#LAB Sports Therapy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

violetsiren90 · 3 months

Text

All I Haven't Said | Namjoon/Reader

💜 Chapter 3: Part 2 💜

Table of Contents: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 (part 1), Chapter 3 (part 2)

Pairing: idol!Namjoon/f!Reader

Genre: Soulmate AU; idol AU; chapter fic; strangers to lovers; a bit of idiots to lovers, tbh; slow burn; eventual romance; eventual smut; angst (life is messy & hearts are complex); OT7 featured

Summary: You found your soulmate - or rather, he found you. Turns out he's an idol of much acclaim who needs you for very real and unglamorous reasons. What could become of two hearts so used to giving of themselves when they are confronted with needing each other?

Chapter Word Count: ~7k

Chapter Warnings: This fic is 18+, as is all my work and my page as a whole; depictions of cancer and its treatment; secondhand embarrassment; awkward situations; soulmate skinship; loss of consciousness; dudes dude-broing a bit lol; mentions of minor character death (in past); cursing; chemo therapy and its symptoms; nausea and vomiting; characters eat meals; Reader is starting to grapple with some difficult feelings; Hybe kinda sorta depicted as being collective assholes in responding to this situation (gonna be a theme, guys)

Author's Note: Here comes part two! I know this is months coming (again), but I've finally found my stride with writing and work. I had this mostly done, and then redid some parts and finished editing, and well...I just hope you all enjoy it! My hope is to post part three in two weeks - I really want to get into a groove with plot progression here!

There is a lot of content in this chapter about medical procedures and treatment. I tried my best to represent these as accurately as possible with what information I could acquire, but if there are any misrepresentations, great or small, please don't hesitate to let me know!

Thank you again to all who have stuck with this story! I continue to be blown away by how much love you have all showered upon it, and I'm so excited to walk the path I intend for these two and have you all along for the ride!!

P.S. If you want to join the tag list, drop me a comment or an ask!

P.P.S. If no one has told you yet today, you're loved and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

"Out of sheer taciturnity the ceiling listens To the fall of ancient leafless rain, To feathers, to whatever the night imprisoned." ~Pablo Neruda

Chapter 3: My Windows Ache

Namjoon's labs had come back with even more promising numbers. A radiology scan had shown no shrinkage in his tumors, but the doctors commented that these were early days, and that the effects of the bond might even be keeping them from inflaming due to the chemo. You had watched him, smiling as the doctor reviewed the result, and couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. Your soulmate was on the road to recovery.

Nurse Cha quickly checked both of you over before initiating another skinship session.

"I saw you out on the grounds earlier, and for the first time in weeks," she said, shooting Namjoon an approving grin. "Keep that up. He needs sunlight and fresh air," she remarked to you, flustering you even as you nodded in agreement.

Why was she telling you that? Were you his keeper?

Actually, you supposed, in fact, you were.

You peeked back up at him and found him regarding you with a small, amused smile, which disconcerted you further. You shook your head, shooting him an eye-roll as you made your way into the bathroom to disrobe.

After your first few experiences with skinship, you had asked Matt to acquire you some sporty, conservative sports bra and boy-short sets, and you slipped into one, pulling a hospital gown over it. After the way your conversation with Hyung-seo had unfolded you were glad to have them - the practical underwear felt far less intimate and flirty than your typical bras and panties, giving you much more peace of mind.

As you left the bathroom and made your way back to Namjoon's half of the suite, you noticed him sitting on top of the covers, long legs stretched out in front of him, in nothing but a black tee and blue boxers. He had a drip attached to a tube that ran under his shirt. When Nurse Cha glanced up from her touchscreen tablet to see you approaching, she waved her hand for you to come around to the other side of the bed, which had been adjusted to accommodate Namjoon's upright position.

"We’re going to try this sitting up today," she explained as she typed. "He's on a chemo drip right now, and the doctor wants to see if the bond will help ease the nausea and some of the other side effects. I heard you just had a nice lunch, so it would be wonderful if Namjoon could hang onto his."

She shot him a rueful smirk and he let out a chuckle. You smiled in turn and nodded as you slipped off your hospital gown and draped it over the end of the bed. You glanced up at Namjoon who had cast his eyes down at his hands, folded in his lap. The huge apparatus was lower than usual, so you slipped rather easily into it and against Namjoon's side. He raised an arm to drape over your shoulders and you settled against him, pressing your bare leg against his. It was comical how much shorter yours were, but you could only think of that for a fraction of a second as every other thought in your mind melted at the feeling of the man beside you.

Butter. Warm, melted butter. It was as if every single muscle group in your body had suddenly released every bit of tension it had been holding. So many sensations at once, but this was the one you felt like leaning into at the moment. You felt like collapsing against him.

He sighed deeply through his nose. Yeah, you felt that on a spiritual level. Mmh.

Your melty, bond-induced reverie was broken, however, by a dissatisfied noise from Nurse Cha as she stepped toward the bed. You looked up to find her expression matched her tone.

"You're not really getting much contact," she said, scanning her eyes over everywhere you touched...and didn't.

You raised your arms slightly and a bit uselessly. You felt Namjoon lean forward.

"Should I...like..." you looked to her for direction, but she was already in motion.

She grabbed your arm, guiding you off the bed and motioned for Namjoon to scoot back to the middle. She said something to Namjoon in Korean and suddenly he was tugging his shirt over his head. You felt your cheeks getting hot. Social norms had not prepared you for this amount of casual nudity. You stood there, eyes glued to Nurse Cha, hugging your arms over your middle and hoping that Namjoon was playing his usual blessed game of "look anywhere but soulmate". The nurse took your arm again and guided you back toward your previous perch.

"Sit between his legs and lean back against his chest," she instructed, nudging you to join him.

You looked up at Namjoon. His face looked like you felt. And then it was just too much. You were standing in a hospital in South Korea in your underwear being asked to sit in a practically naked celebrity's lap so that he wouldn't die.

You busted out laughing.

Nurse Cha jumped, surprise clear in her features as she regarded you.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" You gasped, bending over to support yourself against the bed as you continued to chuckle, "This is just..."

You snorted. Mortified but still attempting to swallow your giggles you clapped a hand over your mouth and looked up at Namjoon whose dimples were out and whose shoulders were shaking with his own silent amusement. Nurse Cha's lips curved up a bit to one side, but her narrowed eyes spoke of far less hilarity felt.

"Here's the thing," you said, turning to the nurse while still biting back your laughter, "Namjoon is spoken for, and...well...I have a pretty nice ass."

The nurse's eyes widened.

You were probably being really impolite. That would have been borderline in the States. You weren't sure about here, but you felt like that might have broken some unspoken rules. Or, maybe spoken ones because there were a lot of formalities, you were learning. But you had reached your limit with all this. The awkwardness levels were at maximum, and you were gonna cope the only way you knew how - with humor.

When you hazarded a look at your soulmate, he had drawn his knees up, grabbing them with his hands, his head dropped between them and his shoulders shaking as he badly repressed laughter of his own. You could see those dimples again. They were even deeper than before.

"We need to get maximum skin-to-skin contact during these sessions," Nurse Cha insisted indignantly, clearly a bit flustered.

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you offered her a contrite smile as you rocked back on your feet.

"Ah!" Namjoon drew your attention as he pointed behind you. "Throw me that pillow?"

You grabbed the little green cushion from the corner of the couch and tossed it to him. He lowered his legs and placed it over his lap.

"How's that?" he asked with a closed-lip smirk.

You gave him a thumbs up and clambered back onto the bed to situate yourself between his legs. You looked back over at Nurse Cha.

"Better?"

She raised a brow as she handed you a blanket. You thanked her quietly and cleared your throat as you fanned it out over your legs and Namjoon's, tucking it up to your waist. The nurse checked Namjoon's vitals and said that she would return in an hour to take him off the drip.

You sank back tentatively against your soulmate's chest, careful to avoid the little port below his sternum. There it was again. Butter.

Somewhere above and behind you, Namjoon chuckled. You smiled knowingly.

"What?" you asked indignantly.

"Did you see her face when you said that?"

You shrugged against him.

"Hey, it's true!" you insisted.

"Sorry if this is uncomfortable for you," he murmured.

You could hear that he was still smiling, but he sounded serious all the same. You let your head fall back.

"Honestly, I felt bad for you," you huffed in another laugh before sobering. "And, thank you," you turned, casting your eyes up over your shoulder, "For always being so respectful. It's made this a lot easier."

"Oh," Namjoon responded softly, "Of course."

You looked at his arms resting at his sides and thought of what Nurse Cha had said. You slowly picked up his hands in yours, raising them slightly.

"May I put them around me? For more contact," you asked.

You asked it boldly, but you felt shy. You wanted the chemo to work. You wanted it to stop hurting him while it did. When Namjoon let out a low hum of assent you drew his forearms around your waist and laid your own over them.

Your eyes slipped shut. So euphoric but it always made you feel like sleeping. You weren't going to give into the urge, though, not just yet. There were conversations to be had.

"Tell me about Hyung-seo," you prompted softly, shifting against him to get comfortable.

He was quiet for a moment.

"Well," he responded slowly, "what do you want to know?"

"How did you meet her?"

He went quiet again. Then he sighed a small sigh. You wondered what that little breath carried.

"She debuted in 2019. A buddy of mine - Seo Jungkwon, he goes by Tiger JK in the industry - had signed her to his agency. Bangtan was just taking off, things were blowing up. I actually collaborated with him which is when I met her."

He silenced for a moment.

"We had a lot in common - how we approached life and music."

"Had?" you asked, gently.

He heaved another sigh.

"The last few years have been really tough on her. I mean, she hasn't had an easy life to begin with, but..."

He paused, as if deciding whether or not to utter the words he wanted to say next.

"Anyway," he redirected himself, and you wondered what thought he had dismissed, "Preparing for a tour is grueling, and this is her first one. I think the stress is really getting her."

You hummed in acknowledgement. You recognized it in his voice - you should after all, as the same sound had echoed so often in your own - the hollow clemency of lying to yourself on someone else's behalf.

"Well," you offered, "She's lucky to have you supporting her, especially when you're going through such a difficult time yourself."

Namjoon scoffed.

"I mean, yeah, I'm sick, but...I don't know. In a lot of ways my life has been a lot easier these days. A lot simpler."

"Really? In what way?"

He huffed out a wry laugh.

"I have so much time to just do whatever. Read, write...I've been learning a couple of languages. I get to do v-lives with ARMY pretty regularly, as the company allows - Jungkook went kind of crazy with it before enlistment so we have to go through them for access now."

You had no idea what a v-live was, but from what little you had seen of Jungkook, you could imagine it took very little for him to get up to a significant amount of shenanigans. You smirked.

"Did you have so little time for those things before?" you queried.

"No! No way. It was like running non-stop for ten years. During my time in the military, I got a bit of a break and a change, but then I got sick and had to be discharged early, so...well, I didn't even get to experience that like I should have."

You felt your hands tighten in response around his forearms. His life hadn't been cake-walk either, that was clear. You wondered if he knew that, if he acknowledged it.

"Well, I'm glad you have more time for those things. You should keep as much time for them as you can, even when you're better."

He paused for a moment before whispering agreement into your hair. You felt it even though he didn't say it, the caveat - if he got better. He would. You'd never make him a promise you couldn't guarantee, but you could make one to yourself. So you did.

For the rest of the session you talked about Bangtan, and the recent history of the group's situation.

You learned about conscription and that it applied to idols as well. You learned the members had decided to enlist pretty much around the same time so that they could reunite to tour again after being discharged. Namjoon had been released ahead of schedule when he had fallen ill, and at this point most of the members had followed, save Yoongi who was set to be discharged the following week. He fondly reported that they were all anxious to meet you, and that Jungkook and Jimin hadn't stopped pestering him with all manner of questions in your regard since their visit the previous day.

Every time you had heard him speak about his members, the deep brotherly affection that permeated his words was incredibly evident.

You asked him to tell you about each one, and he did.

You blinked your eyes open as you felt Namjoon shift you in his arms. You slowly pulled yourself forward, struggling to focus.

"I...I'm sorry," you murmured, "I fell asleep on you again."

Namjoon chuckled and assured you it was quite alright. As you wearily slipped off the mattress to stand, you suddenly felt the room tilt and your knees buckle. Namjoon's reflexes were quick enough to catch you in his arms. He stood to pull you up and hold you against him.

"You okay?" he asked in concern.

"I...I got dizzy..."

You attempted to put your weight into your legs, but failed, sagging weakly against his broad frame.

Nurse Cha was already in motion.

"Help her to the bed," she ordered, striding across the room.

Namjoon wasted no time in scooping you up in a bridal carry to follow her. You gasped despite yourself, the sudden movement and his strength equally surprising. But every thought was fleeting as you found yourself struggling to maintain a grip on consciousness.

You felt Namjoon lay you gently on the bed as cold, sticky monitors were pressed to your skin; heard him ask the nurse what was the matter, his voice tinged with anxiety.

You heard him say your name.

And then you heard nothing.

You groaned as you came to. Your throat felt like the Sahara and your head was pounding. Pushing yourself to sit up, you became aware of the sound of voices on the other side of the curtain. Carefully drawing your legs to the edge of the bed, you clutched your IV stand as you struggled to your feet.

Pulling back the hanging divider, you were surprised to see Matt occupying the little couch, a cup of coffee on the low table in front of him. Namjoon sat in the opposing chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees in rapt attention as the older man spoke. It was dark out.

"Matt," you croaked, shuffling forward.

Namjoon's head whipped around at the sound of your voice and he sprang up, just a moment faster than his guest, striding over to take you by the arm. You faltered just a moment in your steps as his hand cradled your elbow and you felt it - his touch and what it did to you. You wanted to curl into him. You wanted him to hold you.

You gently tugged your arm away.

"You're awake - let me call the nurse," he said, almost to himself as he moved to press the red call button.

You sank down beside Matt.

"What time is it?" you asked in a husky murmur. Your friend checked his watch.

"1:33am."

You frowned, blinking blearily.

"What the heck are you doing here at the hour?"

"Well!" Matt laughed before taking a sip of his coffee, "It's nice to see you too."

"You know what I mean..." you grumbled, rubbing your eyes.

"He called me," he said, gesturing with his raised mug toward Namjoon, who had returned to the armchair. "Said you'd had a fainting spell."

Your eyes followed his motion to your soulmate, who was already scanning his over you, brow furrowed and full lips pursed pensively.

"How are you feeling?" Namjoon asked.

You huffed out a mirthless chuckle.

"Like I got hit by a freight train."

The worry lines on his brow deepened.

"Hey, look..." you held up a hand to wave it weakly between both men as they regarded you in apparent concern. "I'm probably just adjusting to the bond or something. Cancer isn't contagious, you know," you ribbed, shooting a tiny smirk at Namjoon who attempted to return the expression though the smile didn't reach his eyes.

The night shift nurse and an aid entered the room to assess you. Namjoon asked to speak with a doctor, and was told that Dr. Na would be checking in first thing in the morning. The nurse had very little else to report other than that your blood work had been sent to the lab and that they would be able to determine more once your results were available. He informed Matt that some charts would likely be available in twenty-four hours, but that your CMP could take up to three days. The aid urged you to try to get some more rest. Before departing, the nurse removed your spent sodium chloride drip and said that a meal would be sent up which you were advised to eat if possible, but to be sure to report any signs of food-rejection should they appear.

Namjoon stood and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he gazed at your little portion of the suit.

"They want you to rest, but how the hell are you supposed to sleep with me over here snoring? It's keeping you up, right?"

You smirked.

"Well, most of my rest over the last couple of days has been due to a lack of consciousness, but I do have to admit that you woke me up a couple of times last night."

Namjoon groaned discomfitedly.

"It really isn't a big deal!" you reassured him, "I'm a pretty sound sleeper."

"And still I woke you up."

"Don't worry about it..."

"It's not just that, though," he insisted, hands in the pockets of his sweats and head cocked to one side as he continued to consider the small space across from his. "You don't even have a window. If you want privacy, you have to sit behind that curtain in the tiny bed -- I hate it. I've hated it since they were first preparing for you to arrive. I'll make some calls tomorrow. You need your own room," he stated decidedly, returning to the chair across from you.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he fired off a message.

Namjoon did have a point, it was a pretty meager space you currently occupied. But they must have had a reason, you thought, for wanting you to share a room with him. And you didn't want to cause any kind of fuss in the name of personal convenience that might detract from his treatment or recovery.

"Namjoon, it's fine..."

He looked up at you, his brown eyes assured and determined.

"Just let me handle it. I've got you."

A sudden warmth spread through your chest like the rising sun on the frost of your anxieties, his gaze melting away the familiar worry of burdensomeness. You looked away shyly.

"Good man," Matt said to him with a nod, and they shared a look as your soulmate nodded in return that seemed to be one of mutual masculine respect. You wanted to roll your eyes a little bit. You also felt pretty damn grateful.

Matt stood to leave, pressing a kiss on your temple and promised that he'd return in the morning. He paused to shake Namjoon's hand.

"If there are any further developments, don't hesitate to call me," he said, to which the younger man nodded in agreement.

"Or I can call you!" you rasped after him as he raised his hand in one last gesture of farewell while shutting the door.

You huffed.

"Smart guy," Namjoon remarked, sitting back down in his chair. "You know he's read Toegye exhaustively?"

You raised a brow at him, your lips quirking with a wry grin.

"Two peas in a pod. He's probably going to be coming around here nonstop until he leaves just so you two can gab in genius."

Namjoon smiled and touched his fingers absently to his jaw, his eyes trained on the linoleum.

"Are you bothered that I called him?" he asked abruptly, glancing up at you.

"What? No, of course not," you reassured him with a shake of your head. "I just..." You rolled your eyes and smirked. "I'm not used to sitting around while boys decide what's best for me."

"Aaahhh," Namjoon responded with a nod, interlacing his fingers, "Well, you've been looking out for me since you walked through that door back there, and honestly, I could get used to that..." he leaned forward a bit, "But only if I get to return the favor. You said we don't owe each other, but that doesn't mean you get to be the only one doing the giving."

You stared at him. The only one to do the giving. The words jarred something loose inside you. You swallowed the strange feeling that threatened to well into your throat.

Before you could respond, an aid entered with your meal. A tray loaded with dakjuk, rice, and several banchan was placed before you. It smelled fantastic, and you actually felt you could eat. You moved to take the tray to your side of the suite but Namjoon stopped you.

"Hey, wait. I'm hungry. I'll eat with you."

He crossed to the other side of the room to pick up the telephone.

"Go ahead," he said with nod of his head a little grin, "Don't wait on me."

He didn't have to twist your arm. The chicken porridge was steaming and savory, warming you up within just a few bites. A similar tray soon arrived for Namjoon, and you found it did feel far nicer to eat with someone than alone.

Between bites he asked you about Matt.

"He's my dad's best friend. When he died - my dad - Matt and his wife Rebecca helped to take care of us for a while. They've been really good to my family."

Namjoon's face sombered.

"I'm sorry about your father."

You smiled softly at him.

"It was a long time ago, when I was ten. He was a firefighter."

He nodded quietly, giving you the opening to continue. You decided to take it.

"A fire broke out at a high-security prison. The situation got really bad with a lot of people still inside - prisoners. They told the team to stop attempting rescues, that it wasn't worth it, for people like that. But my dad kept going. Alone. He saved seventeen more lives before...well, he couldn't make it out."

When you looked up at Namjoon again his eyes were locked on you, his chopsticks resting idly in his hand.

"Wow," he murmured after a pause. "And you were ten years old? That must have been so hard."

You dragged your spoon through your dakjuk.

"It was. But managing things after he was gone...that was harder, I think."

Namjoon's brow knit in question but he didn't press you further. For the second time that night, you were grateful. Death was easy to explain, other things were much more difficult.

You finished the rest of your meal chatting about Matt, Neo-Confucianism, and unequivocal humanism between mouthfuls of rice and porridge.

The next day, you were moved into your new suite a few doors down. Namjoon had received no resistance from the hospital in procuring you the space, as apparently Hybe's representatives had been the ones to originate the request that you be at the idol's immediate disposal.

Your room mirrored the setup of your soulmate's, being on the same floor but across the hall, and Kang Dae had dropped in with a catalog stating that you could select whatever you wished to make the space more comfortable. You had circled a few things and he had departed to procure them. Matt had brought the bulk of your luggage, which meant a good portion of books, your art supplies, and finally more clothes which you would blessedly now have no worries of mixing up with Namjoon's. You changed into jeans and a comfy Nirvana graphic tee.

You were busy unpacking when a knock came at your door. You called for the person to come in while you continued to stack books onto a small set of shelves. The doctor had cautioned you and Namjoon against further skinship sessions until your blood work had come back, so you were anxious for the results, not wanting him to go through another bout of chemo without the aid of the bond.

When you glanced up expectantly, however, you found your curiosity would have to wait - at least, concerning your charts - as in the entry stood none other than Kim Hyung-seo.

She lingered in the entryway at the mouth of the space, her arms wrapped around her middle. She looked much more casual today in a pair of big baggy camouflage cargo pants, a tight black crop top, and chunky white sneakers. Her hair was pulled up into a bun, and she had black mask pulled under her chin. She was bare-faced, save for two small red dots under her right eye.

You stood from your crouched position, trying your best to keep the surprise from your face.

"Hi," you greeted her with a small smile, which she returned remorsefully, still hugging herself as she glanced around the room. "Would you like to sit down?" you offered, motioning to the furniture beside you.

She nodded, crossing over to take a seat in the little arm chair. You moved to sit across from her. Your first instinct was to offer her something to drink, only to realize you were in a hospital room with no way to deliver, at which you both laughed awkwardly. After a moment of tense silence, she looked up at you, gnawing her bottom lip.

“I owe you an apology," she sighed.

You gave her an encouraging smile.

"Fuck..." she dropped her head in her hands, and you waited for her to collect herself. Finally, she raises her eyes to yours, interlacing her fingers with their long white nails in her lap.

"What I did...what I said yesterday...I was cunt. I'm sorry."

You let out a little laugh at her choice of words.

"Well, I do accept your apology...but, don't be too hard on yourself. It was a really bizarre and unprecedented situation for all of us. I'm glad we're moving forward, and in a better direction."

You smiled again at her reassuringly.

She nodded, her lips pursed and quivering slightly. You could tell she was blinking back tears.

"Me and Joon...we'd only been engaged for a few weeks before we found out...you know, that he had a match. That it could be his only option to live - bonding. With you. It's just all really fucking scary."

You nodded sympathetically. She released another sigh as she continued.

"He had to decide so fast, they pushed him to just make this huge life commitment as fast as they fucking could and now..." She raised her arms, looking around the room in resign, "Here we are. And we have to figure everything out, and I'm about to leave and..."

"I'm sorry," you murmured sympathetically.

She looked down into her lap, worry still twisting her features.

You wondered why she was leaving, now of all times - when things were the way they were. But that wasn't for you to judge.

"You know," you offered hopefully, "At least he's on the mend. At least you know he'll have someone to look after him."

She hummed. You wondered if it was an agreement as her eyes flitted over your face searchingly. Anxiety from the previous day's encounter began to seep into your chest as you considered if you had chosen your words poorly. You had said what would have comforted you in under the same circumstances. But maybe you were different - too different.

You softened your heart, determined to reserve judgement. Life had given Hyung-seo had her own shoes, and you would do everything you could to understand what it was like to walk in them.

"Can I add you on KakaoTalk?" you asked, realizing you were still clutching a book, and setting it onto the low table to pull your phone from your pocket.

She was chewing on her lip again when you looked up. She stared down at the hardback.

"You read a lot, huh?" she asked, though it didn't sound like a question.

"I do," you answered slowly, wondering where her train of thought was headed.

"All that stuff you said yesterday, you seem, like really in tune with people. And smart. You guys are, like, the same."

She pressed the words out in a strained voice. She looked so small and so sad. Your heart sank for her.

"Namjoon actually said that very thing about you yesterday."

She glanced up at you in surprise and confusion. You smiled.

"He said that when you met he was struck with how much you shared in how you saw the world, and how you approached music."

She regarded you silently as you continued.

"And that's your life right, your great love? Music? What a wonderful thing, to base your life with a partner in a love you share."

She nodded slowly, her eyes watering.

"Thank you," she finally whispered, and you nodded in understanding.

You reached out to take her hand and she squeezed yours. After a few moments of silence, she rose and wiped her eyes.

"I'm leaving tomorrow and I want to see Joon again before I go," she explained.

You nodded.

"Thank you for coming to talk to me and for sharing about how this has been for you. I really appreciate it."

She smiled - perhaps genuinely for the first time since you met. It was a lovely smile.

You sighed as she left. It wasn't much, but it was progress. Maybe she would let you in. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard after all.

When several hours had passed with no updates on your lab results, you decided to take a walk down the hall to see how your soulmate was faring. You knocked on his door, but received no answer.

"Namjoon!" you called softly with another rap of your knuckles, but were still met with silence.

Just when you were about to turn and go, the door creaked inward on its hinges, slipping open to reveal your soulmate's tired face.

"I just came to see how you were doing...are you okay?."

You followed him as he slumped back into the suite, but before he could even reach his bed he turned and pushed past you to hurry into the bathroom. It caught you a little off-guard and you stumbled, catching yourself on the opposing wall, but quickly realized the reason for his urgency when sounds of retching followed.

The bathroom door was cracked open and you could see him hunched over the toilet, breathing heavily as his body wracked with each attempt to expel the contents of his stomach. You hesitated a moment, then pushed the door in slowly, coming to kneel beside him and gingerly place a hand on his back.

He raised his head, eyes fluttering when you touched him. You gently pulled your palm up and down his spine, feeling the warm surge of the bond even through his shirt. He reached for a piece of toilet paper to wipe his mouth.

"You don't have to do that..." he murmured, resting his forehead on his arm propped on the porcelain rim.

"I know," you answered quietly, continuing to slowly rub his back. "Can I put my hand under your shirt?"

"You're not supposed to be touching me until we know what's going on with you."

You slipped your other hand out to curl your fingers around his exposed bicep below the sleeve of his tee. He sighed, shoulders sagging as the comfort and warmth of the contact soothed his aching body.

"Can I?" you softly persisted, and he nodded his head where it laid against his forearm.

Slipping your hand beneath the baggy cotton you ran your fingers over his soft, taut skin, heart squeezing at the definition of his spine and the ghosts of his ribs.

"Did you do chemo without me?" you asked.

“I've been doing it before you got here, you know,” he retorted weakly.

"How are you supposed to gain weight if it makes you this sick? Please don't do it again without me."

"You passed out, Y/n," he shifted his head to look at you.

"We'll figure that out," you smiled, "But you need to be as agreeable to these treatments as possible, right?"

He nodded.

"Hyung-seo paid me a visit this morning," you remarked after a moment of silence.

"She told me."

"Said she leaves for her tour tomorrow. When does she get back?"

"February."

"Of next year?" You paused to temper your shock, "That's a long time."

"It's a world tour. That's how it goes."

"Wow."

You realized for the hundredth time in as many hours that there was so much about their lifestyle to which you were ignorant. You had so much to learn, but one thing you did know: he needed you right now, so you stayed by his side until the sickness had subsided.

Nurse Cha arrived shortly after to conduct routine checks on Namjoon, and you sat by, thumbing through the latest issue of Batman and Robin which Matt had been kind enough to drop off with your things.

"Your initial blood work came back with some concerns," she said, turning to you and picking up her tablet to access the results. "There are signs that your body's nutrients are being depleted. Since your fainting spells have been occuring during skinship, we ask that you refrain from touching until your CMP comes back."

Namjoon glanced over at you, a chiding expression on his features. You flatly ignored him.

"I need to be able to touch him, especially if he feels ill. He needs to keep down his food, right?"

Nurse Cha hummed, pursing her lips.

"Well, I'm going to run this by Dr. Na, but if absolutely necessary, keep it light and brief. And please be sure to document even the smallest instances of skinship so that we can track the effects."

You agreed readily, and she left to continue her rounds.

Glancing out the window, you noted that the evening was mild, and the gardens were aflutter with birds and awash in soft late-afternoon light. You thought about what the nurse had said before about the fresh air.

"Hey," you remarked, still looking out the window, "We should take a walk - it looks so nice out. You up for it?"

"Great idea," he replied, joining you to look out across the greenery. "I'm definitely feeling up for it." He huffed out a little chuckle.

"What?" you asked suspiciously. You were beginning to recognize his different laughs - this particular chuckle was always at your expense.

"Gonna keep pushing it with the poor nurse, huh?"

You scoffed.

"Well, if I hadn't would you be feeling well enough to go out right now?"

"No."

When you glanced up you found that he was gazing raptly at you, his face filled with unchecked thanksgiving. Your witty response faltered on your tongue.

His touch, you were pretty damn sure that for the rest of his natural life you would never grow used to it...but his eyes? It was almost the same. Was this part of the bond? Or was it just...him? Did everyone feel this way when he held them in those eyes? When he looked at them, really looked...

You couldn't tear your eyes away. You couldn't find words.

When Namjoon's phone suddenly buzzed you thanked almighty Samsung and sagged against the window pane.

"Damn," he muttered.

You looked at him questioningly.

"I have a consultation with my radiation oncologist in ten minutes. Go ahead! I'll meet you down there right after."

He pulled a sweatshirt over his head and changed his slippers out for his shoes.

You returned to your room to grab outerwear as well. The evening was temperate enough to go without, but you were feeling chillier than usual. You felt your phone buzz in your pocket.

Mom flashed across the screen.

Your chest tightened and you silenced the ringer. You'd call her tomorrow, you told yourself. Besides, she had already spoken to Matt.

When you reached the garden, you decided there was someone you should call while you waited. Ambling down a gravel path, you held the phone up to your ear, stuffing your other hand into the pocket of your jean jacket.

"Matt told mom that you passed out - are you okay?" Diana's voice on the other end registered genuine distress.

You rolled your eyes and sighed.

"I'm fine. My body is just adjusting to the bond and probably jet lag and whatnot."

"You better fucking be fine or I'm coming out there to make sure you are."

You laughed.

"To South Korea? On a Wednesday?"

"You know what I mean, god! You're so - hey! How did the fiancee thing go?"

"I knew you'd want an update."

"Spill."

You sighed.

"Uh-oh," she hummed, "That was your, things-are-an-effing-disaster sigh."

"It was no- why do you keep trying to divine my air flow like they're casting-runes or something? Will you just let me tell you?"

"You don't always say."

You huff in exasperation.

"Okay, well, I won't tell you what that sigh is," she mumbles in trepidation, "But I will tell you that I know enough to shut up and let you continue. Go on."

"It didn't go swimmingly."

"Fuck."

"Yeah,” You lifted your fingers to absently stroke at the petal of a rose. “She seemed very frightened by the whole situation, which is completely understandable. But then...she also kind of came at me. She started asking pretty intimate stuff about the bond right off the bat. When I tried to redirect by suggesting we get to know each other better she started saying all this stuff she already knew about me. About Dad and Mom."

"What?!" Diana gasped incredulously.

"It was almost as if...I don't know, I could have been reading her incorrectly, but it was almost seemed as if she was trying to bring things up that might knock me off my footing. Make me...insecure."

You suddenly remembered your conversation with Namjoon the previous night. He hadn’t let on that he had already known your father passed when you were a child...but he had known. Passing out during skinship had gotten in the way of the conversation you had intended to broach with him about knowledge of the other. You had done research before meeting him, but only the basics. You had felt that as much should come from him as possible. Clearly you hadn’t been given that opportunity.

"That bitch," Diana seethed, pulling your mind back into the moment.

"Hey, hey, hey," you cautioned her, "She's in a extremely difficult situation. And that was just my biased impression of her intentions. Don't be too quick to judge her, Di."

Diana hummed discontentedly.

"Also, she came to apologize to me today before she leaves on tour. We made progress, I think."

"Apologizing? Bare minimum," Diana said with an air of dismissal. "What did you say her name was?"

"Kim Hyung-seo. Her stage name is Bibi."

Diana was silent for a moment.

"Found her," she declared.

You smiled to yourself - of course she had found her, the woman was famous. It wasn't as if stalking measures were necessary (though you had no doubt of Diana's abilities should that have been the case).

Diana clicked her tongue in disappointment.

"She's hot."

"She is very pretty," you agreed.

"Yeah, but you're hot too. And, y'kow, you're you. Bet you're smarter..."

"Di," you said, stopping to pinch your brow, "We're not in some kind of competition. We're both just human beings navigating pretty uncharted waters, okay? We both have our strengths and weaknesses. She's going to be part of my life as Namjoon's wife, so not only is building a good relationship with her important to me, I have a responsibility to her as well. We all do. To each other."

Your sister paused on the other end before relenting sullenly.

"Yeah, yeah. I guess you're right - you do need to make nice with her...as long as they're married, that is..."

"DIANA."

"Okay! Geez!" Diana cleared her throat. "How is the soulmate doing?"

"He's getting stronger every day," you answered, happily moving the topic away from Hyung-seo.

"That's great!" she crooned.

"It is."

"Are you smiling? You sound like you're smiling."

"How are you doing, Di? Classes are starting soon."

You smirked as your sister's attention surged in a new direction, and for the next half an hour she regaled you with tales of her new housemates, and the smarmy and unseemly Johnnie (who had come crawling back, as predicted, upon returning to the States).

Upon hanging up with Diana, you checked the time, and discovered that it had been nearly an hour since you left Namjoon. You were starting to feel weak, and a bit cold - hunger, you told yourself - so you decided to return indoors for dinner.

You called Namjoon on the way up to the fifth floor to inform him if your change in plans. He apologized profusely, saying that the doctor had been detained, and asked you to join him for dinner.

Letting yourself into his suite, you shrugged your jacket off as you headed for your usual spot on the couch when, suddenly, you froze.

A man was rising to stand from where he had been seated on the sofa. He was clad in a dark blue button-down with a golden emblem on the shoulder and black slacks. He wore a black cap which bore a similar insignia to the one on his shirt and fit snugly over his short dark hair. He wasn’t as tall as Namjoon, though his shoulders were nearly as wide. His features were soft but arresting, and his deep brown irises, you thought, seemed to hold a bit of everything a pair of eyes could. Your comic book was in his hand.

You crossed the room toward him.

"Hi, I’m sorry, Namjoon will be here soon - oh, I'm his soulmate, Y/n," you stammered, before catching yourself.

The young man's sharp eyes widened, his lips parting as you bowed.

"Je ireum-eun Y/n imnida," you started over in Korean.

He bowed in return, raising his dark brown eyes to you again as he responded in a soft deep voice.

"Annyeonghaseyo, je ireum-eun Min Yoongi imnida."

92 notes · View notes

satureja13 · 2 months

Text

The friendship between: Saiwa and Jack

It's the oldest in The Boys friendships.

Saiwa and Jack met in the Lab when they both had been kidnapped and abused for these Cowplant Experiments. And they hated each other when they first met ^^' Jack was 16 then and Saiwa 17 (as I write this, they are 19 and 20). That was also when Saiwa became their (reluctant) leader and Jack lit the mood with his Super Power: the Puppy Strategy.

Jack is the youngest of them and up for all kind of nonsense (and he can't keep his big snout shut). Which drives Saiwa crazy because he (as the oldest of them and their leader) is responsible for all their deeds. But even though they banter a lot, they never have a serious fight. The experience in the Lab welded them together and they are like brothers. (Romance level: below zero) Saiwa wasn't even mad at Jack when Jeb fell in love with him after Vlad's death and Jeb and Sai broke up.

They are both jealous of Jeb and Kiyoshi.

They often share a room/apartment since Jack can't sleep alone due to his disorders.

They are very different in character but Jack knows how much Saiwa loves him and he can rely on him. Saiwa is the most important creature in Jack's life.

But Jack is like a puppy and nothing can keep him from his nonsense. And Saiwa is his main target because he's an easy one ^^' The others just laugh with Jack about his antics and don't get upset.

Once Sai found these photos with a note from Jack: 'Looks exactly like you! AWWW' (He has a point, though ;)

And Jack is the only one Saiwa can let off steam with. Jack knows that it's nothing personally. And when Sai says 'run' he just runs. Even though it's not his fault. At least sometimes ^^' (sometimes I think Jack pranks Sai on purpose to help him let off steam before he explodes from all the worries and sorrows he keeps locked inside.)

Even though they are so different they both love games. Not only video games, also board games.

They'd been Team Fangs (Home Economics and Sports) in the School Project/Last Christmas chapter, which was quite a challence since none of them could cook at this time nor was any good at sports ^^'

Adult Jack and Saiwa are still friends. Here they are in our 'Love Hurts' story where Jack's son Logan fell in love with Giga/Saiwa. (That was June 2018! My english was even worse then hahaha)

And here in 'The Family Business' June 2022. Adult Jack, 3 of his 4 kids and Lucy, the Au Pair (Dtui's Granddaughter),Guidry and Adult Giga/Saiwa. It was/is so amazing for me to learn how they became friends in the current story. I'm so glad I made them teenagers to follow them on their adventures.

In chronological order: 🫛 Saiwa and Jack 🫛 Vlad and Jack 🫛 Saiwa and Vlad 🫛 Kiyoshi and Jeb 🫛 Saiwa and Ji Ho 🫛 Ji Ho and Jack 🫛 Ji Ho and Jeb 🫛 Ji Ho and Kiyoshi 🫛 Vlad and Kiyoshi 🫛 Vlad and Jeb 🫛 Saiwa and Kiyoshi 🫛 Jack and Jeb

❤️‍🔥 Ji Ho and Vlad (and Luci) ❤️‍🔥 Saiwa and Jeb ❤️‍🔥 Jack and Kiyoshi ❤️‍🔥 Noxee and Greg ❤️‍🔥 Leander and Wesley (and Vlad) ❤️‍🔥 Francine Spencer (Jeb's Grandmother) and Jules Rico

From the Beginning ~ Underwater Love ~ Latest 🕹️ 'Therapy Game' from the beginning ▶️ here 📚 Previous Chapters: Chapters: 1-6 ~ 7-12 ~ 13-16 ~ 17-22 ~ 23-28

#The Boys Friendships #Saiwa and Jack #underwater love #sims 4 story #sims 4 #simblr #ts4 #giga byte #saiwa #jack callahan #sims 4 vanilla

54 notes · View notes

fabledresources · 1 year

Text

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐒𝐀𝐘

i've made too many of this specific kind of meme by now but it's not my fault we have constant joint custody of the clown brain cell!! there are a few brief mentions of suicide + suggestive content, but that should be the worst of it. enjoy <3

consciousness is a disease and it is incurable.

men will literally decay before they admit to their gay urges.

this new trauma didn't make me want to kill myself as much as it could have!

you were studying the blade, i was getting dicked down. we are not the same.

i guess i'll embrace it then, time to whore myself out.

i don't understand sports slang because, like... i'm hot.

"what's poppin'!" my will to live like a balloon, [name].

if i were eve in the garden of eden, the devil would've gotten my ass with a babybel.

do i look like i know spices to you? the only spice i know is porn.

gender is a performance, and i plan on getting booed off the stage.

i hate that man. i need to carry his children.

therapy isn't enough, i need to conduct a dangerous science experiment that challenges god.

i may desire him carnally, but that's a different story.

could the opposite of the ick be the slick?

why house husband shaped if not meant to get railed in the kitchen?

the first to betray me had a god complex. he was my father.

what is it that makes you not wanna go apeshit? societal expectations? catholic guilt?

i'm once again saying that [name] has prey energy.

i wanna study [name] like a lab rat.

i will kiss you on the mouth, with or without tongue. your choice.

my brother in christ, you are scaring the indie whores.

i'm not getting paid to make good decisions, so why bother with them?

in hawaiian shirts, we are all equal before god.

#roleplay meme #sentence prompts #sentence starter #rp prompts #rp memes

178 notes · View notes

ros3ybabe · 7 months

Text

Daily Check-in: October 5th, 2023 + Life Update 🎀

I swear I always disappear for a few days, lurk around the tumblr app, and then decide to give a random update. I really need to work on my consistency lol.

Anywho, life has been soooo busy. I've ben packing and preparing for my trip out to see my boyfriend tomorrow, trying to catch up on homework so I'm not super busy while I am with him this weekend, working like crazy because money is a necessity, and just keeping up with the day to day grind.

So, here's a mini update from yesterday, and yes I am still going to try to update while I'm with my man as I will still be doing homework and studying Japanese and what not.

🩷 Academic Achievments Past Few Days -

completed and passed culinary quiz

Turned in my actual spending budget from Septmeber

Finished an investing assignment

Worked on the draft for a research paper literature review thing I have to write for my psychology class (finishing it today!)

presented my mid term presentation in my culinary class and got complimented by the professor/chef

submitted a lactation nutrition chart fie ym nutrition class

completed my pre lab and lab report for tomorrow's anatomy lab

completed quiz chapter 6 for my psychology class

completed practical assignment and module quiz for my fitness for health and sport class

I've been pretty busy with school work. I catch up on a weekly basis, but of course, then more homework is released, and I feel like I get thrown back to square one. College life, yay!

🩷 Personal Acheivements Past Few Days -

kept up with skincare routine

packed for trip

journaled a few times

went to the gym for the first time since February (just walked the treadmill but it's a start!)

kept up with medical appointments

did my laundry yesterday

kept up with my duolingo and busuu streaks

regained motivation for studying Japanese

I feel like I haven't done as much for myself personally but at the same time like I have? I am a bit upset with myself. I have a meeting with my Dietetian Mentor (#1) and in the last 3 weeks since we last spoke, I haven't done anything from what she had asked because I've been so busy. I've had 2 panic attacks, extreme exhaustion, and worked 3 doubles at my job since I last spoke to her. However, I am planning on working on some of her stuff this weekend while I'll have the time, so hopefully she isn't upset and can understand my position? She seems really nice so fingers crossed.

🩷 Academic ToDo For Today -

write up restaurant field trip report for culinary class

weekly meal writing for culinary class

complete my component one for my psychology class

take my lab exam one for anatomy

duolingo + busuu for Japanese

gather my necessary materials for completing the rest of my homework this weekend

🩷 Personal ToDo For Today -

put away clean laundry

wash sheets + pillowcases + towels

take out bedroom + bathroom trash

sweep bedroom really good

scrub toilet and wipe down counter + sink in bathroom

check in to the flight app to get my boarding pass for tomorrow

therapy

meet with RD Mentor #1

morning journal

skincare morning + night

redye the pink in my hair

finish packing tonight

a lot of things to do today to prepare for this weekend. but it will all be worth it once I get to see my boyfriend.

thats all for today!

til next time lovelies 🩷

44 notes · View notes

formosusiniquis · 1 year

Text

facts and pearls (both sensitive)

also on AO3 for ease of reading

Personally, Steve thinks it's a little suspicious that the supposedly shut down local child experimentation lab was able to be sanitized and reopened in less than 48 hours. But then nobody has really asked for his opinion on anything other than, 'does he have a pulse' and 'can you carry him back through the gate.'

But then by the time the conversation about taking Eddie to the suddenly reopened lab turned 'specialized treatment facility' the focus had shifted pretty hard to a comatose Max. Not that Steve has a problem with that, Max is the strongest of them all and he's also very concerned about her sight less eyes, her broken bones, and her sleeping brain, he just thinks some concern could be spared for the guy who got dragged into this mess kicking and screaming and almost died because of it.

Nobody asked his opinion though, and he threw all of his Harrington weight around just to get Eddie admitted. Now that all the adults in the know have miraculously appeared after all the shit has hit the fan everyone -- other than Nancy -- has been relegated back to the kids table where they can be seen and not heard. The adults in the know have focused their attention on Max, and he doesn't think anyone has even called Eddie's uncle to let him know he's alive -- Steve doesn't know much about father figures, so he doesn't know if it's a good or bad thing that Wayne Munson stays in the dark while Eddie is still so touch and go -- so when a man in a white coat tells the folks at Hawkins General that he's an animal attack specialist come to transfer Mr. Munson to a specialized facility no one cares.

No one but Steve, who has no parents to notice he's missing and no one to back him up because of it. No one but Steve, who isn't about to go to the Chief or Mrs. Byers, neither of whom like or even really trust him and he can't say there's a lot of love lost between him and Hopper either. No one but Steve, who doesn't really trust the staff at Hawkins General to not do something to Eddie anyway doesn't really trust them at all; how many times can a boy break his arm climbing a tree, how many times can his mother bump her head on an open kitchen cabinet before you start to ask a few questions? No one but Steve, who damn well isn't going to let him go alone just to get disappeared by a government trying to make the worst of their mistakes go away.

So he leaves a note for Robin and Dustin with the hospital staff, a nurse he remembers from school who he's sure remembers him better, letting her know where he is lest he get disappeared too; and he climbs into the back of an ambulance in a pair of borrowed scrubs with an unconscious but mostly stable Eddie Munson as an agent drives them both away.

That was a week ago, and Steve still isn't sure if he made the right call.

Steve has been going to a court 'recommended' therapist since he was thirteen and got caught pawning off his father's watch and cufflinks, got caught not by the police but by a lawyer friend of his father's who of course called his dad who of course got a judge involved. No one asked why he'd done it, no one asked much of anything before deciding that Steve was troubled but fixable -- and wasn't it so in vogue to go to therapy, the better you know yourself, the better you know others, the better you are at business. So once a month his father's assistant, Debbie then Mary then Barbie then Veronica, dropped him off at an office where he was expected to tell a stranger what was wrong with him. Except obviously not really. He couldn't tell them that he'd pawned the jewelry because the money he'd been left was gone and the cabinets were empty. He couldn't tell them that the last time he'd spoken to his father it'd been a shouting match that had ended in welts and bruising -- his arms stay whole now that sports are an option. And four years later he can't tell them that he needs a nightlight again because he needs to be able to make sure all of his walls stay solid and monsterless.

He shares enough to know that trauma does weird shit to you.

He figures that's why he feels so compelled to make sure Eddie 'the Freak' Munson doesn't wake up in this nightmare of a place alone. A little bit of trauma and a little bit of guilt for letting him end up batfood in the first place. No matter what little looks Robin sends him when she comes by, no matter what little flirtations happened while they were in the middle of an apocalypse event. It's the guilt keeping him here, and a lack of anywhere else to go.

Sure, the guy was attractive but he wasn't Nancy Wheeler he wasn't going to jump into a relationship with the first half attractive guy he went through a traumatic event with. Trauma bonds weren't exactly the stablest of foundations for a relationship, just ask the flaming wreckage of whatever was going on with her relationship with Jonathan.

He may have trauma bonded with Dustin and Robin, but their relationship grew from it not because of it.

He's here because he has to be.

He still isn't sure if anyone has told Wayne Munson where his child is.

And anyway his house is ten yards from a fault line, the only person to try to get in contact with him was his parents insurance agent -- though he doesn't doubt that his mother tried. So why wouldn't he be here, taking the night shift in a place where he can sleep in a bed and rebandage his sides and his back without worrying about things being sterile.

It is so very clean in this place that wasn't supposed to exist anymore. He won't let the man who put himself between certain death and Steve's little brother wake up in some observation tank.

Sometimes he thinks he can feel Eddie's pulse in his sides and thinks it's better that they're both here anyway. The staff all know him here, let him in when he buzzes, but he knows if something happened if a slug burst through the wounds in his sides like a shitty Alien remake that they would be locked in here. The situation contained. It helps him sleep at night, curled in a hospital bed two feet away from Eddie's steady, comatose breathing.

He hopes Max sleeps as easy.

He hopes she's awake.

He wants to see her, but knows she has a vigil of people at her side. Knows that Joyce Byers and Chief Hopper are there when they can be with Lucas and El. Doesn't know if he can stand the conversation that will result, who let those children go into that fight alone. How could you let this happen.

So he gets his updates from Dustin who gets them from Mike who gets them from El, a long telephone chain that he hopes comes close to accuracy. He would post himself in the hallway between two rooms if he could, but they took Eddie away and nobody asked his opinion on whether it was even a good idea. Just has to trust and wonder if one of them will ever get better, if one of them will ever wake up.

"The doctors told Lucas that talking helps," Dustin tells him one day. It's been nine days since Vecna and everything is still in shambles. Steve and Robin help when and where they can, Robin because she cares and Steve because he has to. Has to put in an appearance. Has to be seen. Has to do something with all this goddamn useless energy because everything has gone to shit and swinging a blunt object won't fix it this time. Has to help someone since all he's done for his friends is let them get hurt.

He can only leave if someone is there. Robin or Dustin or sometimes Mike.

Night shift comes and Dustin is reading out loud from some fantasy tome because the doctors told Lucas that talking helps and they've all run out of their own words to say to an unconscious motormouth who is too fucking still.

Dustin leaves the book. Robin takes him home. Someone has to stay.

Talking helps apparently, and Steve has been blessed with the realization the only reason they haven't buzzed Eddie's head like El's and slapped all the wires they can to it is because someone is always there. The only reason Eddie isn't wearing a crown of wires recording his brain activity, looking for Vecna hidden in the spikes of awareness is because they are watching everything, ready to sound the alarm of government overstep. When Dustin's gone he'll braid it, save it, it's just hair but you don't grow your hair out to your shoulders if you don't care about it being there. When morning comes and Dustin returns, Steve will say the nurses did it and they'll all pretend to believe him.

Dustin leaves the book behind. "Talking helps," he reminds as Steve walks him to the door. He won't step out, won't go any farther from the bed, he doesn't trust the government doctors anymore than he trusts the ones from Hawkins; but he'll walk his little brother to the door, watch him climb into the Buckley's station wagon, make sure they drive away, pretend that they're both still talking about Eddie and not him.

Eddie is still there when he gets back. Still and ringless and pale in the powder blue hospital gown they keep him in so the doctor and nurses can get at whatever piece of bruised, torn, and battered skin they need to in a particular moment. Still and quiet, save for the sound of his heart monitor and his even breathing, a good sign that he's breathing on his own the same good sign they give them every time a day goes by and there are no other changes. Is Max breathing on her own, or is a machine doing it for her? He'll have to ask next time someone comes by.

Steve has never been one to talk just to hear himself. Years alone in his big empty house, he's used to silence. He doesn't talk to Eddie, knowing Eddie isn't going to talk back, they spend most of their time together sleeping when they're alone. But Dustin says talking will help.

"Apparently, I've been screwing you over letting you stew in silence, Munson." That feels wrong, if he's going to talk he should be nicer. "Guess I thought you might like a little peace and quiet whenever Robin and Henderson left, they talk enough for six."

Steve has no problem maneuvering Eddie where he needs him, careful of the stitches on his sides and his neck and his jaw, he has helped the nurses move him around that he doesn't think twice wrapping his arms around Eddie's upper body and shifting him upright so Steve has better access to those dark curls. "I feel like an idiot so I imagine this will be about the time you decide to grace us with your presence, I remember your flair for the dramatic from school." He bought a comb for Dustin, when he realized the stuff he has for his own hair isn't meant for the fluffy curls Dust has. It's in the gym bag that all of his worldly possessions have been fit inside. He doesn't think Eddie will mind sharing. Pulling a chair in as close as possible to the bed he brushes and braids one side, “Henderson left the fantasy shit he was reading you earlier, and honestly Eds,” that’s better, that’s nicer. Nice like Eddie’s hair, soft if a little tangled up and twisted, “honestly if he thinks I’m going to read that shit he’s crazy.”

He sounds mean again, can Eddie tell. Can Eddie even hear him? The abrasive sort of joking he and the kids favor doesn’t really work if you aren’t in on the joke. He’d tried to read those ring books before, they’re something Dustin cares about, if only this thing Dustin cares so much about weren’t printed in size 8 font, cramped onto the page like they were running out of paper when they started doing the printing. Even if he could see it, he can’t, he wouldn’t be able to keep the letters from flipping and flopping and dancing around the page.

He comes around the other side, pulls that chair up so it’s right against the bed. Knees rubbing against the rough cotton of the sheets they keep him on. It looks better even now, half braided and a little frizzy from being combed out but it will need to be washed before too long, grease gathering at the hairline. “You’ll just have to deal with my taste in literature until he comes back, since I don’t think either one of us wants to listen to me go on and on about the world at large.”

Eddie won’t be tossing or turning in bed to disturb either of the twin braids that Steve has made. He has to be rolled by Steve and the nurses to prevent bedsores, legs and arms worked each day to try to save the muscles from atrophy. Physical therapy will be a bitch if he wakes up soon and the longer he’s out the worse it will be. Still he manages to find some old ponytail holders in the bottom of his bag, tossed in there by Robin who can’t even use them anymore but likes to wear them on her wrist in case it gives her a chance to talk to a girl, and secures them both anyway.

He moves the Hobbit, sets it on a side table so it doesn’t get bent or lost. He’ll let that be a Henderson and Eddie thing, something for Dustin to look forward to when he comes here. It’s hard for all of them, losing people this time; but it’s been hardest for Dustin, two of his friends in sick beds, one of them briefly dying in his arms.

Steve’s personal tastes tend toward horror, ironically. Horror and romance, he enjoys a controlled build up of tension and then a satisfying release. Stephen King and bodice rippers, one doesn’t feel appropriate and the other he wouldn’t admit to under pain of death. So he settles for science fiction.

“You can’t make fun of me,” Steve says on instinct, “well, I guess that’s still true. I’m a slow reader so you’ll just have to live in each moment for a little while.” Nearly every book he has has an index card covered in Nancy Wheeler’s illegibly neat curling cursive tucked inside of it. The remnant of their relationship and of her still everywhere in his life, smudgy fingerprints on everything he has. He also just never has a bookmark, and those stupid flashcards still turn up in the dumbest places -- he didn’t even use them to study, just needed another body in the room so he could actually buckle down and focus; but try convincing Nance of anything once she had her mind set to it -- they do help a little now, blocking out the majority of the page so his brain can bring the few lines he lets be seen into focus.

“I’ll make my report as if I told a story, for I was taught as a child on my homeworld that Truth is a matter of the imagination.”

Steve stays because someone has to. Steve reads because talking is important. “The soundest fact may fail or prevail in the style of its telling,” He won’t let Eddie Munson be alone. It’s all he can do, no one’s asked his opinion.

#stranger things #stranger things fic #steddie #steddie fic #steddie drabble #steve harrington #eddie munson #this could potential turn into a long fic later #depending on reception #but i had angst in my heart and needed to get it out #my fic #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #pre slash

222 notes · View notes

love-kurdt · 6 months

Text

This is Me Trying (byler): 1

word count: 6,469

warnings for this chapter: lots of sexual content!! underage drinking, mentions of drug use, roofie mention bc college, internalized homophobia, maaaajooorrrr depression. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

If someone were to ask Mike Wheeler what time it was, he wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, he would look down at his watch and realize that said watch was not on his wrist. He would then ask himself why his watch was not on his wrist, then he would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and he was dead to Will, so he didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, he’d probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” He was drunk, though, so he was allowed.

Mike was at some frat party, spending what was his last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. He was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between his legs and a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He’d given up some time ago on trying to pace himself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and Mike could feel the bass reverberating in his bones, which would normally make him want to get up and dance, but he wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; he was only halfway through his sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen this coming. Mike had been spiraling for a long time. It all started over summer break between his senior year of high school and his freshman year of college. Mike never even wanted to go to college in the first place. What was the point of spending tens of thousands of dollars on a creative writing degree when he could just freelance and eventually get published? But Ted insisted on Mike at least attending a state school with cheaper tuition, claiming, “You can’t run on ink and espresso, son. You have to put in the work and have the credentials to show for it.” On the bright side, it was a miracle that Ted had enough confidence in his son to allow Mike to pursue writing at all. But he was on thin ice with his father, had been for years, so he agreed to at least think about college.

Mike’s friends chose their respective schools fairly quickly; Dustin had gotten in with a full ride scholarship to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Max and Lucas went to UCLA as sports science and physical therapy double majors, El went to Vanderbilt University in Nashville to pursue a degree in therapy, and Will… Will went to Chicago. Which school he went to, or if he went to college at all, Mike didn’t know. To study what, he had no clue. Where he lived within the city, he hadn’t the slightest idea. That’s what happens when your ex-best friend up and leaves without so much as a “goodbye.” Mike considered the day Will left to be the day his world stopped turning and time froze. So he took off his watch and hid it in a shoebox under his bed with the rest of his mini-shrine.

Dr. Owens and his team had arranged government-mandated counseling for all of those involved in the Vecnapocalypse. A year in, though, Mike didn’t see a point in going anymore. He was healed. He was fine. He was ready to move on with his life. Well, everyone else in the Party was ready to move on. Why wouldn’t he be? It probably hadn’t been the best decision on Mike’s part to stop going to therapy, but without Will in his life, Mike didn’t have much of a reason to stay in Hawkins at all, and he really didn’t feel like dredging up his past once a week to pick apart as if he were in an anatomy lab practical. Besides, he didn’t feel like arguing anymore with his dad. So, he begrudgingly packed his bags and headed to Indianapolis, killing two birds with one stone.

When he got to campus, he was assigned to dorm with this guy named Elvis (yes, as in Presley). Aside from his stupid ass name, Elvis Kuiken was a good roommate. He was a senior who kept to himself most days, when he wasn’t working. He was clean, by Mike’s standards (which were on the floor, literally and figuratively speaking), and he was also part of a fraternity. He’d always bring Mike along to parties, all in the name of the formative freshman experience. What this “experience” primarily entailed, Mike came to find out, was alcohol. Weed, too, no doubt… but extra emphasis on alcohol.

Mike didn’t want to admit it, at least not to others, but he became a lot more withdrawn since his falling out with Will. He wasn’t as outgoing, as daring, or as extroverted as he used to be. He was used to being an outcast of sorts, so not much changed there. Except now, where he used to have the confidence to at least approach people and introduce himself– “Hi, I’m Michael! Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes.”– he couldn’t do that anymore. It was like his communicational skills had completely disappeared. But during his first party, he took a shot of tequila and must’ve made at least ten acquaintances within the three hours he was there. If only Troy could see how popular he was now. He’d piss his pants… again. It was like a light flickered on in his head; the more he drank, the more sociable he’d become. Mike took this epiphany and ran with it.

One time back in— September?— or something, Mike had been at a party for a few hours, and came up with the idea to try every single type of liquor to ever exist. He picked up a shot glass and stood at the counter for a good fifteen minutes, downing shot after shot. He woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache, unsure of how he even got back to his dorm room. But then he looked to his right and saw Elvis’s head resting on his very shirtless, hickey-covered chest. Oh. That’s how he got home. Mike wasn’t able to wear any shirts with collars below his clavicle for days. He didn’t hate it, though. In fact, that wasn’t the last time Mike and his roommate hooked up. Stumbling through the door, making out in the dark, and whispering each other’s names into otherwise complete silence until the sun came up became a regular occurrence.

Christmas break arrived, and most of Mike’s time back in Hawkins was spent trying to avoid Will. And from the way Mike saw it, Will was everywhere. He was the art on his bedroom wall. He was the yellow sweater that hung in Mike’s closet, probably the only colorful item in his entire wardrobe that Mike hadn’t thrown out, because it was Will’s sweater. He was the shea butter soap on the bathroom counter. He was the hot cocoa mix in the kitchen cabinet. He was the D&D box buried underneath his bed that Mike neglected since Eddie’s death in 1986. He was the Party. So Mike didn’t leave his basement for the entirety of mid-December to the beginning of January, with the exceptions of family dinners and sleep. He wouldn’t lie, he was a little bit ashamed of how he’d handled things with the Party. He definitely shouldn’t have iced everyone out. His friends made various attempts to get the Party back together, and always invited Mike, but he’d always have some kind of excuse as to why he couldn’t hang out with them. They eventually stopped calling.

One Saturday afternoon, he was sprawled out on the couch watching Star Wars: Episode VI– Return of the Jedi, and Nancy and Jonathan came barrelling in through the basement entrance, practically swallowing each other whole. Mike missed the feeling of being in love. He’d cleared his throat when it started to get a bit too steamy, causing the couple to jump apart in shock. Nancy smoothed her skirt while Jonathan lifted a hand into the air to greet Mike. He nodded back in acknowledgement. This silent interaction had Mike wanting to crawl out of his skin. All he wanted to do was ask Jonathan about Will; how Will was, what Will was doing, if Will had met anyone, if Will remembered him. It was like Jonathan could read his mind, because he said, completely unprompted, “He still thinks about you, Mike. He hasn’t forgotten you.” Mike actively committed those words to memory.

Mike ran into Joyce during a last minute school supplies shopping trip to Melvald’s on his way out of town. It was bound to happen at some point, what with Joyce owning Melvald’s now. He’d expected it to be awkward, but was proven wrong when Joyce practically jumped the counter to engulf her honorary third son in a hug. She’d pulled him all the way down to her level, so he was bent at almost a 90 degree angle, but he didn’t care.

“How’ve you been, sweetheart? How’s Indy treating you?” she asked. That was a loaded question. It would be spectacular if your son hadn’t left, but whatever.

“It’s treating me well, I’m mostly taking my gen eds right now, but I’m always writing my own material when I’m not in class,” he grinned, trying his best to not let it look fake or forced. Joyce seemed to buy it.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I always knew you were going to become a writer,” Joyce smiled, and Mike nodded, staying as neutral as possible. He knew where she was going with this. “I remember it as if it were yesterday,” bingo, “that in the mornings after your sleepovers, you and Will would sit at the dining room table with your eggs and maple syrup and work on your comics for hours. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” Mike replied wistfully, “I do.” He glanced down at his shoes, trying not to let any tears escape. The amount of crying over Will that he’d done just within the time he was back home was pathetic. But Joyce didn’t seem to mind in the least, because she reached up and ran her thumbs over his cheeks, where a few stray tears had traveled down against his will.

“Oh, honey,” Joyce held Mike’s face in her hands, eyes filled with compassion, and pulled him into another hug, holding him close. Mike had always loved Joyce, but this mutual understanding led Mike to reserve a special place in his heart for her.

They engaged in a little more small talk before she personally walked (dragged) him through the store with his shopping list to retrieve the items he needed. When she checked out his items at the counter, she grabbed a pen and post-it note, wrote something on it, and handed it to Mike. He held it up to eye level with a shaky hand.

“That’s Will’s phone number, he’s at the American Academy of Art,” she whispered. Mike’s eyes widened, and he breathed, “Thank you, Ms. Byers. So much,” before heading out the door to his car. He sat in the parking lot for a solid fifteen minutes, causing himself to fall behind schedule, but he had Will’s phone number. That was a good enough reason to be late, in his book.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, Mike was finally able to return to campus. He’d set his suitcase down next to his bed, and took a minute to collect his thoughts prior to unpacking. All of a sudden, Elvis clumsily tripped over his own feet through the door, sheepishly grinning at a startled Mike. Mike felt a blush rise to his cheeks, followed by a quiet, “hi.” Seconds later, they were all over each other.

It was around this time that Mike finally came to terms with the undeniable fact that he was exclusively attracted to men. He’d always believed his sexual preferences existed as a strict ratio of 70:30, with 70% being women and 30% being men. He’d always been aware of his attraction to guys (Will); he’d been sure of that for as long as he could remember. The confusing part about it all was when El came into the picture, and everyone and their mother expected them to start dating. Mike was, like, twelve at the time, so of course he went along with what everyone else wanted. That backfired majorly when El confronted Mike with tears in her eyes, asking, “But… you don’t love me anymore?” and his impulse response was, “I don’t even think I loved you romantically to begin with.” It took a long time for Mike and El to repair their friendship following that conversation, and to help him bullshit his parents into falling for some half-baked reason as to why he and his “sweetie pie” broke up so suddenly.

When he started his… situationship with Elvis, though, he began to question his 70:30 ratio. Elvis, to put it simply, was hot. He was taller than Mike, just by an inch, but it didn’t stop him from calling Mike “short.” Mike found that hilarious, as he himself stood at a staggering six foot three. Elvis had tanned skin, blonde hair which he kept in a preppy side part, and bright eyes that captured the essence of the bluest sky. He had full lips, a chiseled jawline, and a lean yet muscular build with the likeness of a Greek statue. Elvis had the most gorgeous hands. Mike particularly liked when those hands pinned his wrists above his head. He also liked when those blue eyes bore into his soul in the way that only one other pair of eyes had ever been able to do within his mere eighteen years of life. And he loved when that chiseled jawline, rough from lack of shaving, rubbed abrasively against his neck.

Elvis was adamant on there being no strings attached. He made sure to remind Mike every time they did anything remotely sexual, but over time, those words began to lose their potency, like watering down vodka to make it go down smoother. Mike’s wide eyes and “yes, of course, I understand”s were slowly replaced with absentminded “mmhmm”s. He figured that as long as Elvis never picked up on Mike’s social cues (or lack thereof), and as long as he never knew about Mike secretly developing more-than-fuck-buddies feelings for him, Mike would be in the clear. But eventually, something in Elvis had melted away, and he started calling Mike “my boy,” “love,” and “sweetheart,” amongst other gross (sweet) pet names. Mike assumed that Elvis had caved and given up on whatever rules he’d set for himself.

Regardless of the apparent stability in his situationship, Mike’s mind dwelled in a constant state of disarray. He knew he was not straight. He wasn’t even sure if he was bisexual. He became more conscious of who caught his eye in public, and what he wanted out of the people he interacted with. He discovered he didn’t feel the same way about curves, boobs, or soft lips as he felt when he saw a pair of broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, or a tapered waist. He felt different.

Part of Mike resented himself for being different. He hated the idea of being a target, whether it be for his family, the government, or society as a whole. He’d tried to change. He hooked up with a few girls over the course of a week, “just to see something,” but he’d spent the entire time wondering when it would be over so he could go home. All of those girls either got bored, weren’t satisfied, or got mad that Mike couldn’t get it up— if not a combination of all three— and left. Mike scared himself a little when he didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

When his encounter with the last girl fell through, he decided he didn’t want to live his life in sexuality limbo anymore. He ran all the way back to his dorm hall, hauled ass up the stairwell, and let himself into his room. Elvis spun around from where he sat at his desk, and could barely get out a “Hey, man,” before Mike was ripping Elvis from his chair and pulling him in, kissing him with all his might. It didn’t take long for Elvis to reciprocate Mike’s advances, kissing back with equal intensity and pushing Mike back until they hit the side of Elvis’s raised bed frame. Mike huffed a laugh against Elvis’s lips before hoisting himself up backwards and onto the mattress, watching as Elvis chased after him. He pushed his knee between Mike’s legs, and Mike took the hint, wrapping his ankles around Elvis’s hips. “I want to be with you, baby. With strings, all the strings,” Mike had told Elvis before pulling him down for another searing kiss, and… that was when his memory cut out for the evening.

Mike woke up the next morning, hangover hitting him like a truck, to see Elvis already awake and dressed, lifting boxes onto a trolley that was stationed in the middle of the room. Through squinted eyes, he noticed Elvis’s side of the room was essentially bare, save for the dorm furniture, which belonged to the school.

“What’s happening?” he croaked out, and Elvis dropped the box he was holding onto the pile with a loud thump. “Too loud. Headache,” he whispered sharply through gritted teeth.

“It always is too loud, isn’t it?” his roommate laughed wryly to himself, not making any effort to be any quieter. Mike sat up, rubbing his eyes and ignoring the fact that he was naked and in Elvis’s bed, the only thing that hadn’t been packed up yet.

“What the fuck, Elvis? What are you doing?”

“I’m moving out today, remember?” The two young men finally gained eye contact, and Mike felt his stomach drop like he was on a roller coaster. “I’m graduating in a few days and need my stuff out by this afternoon.”

Move out was today? Vecna must have been back with a vengeance, because how else would time move so quickly on its own? Sure, Elvis mentioned in passing, like, a few weeks ago, at most, that he was leaving soon. But it still didn’t make sense, because it was only… What, March? No, The Phone Call™ was a while ago. Was it April? Mike’s mom called him at least a few weeks prior to wish him a happy nineteenth birthday. Plus, weren’t commencement ceremonies scheduled for the weekend of– “What’s today’s date?”

Mike watched the blonde in front of him unsubtly scoff with impatience. “It’s May 1st, Mike.” He could only blink back at Elvis in response for a few seconds while he tried to process the fact that his brain was capable of skipping over whole months of his life. There was no way it was May 1st already.

“No,” was the only word Mike was capable of saying.

“Yet here we are, baby,” Elvis sneered as he whipped his comforter off of Mike, leaving him exposed and humiliated. “Time flies when you’re blackout drunk. I suggest you try and get your drinking under control, before you end up having to drop out.”

It was like Elvis was a completely different person, completely different from the man who had fucked him senseless the night before. What did Mike do to deserve this? He didn’t do or… say anything? Oh no. Now Mike knew what was going on. He drank too much, opened up, and blurted out loud that he wanted to be in a relationship with Elvis, who didn’t feel the same. Mike’s face was on fire with embarrassment.

Mike scrambled off the bed and ran to get dressed while Elvis pulled the last of his sheets off the cheap university mattress. He didn’t fold them, and instead balled them up and shoved them in the trash. Mike could barely breathe. He merely stood there and watched as his gorgeous Greek (actually Dutch) god of a roommate left their shared room for the last time. Well, Mike seemingly dodged a bullet. What an asshole.

Mike was sad that Elvis was gone, but it didn’t completely destroy him the way Will leaving did. What it most likely came down to, in Elvis’s instance, was a horrible case of internalized homophobia. Mike was very familiar with this mindset; he’d fought a gory, gruesome battle with his own mind for his entire adolescence, at war with himself to prevent acting upon his ever-growing romantic love for Will. But one day, his feelings finally retaliated, and his life immediately went to shit.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I��m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

Comparing the two inevitably led to some old memories resurfacing to haunt him, but Mike felt strangely lucky. He’d been let off easily. Despite the way he stood completely stupefied in his dorm room, he knew this was temporary, and had full confidence that he’d be able to recover from this pretty quickly. Said confidence was probably the only thing that saved Mike from losing his mind. Well, that, and the pressure to pass his classes distracted him for a few days. Without having done much studying at all, Mike army crawled through his finals and barely made it out alive.

About a week later, Mike moved out of his dorm hall and into an apartment about two miles away from campus. It was a pretty nice place, considering the rent he (his father) paid for it. He got a job at the local coffee shop… which he lost before the month was up, because he never showed up to his shifts. He’d been shocked when Ted insisted upon co-signing the lease, because he didn’t think his dad would be willing to help Mike stay away from Hawkins. On the other hand, though, it made sense when Ted told him flat out that he wanted Mike out of the house. Mike didn’t blame him; he’d been referred to by his father as a “leech” on multiple occasions during his stay over Christmas break, which pretty much tracked. He felt a little guilty about that one.

Mike appreciated the independence, he truly did. It was a great feeling to have his own room again, to have a more comfortable desk chair to sit at while he drew up plans for a new fantasy novel starring a gay protagonist, to have a bathroom to himself, and most importantly, to have a full-sized refrigerator to fill with all the alcohol he could ever want. But sometimes, late at night, he would catch himself getting a bit too sad.

The entire summer was an endless cycle. Mike would wake up and make a pot of coffee. He’d sit down and write a chapter or two of his book, and stick to doing that for a few hours. He would check the time (on his wall clock, of course) and take a lunch break, which was usually a box of Annie’s shells and white cheddar. After he’d haphazardly tossed his singular bowl and fork into the sink to be washed later, he’d go back to writing. This wouldn’t last long, because he’d get distracted after smoking a joint, and probably end up staring at that one photo of himself and Will from senior year (Jonathan captured the moment: Mike had, by some miracle, perched himself up on Will’s handlebars, and Will struggled to hold his bike steady because he was laughing too hard) that sat framed on his desk. He’d snap out of his trance ten minutes later and mentally kick himself for staring for so long, which led to grabbing some form of alcohol and getting wasted, like all his potential. He would make one last attempt at writing and fail miserably. He’d stumble into the shower, and drag himself through his apartment until he found his bed. Most nights, he would end up crying himself to sleep, staring at The Painting™, which he’d tacked up on his bedroom ceiling as a form of self-punishment. It was a sad way to live, really. So Mike vowed that when the school year started up again, things would be different.

That was how Mike ended up at the library in late July, browsing the mythology section, squinting at titles printed on spines while his lips formed a straight, thin line. He knew he was officially a hermit when even the library gave him social anxiety. He’d just pulled a rather old looking book off the shelf when a tenor voice behind him caught him off guard.

“Never thought I’d see the day that book would leave the shelf. You must’ve had to brush off, like, a hundred years’ worth of dust just to get to the cover.” Mike twisted around to put a face to a voice, and was pleasantly surprised when he met eyes with a short guy (well, to Mike he was short; he was probably, like, 5’9”) with dyed, firetruck red hair that fell over his forehead in a sweeping motion. Mike liked how he wasn’t afraid to be bold.

“You’re definitely right about that,” Mike smirked, setting the book down and watching as the growing pile teetered from side to side on the table’s surface. He couldn’t decide where he wanted his story to go next, let alone if he wanted to continue with his current plot at all, so he’d planned on taking a bit of inspiration from… well, everything.

“So you’re into mythology?” the guy asked, and Mike shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning against the bookshelf as he focused his gaze down. He had pretty eyes. They were hazel, but not too green, not like–

“Yeah, I’m a creative writing major, and I’m trying to expand my horizons a little,” Mike replied, sitting down at the table. “Like, not to discount the genius of Tolkein, because he literally founded my childhood, but sometimes it’s good to go back to the basics and draw inspiration from there.”

The guy shrugged, and sat across the table from Mike. “Nothing wrong with that. I think it’s really smart, actually. Or else stories end up getting repetitive and dull.”

“Exactly!” Mike pointed both index fingers in the guy’s direction, as if to say, “Finally, someone who understands!” Mike struggled with this concept lately; the uniqueness factor. It turned out that having a male protagonist who just so happened to be romantically attracted to other males wasn’t enough reason to get a book to sell. He needed something else, something of substance, and something that wouldn’t remind readers of other books they’d previously read. “Are you into writing as well?”

“No,” the guy shyly smiled, “I’m just into guys who write about mythology.” Pardon? Was this masculine male-dude-man hitting on him? In public? Mike wasn’t complaining, but he hadn’t necessarily picked up on any hints. Although, the dyed hair should’ve been a dead giveaway.

“Oh. Um, I– wow, okay,” Mike stuttered, diverting his eyes to his books for a few seconds to process what was being said before returning to an expectant pair of hazel eyes still looking right at him. “I’m Mike, Mike Wheeler.”

“Wyatt Bowman.”

Mike cleared his throat. “Are you free in an hour, Wyatt?”

“Yeah, why?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, causing Mike to huff a nervous laugh, tapping his Ticonderoga pencil against his spiral-bound notebook at the same speed his knee bounced up and down underneath the table.

“I just gotta take some notes from here, then I was thinking we could… hang out, or something?” Mike glanced up hopefully at Wyatt.

The corners of Wyatt’s mouth curved upwards as he repeated, “Or something?”

Mike nodded, confirming their silent sub-conversation.

“Cool. That sounds like a good plan,” Wyatt said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as he rose out of the seat and headed for the exit.

“Cool,” Mike whispered back, reminiscent of a certain afternoon in a certain town in California in a certain room with a certain boy that made him feel a certain way. But that was the past, and Mike believed he was ready for the future.

When Mike started seeing Wyatt Bowman, they established that their relationship would not be serious. They were, in a small amount of words, friends with benefits. And they were actually friends. They could hang out without getting all hot and heavy. And Mike didn’t have any objections; he actually preferred the idea of friends who sometimes had sex over the label-less, no strings arrangement that he and Elvis had. It left less room for loopholes of chronic insecurity and self sabotage. It also, in turn, left more room for exploration.

Mike met Wes Butler in August at his first ever visit to an actual bar. He’d been sitting at the counter with a few of his female friends (Ruby, Alexis, and Julia), and had just received one of the fruitiest cocktails he’d ever tasted when a piece of eye candy, who might as well have been dressed in nothing, lightly tapped his shoulder and asked him to dance. Of course the girls encouraged him, not really giving him an option in the matter, but hey, good dick was good dick. It didn’t really turn into much else; once they’d had a few rounds of unnecessarily loud sex in a supply closet (ironic, but typical), Mike bid goodbye to his friends, tossing his condom wrappers in the trash on the way out.

He met another guy, Walker Brooks, in September at an off-campus nerd rave. He looked a lot like Eddie Munson, which may or may not have been coincidental. They left the party not even an hour after it began to go to Walker’s dorm. They fucked in between Lord of the Rings themed bedsheets, and Mike had to endure an excruciating hour and a half of Walker speaking Elvish rather than English. Afterwards, he invited Mike to join the University of Indy D&D Club, of which he was, of course, the Dungeon Master. Mike politely declined.

On a particularly difficult October night following being roofied followed by some unwanted advances, Mike slapped himself awake with one hand as he unsteadily held his handlebars with the other, biking back to his apartment. His grip slipped, and the front wheel hit the curb, which sent the bike to come to a screeching halt and throw Mike over the handlebars, tumbling onto the concrete. Warren Blakely, one of his classmates in English 101, watched Mike fall, stopped him from biking again before he hurt himself even more, and asked him what exactly had happened. Once he told Warren what had gone down, he wouldn’t let Mike out of his sight. Over the next two months or so, Warren kept Mike safe and let him take control back over his own life. Mike and Warren had a special bond. If Mike didn’t still love Will, and if he didn’t have such extreme trust issues, he would have absolutely dated Warren if provided the chance. But he couldn’t, not until he got over Will, so he ended things with Warren. This specific relationship put things into perspective for him. In the end, none of these men he slept with would ever be Will Byers. So he’d either have to get over Will, or find someone better.

On the nights he wasn’t at parties, he was at his desk, writing letters to Will. It was kind of cathartic, honestly. He’d rip a piece of college ruled paper out of his notebook, just like old times, and write letter after letter saying things along the lines of:

Dear Will, I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry that I love you. I’m sorry I did what I did to you. And I’m sorry I can’t take it back. I wish we could be best friends again. I wish we could have late night walkie conversations like we used to. I want nothing more than to play D&D in the basement with you for the rest of our lives. Love, Mike

These occasional letters became a part of his nightly routine… whenever he wasn’t too fucked up to focus his eyes on his own handwriting. And recently, it was more often than not that he couldn’t actually fall asleep without drinking. Mike wasn’t even of legal age yet, and wouldn’t be for another two years.

Mike stopped attending his classes halfway through the semester, so it wasn’t a surprise when his grades plummeted. His mailbox became inundated with letters from the registrar’s office, advising him to withdraw from the classes he was failing before the pass/fail deadline, but Mike couldn’t care less; so, not only did he fail out of his classes, but he couldn’t even retake the classes even if he wanted to, because his record forced him into the red zone. And the entire time, he couldn’t feel a thing.

“Hey, by any chance do you know the time?” a deep voice asked, and Mike lifted his gaze up from his lap to a muscular brunette. He blinked a few times in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

“I, uh– I don’t—” Mike stuttered, lifting his bare, watch-less wrist up to show to the guy, who merely lifted an unserious eyebrow and chuckled. He took Mike’s hand in his and let it down gently before sitting next to him on the couch.

“It’s all good, man. I was just using that as a reason to talk to you.”

Mike was surprised someone clocked him that quickly. But then again, he was wearing insanely tight jeans that he’d cut right above the knee paired with a floral print shirt. He wasn’t exactly being subtle. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” the guy laughed, extending a rough, calloused hand. Did he lift weights? Or play guitar? Or both? “I’m Carter, by the way.” At least his name didn’t begin with a W. Or maybe it did, but the W was silent. Wcarter. Ouah-carter. Wah-carter. Double-you-carter. Dub-yuh-Carter. Cart… Chart… Astrological chart. Mike made a mental note to check his horoscope. What was he thinking about originally? He couldn’t remember.

Jesus. Mike was hammered.

“I’m Mike,” he replied, taking the guy’s— Carter’s— hand, but Carter didn’t shake it. He instead let their fingers intertwine, anticipatorily slow. Okay. Mike could be good with this.

“Do you maybe want to get out of here, Mike?” Carter asked, and Mike felt a blush rising to his face.

“Sure, yeah,” he breathed, and let Carter pull him up out of his sunken spot on the couch, down some hallway, and into an empty bedroom. Mike scoped out the place and noticed a photo of Carter with a dog framed on the desk; this was his room. Mike exhaled in relief. He didn’t want to have sex in someone else’s bed. Never again.

Carter pulled the door closed and locked it, turning around to face Mike before looking him up and down. Mike gulped. He hadn’t realized before, because it was so dark, but in the lamplight, Carter’s resemblance to Will was uncanny. He was a few inches shorter than Mike, and had a muscular build– that much he knew already. Thank god he didn’t have a bowl cut. He had a strong jawline but a subtle softness to his features. His lips were a light pink, the upper one a bit thinner than the lower one. The most similar feature they shared, though, was their bright green eyes, full of life, and something else Mike couldn’t name… intention? Vulnerability? Yearning?

In his inebriated state, Mike didn’t notice how close Carter had gotten until he felt two hands snaking their way up his shoulders and joining behind his neck, pulling him down until their lips met. He couldn’t move fast enough, lifting his shaking hands to rest on Carter’s waist, pulling him into his chest and deepening the kiss immediately. Carter was more languid in his movements, while Mike was more firm and calculated; this felt strangely antithetical. It probably had to do something with his increased tolerance. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but if there was one person who knew how to repress his feelings with a series of bad decisions, it was Mike Wheeler. His life was already on fire, what more could possibly happen to exacerbate the flame?

The two young men made their way over to Carter’s bed, where they quickly undressed. Carter kissed down Mike’s body, and Mike ran his hands through Carter’s hair. Then he went down on Mike without warning.

“Ah!” Mike yelped in surprise, his exclamation becoming a moan almost instantaneously. This was good. This felt nice. This is exactly what he’d imagine–

“Will…”

“Excuse me?”

And with that, the night was over. Carter stopped what he was doing, got up, muttered a “fuck you,” and left without another word. Mike felt the world zeroing in on him. He could just picture what he’d write in his next letter:

Dear Will, I said your name while another guy had my dick in his mouth. Do you believe me now? Love, Mike

next part

homepage

#byler #byler fanfic #byler fic #byler tumblr #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things 4 #stranger things 5 #will byers #mike wheeler #will x mike #mike wheeler x oc #thisismetrying1

35 notes · View notes

duskyskye · 2 years

Text

So, after creating Gale, my brain decided that I needed to create a Fell version of him. After a couple months of toiling away, I’m happy to introduce the world to Wren! Below are a few headcanons, as well as a synopsis of his backstory. I hope y’all enjoy him! Thank you again to @scrambledmeggys for the post artwork!

TWs for HCs include implied child abuse TWs for backstory include no-mercy run mentions, death, child abuse, intense injury, experimental horror, loss of limb due to experimentation

HCs

* He was raised in a lab environment, and was instructed from a young age to learn to speak briefly. He was told it was for the purposes of “quickly telling staff when there’s an emergency” but he knows it was mostly just because the scientists didn’t want to waste their time with the children around them. He can write extended sentences, but when it comes to speaking, he tends to use no more than 3 words at a time. He’s slowly breaking the habit through therapy, but it’s been ingrained into him for a long time and thus still manifests in how he speaks.

* Due to his work in the labs, he gained an immense knowledge of chemistry and anatomy, and now works in pharmaceutical research. He’s not a fan of the greedy practices that are commonplace in the industry, and thus works to create and patent his own medicines to sell at lower cost.

* He, like Gale, very much enjoys swimming. However, he most prefers roller skating and biking. He enjoys sports that give him a thrill and a sense of motion; it reminds him of his freedom from the Underground and how he can go anywhere he desires.

* He enjoys floral arrangement. Being on the surface exposed him to many varieties of plants, and he became enamored with them; there were so many new species, and in so many different colors and shapes! He found himself collecting them and got into arranging after a bit of research. It’s what most of his expendable budget goes into.

* He’d always wanted a pet when he was little, but a dog seemed like too much energy and cats felt a bit too independent. He decided to look into smaller pets, and that’s how ended up with his 3 guinea pigs; crocus, catmint, and chive. They have a nice, large enclosure and every time Wren gets home, he’s greeted with a chorus of whoops and squeaks.

* He’s also very fond of soft things; pillows, soft fabrics, plushies, flower petals, among other things. He often carries small plushies around in his pocket to just rub and stim when he’s getting worked up about something.

* He mostly got his jaw piercings to look tough in his Underground, but after a while he did enjoy how they looked and decided to keep them. He’d probably get more if he had a place to put them, but being a skeleton, he has pretty limited options.

* He’s an avid reader, preferring adventure stories that carry their protagonists to new and exciting places. Once monsters are able to travel, he’d like to visit other countries, and have an adventure of his own. Though ideally with lower stakes and a significantly lower chance of being murdered by deadly pit vipers.

* He has a fascination with other languages. It was something he never really thought about before, but he finds not only their existence, but their wide variety of meanings and structures fascinating. He can spend hours learning about the linguistics of another language, and the culture and influences behind it. He plans to start learning a second language soon, but he’s having a bit of trouble picking just one to learn.

* He doesn’t have the best diet; his sweet tooth is a killer. Beware if you have chocolate-covered fruits anywhere in your house; left unsupervised, they’ll quickly disappear.

* He likes to wear t-shirts with silly puns on their fronts, especially if they’re science-y in nature. He also genuinely gets a laugh from corny memes and jokes. The lightheartedness of it is what he finds most appealing, and sometimes he’ll just giggle out of nowhere as he thinks of a new one.

* He likes to show his affection through his words, but speaking them aloud isn’t really enough for him. He likes to write small notes and leave them somewhere for his loved ones to find, or he’ll give presents with the note attached to them directly. He’s a bit shy about them though, so often it’s the former.

* He isn’t used to interacting with others, so when starting out with him he’ll tend to approach with caution, his limited speech often being firmly in place. Lots of one-word answers and not much emotion in his tone. After a while though, the walls will start to come down. Tapping into his interests or lending a sympathetic ear are the quickest ways to get you on his good side and help him warm up faster.

* Once you are in his good graces, he is incredibly loyal and devoted. Need to talk? He’s there. Need help moving your stuff? He’s on it. Need help doing your taxes? …He’ll give it his best shot.

* He isn’t used to people caring about what he has to say or people listening, as most don’t wait around for him to finish his thoughts with his pausing. He feels like he’s a burden for it. Which is why taking the time to listen to him, to let him fully express himself, will mean the world to him.

Backstory So my Swapfell Paps, Wren, has been in the care of his Sans since he was a babybones, and while Sans kept him out of trouble to an extent in their early years, eventually both end up being recruited by Toriel. My SF Toriel runs a recruitment program to find the strongest monsters for her guard, and the brightest for her royal labs. Sans is recruited into the army due to a demonstration of high magical prowess in spite of low HP, and Wren into the science program to eventually become a royal scientist due to his technical know-how. This is where he meets his Undyne. The brothers are separated as a result, but are allowed to maintain contact via letters.

While Toriel is impressed by Sans' ability, she is frustrated by his low HP, and eventually he ends up being sent to the lab. The working theory is that if they can divert the pathing of his magic, they may be able to alter HP/ATK/DEF stats to higher than what they may be naturally by taking from his other stats. Wren finds out about this, and as a result volunteers in Sans' place. This is unknown magic, and he feels he owes it to his brother for keeping him safe all these years. Plus he has higher HP, so if it ends up depleting his supply, he's much less likely to be killed. The experiment ends up semi-successful; his HP is exchanged for higher attack, but with the lower magic supply to his body, his magic must cover a smaller volume of dust. He ends up losing the lower half of his right arm in the process. He learns how to manifest an ecto arm for powerful final attacks, but it requires a lot of energy and as such is used as last-resort only.

Eventually both Sans and Wren complete their training. Both are also emotionally stunted from their training, and thus when they're assigned to Snowdin, it takes them quite a bit of time to adapt. Wren, who begins implementing new tech/traps into Snowdin, makes friends gradually with the guard dogs he meets at work and, being dogs, they easily warm up to him and drag him out of that shell. He becomes more casual, begins to hang out at the nearby bar, and eventually befriends some of the locals. Sans, in contrast, is immensely guilty over his brother losing his arm, and thus becomes more detached from him and others. He throws himself into his duties, determined to make up for his perceived shortcomings that have been imposed on him by Toriel and other guards.

Eventually when the human comes, they begin a genocide route. Wren and Sans are alerted to this, and both attempt to detain them. Sans is defeated in the process, angering Wren and causing him to use his final attack on the human. He manages to knock them unconscious, and immediately escorts them to the queen. The queen and the human make a “deal” (though it’s more through force than anything) and the human is used to help Toriel cross the barrier. Eventually she returns, breaking the barrier and freeing monsterkind.

Monsters find themselves not quite knowing what to do. It’s eventually decided that the monsters with the lowest amount of LV will go first to try and establish peace with the humans. Wren and Undyne are among them, being scientists with a sheltered upbringing free of most of the violence the Underground brought. It takes years for monsters to integrate, operating out of the underground as they adjust to living in a society that is no longer “kill-or-be-killed”. Wren, with his brother gone and life spent in labs and away from other children, hermits himself a bit., not quite knowing how to socialize with anyone, let alone humans. He moves in with Undyne into a shared apartment, and upon meeting humans comes off very cold, his speech pattern not exactly helping. He learns to socialize and be cordial, but the walls are gonna take a lot of work to knock down.

#Wren #Undertale #Swapfell Papyrus #Swapfell #Papyrus #My OC #Dusky's OC #tw child abuse #tw death #tw no mercy run #tw intense injury #tw loss of limb #tw experimentation #tw experimental horror

281 notes · View notes

themiscyradobermans · 10 months

Text

Located: Eastern Ontario

Seeking: Co-ownership preferably in Ontario, QC, NY or New England states. Would also consider a guardian home arrangement.

“Halfdan” - Themiscyra’s Hammer of Thor is a black and rust male Doberman puppy. He is the top conformation pick in the litter and the 2nd pick working male (third overall in the litter).

His dam is one of the nicest working Doberman females you are liable to encounter (as recently assessed by this year’s victor at the WUSV Universal Sieger, Dominic Scarberry) but is from showlines and is a finished Canadian GCH, the sire is from 100% working lines and awesome stable confident drivey and versatile working dog. The litter was bred for health and longevity and working ability while hoping to retain sound structure. Both parents have above average health and longevity in the pedigree for the breed.

The litter has been evaluated for temperament by a professional tester who has background in working line shepherds as well as evaluating and training professional zoo therapy dogs and was graded for conformation by people involved in the Doberman show and performance ring for over 20 years each.

Halfdan was assessed as having the best nerve in the litter and is a thoughtful, soulful puppy who is seeking a relationship and has been qualified by many who’ve met him as “somebody’s heart dog”. He is incredibly intelligent, with big grips and confidence in spades. At this point in time he has a lovely front with nice length of upper arm not often seen in the breed good turn of stifle, nice rich dark markings and a masculine powerful head. I am seeking a co-ownership with someone who will work him in a bitesport venue (Preferably IGP, AS or PSA) but also let me have him shown to at least his Ch (ideally in Canada for proximity) but I am also open to someone who’ll want to show him and finish him AKC.

While both parents are fully health tested and I know what his health results will be DNA wise I have had him (along with the rest of the litter) embark tested to confirm these results and get him into OFA as well as see what the generic COI will be. (Currently awaiting results swabs have arrived at the lab)

I have a titling incentive program and make sure my co ownership arrangements are mutually beneficial.

I am a member in good standing of:

Doberman Pinscher Club of Canada (DPCC)

Doberman Pinscher Club of America (DPCA)

United Doberman Club (UDC).

German Shepherd Schutzhund Club of Canada (GSSCC)

Canadian Kennel Club (CKC)

Union des Éleveurs Canins du Québec (UECQ)

I have gotten nothing but positive comments about him in particular and the litter in general showing sound consistent genetics. This is a rare opportunity to own a Doberman who is nice enough to be shown to a Ch on the one hand yet has the drive and ability to be competitive in bitesport.

I am not in any hurry to place him and find the perfect home for him. I wish I could keep him myself but my partner picked his brother to retain and I still have many sport goals to accomplish with his dam.

He has been registered with the Canadian kennel club and I have received his reg certificate and certified pedigree so he could be registered with with AKC right away. He will be registered with UDC and receive a scorebook as well.

All updated and current health results not listed here can be provided upon request. Both parents UTD on everything except for thyroid for the dam as she was due in May when she whelped, will probably redo it in the fall but last year’s was normal. Please fill out or contact form here.

Sire:

Dam:

#Halfdan #Themiscyra's Hammer of Thor #Working Dobermann #Working Line Doberman #Bitesport #Protection Sport #Doberman Pinscher #AC: Valhalla Litter

36 notes · View notes

labsportstherapy · 3 months

Text

Epley’s Maneuver and Your Vertigo Relief Journey

Your Steady Tomorrow Starts Here As we conclude our exploration of Epley’s Maneuver and Vertigo Relief. Remember that finding balance is not just a hope – it’s a reality. If you’re uncertain about the origin of your dizziness, take the first step toward stability by visiting LAB Sports Therapy in Minnesota.

#Epley’s Maneuver #Vertigo Relief Journey #dizziness and balance issues #LAB Sports Therapy #Meniere’s disease #vestibular neuritis #treating vestibular conditions

0 notes

crystallizedday · 1 year

Text

So for the past few weeks, I’ve been fleshing out my “PPG 20 Years Later” AU a bit in my spare time, & I’ve finally decided to share what I have so far with y’all!

Do keep in mind that these are just concepts I may change later & these are all just sketches for the most part, but I’m way too excited about this AU & I’m too lazy to do the line work, so uh

HERE YA GO!!

Also, this AU’s based off of the first 4 seasons of the original show, so uh… do keep that in mind too.

Anyway, let’s start off with the designs for the trio.

Since Blossom’s the most academically smart of the three, I had her be the one to follow her father’s footsteps & becoming a professor, a master of many scientific trades. During that 20 year time skip, Professor Utonium actually created his own research facility, one that Blossom later inherits & runs.

Bubbles is a veterinarian, the best Townsville could ever offer. Being able to speak to & understand any & all animals certainly helped her obtain that title. Her kindness from her childhood is still as strong as ever, evident by how she spends most of her time outside of her job doing community work & generally helping out the city however she can.

Buttercup is Townsville’s star athlete, competing in any & every sport she can schedule. She is far more in control of her own emotions than when she was a child, rarely ever lashing out at anyone who didn’t deserve it. She is a lot more patient & considerate of others than she used to be, & is never afraid to lend a helping hand when needed.

Out of the three, Blossom is the most… well, not okay as she begins to struggle with feelings of self doubt. During one of her more concerning episodes, she created a little A.I. buddy to keep herself more emotionally stable.

Button was programmed to be very kind & considerate, her primary function being to keep Blossom company & to ensure she did not do anything too… heinous, something Blossom is immensely paranoid of. Button CAN & WILL go beyond her initial programming to try & get Blossom to socialize more often instead of being cooped up in her lab 24/7.

Button is only visible through a particular pair of goggles Blossom created for herself, just to make sure no one else would discover Button’s existence. After all, she didn’t want anyone thinking she’s finally lost it, & she didn’t trust anyone else to know about her dwindling mental & emotional state.

Because therapy is apparently overrated.

Button simply wants the best for Blossom & everyone else in the world, constantly pushing Blossom to focus on inventions that ensure the safety of the people & could help them thrive. However, this clashes with Blossom’s ever-growing desire to do something about the rising crime rates, since Blossom’s solutions for that particular issue tend to be rather extreme, much to Button’s disapproval.

& while Blossom for the most part listens to whatever Button will suggest, her initial trust in Button’s opinions become… skewed, not due to anything Button does in particular, but more so due to Blossom’s dwindling self worth taking…

too much of a toll on her…

…

NOW ON TO THE BADDIES!!

Mojo Jojo is still kicking, just as persistent & petty as ever. & while the city has grown more used to his… questionable acts of villainy or even his genuine practices of his own citizenship, he is still VERY MUCH a threat, his mechs & schemes growing more & more dangerous by the year.

He’s also… incredibly lonely, & will pathetically beg for ANY other villain to hang out with him so he’ll have SOMEONE to talk to for once.

Princess Morbucks has recently inherited her father’s business, just as Blossom has. She is still very much a brat, but now she no longer needs her father’s permission (for the most part) to throw money at her problems. Despite her criminal record & unlikable attitude, she has become a bit of a celebrity to Townsville & even other neighboring cities. She will almost always use this fame to rag on anyone she pleases, particularly Blossom & the facility she inherited. However, Blossom couldn’t give less of a shit, often leaving Morbucks frustrated with how she can never get a reaction out of her.

Fuzzy Lumpkins is VERY much retired & spends most of his time in his lil shack, enjoying the quiet & beauty of the luscious forest around him. He surprisingly doesn’t mind visitors nowadays, but he rarely ever speaks. He just likes to listen. Bubbles often visits him from time to time to talk with him, since she worries poor Fuzzy gets rather lonely, & she feels like he doesn’t deserve to feel so lonely.

Him has gotten quite the transformation over the years. He’s become a little more monstrous now with no pupils & no visible mouth… at least not at first. He doesn’t actually SPEAK with his claws, he simply eats with them. WHAT exactly? Well I’m sure you can figure that one out. His boa has also formed into a sort of tail for him, constantly moving around & such. He rarely ever leaves his own dimension, only ever bringing certain mortals into his world either for his own entertainment or as a snack. Thus, it’s a lot harder to really deal with him.

The Amoeba Boys are NOT the same characters as the ORIGINAL idiotic Amoeba Boys. Instead, they are mitosis-created descendants of what has essentially become a sort of mafia-esque family, with three of them getting the originals’ hats as a sign of “passing on the torch”. Unfortunately, the youngest one’s hat had become far too torn & tattered throughout the years, so all that the little guy’s left with is a hat they stole at some convenience store one day.

With how fast they’ve been multiplying for the past few years, it might not be long until they’re eventually taken care of for good to prevent them from taking over Townsville with their sheer numbers ALONE.

Sedusa has long since retired from her criminal ways, now settling down as a still-single woman (cause, let’s face it, she may be hot, but no one in Townsville wants to share their bank account with this woman) just trying to keep herself beautiful.

She’s cranky, irritable, & even the mere mention of the PPG gets her in a bad mood after all the shit they’ve done to her. All she wants nowadays is to be left alone to live her life without being accused of a crime she didn’t commit… which happens a lot on a count of she used to be a master of disguise & all.

Now…

It is time for the IMPORTANT SIDE CHARACTERS!!

Or at least a few of them, because I am reaching the image limit for this post & I haven’t fleshed out too many citizens yet.

While I am not COMPLETELY sure about this one, I am thinking Miss Bellum probably stepped up to be mayor once the OLD mayor… well… yeah.

She didn’t necessarily WANT to, feeling like she didn’t really deserve to be the mayor (showing that, despite how she knew of the old mayor’s incompetence, she still cared for & respected him very much), but Townsville quite liked her & how much she’s helped the city over the years, so she was encouraged into this position. Her competence has greatly helped Townsville stay afloat, & her own combat skills means she can handle almost any attempts to harm her or take her hostage without the need to call for aid.

Now…

Y’all remember Mr. Green from the Chris Savino seasons of the original series?

Well, while I have my fair share of problems with that episode, I decided to not waste the potential of this character & use him as the basis for a bit of an oc of mine…

SOOOOOOOO…

Miss Keane is still a kindergarten teacher, but she often still keeps contact with the PPG to see how they’re all doing. She’s even sweeter than she used to be 20 years ago, & every kid in Townsville absolutely adores her for it.

However, at some point, she met a certain someone, a fellow teacher. On account of the green skin, unnaturally white hair, & the horns, this guy was most likely from Monster Isle, where all the monsters that attack Townsville are from. It’s odd how he’s more humanly proportioned & it HAS raised a few eyebrows considering this isn’t what monsters are usually known for, but Miss Keane didn’t care.

She saw how sweet & considerate he was & eventually fell in love with him, the two being married for a good few years now. This as well as a few other accounts of Townsville civilians showing some compassion & humanity towards other “monsters” has recently resulted in a sort of shift of attitude towards monsters in general, even if tensions between the two sides are still rather high.

So uh

Yeah!

Meet Mr. Oliver Tilia!

A play on both the word “Reptilia” as well as the tilia genus, which (during my brief research on it) can be found in some species of trees & bushes! This’ll make sense in another post.

So uh…

Yeah!

That’s pretty much what I got so far!

Imma make a reblog of this to showcase some other sketches of mine to further flesh out this AU, but this shall be the main post about it!

I hope y’all enjoy this AU!

& hopefully I’ll get a better name for it soon JWIWKWKCKSKDL

40 notes · View notes

1lostsoul0fishbowl · 6 months

Note

Definitely didn't send an ask yet for those 15 questions... So I choose Gareth! 😏

Totally only the one ask in my inbox! 😂 thanks bestieeee 💕 here ya go…

1. Are you named after anyone?

I think my parents might’ve got Gareth from a book called Give Your Kid A Welsh Name Americans Will Actually Be Able To Pronounce… honestly I have no idea where that came from. Middle name Alwyn is after my granddad.

2. When’s the last time you cried?

Do we really have to go there? Wouldn’t you rather know about my favorite pizza toppings? (Pepperoni and pineapple.)

Alright Janie says I should be honest, so the last time I cried was three days ago, I dreamed that she was back in Hawkins Lab and they maybe-accidentally-maybe-deliberately drowned her in that stupid fucking tank of theirs, and I woke up bawling like a stupid baby. There. Happy? Can we go back to talking about pizza now?

3. Any kids?

Nope. Maybe someday, waayyyy in the future, but not now.

4. Do you use sarcasm?

Yeah, it’s actually a pretty bad habit of mine. My big mouth has gotten me in trouble more than once.

5. What’s the first thing you notice about people?

What they’re wearing. I don’t judge them for it, I just notice it. Especially if it looks like a band shirt.

6. What’s your eye color?

Janie likes to call it “cornflower” (because she’s just goddamn adorable) but it’s just ordinary blue.

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

I kinda like both. I don’t mind being scared by movies because I know the bad guys don’t usually win.

8. Any special talents?

Just music I guess. I play drums and piano. Eddie’s trying to teach me guitar but it’s pretty slow going.

9. Where were you born?

Bala Cynwyd, PA. My family moved to Hawkins when I was three.

10. What are your hobbies?

Playing music, dungeons and dragons, writing crappy songs and poems, drawing, and helping Janie look for cool rocks to add to her collection.

11. Do you have any pets?

No, I want a cat but my dad’s allergic.

12. Any sports you play?

Um… between fifth grade and tenth grade I played this super awesome sport called Run The Hell Away From Bullies. Sooo much fun.

13. How tall are you?

NOT TALL ENOUGH, OKAY???

14. What’s your favorite subject?

In high school it was English. It’s harder to pick now that I’m in college— I’m studying to be a music therapist and just about every class on that topic is fascinating.

15. What’s your dream job?

Honestly I’m pretty excited about the music therapy, but if I had to pick something different I’d say author. It would be pretty cool to write something as awesome as Lord of the Rings!

Losty answers as your choice of character

#dash games #gareth emerson #gareth the great #losty writes

6 notes · View notes

ros3ybabe · 8 months

Text

Daily Check In - September 27th, 2023 🎀

today was such an easy day for me, I am so glad that I’m taking yesterday thru Thursday for myself. I really need it.

🩷 What I Ate Today -

Breakfast - boiled chicken potstickers, shredded hash browns with ketchup, a cup of coffee

Dinner - spaghetti with meat marinara sauce and Parmesan cheese

Extra - 2 cups of coffee

not a heavy eating day for me as I haven’t had much of an appetite thanks to being sick. Might still snack on something tonight since there’s still time left in the day.

🩷 Personal Accomplishments -

Cleaned my bathroom a little bit

Did the dishes

cleaned the kitchen

Washed a load of laundry

Morning self care

morning guided journal entry

Rescheduled an appointment over the phone (I have severe phone call anxiety)

Reviewed Japanese goals for next month

🩷 Academic Achievements -

Passed chapter 8/9 Quiz for Nutrition class

Passed chapter 6 Quiz for Psychology class

Passed chapter 8 quiz for Cooking class

Duolingo/Busuu ~15 minutes

today was a pretty productive day despite the amount of time I’ve spent in my bed, I’m actually pretty proud of myself for doing so much despite this stupid cold I have.

🩷 Academic Goals for Tomorrow, Sept 28 -

Complete extended assignment for Psyc class

Complete lab report for anatomy lab

Complete assignment for personal finance class

Complete lifecycle chart assignment for nutrition class

Complete practical assignment for health and sport class

🩷 Personal Goals for Tomorrow, Sept 28 -

Work on drafts of content for RD Mentor #1’s instagram and send them to her

Clean bedroom/organize bedroom

Put away all clean laundry

Morning + Night guided journal

Morning + Night skincare

Therapy ? (Therapist might be doing a routine training so I’m not sure)

Study Japanese using apps (Anki, Duolingo, Busuu, Renshuu, etc) 15-30 minutes

Drink 1-2 liters of water

I’m going to definitely try to accomplish everything I have planned for tomorrow, I think it’ll make me feel better to get so much done. Most of my homework isn’t actually due until Sunday evening or Monday evening but I figure getting it done earlier will be better for when I get off work this weekend. I’m hoping to catch up and work ahead on stuff a little bit so that way I’m not struggling next weekend. I’m actually going to go see my boyfriend next weekend for about three full days, which I’m excited for because I haven’t seen him in person in three months. (Thank you 1000+ miles of distance haha)

that’s all for now!

til next time lovelies 🩷🤍

42 notes · View notes

the12thnightproject · 1 year

Text

Tempest in Time Prologue Part One - The Wormhole

Katsuko and her brother Toshiie are pulled through a wormhole to Japan, 1575

“Did you repair the drone?” I didn’t bother with a greeting.

Toshiie remedied my omission. “Hello. How was your week? I’ve missed you.” His snark burned through the 4G network. You’ve heard those stories of exploding telephones? If sarcasm could explode a phone, my brother would have killed three of mine already. “And yes, it’s fixed.”

I impatiently picked at my toenail while I went through the niceties with my twin. “Sorry. Hello. How was your week? I’ve missed you.” I had missed him, actually. At least as much as I missed anyone.

“Someone threw up in bio lab. That was the highlight.”

“Ew.” And he likely wasn’t being sarcastic. Knowing Tosh, it might have truly been the highlight of his week. He was studying nursing, with an eye to someday going to Medical School, so vomit and blood and bodies never bothered him. As a perpetually overworked student, his life was the lab, homework, and sleep.

Good thing he had me to break him out of his patterns. “Just dropped a pin to your phone – can you meet me there in an hour? Bring the drone.”

A loud sigh attacked my eardrum. “Katsuko, I have exams to study for. So do you.”

I was half-heartedly studying physical therapy. Very half-heartedly. These days there wasn’t much I was doing full hearted. Except…

“Please, please, please!” I had already changed from the outfit I had worn to class that morning, into sports bra, tank, and sweats. I stuck the phone between my ear and my shoulder, so I could I tape up my wrists. I knew Tosh wouldn’t turn me down.

With another (overly) dramatic sigh, he agreed. “Fine. See you in sixty.”

This time, Tosh was the one who skipped the greeting, hanging up without a goodbye. That’s typical of us. I hate saying hello. Tosh hates goodbye.

Sixty minutes was enough time to grab my beloved blue hoodie, my phone, a couple bottles of water, and some vegan power bars. I stuffed them all in my backpack, and ran out the door…

... and ran back in to grab my IC card.

As I dashed out the building again, I bundled my turquoise streaked hair in a lopsided ponytail, IC card clenched in my teeth as I chased down the bus.

In less than an hour, I was warming up in front of a three-story building, plotting out my route.

Tosh was late, as usual. I sometimes teased him about living on Toshiie time, but I was used to building an extra ten minutes into a schedule if I really needed him to be punctual. Eventually, he rolled up while I was pacing out the dimensions of the courtyard in front of a three story building. I watched him park his moped, then jog down the sidewalk, ignoring the admiring glances he was drawing from men and women alike.

You know how in some families, one kid gets the looks, and one kid gets the brains? Beautiful, brilliant Toshiie got both.

Me? I got the –

Thwack!

I winced as Tosh tripped over air.

-Coordination.

He stumbled a few steps toward me. I rushed forward to rescue his gear bag, knowing it was full of expensive camera equipment.

“Oh sure, save the bag, let your brother fall on his face,” Tosh grumbled.

“You just got this fixed from the last time.” I unpacked the drone.

He nodded, seeing my point. “What’s your route?”

I gestured to a series of railings, the exterior stairs, and the roof. “If you can, get hand-held for a wide angle, and send the drone above. Once I’m on the roof, meet me behind the building – there’s a park, and get ready to track my descent.”

There was no reason to explain any more. What’s the phrase – it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission?”

My warm up complete, I centered myself in a handstand while Tosh set up the cameras. Once he gave me a thumbs up, I flipped back to my feet and took off…

It’s called Freerunning. That use of obstacles to propel yourself through space, using your hands, feet and the environment as you nearly fly up, down, across, and under the landscape. Martial artists might call it by the French term, parkour, but I love the word freerunning. Free running.

Running free.

I hopped from one railing to another, balancing briefly on metal as I jumped over the side of the stairwell, then bounced to the wall of the next landing – zig zagging up levels until I flipped onto the roof. With a handspring for extra flair, I zipped across the rooftop.

When I was little, my mother, “exhausted” (her word) by my bouncing around our apartment, enrolled me in artistic gymnastics. That was fun for a few years, but I got bored with all the rules. Now, it’s me and the sky.

In winter, that means snowboarding every chance I get. In summer?

Running free.

At the other end of the rooftop, a metal safety rail lined the edge. I jumped up on the railing and impulsively tried a handstand and – the something shimmered in my peripheral vision, almost like the horizon was put together unevenly, no, that must have been the drone hovering — I shook my head to clear it, then--

Whoa! Ok. Balance check there.

That could have been bad… but what a rush!

Off I went again, ricocheting between the walls of the two buildings, and somersaulting into the park. I vaulted over the railing, jumped up to catch a bar of the jungle gym, using momentum to swing to another bar before throwing myself toward the soft sand at the end.

Out of breath, I slammed a water while Tosh recalled the drone and played back the footage.

“Fuck!” He was frowning into the camera.

“What, didn’t it record?” I rested my chin on his shoulder to peer at the replay. It looked like it recorded. It was already uploaded to the cloud, in fact.

“It recorded.” He rewound the video to the moment where it looked like I had almost fallen off the roof railing. “Katsuko – you could have been killed.”

“I wasn’t, though.” I broke into my energy bar stash and offered him one.

He pushed it away. “I’m done.”

I didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Wait. Don’t. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” But he hugged me in spite of his harsh tone. “I can’t keep watching you chase death.”

“Stop it. I’m not like that.” I’m not like her. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“What are you doing?”

“I…I don’t know.” It was the truth. All I knew is that I had to keep running, or there would come a day when I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. “Let’s get out of here.”

No need to specify where. When Toshiie and I needed a place to talk or to think, or both, we’d head out to the Togakushi Shrine area. It was the one place that seemed to speak to both of us, although I knew that Tosh preferred the shrines, while I was happiest on the trails.

We took his bike out to the shrine, and once there, walked quietly through the 400 year old cedar trees that marked the path to the upper shrine. Finally he asked, “If I begged you to stop, could you?”

My throat closed up at the thought. “What is this? An intervention? It’s not like I’m an addict.”

“I think you kind of are, actually.”

Seriously? His Introduction to Psychology course was going to his head. But I knew that he meant every word. “Wait, ok, how about this. I’ll stop taking extreme risks, ok?” I could do that. At least I wouldn’t take any risks if he was watching. In a few months, when the mountains were covered with snow, I’d take my board out to X-JAM as often as possible, and scratch my risk-taking itch on the half-pipe. So… really, I only had to behave through the rest of summer and fall.

CRASH! BOOM!

Distracted by our discussion, we hadn’t noticed the weather changing, until the crackle of lightning startled both of us. Within minutes, rain was pouring buckets.

“Once again, the weather forecast was completely wrong.” Tosh muttered curses at the weatherman as he tried to keep the rain off his gear.

The timing was bad, but aside from that, I love storms. Something about the electricity in the air makes me feel more alive. I tilted my face to the sky and – “That’s weird.”

“It’s water, doofus.” Getting rained on makes Tosh cranky.

The entire landscape was vanishing under a dark mist. “Tosh, have you ever seen a fog bank in a storm?”

“What are you -?” He finally looked up from his camera. “You’re right. This is weird.”

It was still thundering and lightning, but the rain had turned to a thick soupy fog that blotted out almost all light, the seeped around and into my body. We were fading, becoming as unsubstantial as the mist that poured through us.

Tosh raised his hand. It looked translucent. “What the hell?!” His words came out as a whisper, as if the fog had invaded his throat.

I felt dizzy and ill, like the time after I broke my ankle and had had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia. Tosh grabbed onto me, his arms spasmed around my back. I closed my eyes and buried my face in his shoulder. I could feel he was shaking, or maybe that was me, and then-

THUNK. The two of us crashed onto the ground, onto a carpet of what smelled like pine needles?

I cautiously opened my eyes. Yep. Pine needles. The storm had passed as quickly as it had begun, and the sun was as bright as midday, though it had to be close to eight or nine p.m. But in the bright sunlight, I felt cold. And… was that sn-?

Brrrrr – my hoodie was not nearly warm enough any more. But I was better off than Tosh in his windbreaker. “But, it’s summer,” was all I could think to say. I rubbed my hands together. “Reverse global warming?”

“Actually global warming has been known to cause odd weather patterns,” Tosh said absently as he fiddled with his phone. “No bars.”

I got mine out. Nope. No bars, no GPS.

Something else seemed… eerie. It was silence. The daily hum of electricity, distant traffic, airplanes, that background white noise was all the more conspicuous for its absence.

“The footpath is gone.” Tosh kicked at the now overgrown carpet of brush below us.

“So are the cedar trees.” We were still in a forest of sort, but the comforting presence of the giant cedars was no longer there.

“Theory?” In the back of my head was a rather loud voice telling me that there had been an apocalypse and we were both dead. Funny, after spending the last year of my life not caring whether or not I lived or died, now that the possibility was in front of me, I really hoped I wasn’t dead.

He held up three fingers. “I got three. Apocalypse – like the snap in The Infinity Gauntlet.”

So he was on the same mental path that I was. But were we victims of the snap, or the only ones left behind? “Or…?”

“Or maybe we’ve somehow slipped into a different version of our universe?” One finger left. “Or, maybe it’s something simpler. One of us is dreaming.”

Dream. Yeah. A dream would be an acceptable explanation. “You couldn’t have led with the theory that doesn’t involve mass death?”

Tosh shrugged. “I went with the bad news fir-“

“Shhh!” I put my hand over his mouth.

What was that noise?

The clang of metal.

Harsh voices…

Hoofbeats… horses?

Tosh and I held still, unsure whether this new twist would be an improvement or make things worse?

A group of men in armor – dressed as samurai?! – burst out of the trees, brandishing swords and pikes.

“Whoa!” Tosh looked at the lacquered armor that covered the warriors. “Someone’s LARP group is uber committed.”

The person who appeared to be their leader barked something at us, but their dialect and accent was harsh and unfamiliar. I wasn’t entirely sure what they were saying. But the gist was something along the lines of robbery and enslavement… I think…? Tosh and I looked at each other, and wordlessly decided that our best bet was to run.

Unfortunately, immediate danger didn’t make Tosh any less clumsy. He went sprawling over a log, and while I was trying to help him to his feet we were surrounded. “Tosh, do you understand what they are saying?”

He shook his head. “I think they want to sell us… to the nanban?”

I had no idea what the nanban was or why it wanted buy people, but they were examining us like merchandise, so that was probably the correct interpretation. They pulled my hair out of its ponytail, marveling over the turquoise streaks, which apparently meant they could get more money for me?

That’s enough! When one of them checked my teeth, I bit him. That earned me a hard punch to the stomach. Another man was fascinated by the zipper on my hoodie. When he managed to unzip it and got a look at my thin tank top, he muttered, “Woman.”

Alright, the good news at least is that I was developing a better ear for their dialect. The bad news was that I didn’t actually want to know what they planned to do with a female prisoner. When the leader came in to take a closer examination of my body, I reacted instinctively and kicked out. I saw the punch coming at me …

Oh this is going to hur--

What brought me back to consciousness was the sensation of cold and damp -- I had been dumped into a snow bank. There were sounds of clanking metal again, yelling, grunts, then a yelp of pain. I opened my eyes to see the apparent leader of the bandit gang fighting with an old man (said “old man” would, if he could hear me, object to me characterizing him that way, but in that moment, he seemed quite elderly). The old man had amazing fighting abilities, whirling and punching with a spear.

In no time, my captor was groaning on the ground, his leg bent at an odd angle.

“Come on child.” My rescuer hurried to my side and wrapped me up in a warm cloak. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

Still dizzy from the blow to the head, it took a moment to realize that… “Wait. Where are the others?” Where’s Toshiie?

“Others? There was this one man and you.” The man gave a shrill whistle, and a horse whinnied in the distance, then trotted up to us.

I explained what had happened with the bandits. “The rest of them must still have my brother. We have to go back to get him.”

He shook his head. “They’re long gone by now.” But in spite of his protest, he took me up on his horse, and we headed back through the trees. He was correct though – they were long gone.

“Is there a way to track them?” If this man could fight, then maybe he could-

“Not in this storm.” The snow had increased from light cotton balls to a swirling curtain of fat flakes. I shuddered, partially from the cold, partially from the fear that this was another storm that would pick me up and dump me somewhere else. Somewhere worse, than wherever here was. I flinched from the thought of what would be worse than armed bandits who wanted to sell me into slavery.

Dinosaurs. Dinosaurs would be worse.

After a long, cold and ride up a steep path, we arrived at gated manor near the top of the mountain. The storm was raging, and my teeth were chattering by then. The man gave my outfit a critical look. “Do you have any other clothing? Anything more suited for a woman?”

“No. When I left my – home – this afternoon, I expected to return in a couple hours.” I had no idea how much time (ha!) had passed. More than a couple of hours. More than a day. More than a century.

He helped me down – my legs had gotten cramped and stiff during the ride. “Where is your home? When the storm ends, I can send one of my apprentices to take you back.”

“It’s not going to be that simple,” I said, after getting a good look at a building that looked like it had been constructed recently – but it was an architectural style that I recognized from samurai houses that I had visited on school trips. That, along with the evidence of the missing cedar trees, and the men in armor, was leading me to a conclusion that I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t been in the middle of it.

But to announce that I was from a few hundred years in the future seemed to me to be the fastest way to get a one-way ticket to whatever this era’s version of a psychiatric hold was, so, instead, I simply said, “Our home was destroyed by the storm.”

He gave me the universal “I don’t believe you,” look, but he didn’t press the issue. In the years since, I have never told Yamaoka Akihira (that’s his name, but he lets us call him Aki) the truth about where I came from, but I’ve also managed, thanks to him, to become a much better liar.

“Alright,” he finally said, as we entered his house. “Do you have anywhere else to go?”

“No.” I was grateful to be out of the wind and snow, and not particularly interested in going back outside.

He rubbed his chin – a gesture that I’ve since come to recognize as his only “tell” that he’s calculating out several moves in an extended mental shogi game, before saying, “I suppose it’s a good thing that I hadn’t yet found a new maid.”

#ikemen sengoku #fanfic #oc: katsuko #tempest in time series

11 notes · View notes

love-kurdt · 3 months

Text

This is Me Trying (Mike's Version) (byler): 1

word count: 6,469

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

If someone were to ask me what time it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, I would look down at my watch and realize that said watch was not on my wrist. I would then ask myself why my watch was not on my wrist, then I would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and I was dead to Will, so I didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, I’d probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” I was drunk, though, so I was allowed.

I was at some frat party, spending what was my last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. I was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between my legs and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. I’d given up some time ago on trying to pace myself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and I could feel the bass reverberating in my bones, which would normally make me want to get up and dance, but I wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; I was only halfway through my sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen this coming. I had been spiraling for a long time. It all started over summer break between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. I never even wanted to go to college in the first place. What was the point of spending tens of thousands of dollars on a creative writing degree when I could just freelance and eventually get published? But my father insisted that I at least attend a state school with cheaper tuition, claiming, “You can’t run on ink and espresso, son. You have to put in the work and have the credentials to show for it.” On the bright side, it was a miracle that Dad had enough confidence in me to allow me to pursue writing at all. But I was on thin ice with my father, had been for years, so I agreed to at least think about college.

My friends chose their respective schools fairly quickly; Dustin had gotten in with a full ride scholarship to Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Max and Lucas went to UCLA as sports science and physical therapy double majors, El went to Vanderbilt University in Nashville to pursue a degree in therapy, and Will… Will went to Chicago. Which school he went to, or if he went to college at all, I didn’t know. To study what, I had no clue. Where he lived within the city, I hadn’t the slightest idea. That’s what happens when your ex-best friend up and leaves without so much as a “goodbye.” I considered the day Will left to be the day my world stopped turning and time froze. So I took off my watch and hid it in a shoebox under my bed with the rest of my mini-shrine.

Dr. Owens and his team had arranged government-mandated counseling for all of those involved in the Vecnapocalypse. A year in, though, I didn’t see a point in going anymore. I was healed. I was fine. I was ready to move on with my life. Well, everyone else in the Party was ready to move on. Why wouldn’t I be? It probably hadn’t been the best decision on my part to stop going to therapy, but without Will in my life, I didn’t have much of a reason to stay in Hawkins at all, and I really didn’t feel like dredging up my past once a week to pick apart as if I were in an anatomy lab practical. Besides, I didn’t feel like arguing anymore with my dad. So, I begrudgingly packed my bags and headed to Indianapolis, killing two birds with one stone.

When I got to campus, I was assigned to dorm with this guy named Elvis (yes, as in Presley). Aside from his stupid ass name, Elvis Kuiken was a good roommate. He was a senior who kept to himself most days, when he wasn’t working. He was clean, at least by my standards (which were on the floor, literally and figuratively speaking), and he was also part of a fraternity. He’d always bring me along to parties, all in the name of the formative freshman experience. What this “experience” primarily entailed, I came to find out, was alcohol. Weed, too, no doubt… but extra emphasis on alcohol.

I didn’t want to admit it, at least not to others, but I became a lot more withdrawn since my falling out with Will. I wasn’t as outgoing, as daring, or as extroverted as I used to be. I was used to being an outcast of sorts, so not much changed there. Except now, where I used to have the confidence to at least approach people and introduce myself– “Hi, I’m Michael! Do you want to be my friend?” “Yes.”– I couldn’t do that anymore. It was like my communicational skills had completely disappeared. But during my first party, I took a shot of tequila and must’ve made at least ten acquaintances within the three hours I was there. If only Troy could see how popular I was now. He’d piss his pants… again. It was like a light flickered on in my head; the more I drank, the more sociable I’d become. I took this epiphany and ran with it.

One time back in— September?— or something, I had been at a party for a few hours, and came up with the idea to try every single type of liquor to ever exist. I picked up a shot glass and stood at the counter for a good fifteen minutes, downing shot after shot. I woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache, unsure of how I even got back to my dorm room. But then I looked to my right and saw Elvis’s head resting on my very shirtless, hickey-covered chest. Oh. That’s how I got home. I wasn’t able to wear any shirts with collars below my clavicle for days. I didn’t hate it, though. In fact, that wasn’t the last time my roommate and I hooked up. Stumbling through the door, making out in the dark, and whispering each other’s names into otherwise complete silence until the sun came up became a regular occurrence.

Christmas break arrived, and most of my time back in Hawkins was spent trying to avoid Will. And from the way I saw it, Will was everywhere. He was the art on my bedroom wall. He was the yellow sweater that hung in my closet, probably the only colorful item in my entire wardrobe that I hadn’t thrown out, because it was Will’s sweater. He was the shea butter soap on the bathroom counter. He was the hot cocoa mix in the kitchen cabinet. He was the D&D box buried underneath my bed that I neglected since Eddie’s death in 1986. He was the Party. So I didn’t leave my basement for the entirety of mid-December to the beginning of January, with the exceptions of family dinners and sleep. I won’t lie, I was a little bit ashamed of how I’d handled things with the Party. I definitely shouldn’t have iced everyone out. My friends made various attempts to get the Party back together, and always invited me, but I’d always have some kind of excuse as to why I couldn’t hang out with them. They eventually stopped calling.

One Saturday afternoon, I was sprawled out on the couch watching Star Wars: Episode VI– Return of the Jedi, and Nancy and Jonathan came barrelling in through the basement entrance, practically swallowing each other whole. I missed the feeling of being in love. I’d cleared my throat when it started to get a bit too steamy, causing the lovebirds to jump apart in shock. Nancy smoothed her skirt while Jonathan lifted a hand into the air to greet me. I nodded back in acknowledgement. This silent interaction had me wanting to crawl out of my skin. All I wanted to do was ask Jonathan about Will; how Will was, what Will was doing, if Will had met anyone, if Will remembered me. It was like Jonathan could read my mind, because he said, completely unprompted, “He still thinks about you, Mike. He hasn’t forgotten you.” I actively committed those words to memory.

I ran into Joyce during a last minute school supplies shopping trip to Melvald’s on my way out of town. It was bound to happen at some point, what with Joyce owning Melvald’s now. I’d expected it to be awkward, but was proven wrong when Joyce practically jumped the counter to engulf me, her honorary third son, in a hug. She’d pulled me all the way down to her level, so I was bent at almost a 90 degree angle, but I didn’t care.

“How’ve you been, sweetheart? How’s Indy treating you?” she asked. That was a loaded question. It would be spectacular if your son hadn’t left, but whatever.

“It’s treating me well, I’m mostly taking my gen eds right now, but I’m always writing my own material when I’m not in class,” I grinned, trying my best to not let it look fake or forced. Joyce seemed to buy it.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, I always knew you were going to become a writer,” Joyce smiled, and I nodded, staying as neutral as possible. I knew where she was going with this. “I remember it as if it were yesterday,” bingo, “that in the mornings after your sleepovers, you and Will would sit at the dining room table with your eggs and maple syrup and work on your comics for hours. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” I replied wistfully, “I do.” I glanced down at my shoes, trying not to let any tears escape. The amount of crying over Will that I’d done just within the time I was back home was pathetic. But Joyce didn’t seem to mind in the least, because she reached up and ran her thumbs over my cheeks, where a few stray tears had traveled down against my will.

“Oh, honey,” Joyce held my face in her hands, eyes filled with compassion, and pulled me into another hug, holding me close. I had always loved Joyce, but this mutual understanding led me to reserve a special place in my heart for her.

We engaged in a little more small talk before she personally walked (dragged) me through the store with my shopping list to retrieve the items I needed. When she checked out my items at the counter, she grabbed a pen and post-it note, wrote something on it, and handed it to me. I held it up to eye level with a shaky hand.

“That’s Will’s phone number, he’s at the American Academy of Art,” she whispered. My eyes widened, and I breathed, “Thank you, Ms. Byers. So much,” before heading out the door to my car. I sat in the parking lot for a solid fifteen minutes, causing myself to fall behind schedule, but I had Will’s phone number. That was a good enough reason to be late, in my book.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, I was finally able to return to campus. I’d set my suitcase down next to my bed, and took a minute to collect my thoughts prior to unpacking. All of a sudden, Elvis clumsily tripped over his own feet through the door, sheepishly grinning at me, having just been startled. I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, followed by a quiet, “hi.” Seconds later, we were all over each other.

It was around this time that I finally came to terms with the undeniable fact that I was exclusively attracted to men. I’d always believed my sexual preferences existed as a strict ratio of 70:30, with 70% being women and 30% being men. I’d always been aware of my attraction to guys (Will); I’d been sure of that for as long as I could remember. The confusing part about it all was when El came into the picture, and everyone and their mother expected us to start dating. I was, like, twelve at the time, so of course I went along with what everyone else wanted. That backfired majorly when El confronted me with tears in her eyes, asking, “But… you don’t love me anymore?” and my impulse response was, “I don’t even think I loved you romantically to begin with.” It took a long time for me and El to repair our friendship following that conversation, and to help me bullshit my parents into falling for some half-baked reason as to why my “sweetie pie” and I broke up so suddenly.

When I started my… situationship with Elvis, though, I began to question my 70:30 ratio. Elvis, to put it simply, was hot. He was taller than me, just by an inch, but it didn’t stop him from calling me “short.” I found that hilarious, as I stood at a staggering six foot three. Elvis had tanned skin, blonde hair which he kept in a preppy side part, and bright eyes that captured the essence of the bluest sky. He had full lips, a chiseled jawline, and a lean yet muscular build with the likeness of a Greek statue. Elvis had the most gorgeous hands. I particularly liked when those hands pinned my wrists above my head. I also liked when those blue eyes bore into my soul in the way that only one other pair of eyes had ever been able to do within my mere eighteen years of life. And I loved when that chiseled jawline, rough from lack of shaving, rubbed abrasively against my neck.

Elvis was adamant on there being no strings attached. He made sure to remind me every time we did anything remotely sexual, but over time, those words began to lose their potency, like watering down vodka to make it go down smoother. My wide eyes and “yes, of course, I understand”s were slowly replaced with absentminded “mmhmm”s. I figured that as long as Elvis never picked up on my social cues (or lack thereof), and as long as he never knew about me secretly developing more-than-fuck-buddies feelings for him, I would be in the clear. But eventually, something in Elvis had melted away, and he started calling me “my boy,” “love,” and “sweetheart,” amongst other gross (sweet) pet names. I assumed that Elvis had caved and given up on whatever rules he’d set for himself.

Regardless of the apparent stability in our situationship, my mind dwelled in a constant state of disarray. I knew I was not straight. I wasn’t even sure if I was bisexual. I became more conscious of who caught my eye in public, and what I wanted out of the people I interacted with. I discovered I didn’t feel the same way about curves, boobs, or soft lips as I felt when I saw a pair of broad shoulders, a sharp jawline, or a tapered waistI felt different.

Part of me resented myself for being different. I hated the idea of being a target, whether it be for my family, the government, or society as a whole. I'd tried to change. I hooked up with a few girls over the course of a week, “just to see something,” but I'd spent the entire time wondering when it would be over so I could go home. All of those girls either got bored, weren’t satisfied, or got mad that I couldn’t get it up— if not a combination of all three— and left. I scared myself a little when I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty.

When my encounter with the last girl fell through, I decided I didn’t want to live my life in sexuality limbo anymore. I ran all the way back to my dorm hall, hauled ass up the stairwell, and let myself into my room. Elvis spun around from where he sat at his desk, and could barely get out a “Hey, man,” before I was ripping Elvis from his chair and pulling him in, kissing him with all my might. It didn’t take long for Elvis to reciprocate my advances, kissing back with equal intensity and pushing me back until we hit the side of Elvis’s raised bed frame. I huffed a laugh against Elvis’s lips before hoisting myself up backwards and onto the mattress, watching as Elvis chased after me. He pushed his knee between my legs, and I took the hint, wrapping my ankles around Elvis’s hips. “I want to be with you, baby. With strings, all the strings,” I had told Elvis before pulling him down for another searing kiss, and… that was when my memory cut out for the evening.

I woke up the next morning, hangover hitting me like a truck, to see Elvis already awake and dressed, lifting boxes onto a trolley that was stationed in the middle of the room. Through squinted eyes, I noticed Elvis’s side of the room was essentially bare, save for the dorm furniture, which belonged to the school.

“What’s happening?” I croaked out, and Elvis dropped the box he was holding onto the pile with a loud thump. “Too loud. Headache,” I whispered sharply through gritted teeth.

“It always is too loud, isn’t it?” my roommate laughed wryly to himself, not making any effort to be any quieter. I sat up, rubbing my eyes and ignoring the fact that I was naked and in Elvis’s bed, the only thing that hadn’t been packed up yet.

“What the fuck, Elvis? What are you doing?”

“I’m moving out today, remember?” The two young men finally gained eye contact, and I felt my stomach drop like I was on a roller coaster. “I’m graduating in a few days and need my stuff out by this afternoon.”

Move out was today? Vecna must have been back with a vengeance, because how else would time move so quickly on its own? Sure, Elvis mentioned in passing, like, a few weeks ago, at most, that he was leaving soon. But it still didn’t make sense, because it was only… What, March? No, The Phone Call™ was a while ago. Was it April? My mom called me at least a few weeks prior to wish me a happy nineteenth birthday. Plus, weren’t commencement ceremonies scheduled for the weekend of– “What’s today’s date?”

I watched the blonde in front of me unsubtly scoff with impatience. “It’s May 1st, Mike.” I could only blink back at Elvis in response for a few seconds while I tried to process the fact that my brain was capable of skipping over whole months of my life. There was no way it was May 1st already.

“No,” was the only word I was capable of saying.

“Yet here we are, baby,” Elvis sneered as he whipped his comforter off of me, leaving me exposed and humiliated. “Time flies when you’re blackout drunk. I suggest you try and get your drinking under control, before you end up having to drop out.”

It was like Elvis was a completely different person, completely different from the man who had fucked me senseless the night before. What did I do to deserve this? I didn’t do or… say anything? Oh no. Now I knew what was going on. I drank too much, opened up, and blurted out loud that I wanted to be in a relationship with Elvis, who didn’t feel the same. my face was on fire with embarrassment.

I scrambled off the bed and ran to get dressed while Elvis pulled the last of his sheets off the cheap university mattress. He didn’t fold them, and instead balled them up and shoved them in the trash. I could barely breathe. I merely stood there and watched as my gorgeous Greek (actually Dutch) god of a roommate left our shared room for the last time. Well, I seemingly dodged a bullet. What an asshole.

I was sad that Elvis was gone, but it didn’t completely destroy me the way Will leaving did. What it most likely came down to, in Elvis’s instance, was a horrible case of internalized homophobia. I was very familiar with this mindset; I'd fought a gory, gruesome battle with my own mind for my entire adolescence, at war with myself to prevent acting upon my ever-growing romantic love for Will. But one day, my feelings finally retaliated, and my life immediately went to shit.

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

Comparing the two inevitably led to some old memories resurfacing to haunt me, but I felt strangely lucky. I'd been let off easily. Despite the way I stood completely stupefied in my dorm room, I knew this was temporary, and had full confidence that I'd be able to recover from this pretty quickly. Said confidence was probably the only thing that saved me from losing my mind. Well, that, and the pressure to pass my classes distracted me for a few days. Without having done much studying at all, I army crawled through my finals and barely made it out alive.

About a week later, I moved out of my dorm hall and into an apartment about two miles away from campus. It was a pretty nice place, considering the rent he (my father) paid for it. I got a job at the local coffee shop… which I lost before the month was up, because he never showed up to my shifts. I'd been shocked when Ted insisted upon co-signing the lease, because I didn’t think my dad would be willing to help me stay away from Hawkins. On the other hand, though, it made sense when Ted told me flat out that he wanted me out of the house. I didn’t blame him; I'd been referred to by my father as a “leech” on multiple occasions during my stay over Christmas break, which pretty much tracked. I felt a little guilty about that one.

I appreciated the independence, I truly did. It was a great feeling to have my own room again, to have a more comfortable desk chair to sit at while I drew up plans for a new fantasy novel starring a gay protagonist, to have a bathroom to myself, and most importantly, to have a full-sized refrigerator to fill with all the alcohol I could ever want. But sometimes, late at night, I would catch myself getting a bit too sad.

The entire summer was an endless cycle. I would wake up and make a pot of coffee. I'd sit down and write a chapter or two of my book, and stick to doing that for a few hours. I would check the time (on my wall clock, of course) and take a lunch break, which was usually a box of Annie’s shells and white cheddar. After I'd haphazardly tossed my singular bowl and fork into the sink to be washed later, I'd go back to writing. This wouldn’t last long, because I'd get distracted after smoking a joint, and probably end up staring at that one photo of myself and Will from senior year (Jonathan captured the moment: I had, by some miracle, perched myself up on Will’s handlebars, and Will struggled to hold his bike steady because I was laughing too hard) that sat framed on my desk. I'd snap out of my trance ten minutes later and mentally kick myself for staring for so long, which led to grabbing some form of alcohol and getting wasted, like all my potential. I would make one last attempt at writing and fail miserably. I'd stumble into the shower, and drag myself through my apartment until I found my bed. Most nights, I would end up crying myself to sleep, staring at The Painting™, which I'd tacked up on my bedroom ceiling as a form of self-punishment. It was a sad way to live, really. So I vowed that when the school year started up again, things would be different.

That was how I ended up at the library in late July, browsing the mythology section, squinting at titles printed on spines while my lips formed a straight, thin line. I knew I was officially a hermit when even the library gave me social anxiety. I'd just pulled a rather old looking book off the shelf when a tenor voice behind me caught me off guard.

“Never thought I’d see the day that book would leave the shelf. You must’ve had to brush off, like, a hundred years’ worth of dust just to get to the cover.” I twisted around to put a face to a voice, and was pleasantly surprised when I met eyes with a short guy (well, to me he was short; he was probably, like, 5’9”) with dyed, firetruck red hair that fell over his forehead in a sweeping motion. I liked how he wasn’t afraid to be bold.

“You’re definitely right about that,” I smirked, setting the book down and watching as the growing pile teetered from side to side on the table’s surface. I couldn’t decide where I wanted my story to go next, let alone if I wanted to continue with my current plot at all, so I'd planned on taking a bit of inspiration from… well, everything.

“So you’re into mythology?” the guy asked, and I shoved my hands in my pockets, leaning against the bookshelf as I focused my gaze down. He had pretty eyes. They were hazel, but not too green, not like–

“Yeah, I’m a creative writing major, and I’m trying to expand my horizons a little,” I replied, sitting down at the table. “Like, not to discount the genius of Tolkein, because he literally founded my childhood, but sometimes it’s good to go back to the basics and draw inspiration from there.”

The guy shrugged, and sat across the table from me. “Nothing wrong with that. I think it’s really smart, actually. Or else stories end up getting repetitive and dull.”

“Exactly!” I pointed both index fingers in the guy’s direction, as if to say, “Finally, someone who understands!” I struggled with this concept lately; the uniqueness factor. It turned out that having a male protagonist who just so happened to be romantically attracted to other males wasn’t enough reason to get a book to sell. I needed something else, something of substance, and something that wouldn’t remind readers of other books they’d previously read. “Are you into writing as well?”

“No,” the guy shyly smiled, “I’m just into guys who write about mythology.” Pardon? Was this masculine male-dude-man hitting on me? In public? I wasn’t complaining, but I hadn’t necessarily picked up on any hints. Although, the dyed hair should’ve been a dead giveaway.

“Oh. Um, I– wow, okay,” I stuttered, diverting my eyes to my books for a few seconds to process what was being said before returning to an expectant pair of hazel eyes still looking right at me. “I’m Mike, Mike Wheeler.”

“Wyatt Bowman.”

I cleared my throat. “Are you free in an hour, Wyatt?”

“Yeah, why?” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, causing me to huff a nervous laugh, tapping my Ticonderoga pencil against my spiral-bound notebook at the same speed my knee bounced up and down underneath the table.

“I just gotta take some notes from here, then I was thinking we could… hang out, or something?” I glanced up hopefully at Wyatt.

The corners of Wyatt’s mouth curved upwards as he repeated, “Or something?”

I nodded, confirming our silent sub-conversation.

“Cool. That sounds like a good plan,” Wyatt said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as he rose out of the seat and headed for the exit.

“Cool,” I whispered back, reminiscent of a certain afternoon in a certain town in California in a certain room with a certain boy that made me feel a certain way. But that was the past, and I believed I was ready for the future.

When I started seeing Wyatt Bowman, we’d established that our relationship would not be serious. We were, in a small amount of words, friends with benefits. And we were actually friends. We could hang out without getting all hot and heavy. And I didn’t have any objections; I actually preferred the idea of friends who sometimes had sex over the label-less, no strings arrangement that Elvis and I had. It left less room for loopholes of chronic insecurity and self sabotage. It also, in turn, left more room for exploration.

I met Wes Butler in August at my first ever visit to an actual bar. I'd been sitting at the counter with a few of my female friends (Ruby, Alexis, and Julia), and had just received one of the fruitiest cocktails I'd ever tasted when a piece of eye candy, who might as well have been dressed in nothing, lightly tapped my shoulder and asked me to dance. Of course the girls encouraged me, not really giving me an option in the matter, but hey, good dick was good dick. It didn’t really turn into much else; once we’d had a few rounds of unnecessarily loud sex in a supply closet (ironic, but typical), I bid goodbye to my friends, tossing my condom wrappers in the trash on the way out.

I met another guy, Walker Brooks, in September at an off-campus nerd rave. He looked a lot like Eddie Munson, which may or may not have been coincidental. We left the party not even an hour after it began to go to Walker’s dorm. We fucked in between Lord of the Rings themed bedsheets, and I had to endure an excruciating hour and a half of Walker speaking Elvish rather than English. Afterwards, he invited me to join the University of Indy D&D Club, of which he was, of course, the Dungeon Master. I politely declined.

On a particularly difficult October night following being roofied followed by some unwanted advances, I slapped myself awake with one hand as I unsteadily held my handlebars with the other, biking back to my apartment. My grip slipped, and the front wheel hit the curb, which sent the bike to come to a screeching halt and throw me over the handlebars, tumbling onto the concrete. Warren Blakely, one of my classmates in English 101, watched me fall, stopped me from biking again before I hurt myself even more, and asked me what exactly had happened. Once I told Warren what had gone down, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Over the next two months or so, Warren kept me safe and let me take control back over my own life. Warren and I had a special bond. If I didn’t still love Will, and if I didn’t have such extreme trust issues, I would have absolutely dated Warren if provided the chance. But I couldn’t, not until I got over Will, so I ended things with Warren. This specific relationship put things into perspective for me. In the end, none of these men I slept with would ever be Will Byers. So I'd either have to get over Will, or find someone better.

On the nights I wasn’t at parties, I was at my desk, writing letters to Will. It was kind of cathartic, honestly. I'd rip a piece of college ruled paper out of my notebook, just like old times, and write letter after letter saying things along the lines of:

These occasional letters became a part of my nightly routine… whenever I wasn’t too fucked up to focus my eyes on my own handwriting. And recently, it was more often than not that I couldn’t actually fall asleep without drinking. I wasn’t even of legal age yet, and wouldn’t be for another two years.

I stopped attending my classes halfway through the semester, so it wasn’t a surprise when my grades plummeted. My mailbox became inundated with letters from the registrar’s office, advising me to withdraw from the classes I was failing before the pass/fail deadline, but I couldn’t care less; so, not only did I fail out of my classes, but I couldn’t even retake the classes even if I wanted to, because my record forced me into the red zone. And the entire time, I couldn’t feel a thing.

If someone were to ask me what time it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell them. First off, I would look down at my watch and realize that said watch was not on my wrist. I would then ask myself why my watch was not on my wrist, then I would remember, oh yeah, Will has a matching one, and I was dead to Will, so I didn’t wear the watch anymore. Time was just a construct, anyway. In the end, I'd probably mess around with the person asking and say some shit like, “It’s 420:69.” I was drunk, though, so I was allowed.

I was at some frat party, spending what was my last official night as a student at the University of Indianapolis with the brotherhood of Alpha Lambda Dickhole. I was seated on some musty couch, stained with whatever the fuck that was, with an empty glass resting between my legs and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. I'd given up some time ago on trying to pace myself. Some kind of synth-infused rock music vibrated across the floor, and I could feel the bass reverberating in my bones, which would normally make me want to get up and dance, but I wasn’t particularly in a celebratory mood; I was only halfway through my sophomore year, and had just dropped out.

“Hey, by any chance do you know the time?” a deep voice asked, and I lifted my gaze up from my lap to a muscular brunette. I blinked a few times in an attempt to form a coherent sentence.

“I, uh– I don’t—” I stuttered, lifting my bare, watch-less wrist up to show to the guy, who merely lifted an unserious eyebrow and chuckled. He took my hand in his and let it down gently before sitting next to me on the couch.

“It’s all good, man. I was just using that as a reason to talk to you.”

I was surprised someone clocked me that quickly. But then again, I was wearing insanely tight jeans that I'd cut right above the knee paired with a floral print shirt. I wasn’t exactly being subtle. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” the guy laughed, extending a rough, calloused hand. Did he lift weights? Or play guitar? Or both? “I’m Carter, by the way.” At least his name didn’t begin with a W. Or maybe it did, but the W was silent. Wcarter. Ouah-carter. Wah-carter. Double-you-carter. Dub-yuh-Carter. Cart… Chart… Astrological chart. I made a mental note to check my horoscope. What was I thinking about originally? I couldn’t remember.

Jesus. I was hammered.

“I’m Mike,” I replied, taking the guy’s— Carter’s— hand, but Carter didn’t shake it. He instead let our fingers intertwine, anticipatorily slow. Okay. I could be good with this.

“Do you maybe want to get out of here, Mike?” Carter asked, and I felt a blush rising to my face.

“Sure, yeah,” I breathed, and let Carter pull me up out of my sunken spot on the couch, down some hallway, and into an empty bedroom. I scoped out the place and noticed a photo of Carter with a dog framed on the desk; this was his room. I exhaled in relief. I didn’t want to have sex in someone else’s bed. Never again.

Carter pulled the door closed and locked it, turning around to face me before looking me up and down. I gulped. I hadn’t realized before, because it was so dark, but in the lamplight, Carter’s resemblance to Will was uncanny. He was a few inches shorter than me, and had a muscular build– that much I knew already. Thank god he didn’t have a bowl cut. He had a strong jawline but a subtle softness to his features. His lips were a light pink, the upper one a bit thinner than the lower one. The most similar feature they shared, though, was their bright green eyes, full of life, and something else I couldn’t name… intention? Vulnerability? Yearning?

In my inebriated state, I didn’t notice how close Carter had gotten until I felt two hands snaking their way up my shoulders and joining behind my neck, pulling me down until our lips met. I couldn’t move fast enough, lifting my shaking hands to rest on Carter’s waist, pulling him into my chest and deepening the kiss immediately. Carter was more languid in his movements, while I was more firm and calculated; this felt strangely antithetical. It probably had to do something with my increased tolerance. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, but if there was one person who knew how to repress their feelings with a series of bad decisions, it was me. Mike Wheeler. My life was already on fire, what more could possibly happen to exacerbate the flame?

The two of us made our way over to Carter’s bed, where we quickly undressed. Carter kissed down my body, and I ran my hands through Carter’s hair. Then he went down on me without warning.

“Ah!” I yelped in surprise, my exclamation becoming a moan almost instantaneously. This was good. This felt nice. This is exactly what I’d imagine–

“Will…”

“Excuse me?”

And with that, the night was over. Carter stopped what he was doing, got up, muttered a “fuck you,” and left without another word. I felt the world zeroing in on me. I could just picture what I’d write in my next letter:

Dear Will,

I said your name while another guy had my dick in his mouth. Do you believe me now?

Love, Mike

next part

homepage

#byler #byler fanfic #byler fic #byler tumblr #mike wheeler #will byers #will x mike #mike x will #mike wheeler x oc #mike wheeler is 6’3 and i will die on this hill #stranger things #stranger things fic #thisismetrying1

12 notes · View notes