#thrash particle

[elloingo]

L + RATIO + DIDN'T WATCH YOUR EXE'S SET + I JUST LEFT AND THOUGHT ABOUT YOU + LIKE WHEN YOUR TEETH GRAZE THOSE LIPS + WHEN YOU BEGIN TO SMILE

[somethingcatholic]

thinking very hard about modern au codependent willtresor.. ah…

[tinytennisskirt]

The Thrash Particle

loosely based on the song 'The Thrash Particle' by modern baseball (don't let the song deter you! It's not a mandatory listen)

summary: art has loved you forever. but even in loving you first, patrick was first to date you. you're now single and still friends with both boys, but art's feelings never really left, even when patrick's did. Art loves you and you're all he wants, but he can't have you.

warnings: drinking, yearning, some fluff, mostly angst, jealousy, tiny hint of puppy!art MWAH

Art couldn’t do it. He couldn’t watch Patrick’s game. Not when his serves used to be dedicated to you. Not when you grinned wide, perfect lips parting for perfect teeth on a perfect day. The sun was setting as Patrick continued to play. The crowd was loud and you were beside him, but he couldn’t do it. Art wondered if he could play sick and pretend he felt better for the party later. 

He didn’t want to leave you there in the stands but the way you cheered for him felt like kicks to the ribs. He usually never had an issue with it, he was over it, past it, beyond it. So you dated Patrick, and that was fine, you were his, and now you were nobody’s and there were no hard feelings. They didn’t exist and maybe that was the issue. Like a ball hits a racket, impact, he remembered sitting back in his dorm at MRTA and watching you kiss him, too high to mind being the third wheel. You kissed Patrick a lot then and it was hard to forget how you did so. Art wished it was him then the same way he still wished it was him in general. 

The problem became Stanford. The distance with Patrick on tour. And it ended mid-summer and apparently, it was mutual but the thing about a mutual breakup is that it didn’t crash and burn into nothing. It was still something and you were still friends and that was fine, on a normal day Art was completely fine with that. You three had always been friends. You just liked Patrick enough to date him and no matter what Art felt, he had to swallow that for the sake of his best friend. There was nothing he could have done back in high school and now you were single, there was still nothing he could do without ruining one friendship or the other. 

“My mom is calling,” Art lied, speaking over the roar of the crowd. Your eyes widened and you nodded, smiling at him too. “I’ll see you back at my dorm?” You shot him a double thumbs up and Art just nodded in return, getting up and leaving, the sun setting behind him, walking toward the night. He took out his phone as if his mom calling was something real and he stuffed it right back into his pocket, sitting at the base of a nearby tree. The dusk was warm and a cool breeze blew his curls around. 

He found himself fidgeting with his watch, twisting it around his wrist, thinking about you and only you. Fuck, the conflict of his feelings. The ones he used to feel so freely. Grade ten, liking you first, knowing you were perfect from the first time he saw you play, spinning in a circle when you won that game, jumping up and down, coming to find him in the stands the second you could. You’d been his friend before that moment. After that, you were everything. And it stayed that way throughout that year. You, Patrick, Art, best friends, always hanging out. Art would flirt, you flirted back but he never knew how genuine it was.

 He wanted to tell you how he felt, but he didn’t want to ruin anything by doing so. So at first, he stuck it out. Shrugged it off, and lived his life knowing he wanted to date you more than anything- pay for your meals and pick you up pretty necklaces from consignment stores and go to movies and have it all. Pretended like he didn’t think about it all the time. He knew it would fuck up your relationship with Patrick if he told you- if he dated you. He would wait it out for the perfect time. But Patrick didn’t extend the same courtesy. It was you and Patrick, over the summer between eleventh and twelfth and it was the first day of school, finding out you were dating. And had been for a month. Because you worked the same goddamn summer job and got to talking more seriously. So serving ice cream between tennis matches turned into something that excluded Art. And it just about crushed him then. 

It did get easier. You and Patrick had him around a lot, assuming that he didn’t mind that you were together. Hands intertwined, Patrick’s hands on your hips, telling Art about the first time you’d… It had ups and downs, he was never truly okay with it. He never truly got rid of the jealous ache in his chest, the ache he had for you, his best friend’s girlfriend. Because he had liked you first, you, young and pretty and spinning. Sparkly lip gloss and rhinestones on your jeans and knit sweaters with cats on them sometimes. The way you only drink tea from November 12th- December 31st because of something your aunt said when you were nine. How you tuck your hair behind your ears when you receive a compliment, how you fidget with your lower lip the same way he does, how you’ve never said no to coffee in all the years he’s known you. He liked you first and he watched you kiss his best friend and it did get easier, but never completely. How could it?

And when you dated it his feelings couldn’t just disappear. That wasn’t him, he couldn’t just turn that off, not when he’d felt this way for so long. So he stopped flirting for what he had control over- sometimes it would slip but you didn’t really seem to mind. And you didn’t seem to bring it up to Patrick and Art wasn’t a homewrecker, so he wouldn’t ruin anything intentionally but some part of him hoped it would end. He hated hoping for that, but what else could he do when Patrick swung around the corner while you two were watching tv and offered to grab you a cup of tea? It was all the hotel room had, but it was November 22nd. You said ‘no thank you’ with that perfect smile, fidgeting with your lower lip. 

And it was a mutual ending and that was the problem. Nothing crashed and burned, it was all still very much existing in the past and you were friends, you were all still friends. And Art still fucking wanted you. It had been worse- the wanting- because you and Art were at Stanford together, and when things were boring, you were in his dorm room laying upside down on his bed talking about everything and nothing and you were close to him. Closer than you’d been allowed when you were with Patrick just for the sake of not coming off the wrong way. You were single and you were beautiful and every sentence spoken in the lamplight of his dorm room on a quiet, intimate Friday night threatened to spill his every secret. But no matter how much he continued to want you, he couldn’t have you. It was wrong to date your best friend’s ex.

Fuck. You were his every thought, all the time. 

He remembered when you were both younger and you’d kissed him on the cheek. Not just a peck either, you’d mushed your face into his cheek, your hand on his other cheek for leverage just because he remembered your birthday. Out of everyone who had forgotten, he remembered and he gave you some stupid gift, a pink tennis ball and you loved it so much because it was the only thing you’d gotten. Even Patrick forgot your fifteenth. It was okay, though. Just made you appreciate him more. And then there was the first time you hugged him, really hugged him, arms around the neck when he won a game. You smelled so sweet. And then there were those casual touches he had never forgotten, too many to count, even now, your hand over his when you spoke or on his knee, or fixing his hair… It never ended. And with you around, it never would. But he wasn’t supposed to feel the way he was feeling for you. It was wrong. 

Art met you back at his dorm. Patrick wasn’t there yet. You’d changed, you were in a pretty black skirt and a pale blue tank top and you looked… too good. You had clipped some of your hair up with little clips Art knew you kept from when you were a kid and you were just so beautiful it hurt to look at you. 

“Okay, so I have shooters and you have vodka and Patrick has mixers.” You worked out the alcohol situation for the party. “Plus I have vodka too, but don’t tell Patrick I’m holding out on him.” You tossed Art the little vodka bottle with enough for two. It was already half-gone and Art gladly drank the rest straight. “No mixer?” 

“No mixer,” he repeated. “How did the rest of Patrick’s game go?” 

“Pretty boring.” You replied. “He keeps trying to pull that one trick shot and fails, so he plays it off. It was just a lot of that for the rest of the game, he looked like he was practicing.” A smile crept up your lips, teasing. “I told him in passing that I would fall in love on the spot if I ever saw that trick in real life and not just on tv and he made it his goal. Back before we were-” you coughed. “But he started trying to master it and hasn’t stopped.” 

“That’s the one with the double fake-out and the back… underhand thing with the twist?” 

“Yeah! That one. Whatever it’s called. He looked dumb doing it, honestly. It involved a lot of twirling to play it off.” You added. Art chuckled, tossing the bottle into the recycling from across the room. “It’s the move from that movie we watched the day we met. You and me. The stupid low-budget tennis underdog movie, you remember?” 

Art laughed, remembering. He didn’t remember much about the day he met you. Not where or even when. but he remembered that movie and the fact he made friends with the girl who sat down with him to watch it on the boxy common room TV because that’s all the stupid VHS would play. Tennis movies. Apparently some MRTA alumnus had directed it. With some movie magic that move that Patrick had been trying to do was born. It probably wasn’t even possible. “I remember. That was the one with the guy whose cat choked on the tennis ball.” 

“Halloween costume idea number one,” you remarked, laughing. It was stupid. Things were always stupid with Art, from the very beginning. “Jesus, the budget was low but they still managed that one shot, that one move.” 

“He’s still trying.” 

“He’s never going to get it.” 

“You hoping that he doesn’t so you don’t have to fall in love with him?” Art asked. Mostly as a joke, but the small silence that came after was uncomfortable. It was only a few seconds. Your eyes met Art’s and you shook your head no, whatever that meant. “I’m sorry.” Even Art couldn’t escape reminding himself and you of things. 

“Why? It’s funny,” your smile broke through the clouds. “I’m confident in him never getting it. So I confidently say I will, in fact, belong to the first person who pulls that move in my sight.” 

“A gamble. What if it’s some old ugly guy?” Art held up his hands like the hands of a monster. Your grin was the most beautiful thing in the fucking world and it was almost heartwrenching to not be able to do something about it. 

You shrugged, just as Patrick knocked on the door. “I’ll just have to be his controversially young girlfriend then. And then marry him and take his money and make my own awful tennis movie.” 

Art smiled, getting the door. He let the conversation slip to something new as Patrick walked in with the mixers. Classic orange soda and for you, your favourite, cherry coke. At least Patrick remembered some things. The three of you talked about the game and you didn’t mention anything about him and his stupid attempts. There were certain things kept between the two of you that almost made up for certain other things.

Around nine, the three of you headed across and just off campus to where the party was taking place. It was a wonder how it hadn’t been shut down yet with the music audible from a street over. You were excited to go and urged the boys to pick up their pace. Art just smiled, trying to, but Patrick was still a little beat from the game earlier, so he wanted to go slow. Art kept pace with you just a few steps ahead. 

“He’s wearing his shirt backward,” you whispered to Art, giggling. 

Art looked behind him, laughing quietly. “Patrick?” 

“Yeah?”

“Your shirt is on backward, bud,” Art chuckled. Patrick looked down and immediately started turning it around. He looked back at you, continuing to giggle. You were so beautiful in the yellow of the streetlights. Art was glad that he wasn’t a bad-decision drunk so he didn’t have to worry too much about anything, taking another swig of the vodka as they neared the house. You snatched the bottle back and copied him, tossing the bottle back to Patrick, who had fixed his shirt now. 

You grabbed Art’s wrist gently, guiding him. You reached back for Patrick’s but he was a bit too far. Your hand then slid down his wrist and into his own hand. He pretended it was nothing, like his heart didn’t skip. “We’ll go around back so we don’t have to pay. One of my girl friends is dating one of the guys throwing the party so they know me. Just come with me. I promise it’s not too bad once you’re in there for a while.” Your fingers went so far as to interlock with Art’s. Art almost pulled his hand away just for the sake of Patrick, but you were only pulling him along, nothing crazy. He smiled, your hand was so soft for a tennis player. He was sure his hands were calloused… “You’re so slowww, come on, come on.” You urged both boys, Art’s hand in your own still, leading them up and around to the doorway. 

You stopped at the door and you pulled Art almost into you when you did. He had to brace his hand out on the doorframe above you to keep from crashing into you. You laughed at him and he just pressed his lips into a straight line. You didn’t even let go of his hand. Seemed the pre-gaming was pretty decent. Art didn’t let go either. Patrick already pushed his way into the party. You just stood at the door, still holding Art’s hand. “I promise it’s better inside.” 

Art laughed, “It’s you who won’t go inside.” 

“Pretty sure it’s you.” You replied, teasing little smile. Pretty. “I’m just. Waiting.” 

“For your friends?” 

He didn’t get an answer. He was only met with your hand slipping out of his as your friends came and grabbed you away, your laughter absorbed by the loud music. You were out of it, it was okay. Art just went to go find Patrick, grabbing the secondary bottle of vodka back from him, taking another swig, no mixer. And Patrick cheered him on. There wasn’t anything wrong with drinking heavily at a party like this. 

You were around, you passed Art a few times, asking if he was okay. You couldn’t hear his response, so you leaned in, asking him to speak a little louder. He told you was okay, noting your handle gently on his upper arm, how good you smelled in this pit of strong perfume and bad cologne mixed with the smell of weed and alcohol. You smiled and your palm grazed his cheek as you went separate ways again, you back to your friends and Art back to find Patrick. 

He couldn’t tell how drunk you were. You seemed about your wits when you found Art again. You were worried about how much he had, asking Patrick how much of the bottle Art consumed but failing to find out truthfully. Art would admit he was maybe just a little bit drunk. Just a little. The lights stretched and he could feel static in his veins but he hadn’t had enough to be drunk drunk. But he was very drunk. 

Art found Patrick, leaning against the wall by the stairs. He was talking to some blonde, Art was too out of it to care. “Do you get jealous watching Y/N talk to other guys?” He asked, filter off. Sober thoughts, drunk words. 

Patrick, also drunk, smiled. “Do I get jealous about the guys Y/N is talking to?” He gestured to the girl he was just talking to. “No, I don’t care. Why, is he ugly?” 

Art laughed, looking the other way. He didn’t see you with any guys, he only saw you with your girl friends. He wasn’t even sure what possessed him to ask the question, but Patrick didn’t care and that was the answer. “I wouldn’t know,” Art said. “Do you still think about her?” 

Patrick shoved Art playfully, “Huh?”

“I’m drunk I don’t know, man,” Art pressed his hand to his head. “I mean I’ve known her forever so it’s weird all around. I think about her.” 

Patrick leaned into Art, their faces close. He grinned at Art. “Yeah? What do you think about?”

“You and her.” He replied, bad grammar. He couldn’t feel much at all other than the buzz that warmed his skin in the already-hot house. “It’s weird seeing her with anyone who isn’t you. I mean, that was just a year and a half ago, right?” 

“Yeah,” he replied. “I think about her in a friend way. I mean, she’s hot but I don’t want her anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.” Patrick was a little less drunk than Art. 

Art groaned, “I don’t even know what I’m asking, I’m-“ he leaned against the wall but the wall was a bit further than he thought. Patrick grabbed his upper arm to save him from crashing into that very wall and the boys just laughed at how drunk Art was. The small, weird conversation would haunt Art later when he was sober. For now, it was just really funny. And Art had more to drink from a random girl who poured some of her Smirnoff right into his mouth and he got a shot from another guy with a bong. He was so far gone. So drunk. He even smoked a little weed just for fun. You passed Art again, grabbing his arm so he wouldn’t walk past without noticing. 

“You are so so drunk,” you said, cupping Art’s face in your hands. He grinned wide, eyes shut, letting you. Your hands were soft and a little cold, which was refreshing. “You’re okay?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He replied, not even opening his eyes. Your thumb grazed over the left side of his cheek. He just hummed, which you couldn’t hear over the music. You were concerned for your friend who was usually the responsible one who drank the least just to make sure Patrick’s dumb ass got home okay. Art was a weed guy, Patrick was the alcohol guy. 

You smiled, hands leaving his face, sliding down both of his arms. “Let’s get some air, okay?” 

“Okay,” He replied with the will of a puppy training to be a good dog. He let you lead him to the back door and you helped him down the stairs with the help of one of the guys smoking on the back step. He was really fucking drunk. The backyard was mostly dark aside from the orangey light on the side of the house. He rubbed his eye as you helped him sit down on the swing bench at the edge of the lawn. It was pretty trippy for him to sit on a moving bench, but he was vaguely aware of your hand on his back and his shoulder.

You were sat on your knees, your feet beneath you and the way you braced him was a little bit hug-like, your one arm around him, hand running slowly up and down his back in a soothing manner. “We did not have enough with us to get this drunk,” you laughed gently. He just smiled. Even under the influence, he was a little scared to say something he’d regret when sober. “You promise you’re okay?” Your voice felt like velvet. He could feel it. It was a weird drunk superpower. 

“I’m okay, just had a lottt of vodka. And other stuff.” He smiled, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to look at you, you were so close that if he did, your faces would be too close. “I feel great.” 

“You don’t look great,” you said, tilting his head to face yours with a simple touch of your finger to the side of his jaw opposite you. He was putty in your hands, you could do whatever you wanted and he would let you. It wasn’t your intention, though he wished it was.  “Is something going on? I want to know. You never drink this much and I know your mom didn’t call earlier. Your stupid ringtone didn’t go off.” You knew this might not be the time to get an intelligent answer, but it might be that. Art’s face was so close to yours he could see every detail and speck of colour in your eyes. Even in the dim. 

“What was the question?” He grinned. You just laughed quietly, biting your lip. He was staring at your lips, he knew that. “I’m sorry…” 

“You have had too much. Way way way too much. I think we should get you home. Or even to my dorm. My dorm is closer.” 

Art tilted his head just a bit, soft smile on his lips. “I was thinking about the movie. The tennis one.” 

“Art…” you hushed, your face still close to Art’s. It was no wonder you dated Patrick, you had the same habit of talking way too close to someone’s face. “What about the movie?” 

“I think Patrick is gonna figure out the move.” He said, no meaning behind it. But somehow the words set up the perfect vision of the day he met you. Sitting on the floor. Only a few years ago but you were so cute then and you were so gorgeous now. 

“Really?” 

“Probably. With his luck.” 

“His luck?” 

Art just shook his head, he barely even understood himself. “Fuck, I think maybe I did drink too much.” 

“Yeah?” You smiled, continuing to try and ground him a little more. You’d signaled to one of the guys to grab you a bottle of water and you handed it to Art when you received it. “Can you sit here while I go grab Patrick?” You even unscrewed the cap from the bottle for him. He nodded and you gently pat his thigh, getting up in your little skirt to go find Patrick. He was glad you weren’t there because how would drunk Art hide his stupid fucking boner? 

You slipped into the house again and Art sat there thinking about you. Had he admitted to something yet? He wondered through the alcohol. Maybe he did and he just didn’t remember it already and maybe he wouldn’t remember it again. He hoped he wouldn’t. He drank the water in small sips, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, shirt sleeves rolled up. He hated that you were off limits. He hated that he wanted you so fucking badly. He hated that in his head he could admit he was probably in love with you. How could he not be? 

Patrick came outside and sat on the swing next to Art. “Y/N is saying goodbye to her friends before we go.” 

“I need a babysitter,” Art chuckled, but the laugh died out. “I’m so fucked.” 

“You’re drunk, that’s what. I don’t know why she’s all worked up about it, she’s drunk too.” 

Patrick still didn’t understand you. Art found that a little funny. She wasn’t worked up, she was worried. And there was more to the story than Patrick could ever know. “It’s fine.” Art managed. 

“How long were you out here?” Patrick asked. 

“Fuck, I have no idea.” 

“Just you?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

Patrick was quiet, but he was smiling. “Uh huh… I know you like her, Art.” 

“I probably love her but it’s all fucked.” Art admit. Patrick’s smile didn’t waver one bit. He already knew it, there wasn’t any denying, he knew Art. And he knew Art loved you. It was easy to love you, your personality, the way you look. “I’m sorry, that is…” 

“No, no, it’s fine. You’re a good guy and it’s hard not to love her. I mean, I never could, not really.” Patrick was also drunk, there was space to be honest. Art just shut his eyes and took another swig of water. “She’s amazing.” 

“She is.” 

“And you’ve loved her forever.” 

“I think so,” Art replied. “Remember watching that tennis movie? The really shitty one? I watched that movie with her before you watched it with her. She watched it with me, then showed it to you.” 

Patrick nodded. He knew. 

And you hopped down the steps and back to the boys, asking if they were ready to go and Art was as ready as he could be. Both boys had confessed to something and now the real stuff was out of the way, you and Patrick tried to help Art walk back to your dorm. The stairs were harder than they looked. And your dorm room was small, but you let Art have the bed. He laid on his side with your trash can next to the bed in case he needed it. You made him drink another cup of water while you changed into your pajamas in the bathroom. Patrick made you a makeshift bed on the floor and you thanked him for everything, bidding him goodnight. Art was too out of it to properly say anything other than ‘goodnight, Pat’.  

Patrick went back to Art’s dorm to sleep for the night. You smiled, looking at Art on top of your purple sheets. He was still laying on his side, fidgeting with his hands. He was feeling just a little less drunk, but still drunk. You put your hands on your hips and he raised his head to look over at you. 

“Are you feeling better?” 

“Yeah,” he replied. 

“Enough to answer my question?” 

“Hm?” Art propped himself up on his elbow as you came to sit on the edge of the bed. You in your pajama shorts and your tank top, no bra. He did what he could not to look. But his focused stayed on you, perfect, concerned. He loved that you cared so much. 

You kept your warm smile on, “Earlier today, the game. You just upped and left and you weren’t being called. And then, maybe I’m reading into it, but you don’t usually drink that much… I just thought maybe something was up.” 

Art heard all of your words this time, noting the way your eyebrows furrowed. “No. Nothing, just two events.” He shrugged. He lied to you, which he hating doing because you were beautiful and he just never wanted to lie to you. But he had to because telling you the truth would be wrong. And would create a wreckage he wasn’t sure he would be able to clean up alone. 

“Art, I love you, but I’m not stupid.” You replied. “What’s wrong?” 

If he had words lined up to say, they were gone when you said what you said. He knew the context, but you did love him, regardless of platonic or not. As much as he wished it was different, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He looked at you and he wanted you more than anything. He was young, but he’d known his future was supposed to be you. He wondered if he belonged in yours the way he knew you belonged in his. He looked at you, met your eyes, his mouth twisting to the side. He looked at you, wondering how it was possible to need you so badly, how Patrick had you and how he never could. It was unspoken. 

His heart ached. He felt it even through the buzz. His heart physically hurt looking at you. And you just looked back, your hand outstretching to take his. “Okay.” You said, smile still there. “You promise that whatever it is, it’s fine?”

The silence hung for another moment. “Yeah.” Art lied, feeling his chest squeeze just a bit. He wanted the feeling to pass again, he wanted this to be easier. He wanted you more than anything. You were all he needed, he knew there was nothing he needed more, he would give anything to be with you the way he wanted. Anything. Everything. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, no, I promise it’s okay. I was just worried. And I’m here if you want to talk or tell me… anything.” You grinned and Art grinned back, it was all he could do when you squeezed his hand. “I care.” 

“I know.” 

“Good. You should.” You said. “But you should finish your water and go to sleep. I’m scared for your hangover tomorrow.” 

“Me too.” He said, his chest constricting so much he swore he couldn’t breathe. You turned out the lamp, but the purple night light in the corner cast just enough light. Art’s hand was cold without yours. You got into your makeshift bed and said goodnight to him. 

The next few days Art took to himself. Said he was sick, then he said he had practice. He had a game in just a few days so he made himself busy because that night almost broke him. He needed to remember his place. He needed to remember that he couldn’t have you for a reason. Both him and Patrick forgot about their confessions, their understanding, lost to a night of drinking. You missed him, but you and Patrick understood. Saw him once that week in the cafeteria for lunch. 

And then there was that game. You made plans for afterwards, just you and him because Patrick had to get back on the road half-way through the game. He apologized, patting Art on the back before the game. You rolled Art’s sleeves up, folding them over instead of letting him just push them up.  “Good luck.” You said. And you smiled that winning smile. 

The game began and things kicked off pretty strong for Art. He always played better when you were around, it was just how things went. He played well- kicking the other guy’s ass. He could hear you and Patrick cheering, swearing and not meaning to. It was funny. And then he let it get to him after a week of trying to cleanse himself. It was you and Patrick. You and him, it would always be you and him because he never even got the chance and it wasn’t like he could still be jealous. His chest tightened and he missed the ball. And then it happened again and again and he tried to focus on you. Gorgeous, flawed but still perfect. Kind, caring, intuitive. You with your quirks and favourites and the things he loved about you, but he couldn’t say. He tried to save the game, but it was up and down. 

You watched him, not taking your eyes off the game, even when Patrick pat you on the shoulder and said goodbye. You said it, but Patrick, occupied with his phone didn’t notice that you didn’t look at him. You’d said proper goodbyes before anyways, it wasn’t a big deal. You sighed, watching him miss another ball. This was a game that would help him qualify for so much more… his backhand was off and he just seemed like he wasn’t there. There was only so much time left, so much left to play… He had only a few chances to fix this and you were on the edge of your seat over it. You cheered extra loud for him, crossing your fingers he would pull through. You missed him a lot the past week, you were excited to see him, but with everything that seemed wrong, this just went along with it. He had this game in the bag, he’d been practicing all week… 

He could keep the scales balanced but he couldn’t get ahead. He was so plagued by this thought of you, the twistedness of his situation, how completely fucked over he was. You were there and you weren’t his and you couldn’t, wouldn’t be. It was fucked. It was all so fucking stupid? What did you want? Was it always Patrick? Was it ever him? Could it have ever been him? 

He hit the ball back and scored another point and he just needed two more to win but two more to lose and fuck, he was stuck. The ball went back and forth, the rally having you on the edge of your seat, fully submerged in the game, wanting this win for him so badly. He worked so hard and he’d been so down lately, in his own head and he needed this. Another point was scored by Art. He just needed one more to win. The rally continued and it was increasing in intensity by the second to the degree that it was almost violent. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath at such a close game. 

Art glanced over at you, alone where you sat in the crowd, no Patrick in sight. Just you in the glow of the sun. An angel, a good luck charm, someone beautiful. And the ball came flying at Art in a way he hadn’t anticipated. It was as if time slowed down. Art stuck his racket out sideways to anticipate it. He then switched angles, going at it with an upright racket. A double fake out. Time stayed slow, the ball was still in air and Art stepped backward, twisting his arm around him and itself. The racket met the ball and it was propelled with a mix of an underhand and a backhand at the same time. His body followed through with the twist and his opponent, not knowing what the fuck that was, fumbled and missed. 

Everyone stood to cheer for Art, but not you. You stayed seated, looking at him in complete disbelief, eyes wide. He pulled the move. He did the move from the movie. Art just stood on the court, looking at you. His eyes said what he couldn’t. That he loved you. And you knew it. As if you were telepathic, you knew it. It’s why he practiced the whole week. He loved you and he said it through that one stupid move from that one stupid movie. 

You just tilted your head and smiled. Isn't this what you wanted? And that smile of yours turned into a laugh. A gorgeous laugh that he could hear, even in the crowd. His eyes were soft and they were telling. He hadn’t intended to pull that move when he did. But you swore what you swore. In that promise you’d made, there was some truth. Words unsaid were murderous. Ruinous. You just got up and left. 

taglist: @swetearss @lalalandofive @xoxog0ssipg1rl @bayleequits @reallycreativeusername @kaaaiiaaa

[toxicmetalzine]

The Wave and The Particle

Female Fronted Futuristic Metal Project The Wave and The Particle Partners With Wormholedeath! Read the full story here: https://toxicmetalzine.com/post/female-fronted-futuristic-metal-project-the-wave-and-the-particle-partners-with-wormholedeath

[cl0wnc0ll3ge]

Didn't watch your ex's set I just left and thought about you Like when your teeth graze those lips When you begin to smile Later, you took my hand You lead us to the doorway But you let go of me Once you saw all your friends And I've known you forever At least that’s what I tell Jake When I'm too drunk to walk home When your brother is away You suggested I write a song about the first time we met But I can't seem to remember where or when

Couldn't watch your ex's set Instead,​ I wrote this song about you Thought, "Would you show your kids If you found the time was right?" You'd tell them where and when You never thought I'd leave the East Coast We were young and full of sin And I too dumb to understand Yet I've loved you forever At least that’s what I tell Holt When I'm too drunk to lie, too drugged to be alone You suggested I write a song about the first time we met Well I don't wanna remember there or then So, is this the hook you wanted? Is it stuck inside your head? Can you sing it with your friends or alone? So, am I what you needed? Say you love me to my face Grin and gossip, walk away, and then go "So is this the hook you wanted? To sing about me to my friends? Well you're just stuck inside your head, all alone You were all I needed Said I loved you to your face But you just laughed and walked away

[steviewashere]

I love only child Steve Harrington, but how about I suggest something else that's really angsty? Stay with me here, please.

CW Ahead: Death of a Sibling, Grief/Mourning, Minor Suicidal Ideation, Steve's Sacrifices to Prove Self-Worth

Steve Harrington had a twin. They were identical.

They'd chase each other around in the Indiana sun, when it was at its lowest, grass green in the field, lightning bugs about. Barefoot in the backroads, dust particles, laughing until their stomachs hurt. Riding their bikes up and down their street, seeing who could go faster. Swimming laps in the pool, trying to beat the other.

Their parents are happy. A good marriage. Lovely kids. Living that smooth, good life.

Both of them super young when it happens. He and his twin are roughly...12? 13? Middle school age.

It's another summer night. No school. Not a care in the world. The Harrington family go out of town for a lake house vacation. Steve and his twin swim laps and laps around in the lake.

They've got beach toys, playing in the very little amount of sand. Then, Steve accidentally drops his little plastic shovel into the water. It sinks, or at least begins sinking. His twin tells him to stay out of the water, that he'd go down and retrieve the shovel. His twin had the better swimmer's lungs after all.

But then thirty seconds pass. Forty-five...a whole minute.

Bubbles come to the surface. The water rippling like somebody's thrashing. And then...nothing.

Of course, Steve runs up to the lake house to get his parents. To get help. But he was too late. He couldn't save his brother.

After this, he can't even look himself in the eyes. Can't look into a mirror. After this, his parents grow distant from him. They leave more and more frequently, leave him alone in his guilt. Affairs and arguments...it all happens too frequently now. Steve keeps to himself. He's quiet and weird. Barely has any friends. Won't talk about that summer evening. Won't consider going around a lake again.

But...but then he goes to high school. He tries out for the swim team, just to give himself something to do. It made his dad pay attention to him. It made his parents stay. It made a small part of him proud, when he did good at his meets, when he was eventually given the co-captain spot. He worked as a lifeguard over the summers.

Barb goes missing from his backyard. He isn't aware that she was dragged through the pool. Didn't see it, never knew.

Nancy lives with the same sort of guilt that Steve did. But Steve only knows one way of coping: moving on. Busying his brain with stupid things: drinking and partying and sports and other things that seem meaningless. He seems fine, doesn't he? It's not like he's weighed any of the shit he's been through.

(He is. He won't tell anybody this.)

Dustin asks for his help that one day, the same age as Steve's twin brother was—will forever be. And Steve knows, even if he accepts reluctantly at first, that this is his duty. It's what's going to prove that he can care, that he isn't fucked up over this thing that happened, that he can do better.

Helping where he can, that's what makes him proud. Being somebody to step in, to throw themselves at the danger rather than letting anybody else experience it.

And then Lover's Lake.

He hasn't been out on a lake, not even dipping his toes in the water since the incident. But when it comes down to it, to the group he's sitting on that rickety boat with, he knows he must. He must prove that he can help, that he can swim best, that he can use his skills for good; rather than sitting by, almost uselessly.

He's being dragged back under the surface, something wrapped around his ankle. He's panicking, of course he's panicking—there's questions and broken sentences flashing through his brain: did this happen to him? is this what he felt like? am I going to die like this, too?

For half a moment, he expects to die. He's ready to die. Like maybe dying will break him free from the guilt he's been carrying. Like a cycle will be reset.

He's relieved when he doesn't drown.

Yet, when that demobat releases his throat and he can get enough oxygen to focus on his surroundings, he sees all the others around him in the Upside Down. And he's furious. Furious that they had to go after him, to save his sorry ass. Because, again, he's put himself in a position of complete uselessness.

Always the one needing help, needing to be saved.

He'd rather do it alone. Rather be the bait, the hook line and sinker.

And when the fight is over, when Dustin loses Eddie...

Steve sees himself in Dustin's eyes. Helpless, scared, vengeful—

Guilty.

He considers his new duty to be to actually help Dustin's guilt. To try and make it better. But he's fucking it up, he constantly fucks it up. Just like he did with Nancy. He still can't look himself in the eyes.

Not without seeing his brother's face. Not without seeing scars where he failed to fully protect. Not without seeing Dustin's guilty, angry gaze. Not without seeing himself.

And somewhere along the lines, he knew his self-worth was low. But it's even lower. Like it was when he lost his brother; it shouldn't have been his brother. It shouldn't have been Eddie. It should've been him.

But he doesn't tell anybody this revelation he has. He continues on, life normal, trying to be helpful where he can. No matter how little, no matter how much he must sacrifice.

————

Another version here:

Dustin is guilty because Eddie got so injured, but Eddie's saved by Steve. Steve makes it his only mission in that moment to resuscitate Eddie—he learned CPR after his brother died just in case, he's thankful for his anxious self-nagging.

But Dustin is still guilty and Steve still sees himself.

And Eddie's trying to reassure both of them, but nothing seems to get through. He's the only one who can really see through Steve's cracks, he ends up not liking what he's seeing. Under the surface, Steve is just hollow. Not hollow like he's dumb or boring or unimportant. Hollow like there's nothing keeping him tethered, nothing fulfilling him, nothing to keep him satiated and happy.

Under the surface, Eddie sees a version of a man he doesn't really know. He sees Steve constantly fighting a mental battle, some sort of self-worth argument, some prattle with his own thoughts. He sees a man barely living; he sees a man willing to die for anything.

Again, he ends up not liking what he's seeing.

[caged-star]

[ When Rae falls asleep, he finds himself back in the lab- but not anywhere he recognises. In front of him is a split cell, Enderian locked in one side and Isla in the other. Enderian is screaming in pain as water is thrown over her and Isla is banging the one way glass dividing them- yelling for Enderian ]

[ Creation turns and smiles ]

Ever wondered what was happening when i kept you in that cell when you first got here?

[ Enderian screams louder, thrashing and sobbing and screaming. Isla is begging Creation to stop, promising to love him again if he stopped ]

[ Their cries and screams haunt Rae as he wakes up ]

@wolf-prototype

[Rae wakes up screaming, hands presses tight over his ears as he tries to block out the screams of his mothers. Ender particles swirl around him quickly]

[dawn-moths]

hi can i please request something with tomura (I’ve been seeing you say you want to write for him again lol plus i love him to so) like maybe something soft and comforting but also with smut in it?

hellooooo (*ˊᗜˋﾉﾉ

yes you absolutely can! thank you for giving into my current hyperfixation lol he has been on my mind sooooo much lately. probably in order to cope with what happened with the source material…

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

“Inside the Open Window”

Tomura x afab Reader

word count: 2,000+

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors dni! size difference mentioned, soft tomura, some smut, some angst, established relationship, afab reader.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡���♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

The room, for once, is filled with honeyed light. You blink open bleary eyes and stare out into the shallow pools of morning puddling in swaying shapes on the floor, vision slowly focusing until you catch the lazy swirls of dust motes dancing through the air. You keep telling Tomura to open some windows, let the fresh air in before it gets too cold and you all end up even more cooped up than you already feel you are on the daily, but he’s stubborn about it so you have to sneak his open a crack when he’s not around. So far he hasn’t noticed. Maybe you’ll risk sliding it up a little further this afternoon.

Beside you, you can hear Tomura’s slow, shallow breathing from where he lays, one of his arms slung across your middle, elbow resting in the dip of your waist as you lay on your side, your back almost touching his chest. You find his hand where it’s carefully placed up near your own chest, fingers curled tightly inward even though he wears those two-fingered gloves whenever you two sleep together. You tell him you trust him, that he’s spent a majority of his life learning to sleep through the night without decaying anything while unconscious, but he says having your trust isn’t the deciding factor.

“I don’t trust myself,” he’d snapped one evening when you were pressing him about it, trying to come from a place of reassurance but inevitably pushing him a little too far. “You don’t understand,” he’d continued, after a short huff of a sigh and a trembling hand raked back through his unruly waves. “It’s just— If that were to happen, I can’t take it back. I can’t take it back. I—”

You’d approached him, slow and cautious, like he was an injured animal that looked vulnerable right now but, once within reach, might thrash and snap, bare its teeth and bite down hard. “Tomura…” you’d murmured, reaching out a hand, testing to see if he’d let you place it on his cheek. “It’s ok…” He’d leaned into your touch, let his eyes flutter closed, his next exhale coming out as a shaking, raspy whine. You’d gently pulled him down until your foreheads were touching, hoping that simple act helped to make at least some of his fear melt away, the terror pulling back from shore for a short while even if its return was inevitable. You’d let the silence settle between you two before you’d said, your voice barely above a whisper, “I know…”

So he slipped on the gloves, you buckling them in place around his thin wrists, and from then on some of the tension he held whenever he’s around you disappears.

The first touch is always the hardest though.

It’s always the scariest.

It’s as if he worries the rules of his quirk will suddenly change, that needing all five fingers in order to decay will mutate into needing only one and he’ll be forced to helplessly watch you crumble to dust between his destructive hands, frantically trying to gather up the particles as if he could use them to reconstruct you somehow, or maybe just to keep a part of who you used to be, if worse came to worst.

But once his hand— palm, fingers, and all— was safely resting against the side of your neck, he allowed himself to feel some relief.

Because, like that, you could be his.

Like that, he could hold you.

You stiffly shimmy out from beneath his arm, making sure to carefully lift the limb and set it comfortably back down close to him. You stand, greeted by the quiet crackling pops of a few joints, and make your way over to that cracked window. You glance behind you. Tomura’s still asleep. So you catch the lip of the window with the edge of your grip and pull upward, struggling for a moment before it finally gives and slides all the way to the top, the rush of sound quick but louder than you were hoping for.

When you look over your shoulder again, you see Tomura’s eyes are open now, looking fully alert in just an instant, though his body remains still and frozen in the same position that you left it, tufts of white hair hanging at odd angles in his eyes and over his shoulder.

“Sorry…” you wince, coming back over to sit on the bed beside him. He begins to stir, turns over onto his chest to push up onto his elbows, the tousled sheets slipping and exposing more of his pale back, the scars cross-hatching across the skin shining faintly silver in the morning’s soft glow. 

“You can go back to bed if you want to,” you tell him, feeling guilty for waking him so soon. You know he’s usually one to sleep into the afternoon and beyond.

He clicks on your phone, 8:15 lighting up on the screen before fading to black again. “It’s fine,” he sighs, turning over again to sit up, slouching over a bit as he rubs at the back of his neck, fingers getting caught in a loose knot in his hair as he combs it through, letting out a pronounced yawn. He looks at you as you shuffle closer and asks, “How long have you been up?”

“Not long,” you tell him. “Only a few more minutes before you.”

Tomura opens his mouth, about to say something, but stops when you both hear one of the other members of the League creaking around from downstairs. You’re willing to bet it’s Atsuhiro. He’s the only regularly early-rising person among you.

Whatever words Tomura was going to speak are reduced to a low rumble of annoyance and the clenching of his jaw, as if he’s just been reminded of something he’d been trying to avoid.

In this small bout of contemplation, Tomura shifts from beneath the covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed, bending down to grab up the bundle of black denim on the floor which unfurl into his jeans, fishing out his phone from the back pocket and turning it on only to be greeted with an abundance of notifications. Instead of reading them, he mutters something under his breath and tosses it onto the nearby side table, leaning forward to give you a better view of his back again. Now that you’re closer, you can better see the fading red scratch tracks that travel down his shoulders, though for once the marks weren’t made by his own jagged nails.

The sight of it takes you back to last night, when the room had been doused in silver instead of gold and filled to the brim with the quiet, lilting sounds of your combined pleasure. You could still feel the ghost of him wrapped around you, encasing you in his scent, his touch, his very essence as if attempting to meld you both into one.

But, like most things, no matter how much you tried to tell him he didn’t need to be so delicate with you, doesn’t need to treat you like you’re one touch away from being broken, he doesn’t listen. He’s so gentle, even as his hips meet the inside of your thighs and he drives himself into your tight, wet heat even deeper, as if hoping to burrow a new home inside of you, to leave a piece of himself there so you’ll always carry it around.

Your moans are perhaps his favorite sound in the entire world, hearing the way they break off into a clipped whimper when he hits that soft, spongy spot deep inside of you, his own moans choked out as your silky walls squeeze around his length, wringing pleasure from him in a way that’s both relentless and heavenly.

When you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him in deeper still, he’s on the verge of losing any ounce of control he has left, tempted to take your wrists and pin them above your head so he can pound into you hard enough to well tears in your eyes and have you crying out in a way that’s helpless and hurting and all his, his, his.

But when he looks down at you, sees that telltale trust that reflects back at him in your gaze, he keeps the more carnal parts of his desires at bay. Because, while he may take pride in being a symbol of fear to the rest of the world, if there’s only one person he doesn’t want to view him like that, it’s you.

When you come undone, arching your back as your mouth hangs open with a silent scream, that’s when your nails rake across his flesh quick and hard, not quite breaking the skin but bursting the blood vessels beneath, a speckling of bright red stippling the tracks of a slightly lighter shade.

He’d let out a hiss followed mere moments later by his own body letting go, a broken whine welling in his throat, the types of sounds he only allows you to hear him make. You’d forgotten you’d scratched him so hard last night almost as soon as it had happened, your mind glazed over with a thick layer of pleasure and saccharine lust, the world around you blurring until the only thing you could seem to make out through the dim dark of the room was him and all that alabaster, scar-covered skin sheened over with sweat.

Now, Tomura beckons you back into his embrace, wanting to feel the warmth of your body seeping into his one more time before he’s forced to rise from his bed and slip back into the cold, hardened role of being the leader of the most feared group of villains in the entire country, perhaps even the entire world.

You’re wearing his t-shirt, the soft black fabric oversized on your form, nothing underneath, the rest of your clothes still left discarded and strewn across the room in a trail from the door to the foot of the bed. Like this, you’re enveloped in his scent, and it leaves you feeling calm and sated. Safe. Like nothing inside of these four walls could ever go wrong.

But you really should’ve known better.

The moment you start to get even a little too comfortable is always when something rears its head to remind you there are no happy endings here. 

After a while of listening to your steady breathing and staring out the open window, Tomura works up the courage to say, “Today’s the day, y’know…” hence breaking the illusion that you’d be allowed to live in the fantasy of this haven for more than a single night’s rest.

You close your eyes, let out a long breath, trying to stay your worry. “I know,” you tell him. “I know, but, Tomura…” You turn your face up towards his, hoping to lock eyes with him, even if only for a moment, but he’s still focused on the window he rarely lets you open, furrowing his sparse, silvery brow in a look of intense concentration. Eventually, however, he does look at you, the intensity he held before melting away into something much more concerned.

Be careful, you want to tell him.

If things start to go wrong just get out. Don’t risk letting the heroes get their hands on you.

But what comes out instead is, “Nothing, nevermind…”

You figure he has enough to worry about already. You know he’s fully aware of the risks of this mission and the consequences that will follow if he fails.

So, for now, you allow yourself to sit in this false sense of security and serenity a little longer, whether for another minute, another hour, another day.

He won’t fail, you tell yourself as he places a kiss to the top of your head and smoothes down your hair, rising from the bed and gathering up more scattered articles of his clothing to slip back on before heading downstairs. He can’t.

You then regret opening the window. Perhaps, if you’d left it alone, you could’ve bought a few more hours of peace before the weight of responsibility settled in.

But, at the same time, you also knew that you were both on borrowed time.

Why not enjoy what moments of fresh air and sunlight you could get before it all was reduced to rubble and ash.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

[hyunsvngs]

kinktober !

kink: foot fetish

pairing: hwang hyunjin x fem!reader x yang jeongin

wc: 2.6k

foot fetish: a pronounced sexual interest in feet.

“It’s definitely not a weird thing, Jeongin,” Hyunjin pointed a finger at Jeongin, covered in Cheeto dust and a lot less declarative than he’d intended it to be. “Foot fetishes are common.”

“It is weird,” Jeongin mumbled, shifting on the end of Hyunjin’s bed. He blinked, before he shook his head decisively. “Okay, maybe not weird. It’s just not common. Do you even know anyone who has a foot fetish?”

You looked at Hyunjin. He looked at you, and then he nodded. “Me.”

Jeongin sprang up, looking between you and Hyunjin with confused, wide eyes. “Huh?! You- did you know?”

You giggled, flexing your toes in Jeongin’s face playfully. “That’s why I always keep my toenails painted.”

“I thought that was just a personal choice,” Jeongin responded, voice no louder than a whisper. He still looked astonished. You smiled. Wait. Your face fell, staring at Jeongin.

“You noticed?” You asked, tilting your head to the side. “You noticed I always paint my toenails. Have you been looking at my feet?”

Hyunjin snickered, and you elbowed him. Jeongin gasped, flying over the bed to stare you directly in the face. “I do not have a foot fetish, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Sounds like you do,” Hyunjin said, crisp particles flying across the bed. His dark hair was pulled back but he still moved to run a hand through it, before realising his fingers were indeed covered in the crisp dust and recoiling in disgust. He shook his head, pushing his glasses up his nose with his knuckles before staring straight at Jeongin. The younger had wiggled his way in between you both now, laying on his tummy with a defiant expression. “It’s fine if you do. I like to suck toes. I like to cum on them, even-”

“Stop!” Jeongin shrieked, thrashing on the bed. “Are you fucking with me? Are you two fucking with me right now?”

“We’re not fucking with you, Innie,” You cooed, running a hand through his hair. He moved into the touch yet still looked decidedly fuming. “All we’re saying is that if you wanna fuck me and suck on my toes, that’s fine.”

Jeongin moved back, sitting on his knees with another confused look in his eyes. “But you two are together.”

Hyunjin shrugged. He finally discarded the packet of crisps, wiping his hands with a baby wipe from his bedside table and turning to become more involved in the conversation. He knew it was getting serious. “We like threesomes, Innie. It’s been agreed upon before. If you wanna fuck my girlfriend and drool over her feet while I watch, I’m gonna get off on it.”

“It’s really fine, Innie,” You chirped, not missing the way he’d now focused on you. “We don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. Just know that kinks are meant to be explored, yeah? If you think you may be into it, we’re here.”

Jeongin inched closer to you, the confused expression replaced by fire blazing behind his eyes. “Well… how would you let me fuck you?”

“However you want, you can decide,” You responded automatically, and Hyunjin’s breath hitched in his throat. Jeongin licked his lips, eyes flickering to where your legs and feet were bare in your pyjama shorts. He looked to be debating something, before he surged forward, capturing your mouth with his own. Yeah, you had him. You had him right where you needed him.

Hyunjin always liked to watch. He had a thing for you fucking other people with him jerking off next to you, and not even a degrading way - if he watched someone else fuck you, he got to see your expressions raw and unfiltered without his own pleasure getting in the way. It got him off majorly, so you weren’t surprised to hear him gasp again at the sight of Jeongin’s tongue entering your mouth. It was filthy, Jeongin’s hands moving to tangle long, dexterous fingers in your hair and pull your head to where he wanted you. It was like you weren’t even kissing him. He was kissing you, taking full advantage of the pliant body you’d become. 

His lips were soft and demanding, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth. His grip in your hair was gentle but firm, keeping you in place as he worked you into a frenzy. You wanted more. No, you needed more. 

“Jeongin,” You huffed against his lips. He ignored you speaking his name, leaning down to suck marks into your throat. You sighed again, thrashing your legs around on the bed. “Jeongin. I’m wet, I need something.”

“You need to be patient,” He remarked, tongue laving over your skin. You let him push your t-shirt up, revealing your lack of bra underneath. He leaned down, sucking on one peaked, pebbled nipple. In your peripheral vision, you saw Hyunjin shove his hand into his joggers, a clenched fist starting to move erratically on his length beneath the fabric. He was always weak for your tits, especially when another man’s mouth was on them. 

Jeongin hummed, leaning back on his haunches. His erection was straining against the fabric, but he looked unbothered, save for the messy strands of hair hanging down over his fox-like eyes. He was considering something, and you squealed when he grabbed your hips and lifted them onto his lap, yanking your pyjama shorts down.

He grinned. “You are wet. Just from kissing?”

“She’s always the same,” Hyunjin grunted, finally pushing his joggers down. His length was long, curved and smooth against the trimmed pitch black hair at his base. He smirked when he saw you were looking and polished the head of his cock teasingly, forming a tight ring around the head to squeeze some of the precum out. “You wanna suck it, baby?”

“Yes-”

“She can’t, unfortunately. She needs to focus on this,” Jeongin commanded, and he slid two fingers into your hole, dripping and wet around his knuckles. You keened at the way they pushed against that delightful spongy spot inside you with little to no effort. He watched your face as you felt the pleasure start to build within you, quick and unadulterated, his thumb moving to graze over your clitoris and making you weak at the knees. You moaned, your hips pushing against his hand as your body shivered in pleasure. Jeongin chuckled, fingers curving up against your g-spot again. You whined, eyes hazy and half-lidded, your hands gripping the pillow beneath your head. “Oh, yeah. You like it when I touch that spot, don’t you?” 

“Mm, deeper, deeper! Please, please, Innie, please, deeper, hnnng,” You were babbling, slurring your words, and Hyunjin reached over to you with one hand. He slipped his thumb past your parted lips, letting you suck on it and swirl your tongue around the tip to muffle your noises. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, eyes brimming with tears, and all Jeongin was doing was repeatedly tapping against your g-spot. 

“If I go deeper, I’m gonna be in your fucking tummy, baby,” Jeongin chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Hyung, do you think you can hold her legs back? I might get a better angle like that.”

Hyunjin nodded, wholly unaffected by being commanded by his younger group member. He moved his hand from his cock and used it to push both of your legs up. You dutifully pulled them back with your hands, finally letting your fingernails sink out of the fabric. Jeongin moved forward with his hand, and - oh. He used the broad palm to grind into your clit, fingers curling incessantly against your g-spot. 

Your toes curled and you wailed, starting to attempt to hump Jeongin’s hand into oblivion. Hyunjin groaned, eyes fixated on your feet. “They are so fucking sexy.”

“Suck them, Hyunnie, suck them,” You gasped, and he nodded, leaning over you slightly to suck your toes into his mouth. It made him moan, eyes rolling back into his head and he shoved his hand back to his cock, hand forming a tight ring around the length once again. You talked a lot of shit about Hyunjin’s foot fetish, but you weren’t sure if anything could get you to the edge quite like him sucking your toes did. “Ah- ah, Innie, Jeongin, Jeongin, ‘s good, ‘s so good.”

Jeongin cooed at you, eyes soft. “Yeah? You like it when hyung sucks your toes, don’t you? Dirty. Will you cum for me? Cum for me, and I’ll fuck you and worship those feet like they’re meant to be. Sounds good?”

Hyunjin moaned at his words, jerking his cock faster. You were briefly worried he’d cum before he could fuck you when Jeongin’s done, but you knew your boyfriend - he would definitely fuck you again even if he’d cum all over his fist already. You let your fingernails sink into your own flesh this time, cutting into your thighs in the most blissful mixture of pain-pleasure. It took a particularly hard grind of Jeongin’s hand and you were falling apart, drenching his two fingers with your cum and letting a particularly loud whine fall from your mouth. 

Hyunjin grunted, and then he was pulling away from your toes, his eyes shut in bliss. You saw him grin at you, happy just to be present in that moment, and then Jeongin grabbed your chin. He turned you to face him with slick-covered fingers. He smiled at you, a goofy smile that you would only ever relate to Jeongin, and you could see the satisfaction in his eyes. He was checking in on you. You felt yourself blush, smiling timidly, your heart racing as his hand moved down to your neck. He held you there, your eyes locked in place, before he let you go.

��I’m gonna fuck you now,” Jeongin mumbled, his hands pushing his joggers down. The movement revealed a thick, veiny cock, shorter than Hyunjin’s but still extremely delicious. It would be a stretch, even after him fingering you. You needed to feel it. Hyunjin’s lips parted upon seeing Jeongin’s cock, his eyes glinting in delight. Jeongin noticed. “Ah, hyung, stop it. Don’t start this now.”

You giggled, still pulling your legs back but letting your feet kick in glee. Hyunjin was visibly trying to avoid looking at them. “I think he wants to kiss you, Innie.” 

Hyunjin nodded solemnly. “Always.”

“You can kiss me when I’m inside her,” Jeongin sighed, and he leaned forward. You watched in awe as he lifted his top up just enough to position his cock by your tight hole, and he sank into you, groaning underneath his breath when he bottomed out. “Ah, you’re so fucking wet.” 

You gasped, your body feeling as though it was set on fire with the sensation. Hyunjin's hands were gentle as they moved to roam your body, completely abandoning touching himself. You felt a wave of pleasure washing over you as you felt Jeongin's body move in and out, his cock stretching you beyond belief. You hoped you’d be stretched for him to take you again. He was just the right side of thick, bordering on too much but still so fucking good. 

Jeongin picked up the pace, his cockhead just brushing that overstimulated spot inside of you and making your clit throb in need. It made you whine, hips canting to grind back into Jeongin’s cock and chase more of the euphoria. Hyunjin huffed out a breath and moved up the bed towards you, and he pushed his cock between your lips. You moaned around Hyunjin’s girth, your tongue swirling around his cock and making him shudder. You’d never say no to sucking Hyunjin’s cock. It was as gorgeous as the rest of him.

He thrust into your mouth, his pace matching Jeongin's and the way he rutted into your pussy. You tried to keep your eyes focused, but it was hard - until you caught sight of Jeongin’s hand around Hyunjin’s jaw, pulling him in for a filthy kiss. All you could see was tongues and spit being swapped while Jeongin’s hips ploughed into you. It made you clench around Jeongin impossibly tighter, and your hands moved to Hyunjin’s hips, grabbing down firmly. The feeling made him groan, eyes moving to look at you. 

“She liked that,” Hyunjin smirked, seeing your eyes blown wide with lust above your mouth stretching around his cock. He moved his fist to your hair, pulling your head back and forth on his length.

“Mm, she’ll like this more,” Jeongin mused, turning back to you to run a long finger up the sole of your foot. His pace slowed to a halt, moving in a slow, filthy grind instead of the blistering pace he’d previously set. He gripped your ankle, a firm, bruising hold. “Are you gonna let me try? I’ve never tried, but god, your feet are fucking sexy.” 

Hyunjin pulled his cock out of your mouth, jerking it above your face to let you answer. “Y-Yeah,” You replied, voice hoarse. Jeongin chuckled, pressing a kiss to your ankle. “Yeah, you can suck them, just- just, I’ll cum, and don’t stop, and please, please, keep fucking me, and I-”

“Okay, okay,” Jeongin groaned, pushing Hyunjin back inside your mouth with one hand splayed across his ass. Hyunjin obliged, pressing his cock between your lips once more. “You’re just blabbering now. I’m not gonna stop fucking you if you cum quickly, silly baby. Ssh.”

Jeongin started slamming his hips into you again, his pace now deeper with the way he had one hand wrapped around your ankle. You whimpered around Hyunjin’s cock when Jeongin laved his tongue over your toes, and then he was moaning, sucking them into his mouth. It was so dirty, so taboo, so fucking sexy - you clenched around Jeongin’s cock and he threw his head back, your foot slipping from his mouth with the loud groan he let out. 

“You have to cum, baby,” Jeongin muttered, sucking your toes back into his mouth. Hyunjin’s grip tightened on your hair, and you tried not to smile at the little ‘ah, ah, ah’s falling from his mouth with every thrust. Your body was completely slack, jaw perpetually open for Hyunjin’s thrusts into your throat. Jeongin’s hips started to stutter in place, his noises muffled by your foot. He let your ankle fall again, unabashed blabbering falling from his lips. “Baby, baby, you gotta cum, I’m gonna cum, please cum-”

Hyunjin grunted, his hand holding your head towards the base of his cock, and with another thrust he was spilling down your throat. The sensation made you clench around Jeongin’s length, hips bucking up into him once more and you were cumming, the sensation making you whine and squirm even as you tried to swallow Hyunjin’s cum. 

Jeongin pulled out of your pussy as soon as you’d ridden your orgasm to completion around his shaft, and then he was yanking your leg straight. The burn in your calves was noticeable from being bent like a pretzel for so long, but you were distracted from it when Jeongin started to jerk off erratically, releasing stripes of warm cum from over his fist and coating your toes. He grunted and gritted his teeth through his orgasm, and you giggled, stretching your arms over your head in your sated state.

“Ah, shit,” Jeongin breathed, his hand dropping from his softening cock. He went to move to grab you some baby wipes and clean you up, but Hyunjin was grabbing your ankle before he could, tongue laving over your skin and licking up Jeongin’s cum. It made you whine, squirming on the sheets with a newfound arousal. 

Hyunjin blinked up at you, grinning at your movement. “Really? You wanna go again, baby?”

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Jeongin huffed, but before he could move, you were grabbing him by the wrists. “What?”

“You can’t go,” You insisted. Jeongin raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t even had a footjob from me yet, Innie.”

“A- a footjob?” He questioned. Hyunjin nodded, lips pursed. Jeongin sighed. “Okay, you two are insane. Like, actually bonafide insane.”

“You’re staying though, aren’t you?” Hyunjin asked, smiling.

Jeongin shrugged. “Yeah, obviously.”

[kthecutest]

Kitchen Counter ˚•̩̩͙-`♡´-•̩̩͙˚＊

⋆——————✧◦♚◦✧——————⋆

Warning ೃ⁀➷ Fingering; Temperature Play; Soft sex;

You and K weren’t those old couples who are under the pressure of heavy traditional gender roles, you each have your own job and keep every chore in the house equal. And yes you can’t lie but to admit that K is the better chef in the relationship but that doesn’t mean you’d be stopped from making him warm meals.

It’s a late snowy evening, the front door thuds open to a panting K rushing in, snow particles covering his whole body from head to toe. It seemed K took longer than usual to finish his practice hours today, but now he’s back – and back to his cute wifey chefing up in the kitchen to present her hardworking husband with a cozy home-cooked meal. Just witnessing your figure from the back view, he couldn’t help but hug you from behind, snuggling his ice cold cheeks in the crook of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. But the next touch of ice made its presence at your waistline, cold fingers tugging at the waistband of your laced underwear. You hissed at the temperatement underneath your clothes as K continued to leave soft kisses along your neck to distract you. “Love.. The pot is still boiling, stop it..”, you tried to protest as K’s hands itched their way towards your core. “Baby~ Please~ I’m really cold~” - right his usual excuse - he gave you his best set of puppy eyes which only got their way with you, cuz who were you to deny those cute sparkly eyes. Taking your shivering sigh as a ‘yes’, you felt a pair of cold digits dip into your heat. “Mmmh~~..”, your thighs shook from the low unfamiliar temperature. K shook his head gripping onto your thighs with his free hand, pressing his fingers into your soft flesh. The contrasting temps didn’t bother you for long as you started dripping over his fingers from the pleasure. “K.. need you~..”, you whimpered, hands going places all across the kitchen counter as your mind protested to contain any sanity left inside. Bending down to face your ass at eye level, K lapped at your dripping pussy like a desperate pup, sucking on your clit as if trying to mold it with his godly tongue. “Mmh~! Yudai- s-stop~!”, you whined, tugging aggressively at his curtain bangs as you kept gasping for air between moans, legs shaking from the thrashing of your orgasm. Your pupils were almost blown out of your sockets, squirting all over K’s face as his cold fingers – now lukewarm – kept slipping in and out of your slippery hole, helping you ride out your waves of orgasm.

[robiinurheart33]

Part 2

This time, it happens in Alaska. (TW for depictions of gore!!)

They’re hurt and injured, escaped just by the skin of their teeth. They’ve been hastily given the coordinates by Laswell, and barged into the quiet atmosphere of the bunker. The air tasted stale and unmoving; every surface covered with a thick sheet of dust. Soap could see the particles in the air, sunset shining through the windows, creating a strangely nostalgic picture that tickled the base of his skull.

Soap looks back at Ghost, who’s in the process of slamming all the locks on the door. He then looks back down at the wound spilling over the cracks of his fingers tightly pressed against his side, and watches as he takes a deep breath and more blood starts to spill over in morbid curiosity. He hears the blood dripping rhythmically on the wooden floor. Soap isn’t quite sure if it’s due to the stim sticking out of his thigh, but he can’t feel anything at the moment, which probably isn’t good.

I’m disturbing the peace. He thinks deliriously.

“—Soap!”

“Mmh?”

His eyes meet auburn ones, wide and full of barely concealed panic. Oh, there it is. He suddenly feels incredibly dizzy, world splitting into two pieces.

“I’m-” Soap gagged, crumbling to his knees. He’s glad there isn’t anything in his stomach right now, because it would’ve been really embarrassing to throw up in front of his supervisor. He feels hands all over his body, tac vest dropping heavily to the ground. Soap hears a loud thump onto the floor, a hand pulling his shirt up. Sorry for disturbing your peace. He apologises to the house, eyes rolling up as he hears one last shout of his name.

Soap wakes up to the sound of screaming. Which he realises with oncoming horror that it’s coming from him. Blinding hot pain sinks its claws into its sides, soap letting out a strangled gasp. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

“Hh- nggh-” Soap tries to shape the words in his mouth, but all his brain can focus on is the blazing pain at his side. He gives up, wheezing as he looks down to see Ghost pouring antiseptic across his wound. Ah. That’ll do it then. He tries to keep his mouth shut for ego purposes, somehow finding the time to try not to burden Ghost as much as he knows he is. He fails, obviously, grinding his teeth together as groans rip their way through his throat. Panic seizes up his hands, his eyes blown open as he feels wetness drip, drip, drip.

Ghost moves with ever loving speed, holding Soap down as he steadies a hand with a needle and thread. He can’t help but thrash his body away from Ghost, chest heaving. He’s saying something but Soap can’t hear anything else at the moment through the ringing in his ears. The white light burns through his retinas, forcing him to close his eyes. Hurts, hurts, hurts. It hurts. He lets out another strangled gasp, needing to consistently get oxygen in his system or he would pass out again from the pain. Soap throws his forearm into his mouth, biting down on it while his other hand claws on the floor beneath him, stilling his body for Ghost to patch him up.

Soap kept almost slipping under, Ghost tapping his face a couple times to keep him conscious as he feels the needle pierce the skin of his abdomen over and over again. As a kid, whenever Johnny’s skin got cut on his finger, he used to flex it to watch the cut open and close, feeling the strange sensation of nerves doing their job. Now, the sensation increased tenfold as Ghost pulled on the string, closing him back up again. He could feel the lines of sweat travelling down his neck, tracing the length of his spine. His hands slipped as he rubbed them over his face, labouring wheezes slowing down as Ghost placed the gauze and wrap around him.

When Ghost pulled his hands away however, Johnny’s hand shot out and grabbed his in a clammy hold.

“Stay.” He whispers, voice cracking.

Ghost looked at him for a moment, sunken eyes meeting pained ones.

“… You got it, Johnny.”

He sighs in relief, hand slipping from his wrist. He allowed himself to fully relax, as if the throbbing in his head and the wet feel of his wound went away. He could rest. He can rest. Please, can he rest?

“Rest, Johnny.” He slips under.

6

[aloneinthehellfire]

Chapter Sixteen: The Pattern

Gates Of Hell (Masterlist)

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: illusions to drowning, traumatic experience?, angsty as ever

[A/N: I wrote this one random Friday evening at 3am because I decided I wanted to feel something. True story.]

The Pattern

The water is deathly still, not unlike how you stood staring back at it, tears dampening your cheeks.

You watched Steve’s body disappear beneath the surface, pulling him closer to the devil himself and leaving you stood there. Staring. Still.

Move, Y/n.

Your hands shake as you slowly pull yourself out of a debilitating trance, taking in a deep breath.

MOVE.

Grabbing your knife from where it was fastened to your jean leg, you realise thinking would get you nowhere. Thinking would drown him. So, you don’t think. You just dive.

Your form may not have been perfect, but your despair glided you through that water with determination, greeting you in a warm atmosphere. You adjust your eyes in the water, forcing yourself to withstand the unusual feeling of looking around underwater. And then you see him.

Something like a giant leech had curled around him, holding him there in the middle of the water as he desperately struggled against it. You ensure the grip on your knife is tight, letting your shock subside and kicking your legs behind you.

You didn’t anticipate the difficulty of swiping your blade under the water, missing the first time. You watch in desperation as Steve’s fight becomes a little less noticeable, air escaping his lungs in menacing bubbles. You were running out of time.

With as much force as you could muster, you jab the blade into the monster’s flesh, relentless as you refused to admit defeat.

Air almost escapes your mouth in rejoice when it finally cuts through and you attempt to pull it down, slicing as far as you can into its body before it finally uncurls from him and swims away fast, taking your knife with it in a fury of hazy particles. But you didn’t care about that. It could take whatever it wanted. Just not Steve.

You wait for the cloud of air from the creature’s quick departure to reveal him, hoping he’d swim towards you with that athletic ability and you could escape this nightmare.

But he wasn’t swimming toward you.

He was sinking.

You had never been a strong swimmer. Not even in the short distance races your swimming teacher would force you to take, the faint laugh of your little sister echoing in the air as you thrash about in ridiculous form.

And yet, now, not even an eight foot leech in deep water could stop you from swimming further down into the quarry and wrapping your arms around Steve’s torso, forcing more power into your legs than you ever thought possible. You refused to give up on him so easily.

As you tug him towards you, awkward in practice, your eyes catch the gate blaring up through the vast darkness. It was already closing.

You wouldn’t be able to make it in time.

So, with a heavy heart, you tighten your grip and you swim up to the surface, ignoring the mass of body weight attempting to pull you both back down.

When you break through the water everything is suddenly easier. You’re blinking away droplets of water, manoeuvring yourself to find land, Steve’s terrifyingly still body now floating behind you.

You’re not giving up yet.

Extending your arm over his chest, your hook your hand just below his armpit and use your other to wade through the water, legs kicking ferociously below you. You ignored the tears blurring your vision, the setting fear the longer you don’t hear Steve take a harsh breath of air.

You can feel it ripple across the water behind you, returning for its prey. It strikes a shot of nerves throughout your body, heart temporarily stopping when you imagine its close, ready to pull you back into the depths of death and take your last breath.

The cool and rough texture against your fingertips almost made you scream in relief, hand desperately searching for a groove to pull yourself up. It was harder to drag another body with you, making the nearly impossible decision to let him go, just for a moment.

Your breaths are heavy as your knees hit the stone with malice, surely leaving bruises scattered across your skin and bone. Your hands are quick to find him again, looping under both his arms as the looming presence of a predator approaches you at a sickening pace.

With no hesitation, you tug Steve back. And it was your greatest accomplishment.

The haste to pull him flush against your chest came just in time for the creature to break through the water and reveal its ringed mass of teeth, snapping at the bare air just in front of you. You stumble back, still holding onto him as you watch the horrid thing dive back into the water, relishing in the relief it couldn’t survive on land. However, even as it disappeared, you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Everything in that moment felt like a movie scene you would refuse to watch.

“Steve?” You lay him gently against the ground, careful to not let his head hit any rocks as you crawl around him, brows pinched together as every inch of you shook. “Steve?!”

Shaking fingers scramble to find a pulse, pressing against his neck, his wrist, before you fall against him completely with your ear to his chest. Your teeth were chattering too loud from the debilitating anxiety to know if you heard it, a sob catching in your throat.

“Shit, no!” Your throat cracks under the pressure of a building scream, putting one hand above the other against his chest and straddling him for leverage, tears streaming down your face.

Hopper wouldn’t let you leave the house by yourself until he was sure you could act under pressure in an emergency. Self-defence, wilderness skills, CPR. He ingrained every possible technique into your brain and you never appreciated it until right now, knowing it was your last hope to bring him back to you. He had to come back to you.

12 compressions in, and nothing was changing.

“Come on, wake up!” You cry. 2 more compressions. “Wake up, you asshole!”

1 more and you’re tilting his head back, pinching his nose and filling your lungs with air. 2 pumps of breath. Still nothing.

You practically swallow your tears, resuming the compressions as you felt every possible emotion you could. 3 compressions.

There was fear. Fear that this was the end for him, his eyelids sewn shut, lips turning a shade of purple. 2 compressions. It wasn’t your Steve right now, and you hated the fear that this would be your last memory of him. You wouldn’t see his brown eyes look at you with adoration you never imagined you’d bathe in, those golden flecks casting you in his warmth. 2 compressions. Your last kiss of his lips would be from the desperation of getting the oxygen back into his lungs, haunting your mouth with the ghost of him.

And there was anger. Angry at him for making you do this. 3 compressions. Furious that he wasn’t hearing your begging cries for life, feeling the hatred in each push of your hands the more time slipped between them. 2 compressions.

Despair. You were clinging onto hope, desperation running down your cheeks. 3 more compressions. 2 more breaths.

“Don’t you dare do this to me!” You scream at him, scared the force of your arms would crack his bones. “You’re the one that said we weren’t giving up! You wanted me to keep going! But I can’t- I can’t do this without you!”

4 compressions.

“I’m not ready to let you go!” You sob, muscles aching. You ignored their cry for relief. You’d ignore it forever if it meant there was still hope.

3 compressions.

And a strong gasp for air.

It came in short breaths, spluttering water from his lips as he twists his body to breathe. Steve feels his vision fading in, blinking against the black spots following his gaze. It took him a moment to understand the burning in his lungs as he inhales sharp gusts of air, shivering against the cold stone beneath his back. He was no longer in the water.

The last he remembered was the suffocating pressure of a sea monster coiling around him, your scream of despair when he watches your face suddenly disappear behind a wall of water.

That’s when he notices the shifting pressure from his legs, bringing his head forward to a sight he’d never get sick of seeing.

“Oh my god.” You cry with a relieved smile, not giving him a single chance to question the tear stains on your cheeks as you wrap your arms around his neck and lay on him.

He doesn’t object, his hands finding solace against your back as he lets his head hit the ground again, shutting his eyes. The shiver of your muscles below his fingertips has him pulling you impossibly closer, suddenly recognising your damp clothes.

“Did you… dive in?” Steve asks with a small voice, feeling like he was only asking a stupid question.

Your body is shaking against him, hands balling his shirt into your fists and he realises you aren’t cold. You’re crying.

“I thought I lost you.”

Your voice is barely a whisper as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, shattering his heart into a million little pieces. It finally dawns on him. He didn’t just get pulled below the water. He drowned. And you managed to save him.

Steve isn’t sure what to say, what he even could say. He’s never had to bring someone back from the dead. And, judging by the way you clung desperately to him, neither had you.

His lips form the words he chooses to say when realisation rushes a wave of dread through his body, striking his chest with a pang of fear. He had dove down there for the gate.

“We missed the gate.” He says aloud, crushing the pit in his stomach with the gravity of the situation.

“It was closing when I got to you.” You shift against him and he can see you at last, red and glassy eyes dawning guilt into his, “You… we wouldn’t have made it.”

His head shakes. He should have known something was down there. He should have checked, studied it harder, done something. But, no. He ruined it all. Again.

You watch as something washes over features, condemning them to a dark and miserable expression.

“It’s not your fault.” You tell him, holding his gaze. Steve’s face scrunches in consideration. “Neither of us could have seen that coming.”

“It can’t, uh…” Steve gestures to the rock below you and you quickly shake your head.

“Pretty sure it’s stuck in the water.”

“Holy shit.” He breathes out, leaning back with you still led against his chest, finding comfort in his heartbeat thrumming below your fingertips. “Who the hell decided that thing was a good idea?”

“I told you. Scary fish.” You repeat your words from earlier, the humour lost on your hoarse voice.

“I’m never swimming again.” Steve says staring at the red sky. He hoped he had seen the last of it, but he was never that lucky.

You move against him and he props himself on his elbow just in time to see you pull away, sat on the rocky surface with a fallen expression. You tilt your head so he can no longer see your face, making him frown.

“What’s wrong?” He ignores the ache of his muscles as he sits up, already aching to be close to you again.

“That was our last chance.” Your voice is thick with tears, your hand furiously wiping at your face before you let out a sad laugh, looking down at your damp clothes. “I can’t do anything right.”

“Don’t say that.” Steve clears his throat, chest aching. How long would it take him to recover? That didn’t matter now.

“I froze, Steve.” You turn to look at him, brows pinched with guilt. “You got dragged under, and I just- I just stood there. If I had just done the right thing and dived in as soon as you disappeared, I could have distracted it long enough to-”

You bury your face in your hands, shaking your head. Steve lets out a long breath, eyes fixated on your shrinking form.

“Distracted it?” He repeats with strain and your head whips up, eyes widening, caught. “Y/n… you were never coming with me through the gate, were you?”

You can only stare at him, face twisting in regret and deceit. The honest truth was that he was right. It was never the plan. Never your plan.

If you had an answer, Steve never heard it. Voices began blaring out through the radio discarded on the rock behind you, desperate to know if you made it out. He felt sick, knowing you only had bad news. Knowing you were never going to make it out.

One last sorrowful look and you tear your eyes away to grab the radio, taking a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“It’s Y/n. Over.” You respond, watching as Steve props himself against the rocky ledge you had only just promised a life to him on, guilt tearing you apart at the seams.

“Y/n! Thank god! Are you guys out?! Over.” Dustin blurts in a high-pitched voice and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“Uh… no. We didn’t- we didn’t make it. The gate closed. Over.” You forced the words from your lips, leaning back and studying the shadow gliding below the water on the other side of the quarry.

Steve was rolling his shoulders, coughing every now and then as he tried to recover as quickly as he possibly could. He expected the quarry creature wasn’t going to be the last thing wanting to take a bite out of him today.

“Shit. It’s- it’s okay. We’ll find another pattern. There has to be another gate, and we’ll find it. Over.”

His head raises when you don’t respond to the young boy, your lips tight from conflict. You’re fighting back tears, staring at the sky like a miracle could fall from it. Steve had never seen you look so defeated, and it was more terrifying than anything the Upside Down could throw at him.

“Y/n? Over.”

Your hand shakes as you lift the radio once again, expectation weighing heavy on your heart.

“Can I, um…” You gulp, closing your eyes. “Is my dad there? Over.”

It took ten seconds from a response, a much deeper voice blaring through when the static disappears.

“I’m right here, kid.”

A sob escapes you before you can stop it, making Steve tense from the sheer despair of it.

“Dad.” You begin, curling up with the radio like a child would their favourite teddy bear, tears falling without conviction, uncontrollable. “I’m so sorry.”

“What- sorry for what?”

“For everything.” You cry with shaky breaths. “I know I wasn’t the daughter you deserved. And- and I know I blamed you for so many things. But I never meant it. And I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t you ever apologise, okay? You are more than I deserve.”

You have to muffle your cries then, radio shaking in your trembling hands. Steve doesn’t say anything, but his own tears start silently falling. It was clear as day. You had given up, and he could no longer do anything about it.

“If, I… if I don’t get the chance to see you again…” You swallow your sobs, letting your head fall back and staring at the white streaks of lightning above you. “I just want you to know that… I love you, dad.”

Hopper doesn’t respond for a minute and, when he does, his voice sounds different, sadder and muffled like he had been holding back his crying too. “I love you so much, kiddo. We’re getting you out of there. You hear me? Even if I have to tear a gate open myself, I am getting you out of there. Both of you.”

Like his words had suddenly brought a light of inspiration back to you, you finally meet Steve’s eyes, wiping away your tears. There was one last thing you had to do before you could truly give up.

“What order did the gates open?” You ask your father, straightening your back. “The watergates? Over.”

“What?” He sounds surprised and cuts out for a second. “Let me grab my map. Over.”

Steve is frowning. What were you doing?

“Alright, got it.” Hopper returns, clearing his throat from the thick of emotions. “It started at Lover’s Lake. Then it went as follows: Loch Nora, the community pool, the pond by Denfield, Lake Jordan, the quarry. Why? What are you thinking, kid? Over.”

“If the gates all opened in the water…” You whisper to yourself, trying to figure it out.

And then you remember the map Hopper had showed you the night before you got trapped down here, the one you had hunted down with Steve so you could both mark off the places you searched as well as the dangerous routes through the town.

You suddenly pounce to your bag, rifling through it in haste. You mutter curses when you only pull out spare clothes and scraps of material.

“What do you need?” Steve suddenly asks, his own bag now perched on his lap and open wide.

“The map.”

He digs around until he feels the familiar texture of the paper against his fingertips, tugging it out and holding it out.

You take it from him and start spreading it out, ignoring the small patches of water that seeped through from the puddle you both made with your wet clothes. You let your finger trace across the locations Hopper had read out to you, sucking in a breath.

You immediately hold down the radio again, “All of them are circling Hawkins. Whatever’s doing this is sectioning off Hawkins from everywhere else, it’s...”

“Trapping us in.” Hopper responds and Steve suddenly feels very frightened. Making it out of the Upside Down was no longer his biggest problem when there was literally no escape for anyone else.

“Can you figure out what the middle point is? Maybe… maybe it could be the point of origin, wherever this thing is working from. A hive mind. Over.”

“Okay, hold on. Over.”

You both wait in silence. At some point in the exchange, Steve had found his way back down beside you, shoulder pressed against yours as you both stare down at the radio you held between you.

“Got it.” Hopper comes back and you hear faint rustling of the map as he takes a closer look. “Alright looks like somewhere on Cornwallis… the exact point is just a bare patch of land but if I expand it slightly… there’s a building that fits the pattern…”

You wait for his answer, brows furrowed in anticipation.

“It’s that stupid little motel. Motel 6.”

Both of your eyes flash towards eachother, widening.

“Why the hell would that shithole be important?” Hopper asks, seemingly to himself or someone around him. Your mouth feels dry. “Shit, we’ll check it out but doesn’t look promising, kid. Good theory, though. Over.”

“It’s empty. You won’t find anything there.” You finally respond, voice monotone from shock.

“How do you know?”

“Because Steve and I have been using it as a base point for the last three weeks.” You gulp, and Steve’s frown is deep set onto his features, staring at nothing.

“Shit.” Hopper spits, cutting into radio silence for a moment before returning with a sigh. “I hate to say it… but that's not a coincidence anymore, kid."

“So… the gates open when someone makes a connection to this… Upside Down?” You ponder and Hopper hums a response. “Is El making these connections now?”

“She’s mostly been resting. It’s taken a lot out of her. As far as I know, she’s only trying to close the gate, not communicate with whatever hell is behind it.”

“And if she’s not doing it…” You scrunch your face. You felt tired, and achy. You really weren’t sure what your brain was trying to tell you until it finally clicked, staring down at the outline of your high school building. You then follow that trail of red markings, all the way back to the lab. “It has to be someone else.”

“Huh?” Steve raises a brow and you tap the map.

“It’s random because… because someone could literally just be walking around.” You start, still staring back at confused expressions. “You said that this Upside Down was literally a flipped version of Hawkins, right? All these places that gates have been opening… we went to them. Here. The high school. Then down here, Cornwallis near Steve’s house. The trailer park, the cabin, the arcade-”

“All the places we went.” Steve realises and you nod, sharing in his look of horror. “All the places we got attacked.”

“What’re you saying?” Hopper straightens, glancing between you both. “That the gates are following you?”

“No, not necessarily.” You furrow your brows, trying to make sense of it. “I’m just saying that Steve and I were travelling around Hawkins. We didn’t have a set route, in fact we were detouring so much I started to doubt we’d ever make it here, but what I’m trying to say is that our path to the lab was random. Could someone… could someone also be walking around just as randomly in the Upside Down?”

You remembered the conversation in the lab bunker before, assuming the pattern was no pattern at all. But that was a lie.

It hit the same places you had on the surface, leading you back to the mothergate in the lab. The creature from your nightmares, setting off the alarm. Something had pretended to be El, luring you down and then closing off any and every exit, leaving you and Steve trapped down here for what could have been forever. Until now. Circling the only place you and Steve had found sanctuary.

It all comes crashing in, goosebumps trailing along your skin.

The pattern wasn’t where the gates were appearing.

“The pattern’s me.”

Chapter Seventeen: Don't Forget Me (coming soon)

taglist: @toomanyfandomsimfanvergent . @sheisjoeschateau . @kthomps914 . @curled-hair-red-lips . @nix-rose . @palmtreesx3 . @kryztalglear . @sattlersquarry . @hey-barnes-stole-a-jeep . @sadslasher13 . @iliveonteaandbooks . @innercreationflower . @newyorkangelbaby .

[glassxworld]

I need to learn how to romanticize life or finally give up and die 🤗

[dredth]

the thrash particle by modern baseball could beat the ever living hell out of me and I’d still say sorry

[bennys-basement]

dear benny. what is your favourite sad song?

love, a little brunette that just read an awful lot of your blog at once

This one is so good I’ve got to give you a top five:

“Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” by Jeff Buckley

“The Thrash Particle” by Modern Baseball

“Your Cat” by Slaughter Beach, Dog

“When You Were Made” by The Growlers

“Woke Up Older” by The Wonder Years

I hope you like them, they all still give me that “fuck, breakups feel like death” feeling even though I haven’t been thru one in over 8 years 😂😭