical cause for your sudden bout of fainting spells," he says, which should be good news but not having an answer is also worrisome in its own right. "They began before you started taking your medication, so the best I can surmise is that it is not a side effect to that medication, and that it is likely caused by trauma and stress."

You hum, unsure what to say. Yoongi and Namjoon also say nothing. 

"Did you take your medication yesterday?"

Truthfully, you are unsure, but you are inclined to think that you may not have. Shaking your head softly against Jimin, you mutter, "I don't think so."

Taehyung hums. "I want you to be a little more mindful of your medication, alright? Lay off any drugs or alcohol for a little while, and eat on a regular schedule. We're going to monitor your heart rate and blood pressure regularly, too. Does that sound alright?"

"Alright," you respond automatically, attempting to let everything sink in. 

Trauma induced fainting is not something you want to deal with on top of everything else. And with Yoongi's most recent proposal of sorts, nausea kicks up and you begin to fear for the worst.

"Could be that you need a vacation," Taehyung continues, writing on a pad of paper as he speaks. "A lot has happened around these parts lately, and perhaps this is your body telling you to get away for a while."

Get away for a while. 

You know in your heart that getting away could be the only option. With your mental health deteriorating so fast, it is hard to imagine it won't get worse. 

But how much time away from the mansion is long enough? How much longer will you attempt to heal and move on from everything that has happened while surrounded by your stressors and waiting for the other shoe to drop?

The only solution is to get away entirely.

How will you break things off with Namjoon and Yoongi, especially after that gesture last night? Whereas the ring you have been wearing symbolizes a fake union, the ramifications of it have always been real. Real threat of danger; a real target on your back. 

Now, with the prospect of genuine engagement looming over your head, your fight or flight instincts have you feeling the strong, overbearing urge to run far away and never look back. Playing mafia wife is one thing but becoming a mafia wife is petrifying. 

How long will you be able to look Yoongi in the eye knowing that you gave him that scar? And if Jimin never wakes up, how long before you stop blaming yourself for his injuries? It is easy for Yoongi to assure you that he does not hold anything against you now, but how do you know that won't change? 

And if you are at the heart of one more tragedy—one more grand fuck up—and Yoongi dies with a needle in his arm, will Namjoon not blame you? Is that something you can live with?

Sometimes important decisions—ones that we know we have to make—still hurt like hell.

"Alright," you mutter again, unsure what to say. 

On the other side of Jimin's bed, Yoongi and Namjoon hold onto one another while you think about how you are going to approach Seokjin. After all, he is the one offering you a way out. 

You hate that this might be the last time you ever see Jimin again, but you feel grateful that at least Yoongi and Namjoon have each other. At least all of the family men have each other, you tell yourself. They can and will get through this next phase together. 

It will hurt like hell. They may all come to hate you. It could even push Yoongi over the edge. 

But you are certain that you cannot be around to witness another crack in the foundation. And you cannot put your well-being on the line just because someone else's may be threatened. 

You cannot keep doing this, but there is no other way that you can see turning down another one of Yoongi's proposals without disappearing instead. Even imagining the prospect of walking away breaks your heart and causes tears to form in your eyes.

Maybe in another life you could have been perfect. But in this life, all you have is heartache. In this life, all you have is fear and uncertainty and the brassy scent of blood. 

The only way out of a life like his is death.

Above all else, you know that you can not wait around to watch someone die. You cannot hope and dream and wish for a normal life while the men you love continue down paths of uncertainty and danger. 

You deserve a chance at a normal life. You cannot keep living this way. They cannot force you to stay in the mansion and live like this any longer. 

It's now or never. 

Calm myself A cup of tea Could give me good comfort Calm myself A couple of weeks Could make me forget you

🎵 visit the playlist

ONE MORE CHAPTER, AHHHH!!!! and then a sequel!!! don't worry this is not the ending!!! but it is still an ending so to speak, so HOW DO YOU FEEEEELLLLLLL??? any ideas of what Jungkook gifted her for her bday???

you may have noticed that some of the scenes did not get the usual Collateral treatment of the reader being fully aware of everything mc is aware of, including the mention of a conversation mc & Namjoon had at the start of the chapter, as well as the conversation that happens when Jimin is in a coma where i breeze over her being regaled with stories from their past. the first conversation is in Namjoon's POV scene, and i have been planning for a long time for the conversation at Jimin's bedside to be the topic of Yoongi's POV scene, so i left those details out. more information, including a teaser for Yoongi's scene to come in the near future! (sorry for the cross-outs, but i made some changes!!!)

as promised in the beginning notes, let me distract you a little with Dionysus!!!! it is actually a club in Chell's fic Blessed With a Curse (which you should absolutely read!!!) and i became obsessed and wanted to steal it (with permission!!!) (it turns out it's a real place lolol.) much of my ability to describe it at all came from Chell's writing and i am so grateful to have an amazing friend who allows me to use their inspiration for my own. she's a super talented writer who is also a big fan of this story, and more than anything i wanted the presence of Dionysus in this story to be a nod to her because i care so much about her.

check this fucking place out:

obviously i changed some details here and there, and really did not even fully go into detail because it is a lot and architecture words allude me and i really have no idea what i am doing. (if you know more technical terms that could add to the description, i would love to know!!! i have no qualms with sneaking info into the fic on the sly.)💜

these end notes are becoming so fucking long lmao i am so sorry. i used to put nothing at the ends of fics/chapters and now i am writing entire dissertations.

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE THE LIFEBLOOD OF THIS SITE, BUT LIKES ARE ALSO SUPER APPRECIATED!!! THANK YOU FOR READING, I LOVE YOU!!!

tag lists will be on separate reblogs! they’ve gotten too big to contain as one! if you would like to be tagged in this fic, please let me know!!! 💜💜💜

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Collateral is copyright 2022-2023 theharrowing, all rights reserved. no translations of reposts allowed.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Ghost: enemies to lovers this, strangers to lovers that. I CALL QUITS!

Soap: Lovers to enemies speedrun! Ghost FIGHT ME!

Gaz, interrupting them: too cliché, enemies to even bigger enemies is what you want. Go fight graves or something

[runawaymun]

Not-Yet-Written-Fics Game

Tagged by @camille-lachenille to talk about the various fics swimming around in my soup of a brain that I haven't gotten around to writing anything down about. Y'know, the ones that exist in vivid detail inside my head. So here's a rough list, and you guys can send me asks about them if you want <3

The Kidnap Fam Fic - the one where I finally write down the abduction of Elrond and Elros from Sirion, as I see it, and how 'Love grew' between E&E and M&M, re how Tolkien phrases it, with all the messiness and the fucked-upness and the complex trauma and, yeah, the love.

Celrond get-together enemies-to-lovers speedrun. -- NOT the Celrond arranged marriage AU, of which I have actually written about three chapters. This is, instead, how I see them in a more canon sense.

Rivendell's Tiny Tearaway - another adopted family fic (what's new) but this time it's about Elrond, Estel, and Gilraen.

The Magician's Nephew x LOTR crossover that would make Tolkien spin in his grave and CS Lewis cackle with delight.

Stranger Things x LOTR crossover (mostly centered around One/Vecna and Elrond).

MGME except it's my OC from my sci fi novel.

Celebrimbor Lives AU

Celrondir (Celrond x Lindir) origins fic

Partake Prequel

EDIT: Adding two more that I forgot about

10. The Elrond in Valinor fic + second flight of the Noldor 11. Another MGME but it's just my OCs from my historical fiction novel

Tagging: @lordgrimwing @jaz-the-bard @niennawept @glorf1ndel @raointean @thesummerestsolstice & anyone else who wants to play!

[jedi-enthusiast]

Ask About My WIPs!

Here's a list of my WIPs and brief descriptions about them, I’m bored and I’d love to answer any questions y’all might have about any of them <3

—————

The Great War - Series

Codywan, Order 66 doesn’t happen, spanning the entirety of The Clone Wars, angst with a happy ending

——

Smaller Battles - Series

A follow-up series to 'The Great War,' multiple single chapter fics, multiple ships, some non-ship chapters

——

Ghosts of the Past - Series

Codywan, spans the Kenobi show but rewritten so that Cody is in it, angst with a happy ending- (at least, it’s happy to me)

——

Deeper Roots - Stand Alone

Codywan, Modern!AU, small town, secret relationship, secret family, so many shenanigans, some angst but with a happy ending

——

A Lesson in Murder Mystery - Stand Alone

Codywan, Professor!AU, murder mystery, some angst with a happy ending

——

Troublemaker, Heartbreaker - Stand Alone

Codywan, Boarding School!AU, Straight A Student Cody x Troublemaker with a Heart of Gold Obi-Wan, ft. the kids running the principal- (Palpatine) -out of the school like in Matilda, slight angst with a happy ending

——

The Distance Between Us - Stand Alone

Codywan, Zombie Apocalypse!AU, strangers to friends to lovers speedrun, they get separated from their group and have to work together to find them again, ✨there was only one tent✨, angst with a happy ending

——

Glass Mirrors - Stand Alone

Ahsoka Centric, Time Travel!AU, Ahsoka show Ahsoka is forced to deal with her trauma healthily via her Clone Wars self giving her a wake up call, Order 66 doesn’t happen, angst with a happy ending

[steddie-fanfic-recs]

I’m a lover, boy

by GayJinkies

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Characters: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Additional Tags: Eddie Munson has a dick piercing, what a tag to start off with, First Time Blow Jobs, Blowjobs, Doing it for the dare, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington speedruns his sexuality crisis, Himbo Steve Harrington, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Gay Eddie Munson, They’re both disasters folks, ”I’m not gay but I wanna blow you anyway” type disasters, Crack, This is dumb as hell I’m so serious, Smut, Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, They’re idiots your honour, Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, but more like morons to lovers, a sprinkle of angst for flavour, Dacryphilia, like big time, Top Eddie Munson, Bottom Steve Harrington, Sub Steve Harrington, give the guy a break he’s just now figuring out what he’s into Words: 13,425 Chapters: 3/3

Summary

“Uh.” Harrington’s eyes are darting up to Eddie’s face and back down to his clasped hands, over and over. “So. I was — but it’s not like that, y’know? Because I’m — and I just wanted to —“ “Harrington,” Eddie interrupts, scowling. “Stop wasting my time. Spit it the fuck out.” Harrington glares at him, eyes narrowing. “Fine. Fine.” He pauses, biting his lip, before saying, “Are you gay?” Eddie’s blood runs cold. His brain stalls. “Uh. I don’t think I understand.” Harrington throws his head back in frustration, cursing under his breath at the sky. The movement ruffles his hair, strands curling around his ears as he looks upwards. When he looks back to Eddie, he says, very slowly, “I was hoping you were gay, Munson, so I could give you a blowjob and prove to myself that I’m good at it.” —— Or; the basketball team unanimously votes that Steve would be the worst at giving a blowjob. Steve wants to test the truth of that with the only guy he knows might be down to help - Eddie Munson.

[duplicitywrites]

Cindle (@cindle-writes) is someone I cannot say enough lovely things about! I want to give a special thank you to Cindle for all of her amazing Mutuals March posts with this shoutout dedicated especially to her. 💜

I think it's safe to say Cindle has quickly established herself as a pillar of the Tomarrymort community, whether it be to cheerlead, beta, or simply enable those in our little corner of fandom. Not only that, Cindle consistently writes some of the most amazing fics in a wide range of characters, ships, and tropes -- providing us with delicious smut that often includes an amazing plot twist as the cherry on top!

Long story short, Cindle never ceases to amaze me with her dedication to this fandom, both as a talented author and a supportive friend. Her enthusiasm makes this space a better one!

Cindle, thank you for all that you do! We appreciate you so very much. 💜🛐 To celebrate you, here are a few favourite works of yours chosen by some of your friends!

☪ complete (Tom / Harry) E | 8.7k | Complete | Underage

Everything about this fic is perfect! There are so many yummy angst pieces of young Tom’s sad orphan backstory that are reflected in his (manipulative) interactions with Harry, and it meshes so beautifully with Harry's initial polite treatment of him as they get to know each other. Of course, the 'strangers' aspect speedruns right into 'lovers' once Harry realizes his newly-adopted baby Dark Lord is actually an omega. The ensuing smut is 👏🏼🥵🔥💯😈 !! I go absolutely feral for this dynamic and this fic delivers on every count.

☪ dawn of a death of a dream (Tom / Harry) E | 53.8k | On-Going | No Archive Warnings Apply

This story demonstrates just how patient a young Tom Riddle was when it came to achieving his goals, and I just love how even with Harry being so certain Tom manages to capture him in his own messy web. We get mind games between enemies who often forget they are enemies, and allow their positive feelings for each other to shine through in a bid to trap the other using their intimate relationship. So fun & silly & WAIT WHAT?? 💜💜💜 ( this blurb written by Apples! 🍎)

☪ Everything Green Is Gold (Tom / Harry) E | 21.3k | On-Going | Underage

BABY HARRY BELOVED! Professor Riddle takes first year Harry under his wing and teaches him sooo many things 😏🍆. Cindle really outdid herself on this story -- Tom is super manipulative with everything he does, but he is also so attentive with Harry in the process that even though we know what's happening, we're liable to... forget. Just a little 🤏. A million kudos for such a hot and realistic depiction 🔥!!

☪ in bad faith (Voldemort / Harry, Cedric / Harry) E | 2.9k | Complete | Non-Con, Underage

This fic builds on an already fantastic premise -- an AU of GoF where Voldemort captures Cedric (and Harry!) -- and expands it to include even more angst! The smut is delicious and the plot twist at the end had me going insane. Without spoiling too much, I will say I love the aspects of the original dynamic surrounding Cedric, Harry, and Voldemort that are incorporated into this glorious mindfuck continuation.

☪ i’ve missed you, my boy (Tom / Harry) E | 1.9k | Complete | Underage

One of the BEST plot twists I have ever read! Harry’s complex relationship with Voldemort is done so well in this post-war AU. I don’t want to spoil anything, but the reread value of this fic is incredible -- in the brief span of a few thousand words, we get so much character insight and build up to a truly incredible reveal. It is a delight going back and picking out all the details that lends to just how deeply messed up and multilayered this relationship is!

☪ last rites (Scarcrux / Harry) E | 5.1k | Complete | Major Character Death

Such a HOT fic. Scarcrux knows all of Harry's deepest, darkest secrets -- including just how he likes to get off. Watching Harry's resistance crumble in the face of Tom's careful seduction is one of my favourite dynamics in this ship! And BOTTOM TOM is the whipped cream hat on this perfect PWP parfait. 💜🔥 We deserve more fics like this one, where Tom gets what he wants!

☪ the dark passenger (Al / Harry, Tom / Harry) E | 5k | Complete | Non-Con, Underage

Cindle's next-gen writing is a huge part of why I have any interest at all in those characters, and this story is a great example of why! In this fic, we navigate Al's co-dependent relationship with Harry as his loving father and (though he doesn't know it!) his fated enemy. The merging of Al and Tom's personalities is so well done and elevates both ship aspects of the story, as well as seeing Harry through the lens of Al-with-Tom, in such a unique way!

[il-predestinato]

Let’s test your speed writing shall we? 😛

Hmm… my favourite number maybe? 38 🥺🧡

38. "Small Talk" by Katy Perry; pairing - lestappen (what a surprise!)

I just can't believe We went from strangers to lovers to strangers in a lifetime

So... Al, this one completely got away from me: it’s um... slightly longer than 5 sentences (2093 words apparently).

send me an ask with a number between 1 and 100 and I'll write a 5ish sentence fic inspired by that song on my 2022 wrapped playlist!

Title: One Day

Summary: The Monaco Grand Prix is cursed.

Day 37

Max always remembers. Charles always forgets.

Max remembers the address of Charles' apartment in Monte Carlo. (Charles told him on Day 5. Not too shabby, thought Max, for two people who were never friends and closer to enemies.) This time, he goes there first. The speech is well-rehearsed by now. It was a blabbering mess on Day 9, and Charles nearly tossed him off the balcony. (Day 10 was worse; Charles actually called Christian, fuck his life, and nearly called a sports psychologist before Max yeeted his phone off the balcony in desperation.) By Day 13, Max had a polished version of 'the speech'. By now, he could probably rhyme it off in his sleep. Not that it ever yielded any better results, so he abandoned this approach on Days 30 to 36. And that got him nowhere either. So back to square one.

He waits patiently for the five stages of grief to cycle past on speedrun; to give Charles some credit, despite the lack of memory retention, he did seem to get over it quicker and quicker each time. Perhaps something of each Day lingered, even if it wasn't remembrance per se.

"So it's always at Nouvelle Chicane or Le Portier?" questions Charles, hands rubbing at his temples.

Max nods, and then shakes his head. "At the Swimming Pool once," he amends. "On Day 12, I think... a crane fell on my head."

"Why was there even a crane?!" Charles groans, scandalized.

Max shrugs. He hasn't even told Charles about Day 31; a jewel thief literally ran across the race track and smashed a briefcase full of diamonds straight into Charles' helmet at 285 kph.

"So sometimes you die, and sometimes I die?" mumbles Charles with a frown.

"It doesn't matter who," confirms Max. "Then the Day restarts with my alarm going off at 7 am."

-

Day 38

"You've got to be kidding!"

Max is trying not to smile, but Charles looks absolutely petulant.

Charles glares at him. "I died at La Rascasse?" He throws both hands up in the air. "Like... how?! La Rascasse! At the hairpin?! I drive faster to the supermarket, mon dieu!"

"This time I think you took Lando with you -"

Panicked green eyes met his. "Oh, putain!" screeches Charles. "Did I kill Lando? Oh my God, oh my God. Max, please tell me I didn't -"

"Relax, mate." Max rubs both temples. Why is he always cursed to remember? "Everything resets. Lando will be fine."

"But are you sure?" insists Charles anxiously.

Max squeezes him gently on the shoulder. A little shiver runs up his arm, and he's not sure why. This wasn't exactly their first physical contact off the track. (Some Days he can remember more vividly than others; he's not quite ready to admit that the hug from Charles is the reason he remembers Day 9 more clearly than the 29 days that followed.)

"I promise," he says softly. "I got both George and Lance on Day 24, and they both came back just fine the next day."

-

Day 40

“Okay, what if we kill someone else first?”

Max is both impressed and mildly alarmed. It really didn’t take Charles all that long to make the leap from ‘wallow in despair about the unbreakable curse’ to ‘let’s move on to murder.’

“It won’t work.” He shakes his head. “Day 17. Toto and Helmut sort of decapitated each other mid-race, but the Day didn’t end until Carlos put me into the barrier.”

“Toto and Helmut did what?”

-

Day 43

"Tell me what happened yesterday."

Max freezes. The ache in his chest hasn't dulled at all.

Yesterday.

“It’s easier if I show you,” he murmurs, as he tries to ignore the sting in the corners of his eyes.

He steps closer to Charles. He hesitates.

The problem is that he has spent 42 Days with Charles, while Charles has spent none of those Days with him.

He laughs inwardly. But then again, Charles won’t remember this Day either, so what does he have to lose?

Boldness, grief, desire - seizes his chest all at once - and he gathers Charles’ face between his hands; for a fraction of a second, he realizes that Charles isn’t flinching, isn’t moving away. He kisses the soft lips, the very same ones he kissed for the first time yesterday.

Charles kisses him back. And it’s like it was yesterday again.

-

Day 61

It’s worse when he is the cause of death.

-

Day 87

No, it’s worse when Charles dies in his arms.

-

Day 90

He’s wrong again. Nothing is worse than seeing the grief in those green eyes as Max dies in his arms.

Max wants to rip at the gaping wound in his chest. Let him bleed out faster. Let it be tomorrow already.

-

Day 91

“Tell me what happened yesterday.”

Max laughs and sobs. (He sobs in joy.)

He thanks all the stars that Charles didn’t remember. That Charles never remembers.

-

Day 113

“I wish I could remember,” confesses Charles. “It doesn’t seem fair that you know so much about me, and I know almost nothing about you.” He traces his hand along Max’s exposed chest, nestling his face deeper into the crook of Max’s neck.

Max lets him explore. He selfishly loves it. There’s a certain awe in Charles’ expression that he adores, the way he “learns” (relearns) Max’s body each time.

“It’s better that you don’t,” he teases, going for levity this time. “It’s the only way I can guarantee you mind-blowing sex every time, like you’ve never experienced.”

Charles punches him lightly on the sternum. (Max smiles; it’s kinder than the mean little pinch Charles gave him on Day 99.)

“Let’s stay in bed today,” he suggests. “No racing today.”

Charles nods, pressing a feathery kiss to his collarbone. “Maybe that’s the trick.”

Max doesn’t have the heart to tell him that they already tried: Day 7, Day 21, Day 78, Days 103-109. If anything, they always died faster.

-

Day 188

“I love you,” Charles tells him.

Butterflies dance in his chest, and Max fights to maintain composure, just like he did all the previous times when Charles said those words. “You’ve only been with me for a few hours.”

“More than half a year,” corrects Charles.

Has it been that long? Max doesn’t say out loud.

He squeezes Max’s hand on their way out the door, on the way to the race track (on the way to their doom).

“Even if I don’t say it tomorrow, or the Day after that, or for a few Days,” insists Charles. “Just remember that I love you. Always. Even if I don’t remember it.”

-

Day 213

Charles dies for the fifteenth Day in a row.

Max prays to a deity that he doesn’t believe in.

-

Day 219

Charles dies for the twenty-first Day in a row.

Max curses the deity he doesn’t believe in. He vows to let the world break its fucking neck if it means he can keep Charles.

-

Day 220

He tries a different approach. He reaches for all the ugly parts of him that he once swore he would never become.

“- and that is why you will never win the Monaco Grand Prix,” he snarls at Charles, even as he feels his chest - his whole body - fracturing. He wants to bite until he bleeds and swallow his own tongue, but he ploughs on for Charles’ sake. “You will never live up to what you promised your father or Jules -”

Charles punches him. Hard.

It hurts.

He’s glad it hurts. Maybe if Charles hates him, like the universe did, maybe then - just maybe - he might live.

-

Day 224

“I didn’t mean it,” he swallows thickly. “I didn’t mean any of it -”

Charles kisses away whatever apology he was trying to form in his throat.

He can’t help but think: If Charles could remember, truly remember, he would never forgive me.

-

Day 330

Today, he doesn’t go to Charles at all.

Maybe he is the problem.

The poison that feeds this curse. He is the constant variable after all, the part of the equation that dooms them to this eternal purgatory.

-

Day 359

Charles tries to go to him.

He never accounted for that.

Max wants to open that door. Just one twist of the door knob, and Charles will be on the other side. Beautiful, kind, brave Charles. He wants -

It takes every might of his willpower to pull his hand away from the door.

-

Day 362

It’s raining. It never rains. This Day is always, unfailingly sunny.

Charles is in his arms once again, bleeding out on the pavement. The rain tries to wash the blood away. Tries to wash Charles away.

He’s crying, but Charles can’t see that, because the rain washes his tears away too.

“I should have been with you.”

All that wasted time. And for what?

He hasn’t seen Charles for twenty-two Days, but the green eyes that stare back at him are calm, even as the life behind them fades with every passing second.

“You’re with me now,” whispers Charles weakly.

“I love you,” he sobs. He doesn’t care if he’s practically a stranger to this Charles, the one dying in his arms. “I’m so sorry.”

When Charles’ eyes close at last, his face is peaceful, almost the hint of a smile tugging on his lips. A little bit of pain departs with the last breath that Max releases before his world fades to black.

-

Day 363

Charles launches a baguette at his head, and Max cannot believe the man still insists that he doesn’t possess a single iota of French ancestry.

“You abandoned me for how many days?” Charles’ accusation makes him flinch harder than the impact of the baguette on his forehead.

“Schat, I -”

Charles growls at him. “Don’t ‘schat’ me! First of all, I have no idea what that means -”

Max makes an offended noise. Charles loves his pet name, if only he could remember.

“Second of all,” continues Charles relentlessly, “I may not remember, but I felt it.”

That causes Max to fall silent.

“Oh.”

Charles sniffs, picking up the discarded baguette off the floor. “I don’t know how to explain it, but even when I don’t remember, I feel all of it. I can feel everything we went through.”

-

Day 365

Some Days are easier than others. He’s not sure which Day this one is yet. A quick, painless death after a long, beautiful day of laughter? They even made it past the actual race twice. (The first time, Charles drowned in the Monte Carlo harbour during the after party; it remains the one and only time he’s ever won the Monaco Grand Prix, which Max continues to tease him about. The second time, Daniel accidentally cracked Max’s skull with the podium champagne.) Or will it be a painful, drawn out death after a gloomy, joyless day? (Max is still embarrassed about that time he slipped on a bar of soap in the shower on Day 81, ending the Day about 15 minutes after it had started.)

Charles lays a bowl of tomato soup in front of him.

(Max once told him that he loved tomato soup. Maybe 150 Days ago. Maybe earlier than that. He mentioned it only once. Not that Charles ever remembers.)

Somehow Charles always remembers.

“So what’s the plan today?” asks Charles lightly.

The morning sun is streaming through the pearly white curtains, and a crown of light dances around Charles’ soft brown curls. A soft breeze through the open window wafts the tangy aroma of tomato soup towards him.

He takes Charles’ hand in his own and pulls him down so he can taste him on his lips.

“Just being with you,” he whispers, and his heart lightens when Charles rewards him with a dimpled smile. “If I have to live one Day over and over again, then I’m going to spend that Day with you.”

He understands now.

He thought the universe had cursed him. Had cursed them. But even a single Day with Charles was a gift. And he got to relive it over and over again. He won’t waste it again.

-

Day 366 Tomorrow

The alarm doesn’t go off at 7 am.

He only wakes up when the warm duvet is rudely snatched away from him, leaving him shivering in the crisp morning air. A pair of ice cold feet burrows their way into the warm space between his thighs, and a whiplash of messy brown hair makes his eyes sting after settling on his pillow.

-

Hope you enjoyed, @alestire

That kind of... spiralled.

[snowflake-of-destruction]

For the 1 like= 1 fic I want to write game (pinned in my profile if anyone wants to do their own like) and @spencermcmood

Okay, so Stolitz Week and Staticmoth week were the same week back in April. Crazy twist of fate, right? And I, ambitious thing that I want to be, was going to write all 7 days for both...but in 7 fics that featured both couples and all 4-6 prompts that you would have for each day if you combined every option.

As we all know, I did not do this, but let's talk about one of my plans.

Day One: First time and Morning after for Stolitz. First Kiss/Dancing/”Do you yield?”/and Potion for Voxval

The “first time” for Stolitz is the first time Blitz is actually, not only invited, but the co-host of some “fancy ass ball” (his words) or “small little get together” (Stolas’s words) hosted at Stolas’s palace. Stolas’s divorce is long finalized. Stolas and Blitz have somehow, shockingly stumbled their way into an actual relationship. All should be well.

Enter Vox and Val, at the party by invitation because powerful overlords seem like they would be a similar enough social circle to hellborn royalty and/or maybe it’s another issue of Stolas flexing that he’s abandoning any expression of what’s expected of him, inviting a bunch of sinners into the palace (though still starting with overlords because there has to be some standard).

Vox and Val arrive early and bring a host gift to try and talk Stolas into some kind of business venture, intending to bring a bottle of absinthe since rumor has it that is Stolas's favorite drink, but really it's some potion Velvette was working on. As established, Valentino is half blind, so he grabbed the wrong bottle.

It's a delayed reaction memory erasing potion, so when they all toast we end up with a Buffy Tabula Rasa plot where the four of them end up wandering the party, not quite sure who they are.

Vox and Val somehow get into a fight for the “do you yield?’ prompt but then speedrun enemies to lovers and have a second first kiss.

Stolas and Blitz get up to a variety of trouble, but mostly the type of trouble that is classic them–starting an “illicit affair” and Stolas deciding to write this so called boyfriend that some other party guest informed him that he has an apology note and run away with this dashing imp he just met and danced with.

They wake up the morning after to find that they got married at a 24 hour wedding chapel in Lust before taking refuge in a hayloft in a barn on a farm in Wrath (the family that owns the farm wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night for Blitz and Stolas to ask if two strangers with no past could be hired on as ranch hands).