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serendipitouswasteland · 1 year

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That Person Wasn't A Girl, Was It?

Note: This was transcribed from my AO3.

ship: byler pov: third person written: July 23, 2022 first published: July 24, 2022 word count: 1,985 - summary: After a long week of fighting Vecna from afar, the Cali Crew is finally safe and back in Hawkins with all of their friends and family (some better off than others). Then they watched as the Upside Down began to swallow their world whole. At first they wanted to create a plan, but they ended up calling it a night instead. But that brought on capers of its own, specifically between two boys who have been through it all together, leading them both to keep secrets from everyone they know and each other.

Will follows Mike upstairs and to his bedroom, a place that he hasn't seen in nearly a year now, maybe even longer. For the first few months after Will was still recovering from being possessed, the two would have a sleepover every night that they possibly could, as per Mike's request (although Will wasn't going to complain. after all, it allowed for some much needed one-on-one time with his best friend). Then things between Mike and El started to get more serious, and Will was happy for them, and he himself needed some time to himself, too, so when Mike began visiting El on Saturday's, Will hadn't had a problem. But then summer hit, and that's when everything changed.

During the school year, Will at least had Dustin to lean onto with being single (and singled-out) in comparison to Lucas and Max and Mike and El. But summer came and Dustin was off at science camp, so that left Will to be the third wheel to the rest of his friends. He didn't mind so much whenever they were all hanging out, or even when Mike and El weren't there, because Lucas and Max always made sure to make him feel included. But just like all couples, Max and Lucas went on their own dates sometimes, leaving Will with El and Mike.

Mike pushes his bedroom door open, allowing Will to go in first. As Will looks around, he can feel as his heart sinks to his stomach. It's a mess (and considering who Mike's mother is and how his room has always been spotless, Will could immediately sense that something is wrong). The floor is covered in piles of clothes, shoes, and school papers. The desk is littered with past-due assignments and...is that artwork? Will shakes his head, diverting his attention to the closet, the door open wide with a mirror hanging off of it, a jacket hanging over top of it. Inside it's clear that the mess isn't any better, only a few shirts hung up and junk crammed all on the floor. Even Mike's bed isn't made, the pillows all shuffled around and the comforter pulled halfway to the foot of the mattress.

"I know it's kind of a mess. I've been having some trouble keeping things clean and organized."

"Has your mom seen this?"

"Yeah, and she's not happy about it, but when I explained to her that...nevermind. It doesn't matter. Uhm, you can borrow whatever clothes that you want. I'm just gonna grab whatever this is and go to the bathroom and change, so I'll be right back."

"Okay."

Mike smiles tightly, leaving the room quickly with a pat on the doorframe. Will continues to look around for a moment before digging through one of the piles on the floor next to Mike's bed. He pulls out a white shirt with black sleeves, a red devil, some weapons, and the word Hellfire bridging over top of it all. Will slips off his gray sweatshirt (his yellow flannel having been taken off hours ago after he'd showered at the cabin) and slips the shirt on.

It's a bit long, a product of Mike being quite lanky, but Will fills it out pretty well. Will digs around some more, eventually finding a pair of gray sweatpants from years ago that, despite probably no longer fitting, Mike still has lying around. It was times like these that Will being shorter than Mike came in handy. Will slips out of his khakis and into the sweats quickly, his socks coming off too. He looks at himself in the mirror, insecurity quickly rushing over him, but that doesn't last long when his self-deprecating thoughts are interrupted by Mike clearing his throat at the door. Will turns around and does his best to give a small smile, Mike returning it and shutting the door slowly and quietly as to not wake anyone up.

"Hellfire," Mike says shakily, nervously glancing between Will and his bed as he sits on the mattress.

"Yeah, what is it? A band?"

"No, it's...shit. I was going to call you on the phone and tell you, but I remember my mom was on the phone with one of her friends until really late that night and I ended up falling asleep."

"Tell me what?" Will asks, sitting down next to Mike on the bed.

"Hellfire is the DnD club at school."

"Oh."

"I would tell Eddie, our dungeon master, about you all the time. He really wanted to meet you. You would've loved him."

"Eddie."

"Don't tell me you're jealous."

"What? No! No, I'm not jealous."

"You so are!"

"Maybe just a little bit."

"You have no reason to be. He was more of a mentor to me than anything. He taught me a bit on how to play the guitar, and he's the reason that I grew out my hair."

"Really?" Will says, this time in awe as he finally has an opening to talk about Mike's hair, but then...

"Yeah, I mean," Mike yawns, stretching his arms out and crawling over to the far side of his bed, covering himself with his blanket.

"Are you gonna finish that thought?" Will asks, sliding under the comforter on his own half of the mattress.

"No," Mike says simply, and they both laugh a little. "Goodnight, Will."

"Goodnight, Mike."

Will lays facing away from Mike, staring into the open closet. Despite the room being filled with darkness, he's able to see an outline of what looks to be a shelf in the corner, something that hadn't been there the summer prior. Will reaches his arm out, pushing the door closed slightly, and he can feel Mike turn over in the bed before turning back. Will sighs quietly, snaking his arm back under the blanket and pulling it up to his neck, a sudden chill running through him, causing his teeth to chitter.

"Hey," Mike says, placing a hand on Will's shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just cold."

"Does that mean he's back in you?"

"I don't know," Will says nervously, wrapping his arms around himself tightly, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Then, as if it had happened a million times before (even though it hadn't ever), Mike slips his arms around Will's waist, pulling him close until their bodies are flush. It would be a lie to say that Will's body temperature didn't rise immediately. He can feel as his heartbeat gets faster, his breathing becoming deeper and uneven, his mouth drying, all of that worsened when Mike buries his head in Will's neck, his breath hot on the sensitive skin that lies there, sending a rush down Will's spine.

"Better?" Mike says into Will's ear, barely above a whisper, a tone of voice that Will has grown to know quite well over the years.

"Y-yeah. Better."

"Good," Mike says resting his head back in Will's neck.

It goes quiet after that, but neither boy falls asleep. Mike is rubbing circles against Will's elbows and nuzzling his face into his neck continuously, the small amount of friction enough to keep Will from going as cold as he'd been before. After a long, daunting silence, Will finally turns over to be face to face with Mike, his breath immediately catching in his throat. With his eyes now well-adjusted to the darkness, Will can see that Mike's face as a flushed, soft look to it, his hair ruffed all up already, and his eyes barely staying open. Guilt washed through him, hating that he's keeping up his friend.

"You don't have to watch over me you know. You're allowed to go to sleep."

"I know, but," a yawn, "I want to. Someone has to."

"Nancy is just down the hall. If I need anything I can—"

"But I'm already right here," Mike says firmly, and it's silent for a moment again. "El told me about the painting."

"What?"

"It was after she broke up with me."

"Wait, you guys broke up?"

"Yeah, but, that's not...I was so confused because I thought that I had said what she wanted me to say, because of the painting, but she told me that she didn't commission it. And I didn't think that she had, but you've never lied to me before, so I went with it, but..."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied. I just thought that if I said the right thing that you'd finally be able to tell El that you love her and—"

"But I don't."

"What?"

"I mean, I do, but...not like that."

"I don't— but you said that if you had just said it that—"

"That doesn't mean that I wanted to say it, or that I meant it, and she knew that. But the painting...when she told me that she didn't commission, I new right away what it meant."

"And what's that?"

"El wrote me a letter the day before I left for Lenora. She'd told me that you were painting a lot but wouldn't show anyone. That she thought it was for a girl, that you liked someone and that you'd been acting weird."

"Oh."

"Then you had it at the airport, and you didn't give it to me, so I was confused, but then El mentioned her friends, well, I guess they weren't actually her friends, but, my point is, she mentioned Angela, and you seemed nervous all of a sudden, so I thought that it must have been for her."

"What? No! No. Angela is not my type."

"Well after seeing her that's what I thought, too. I mean, you? Crushing on a preppy blonde? They wish," Mike jokes, pulling a laugh from Will. "But then in the van...if El hadn't commissioned it, and what I said to her wasn't what she wanted to hear, and the painting was for someone you like, then..."

Will starts to pull back, worried for what's to come, but Mike pulls him close again, caressing Will's cheek. He pulls their foreheads together, their noses brushing together as a smile creeps on his face.

"That person wasn't a girl, was it?" Mike asks, sincerity in his voice.

"I—"

The words Will was going to say get caught in his throat as Mike stares at him hesitantly. Then, Mike's lips are on his own, the action being soft and slow, caring and sweet. It takes Will a moment to realize what's happening, but when he does he slowly starts moving his lips in sync with Mike's, not entirely sure what exactly he's supposed to be doing. Will had dreamt of times like this; having his first kiss. Now it was actually happening, and with his best friend, a boy he's been in love with since before he went missing those years ago.

Mike's hand pulls Will close by the back of his head, fingers carding through the smooth, short hair. Will lets one hand travel up Mike's chest, resting on his shoulder, the other one landing between his neck and jaw. Mike pulls back, his lips glossy. He brings his other hand up to Will's cheek, running a thumb over his mouth. Will shudders under the touch, and he feels like he's on fire.

"I love you," Mike says, pressing a kiss to Will's cheek.

"I love you too," Will says without a second thought, the words all squished together. There's a calm smile on both their faces, but the on on Mike's quickly fades as he looks away from Will's face.

"You're shivering," Mike says, running his hand up and down Will's arm.

"Like I said at the cabin, I can feel him."

"Well I'm not leaving your side," Mike says, wrapping his arms around Will's waist once again.

#byler #will byers/mike wheeler #mike wheeler/will byers #will byers #mike wheeler #angst #light angst #friends to lovers #requited unrequited love

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nobody-is-evil · 1 year

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Dream, Why Don’t You Have a Snugglefest with Hob and Maybe You’ll Calm Down

Summary: Results inconclusive. Dream was calm during the snugglefest, but...

This is for the Feb prompt (Cuddle) Pollen for the @yearoftheotpevent.

Thanks to @littledreamling for being my beta.

I’ll reblog this with the link to the fic on ao3.

Warnings: non-consensual drug use that usually comes with the pollen trope, mentions of period-typical homophobia (in the form of fear of it), Dream is not nice to himself, sad/open ending

There is a fight going on right next to him. Hob Gadling fights the two smugglers that Lady Johanna Constantine brought in with her, two men named Michael Stoker and Tobias Underwood.

Dream does not pay them any mind. Mere mortals cannot hurt him. No, what is important is the discomfiting sensation of—something. He cannot place what affects him, but something is.

He feels...cold. His form’s head is aching. This body, like that of a fawn’s, struggles to keep him upright. Most worryingly, the Dreaming is fading away from him.

Lady Johanna Constantine’s words make their way to him, “...mix something into your drink.” He feels the weight of her gaze when she continues, “I’ve been assured it will work on your kind.”

No.

This is her work? Her petty hedge-magicking?

He grabs the seat of his chair hard enough to whiten his knuckles. It requires more control than it should not to growl and shout at her.

Few things should be able to affect one such as him at all, and less should be able to rip away all that makes him Endless and replace it with human flesh, but without his endless memory, he cannot remember. All that he can think about is the chill and how weakened he feels.

He falls out of his chair and to the floor on his knees, clutching his head with both hands to try to relieve the pain. His form protests even this position, swaying, and he presses one hand against the ground to steady himself.

(There is a thud that could only be the sound of Hob succumbing as well. The delay is likely from his immortality, but it could not stop the effects forever.)

Fingertips touch his shoulder. The heat is tangible through his conjured clothing. Dream yanks himself away, and his words come out as a hiss when he speaks through gritted teeth, “Do not touch me!”

His irritation is far more palpable than he usually allows himself. It is unbecoming of an Endless, if natural from a mortal.

“Oh, do not try to trick me. I know exactly how you’re feeling now.”

She cannot comprehend even a drop of the power he usually carries, evident in the way she attempts again to touch him—this time, directly on his skin. Dream resorts to crawling backwards away from her.

A footstep echoes across the room like a gunshot. For half a second, Dream fears (fears!) that one of her lackeys has awoken, but no—it is Hob. The sun washes his features in golden light, painting him as the archetype of an avenging angel as he charges at her.

In seconds, she has fallen limply to the ground. She does not move, so she must be in his realm—how galling it is to have to figure that out, like trying to understand another through the movements of her lips rather than her voiced words. He rashly attempts to reconnect to the Dreaming, but only strains his mind in the process, adding to the existing pounding in his head. He clutches his head again.

Hob’s voice comes from right next to Dream, “They could get up at any moment. We should leave.” (Dream has to dig his fingers further into his scalp.) “Can you stand?”

Can.

He.

Stand.

Dream rises unaided—for about half a second before he lurches to the side and has to grab onto the table. But that cannot be the end of his humiliation; no, his muscles fail him even with the help from the table, and he falls all the way back to the floor.

Hob does not offer help. This is not something Dream is unused to, but after fighting off his three attackers unasked, Hob seems like he would be the kind of person to do so.

Or, perhaps, Dream is complicating a simple zest for fighting.

“No. No, I cannot stand.” Each extra word is an arrow he rips out of his skin. “...help me...”

“...please...”

Hob says, barely audible, “Certainly.”

Even expecting the touch and watching his hands approach—

(Dream is not unused to heat. The power of an Endless has a similar effect, such that he seldom bothers giving his form in the Waking World a temperature in the range of humans. But without his power, all Dream has left is this body, this body that has never been anything but freezing, and from this perspective, even another mortal’s body heat is...hot.)

—he still flinches when he feels the heat they emit.

Hob retracts them as if he is the one burnt. “Are you sure?”

Grinding his teeth is a familiar sensation (the accompanying pain, not so much). Of course Hob would pay attention and be concerned about this body’s involuntary reaction. In his peripherals, he can see that his own limbs are shaking. “Do it!” Dream spits out.

The heat returns to the backsides of his knees and his upper back, and this time, it does not leave when he flinches. With longer than an instant to adjust to it, his body decides that it rather likes being warm. A good thing, as Dream is pressed against something that warms even more of him at once.

His body moves instinctively, seeking the configuration that allows for it to be in contact with the warmth the most. His head digs into the warmest spot of all, a little crook that he fits into so well, it is like it was made for this purpose.

And it is rumbling.

Dream cracks open an eye (that he does not remember closing) and is reminded that he is being carried by a human, Hob—who is laughing at him.

“You have regained your strength, old stranger. I could drop my arms and you would stay as you are.”

“Do not!” Dream tightens around Hob further. It is as he said; Dream’s strength is, inexplicably, back, though he still does not want to lose the nest of Hob’s arms.

Hob tenses in turn, voice dropping to an urgent whisper, “You must not speak so loud! If anyone sees that I’m carrying a man like this...”

It takes Dream a moment to realize that Hob is referring to him as a man, and longer to place his fears. “The anti-sodomy laws,” he realizes. “Then we shall not be seen. Concentrate on your destination.”

“What?” Hob asks, even though Dream can sense his daydream.

Dream manipulates the sand out of his pouch with more ease than usual—the difference between leading a dog with a leash and simply calling for it—and it surrounds them.

When it dissipates, they are inside his home.

“That is convenient,” Hob breathes, turning in the direction of the still-locked front door. Then he suddenly says, “Er, I’ll put you down, now,” and stops in front of his couch.

Naturally. Now that Dream is back to full strength, there is no reason for a mortal to carry him.

He allows himself to be released—up until he is reminded of how frosty it is outside of Hob’s arms. Then he retreats back up like a cat scrambling out of water.

Hob accommodates the aborted motion, though there is no small amount of confusion in his voice when he says, “My friend?”

Perhaps Dream could request that Hob light the fireplace? No, that would require him to let go of Dream. There is no distracting him from this. “It...is cold,” he admitted.

“Oh.” Hob seems to consider this. He takes to pacing down the length of his living room. “So, it’s not normal for you to be freezing to the touch?”

Dream corrects, “It is. The part that is unusual is that I feel the chill.”

Hob gasps. “This is because of what Lady Johanna mixed into your drink!” he exclaims at first with realization and then with righteous anger.

“Perhaps,” Dream agrees as though he already thought of that.

“Do you know—well, you’ll be fine, surely? How long before you’re back to normal?”

Dream considers this. He does not quite remember. “After a fashion, I shall. Between one and eleven hours.”

Hob huffs. “My endurance is not what it used to be. I doubt I can stay awake that long, let alone carry you the entire time, old stranger, even with how light you are.”

Hmm. Dream allows magnanimously, “Let it not be known that I would keep a...human from his rest. If you wish to recline, then we shall.”

Hob stops. His throat shifts as he swallows. “Thank you, my friend.”

The walk to Hob’s bedroom is silent. Dream does not pay any mind to the decorations—he is content to rest in Hob’s hold. They stop in front of his bed, and only then does Dream reluctantly drop down from his grasp onto it.

He immediately regrets it when the chill returns. It should be warm, what with all the bedding, but it is not. The memory of warmth slips away, like sand would slip out of his grasp in his weak condition, and it is only on conscious knowledge that he knows the heat will help and not hurt when Hob climbs into bed after him.

Once he is used to the boiler that is Hob again, Dream’s body seeks out the position that allows him to squeeze out as much warmth as he can get. Hob lays on his back, so Dream lays on his left side, with his left arm pinned underneath Hob and right arm crossing Hob’s chest. Like this, he can fit his head back into its rightful place in the crook of Hob’s neck.

Extra, much appreciated warmth comes in the form of Hob’s right arm down Dream’s back and his left hand in Dream’s hair. The repetitive movements calm him, succor almost enough to make him forget that this is not his natural state.

They lay in silence.

“It has been 25 minutes,” Dream says later. “You are not asleep. You are no closer to being asleep.”

The hands in his hair and on his back slow in their motions. “I’m not.”

Dream almost drops it and asks him to keep doing it, but he stands by his resolution to not keep Hob from sleeping. “Why?”

“These clothes are not made to be slept in,” Hob admits quietly. His next words come out in a rush, “But it’s fine; I’m sure you would not appreciate the time it would take me to change them—”

“Nonsense.” Dream barely has to use any of his sand to undress Hob. In an instant, he has left Hob in only his white underclothes (recognizing how many Dreamers fear being nude in public).

The change is immediate—Hob gives off heat tenfold, a hundredfold. Dream lets out a surprised purr. The only thing that is important is soaking up as much of this new, extra warmth as he can. He lets his instincts guide his body again and ends up laying on top of Hob.

If removing one layer of clothing yielded this result, what would happen if Dream gets rid of his own clothes?

He banishes them.

The influx of heat no longer feels like it can be attributed to just physical temperature. He feels simultaneously like he is underwater and like he is floating, like he is spinning and like he is still, like he is laying on Hob and like he is melting into him until they are just one being.

A slight shift underneath him brings him back down to Earth until he breaches the surface of the water.

“My friend,” Hob says, with a strained quality to his voice that Dream has never heard before, “you’re too—heavy, to be on top of me.”

Yet, Dream is simply too comfortable to move. This nest is perfect; there must be some other way to fix it. Hmm—of course. He calls a bit of sand and uses it to make his form as light as a feather.

Hob swallows again, and when he speaks, his voice is closer to normal. “Er...I thank you. This is considerably better.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

For a moment, silence reigns.

“Would you mind...” Hob is oddly hesitant. “I find that I can lull myself to sleep by telling a story. Would you mind hearing one?”

Dream has to stop the purr that tries to escape at this. Hob does not know who he asks, who he freely offers his stories to—he is ignorant of the implications. Instead, Dream reminds himself of the foundation of their relationship, “You would continue where we left off before we were interrupted?”

Hob lets out a chuckle at that. “If we’re to continue where we left off, I remember that you were about to tell me your name.”

That...is true. Hob has been very patient, has he not? 400 years is a long time for a human. Dream, relaxed because of his presence, cannot think of how he could be more worthy. “Very well.”

“I have many names. You may know me as Lord Morpheus, Shaper of Forms, Oneiros, the Oneiromancer, King of Dreams and of Nightmares. You likely know me as the Sandman.” Dream pauses at Hob’s sharp intake of breath, trying to choose whether to give him the name of Prince of Stories, before deciding against it. “My first and truest name is Dream of the Endless. Put simply, Dream. And I would be pleased if you would tell me a story.”

“...right. It’s wonderful to meet you, Dream.” Hob swallows once again. “I have to ask, do you know all dreams?”

This is when he usually corrects that he is all dreams. But he is not, not at the moment. “Perhaps.”

Hob’s hands find Dream’s back and hair again, resuming their ministrations. “Only, I would like to be the one to tell you about my life, in person. That is why we meet up. So, could you block mine out?”

That is a new request.

“I understand if n—” Hob adds in a rush before Dream cuts him off.

“I can.” For some reason, he is less reluctant to admit weakness now, “I am...disconnected...from the majority of my usual abilities. When I regain my full spread of powers, I will ensure that knowledge of your dreams is still hidden from me.”

“I thank you again, my friend.”

“The tale you promised me?” Dream prompts.

Hob starts, “This story begins many years ago...”

Dream listens attentively. In this state, without his endless memory, he does not know the story. It is a new experience, rare for one such as him. He sinks into peace, ataraxy, serenity, in the depths of Hob’s voice.

Dream of the Endless and Hob Gadling are at a meadow. There is nobody else around. They walk for a while, enjoying each other’s presence, before stopping on a hill.

Hob has a picnic basket. He lays down the blanket and arranges the food. The sun washes his features in golden light, painting him as the archetype of an angel.

While Dream stares at Hob, Hob stares back.

They stay like that for ages before Hob leans in to Dream—

The scene disappears from around him, his surroundings changing to that of his throne room.

Lucienne stands before him. “There you are, my lord.” She sounds perfectly composed, or would, to anyone except Dream. He hears the undercut of worry.

“I apologize for my absence.” What happened? He is disoriented...he was stuck in one facet of himself for some time, separated from his function.

Oh.

Myitzur pollen.

Most importantly, his powers are rapidly returning. If he does not address it immediately, he will further break his promise. “Find Hob Gadling’s books and remove them from the library. Put them where I cannot access them.”

“Right away, sir.”

Dream does not look away from her as she efficiently walks away. Only when she has fully left the room does he allow himself to relax.

She did not see what she interrupted. She could not have. Only 3 should know: Dream, Fiddler’s Green...and Hob. The Heart of the Dreaming will not tell; Dream does not mind him knowing. Dream has nothing to worry from him, unlike many other residents of the Dreaming.

Hob, on the other hand, will be most displeased with Dream. An hour, less than that, passed between making and breaking the promise.

Not to mention everything that happened before that. He allowed himself to be incapacitated by a mere mortal, had to accept help from another, and then went so far as to seek comfort from him.

Weak.

He should have kept his wits about him. Never again will he ingest food or drink from the Waking World, not even in the presence of Hob Gadling.

That reminds him. Dream removes the physical body he left behind.

Despite the fact that he is far less affected by the Myitzur pollen than he was before, he still shivers—a much too human reaction—at the loss of body heat.

He cannot allow himself to react like that. It is best if he does not think about Hob until their next meeting, both to reduce the anger Hob most certainly feels for him and to lessen the...feelings that he is having. He should never crave comfort.

Dream is decidedly still as a statue when he finally fully returns to normal, and the contents of Hob Gadling’s books are unknown to him.

———

Hob wakes up freezing and alone.

———

Omake:

“Do you know—well, you’ll be fine, surely? How long before you’re back to normal?”

Dream considers this. He does not quite remember, but, “It should not take long.” What is a reasonable range of time to an immortal human? “Between an hour and...eleven months.”

...

“Eleven months,” Hob repeats quietly.

Nope. What is the measurement of time just longer than an hour? “I meant to say days. Not months. Days.”

“I guess that’s better than eleven months...”

———

Reblogs, likes, reblogs that just say extra likes, etc. are all welcome!

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athousandbyeol · 3 months

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waves. [bookjimmy/jimmybook fanfic]

book is the beach, and jimmy is the waves. yet jimmy comes and goes as he pleases—and book doesn't know if he'll ever stay.

chapter 1. / chapter 2. / chapter 3. / chapter 4.

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gremlin-writes-angst · 2 years

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Bouquet

1079 words

Fandom: Redacted Asmr

Couple: Huxley/Darlin

TW/CW: Implied past toxic relationships ( with a very brief mention of Quinn) Small misunderstanding (It's not a cheat misunderstanding) Requited unrequited love.

Let me know if I missed a TW/CW

Please comment and reblog, it lets me know people like my stuff and encourages me to write more!!!!!!

Click here if you want to see more of my work and follow me for more!

He was always pretty, but right now, with a bouquet of flowers that almost covers his perfect smile, he's radiant.

“Um, are you gonna- let me in I mean you don't have to but- uh you kind of- just standing and staring at me.”

You shake your head, Huxley laughs, could he be any cuter?

“You really are a dog!”

“Oh shut up.”

You step aside, to let him into your apartment. Your eyes linger as he passes by, he's wearing a wrestling tee, he loves shirts that show off his muscles, and so do you. He’s a big guy, tall and strong, but he's so soft.

You close the door, leaning against it.

It still surprises you.

Surprises you that he doesn't use his strength against you. In the beginning, you waited for him to stop pretending to be this soft loving man but every day he proved you wrong. You've got tired of flinching when he moves too quickly, tired of questioning what his true intentions are, tired of waiting for the moment he overpowers you, tired of not letting him in.

You watch as he calmly looks through your cabinets for a vase. A smile creeps up your face as you realize your anxiety is gone. Not completely but you don't have the urge to stop him, afraid that knowing your kitchen cabinets will be too much, that it would bring him closer. You laugh at how stupid it sounds now.

“ What- did- did I do something wrong- oh you don't like people searching your place- sorry dude- I was um looking for a vase. What?!- Don't laugh harder, what's so funny?”

You push off the door as you walk toward him.

“It's nothing, ignore it.”

His face scrunches into a pout, god you want to kiss him.

“I don't have a vase. So what and who are the flowers for? Did you finally get a date?” Your question hurts you. The two of you have something, you think. There's been flirting and hand holding, you feel like a teen, blushing over the memories of holding his hand. Though that's all, Huxleys is just- friendly, it's nothing, he was comforting you. Or that's what you thought but the way his face fell when you teased him, maybe you were wrong, maybe you ruined it.

“I- there for you.”

He holds out the bouquet to you, but his head is bowed down in shame, but you can see his face darken with blush.

“ What?”

You laugh out loud. That only makes it worse, he pulls them back. Turns his head away.

“Sorry- I must- I guess I miss understood, Um I'll -I'll just leave- with the flowers.”

He turns the rest of his body walking away.

“Huxs- wait- I- I'm sorry.”

“You don't need to be, you shouldn't be sorry for not - sharing my feelings. I know others make you feel- like you were wrong for that- but I'm not- I want you to be with who you love- or like- and if that's, not me I get it. Take care.”

“You like me?”

He finally turns to face you again, you hate how sorrowful he looks.

“ Yes, I thought- I thought that was obvious- the flirting–”

Once again you were surprised at how different he was, even know he doesn't lash out, you almost wish he did you were used to that. You knew how to deal with that.

“The hand holding”

He clears his throat, shocked you finished his sentence

“Hux’s, I thought that was just what you were like, with everyone. I mean why would you treat me differently, in a good way? I assumed you treated all your friends like that.”

He huffs, but not with anger but like a small laugh.

“ I've never flirted with someone before, and I don't go around holding people's hands- I - I only do that with people I like- romantically- I only do those things with you.”

The two of you stay still, staring at each other, taking in the moment. You can't imagine anything ever being more perfect. It makes you want to cry, but you don't.

“I like you to.”

The words quietly fall from your mouth and you don't know what you want more, for him not to hear you or for him to hear you. The words flutter to his ears and you can see the moment he registers what you say, as his face lights back up, with that smile you wish you could frame in your heart.

He slowly starts to move closer, and you panic, letting yourself ramble.

“I do- I'm sorry I was- like giving a mixed signal- I'm just- I've never been with someone so - soft- someone who waits- they've always been like straightforward- that too nice- they've always been kind of forceful so I thought- you know that's how everyone does it-”

Your words freeze when he gets right up to you, setting the flowers on the counter before his hand gently takes yours, his other hand moves, landing on your chin.

“ Darlin- Can I kiss you?”

Your heart skips a beat, but it's unfamiliar, you were used to your heart jumping out of fear. This wasn't fear, this was excitement, at that name, that question. It was the first time you heard either.

“Yes.”

You thought he looked soft, but you couldn't even describe what his lips felt like, how his body felt better than your bed. This is it, the kiss you read about when you were 10, in those fairy tales. The kiss you tried to pretend Quinn could give you. It feels stupid to cry but you do, you let the few tears slide down your face.

Huxley pulls away, and his hand reaches your cheek, wiping it away.

“ You okay?”

His voice is quiet, and like the rest of him, soft. You look into his eyes, and for once you're not afraid to cry, because it's him, and you trust him.

“I’ve never gotten flowers. Thank you.”

“No problem dude, you're my friend. You deserve flowers.” You blinked at Huxley, you didn't have to use words for Hux to realize why you were looking at him with a raised eyebrow

“Oh- well I didn't- your not just a friend- I just- I didn't wanna break a boundary, y’know?”

You can't help yourself from kissing his sorry face.

“I know Hux. But don't call me dude or friend again.”

“You got it, Darlin.”

#huxley/darlin #redacted asmr #redactedverse #redacted darlin #redacted fanfic #redacted huxley #Mostly fluff #small angst #unrequited love #requited unrequited love #unrequited requited love #hopeless romatic darlin #they just hide it becaue they don't want to be loved #and dont think theyd ever get or deserve love #but huxley came to fix that

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writebyeve · 1 year

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A new WinTeam fic is out!

Cupid in Crisis is a fic containing 3 chapters. It's a Valentine's special that's going to offer a lot of tooth-rotting fluff.

The summary of the fic + a small sneak peak - down below

Link to the fic:

#winteam #between us #bounprem #until we meet again #win team #ao3 #fic rec #thai boys love #winteam fic #fiction writing #friends to lovers #requited unrequited love #thai bl #win #team #boun #prem #valentine's month #Valentine's day

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hellcheerficdatabase · 1 year

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3 Times Chrissy Was Secretly Smitten

Author: Himitsu_khi

Rating/Warning: General

Chapter Count: 1/1 (part 2 of EDDISSY Series)

Description: And it wasn’t with Jason Carver.

Tags: Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Romance, Chrissy POV, Chrissy pining after Eddie, requited unrequited love, misunderstandings, Laura is a bad mom, part of a series, one-shot, Status: Completed

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ohhmydyosfics · 23 days

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(Anton x Shotaro) dazzling

Anton laces their fingers together, like they used to do when they were so much younger. There’s the gentlest of smiles on his face. Shotaro is trying to figure out why that makes him feel better when Anton speaks up.

“Don’t worry, ‘Taro-hyung. You don’t have to be so jealous. I’m gonna marry you, remember?”

OR, Five times Anton says he’s going to marry Shotaro, and one time Shotaro proposes himself.

#dazzling #Anton #Chanyoung #Shotaro #Riize #fanfic #oneshot #childhood friends #cute #pining #5+1 things #requited unrequited love #feelings realization #getting together #friends to lovers #marriage proposal

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geraskierfanficprompts · 6 days

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Prompt 16

Jaskier gifts Geralt something at least once a month. A silly horse knick-knack that reminded him of Roach, some rock he found, a flower (that's the most frequent). New gloves, new boots, gear, a sword sharpener, really, at least once a year Geralt has something new that means the world to him. So he keeps them all in his room in Kaer Morhen. Which means that every winter his brothers start trying to squeeze out information about who gives him these presents. Year by year, Lambert and Eskel tackle him and demand to know who gives him PERSONALIZED HAIR-TIES, GERALT! PERSONALIZED HAIR-TIES! AND IS THAT A FUCKING THROW PILLOW WITH FLOWERS ON IT!?

One year, they finally, FINALLY, get out the information that it's the bard he travels with. But surely if he gives him this many gifts and has stayed this many years, he should be spending at least one winter in Kaer Morhen with them, right? Geralt gets all sheepish and snaps at them to leave it alone and to stop bringing up "Jask." Well! A brother's gotta do what a brother's gotta do. Thus commences Lambert and Eskel's race to see who can find Geralt's bard first, and invite him up for the winter so they can wingman their poor emotionally constipated brother

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dumplingsjinson · 2 years

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List of “unrequited love but turns out!! it’s actually requited” prompts

“What, did you think I kissed you all these times because I was doing it for the shits and giggles?” “…Let’s be real, you did have a lot of fun shoving your tongue down my throat in public.”

“Oh my God, why are you crying? Does me liking you disgust you that much?” “No, you dumbass, it’s because you like me back but I spent all of this time thinking you’d never like me that way!”

“Look, we can pretend I never confessed if it means you’ll stay—” “What?! No! You can’t just take back your confession! That’s such a coward move and I’ll not allow that! Especially when I feel the same way towards you.”

“I’ll get over you. I promise. These feelings, they’re— they’re only temporary, I swear. I—I’ll get over you. Just please don’t leave me—” “Did you ever think, that maybe, I don’t want you getting over me? What if I don’t want these feelings to be only temporary? That maybe I... Like you, too?”

“I didn’t mean to fall for you.” “And neither did I.” “…Fucking pardon?”

“So according to _____, you’re in love with me, too?” “Oh, that fucking bast— wait, did you just say too?”

“You need to stop kissing me like you mean it; I’m going to read into things wrong and end up breaking my own heart.” “That’s because I do mean it every single time. You’ve just been too dense to realise.”

“Why are you apologising for liking me back?” “Because I don’t want to ruin— wait a second. Pause and rewind, what did you just say?”

“You don’t have to like me back, you know? I just wanted to let you know how I felt, that’s all.” “Well, too bad! Because these feelings are mutual, and now you can’t get rid of me.”

“Why are you lying to me? You can tell me the truth, it’s okay. I’m strong enough for the truth, I swear.” “What? I’m not lying to you! You’d think you’d pick up on the signs that I’ve been in love with you, for fucking forever, but apparently someone’s too obtuse to realise that!”

#unrequited love #requited love #dialogue prompts #writing prompts #otp prompts #angst prompts #fluff prompts #romance prompts #friends to lovers #mutual pining #pining #idiots in love #using my own ao3 tag in the title

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hairmetal666 · 1 year

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Eddie's hanging out with Steve at Family Video when Robin stomps in like a whirlwind.

"Oh, god, I did something so dumb. You have to help meee."

They straighten from where they lean over the counter towards each other, and Eddie takes a big step back, sure that all his big gay feelings for Steve are on display.

"What did you do this time?" Steve smiles with exasperated fondness.

"It's so bad." Robin faceplants with a dramatic wail.

"What happened?" Eddie asks

"I--I'm so sorry!" She looks at both of them, and a tingle of panic works it's way up Eddie's spine.

"My parents started going on and on about me and Steve and why we won't just admit we're dating, and I started to freak out because they won't accept that we're just friends, and I'm not ready to tell them that I'm a lesbian, even though I think it would be okay, so, I told them you were dating someone, Steve."

"Well, that's not so bad, Rob. So, what, they think I have a girlfriend? Who cares."

Her shoulders slump and she frowns. "I wish that's what they thought. They kept asking who, and I panicked!"

"Robin." Steve looks alarmed now, his pretty mouth pulled into a grimace. "What did you tell them?"

"Okay, please don't hate me," she begs. She's looking at Steve, but then she's looking over at Eddie. And oh, god, oh fuck, this can't be happening.

"You've got to be kidding me, Buckley," he says. He keeps his voice light but the touch of panic has become a punch.

"Wait. How do you know--how does he--? Who am I dating?"

"Me, Harrington. She told them you were dating me."

"Oh," Steve shrugs. "Sure."

Eddie chokes on air, plays it off. "For you maybe, Stevie. We in the Munson household have standards."

Steve doesn't meet a beat. "I'll have you know, Edward, that I am a catch."

"Yeah, for the lovely ladies of Hawkins," Eddie winks, even though every word, every gesture aches.

"Oh, c'mon! I'm a great boyfriend. Defend me here, Robin"

Normally, Eddie finds these antics to be charming, but confronting his crush on Steve so forcefully has ruined his mood.

"Need a cigarette," he says to escape.

He's only alone for a few minutes before Steve is sidling up next to him.

"What's she need us to do?"

"Dinner."

He grimaces, exhaling a plume of smoke. "I'm so bad at meeting the parents."

"Shut-up." Steve pokes him in the chest. "Everyone loves you. It's kind of obnoxious, actually. Plus, I think this'll help her feel more comfortable about coming out."

He snorts if only so he doesn't have to think about Steve talking about him and love in the same sentence.

"Fine. For Buck, I'll do it." But he doesn't know how he'll get through pretending to date his biggest crush with out spontaneously combusting.

"Love the enthusiasm," Steve laughs. "You know I'd treat you right, Munson."

The blush that rolls over his face is crimson. "Alright, big boy, calm down. We're not actually dating."

The bark of laughter Steve lets out is a burst of pure adrenaline to Eddie's heart. This is going to be a disaster.

---

The night of the dinner arrives and Eddie almost blows the whole game when they walk in the Buckley front door and Steve's arm wraps around his waist. The night is all casually intimate touches and Steve leaning into his personal space; calling him "baby" in a soft, warm voice; eyes drifting to Eddie's lips as they flirt and banter.

It's almost like they're a couple; almost like Steve could love him.All of his senses are overwhelmed with Steve Harrington and it fucking hurts. But Eddie lets himself indulge, finally running his fingers through Steve's gorgeous hair, tracing the moles on his face and neck, outlining the sharpness of his perfect jaw, calling him "sweetheart" with heartbreaking fondness.

It's intoxicating.

They're helping Mrs. Buckley with the dishes when it happens. When Steve leans over and casually presses his lips to Eddie's, tasting like vanilla ice cream and spiced apples and something indefinably warm. Eddie is helpless not to crumple, leans into Steve, wraps fists into the perfectly fitted polo, drawing them closer.

The night ends and Eddie thinks he's finally free, except the Buckleys love them. Keep inviting them back.

He goes for Robin, he tells himself, but he knows that it's for the hope of it. Knows that he's a ship breaking himself against the rock that is Steve Harrington, and god help him, he can't stop.

---

Of course, of course, the wires get crossed. The kids have a pool party, leave Steve and Eddie to ice cream clean-up duty. Of course, he can't stop himself from smearing some melted mint chip down Steve's face, and Steve retaliates with chocolate sauce.

They giggle and flight and make mess until Steve's eyes are bright, cheeks red, and Eddie can't look away. He clocks Steve's eyes drifting to his mouth, is helpless as the distance between them closes, as Steve captures his lips.

It's not the brief, chaste things from the Buckley's; it's hot, all tongues and teeth and desire, and it's not fucking real.

Eddie lurches back, making Steve stumble. "Stop," he snarls.

"Eddie--" Steve's eyes are wide.

He's panting, can't catch his breath. "You can't just fucking kiss me like that when it doesn't mean anything to you."

"Please," Steve begs. "Let me explain."

"Save it. We're done with this. Robin is good now. And I'm out."

He turns away, heads towards the front door, but Steve pulls him back.

"Let me explain. Please. Please, Eddie. I didn't mean--"

And it's too much. Steve's plaintive voice, his big eyes wet with tears.

"Of course you didn't mean it," he spits. "It's nothing to you, pretending to date me. Touching me. Kissing me. Acting like you love me. It doesn't matter to the Heartthrob of Hawkins. But have you or Buckley ever taken the time to think that it's everything to me?" Hot tears spill down his cheeks and he can't even be embarrassed because all of this has been so humiliating.

Steve gapes at him, face slack and stunned. "Eddie, I--I'm so--"

"Don't. See you around, Harrington," he says. Then he runs.

---

He doesn't leave the trailer for a week. Refuses to pick up the phone.

It's Saturday, early evening. Wayne just left for his shift when there's a knock on the door.

Eddie is content to ignore it, to wrap himself in a quilt on the couch, but the knocking doesn't stop.

"Eddie, I know you're in there. Your van is here. The lights are on. I can hear you," Steve calls.

Longing clenches at his heart, but he's not in the mood for the gentle let down.

"Go away, Harrington." He starts towards his bedroom, thinking maybe he can lock Steve out.

"Please, Eddie."

"I don't need anything from you, Harrington."

It's silent for long enough that Eddie thinks it works. And then, " I have so many things I should tell you, Eds. If you still hate me at the end, I'll go. I'll never bother you again. But please, please listen."

Resigned to having a conversation he never wanted, Eddie opens the door. "Okay, Harrington."

Steve steps inside, twisting his hands for a few seconds before blurting out, "I've had a crush on you for months."

The confession briefly steals Eddie's breath from his lungs before he scoffs, "and you never said anything? C'mon, Harrington, when have you ever hesitated to ask someone out?"

Steve blinks a few times, before he answers. "I've been terrified to say anything because I didn't want to lose my best friend."

"And what, Robin asks us to pretend to date and you think that's the perfect time to make your move?" Eddie grips at his hair, pulling it in front of his face.

"Yeah, a little bit!" Steve raises his voice. "I tried but I was terrified you only wanted me as a friend."

"You know I'm gay, Harrington!"

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Of course I wanted you!" Eddie's yelling now, has closed the distance between them so they're almost nose-to-nose.

"I didn't know! How could I? You could've said something!"

"I thought you were straight! Fucking look at you! You've slept with 75% of the available girls at Hawkins High!"

"Who cares about them, Eddie? I want you!"

"Funny way of showing it, Harrington."

"What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? Cause I am."

"Is that why you kissed me at your house? Making your move?"

"It wasn't supposed to be. I got--" Steve's throat bobs as he swallows. "Caught up in the moment. I know I shouldn't have kissed you like that. I know."

"Then why did you?" Eddie's voice breaks. "Why then? Why not any of the other nights we spent together?"

"Because that's when I realized that I'm fucking in love with you!" Steve shouts.

They're both breathing hard by the end, Steve's eyes too bright, face too flushed. They stare at each other, unmoving, Steve's confession ringing in his ears.

"You done?" Eddie's voice waivers, his heart pounding, stuttering, flipping in his chest.

Steve nods, but Eddie doesn't give him a chance to move. He brings their mouths crashing together, Steve not even hesitating to slip his tongue between Eddie's lips. They kiss hard enough that they draw blood, but that just makes it more frenzied. Eddie grips Steve's hip, presses him against the trailer door, grinding against him with abandon.

Eddie breaks the kiss to finally pay some attention to the delightful moles on Steve's neck, working his way up to his jaw. "I'm going to have so much fun taking you apart, sweetheart," he whispers, mouth pressed to Steve's ear, delighting in the way he shivers at the words.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #one shot #fake dating #mutual pining #angst #friends to lovers #unrequited love that's totally requited #robin buckley #platonic stobin #eddie munson's big gay feelings for steve harrington #they're in love your honor #they're just bad at the talking part

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serendipitouswasteland · 1 year

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Because it is Your Fault. It is All Your Fault.

Note: this was transcribed from my AO3.

ship: byler pov: third person written: July 5, 2022 first published: July 5, 2022 word count: 1,514

summary: Will has had enough. He just can't take it anymore. So when Mike says that thing, he finally snaps.

This summer has been...rough. All that Will has wanted is to play DnD with his friends, but they've all been too preoccupied with their girlfriends.

Girlfriends.

It's not that Will has anything against girls in particular. In fact, he loves girls. He thinks they're awesome. But...just...not like that. Not like Lucas and Dustin do. Not like Mike does.

Today, Will has come up with a plan. He woke up extra early and set up the DnD table in Mike's basement while he and Lucas were still asleep. Then, he got dressed in his Will the Wise costume and turned on the stereo, the adventure music filling the room, waking up Mike and Lucas just as he had planned. They've been playing for a short while now, and Will is having a blast, but he can tell Mike and Lucas aren't having the most fun with it all. Still, he keeps going. After all, they're in the middle of a campaign. It's not like they had anything else to do anyways with it raining.

"Do you guys hear that?" Will starts. "It sounds like...thunder. But no, wait, that's not thunder. It's...a horde of juju zombies! Sir Mike, your action!"

"What should I do?" Mike asks Lucas, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"Attack?" Lucas questions, clearly not in the mood.

"Okay, I attack with my flail," Mike says, his voice monotone as he rolls the dice.

"Whoosh! You miss. Your flail clanks the stone, the zombie horde lumber towards you, and...the juju bites your arm. Flesh tears! Ah! Seven points of damage."

"Oh, no, my arm!" Mike says sarcastically. "Lucas, look my arm!"

The two snicker, and Will is hurt, but—

"Sir Lucas, the zombie horde roars! Do you fight back or do you run?"

Lucas is about to answer when the phone rings.

"No, it's a distraction!" Will says quickly, standing up, still in character. "A trap. Do not answer it!"

But, of course, Mike and Lucas dash to the phone, Mike grabbing it and the name coming out of his mouth stinging Will in the heart.

"El?" Mike asks, but his tone quickly changes, Will's face dropping. "No. Sorry, not interested. Telemarketers," Mike says and he hangs the phone back on the wall.

"Maybe we should just call them," Lucas suggests.

"We can do that?"

"I think so."

"Yeah, but, what would we say?"

"We will say nothing! The Kuishar tribe still needs your help," Will shouts.

"Alright, then," Mike starts, and that's when the worst thing happens. "I'll use my torch to set fire to the chambers, sacrificing ourselves, killing the jujus, and saving the Kuishar. We all live on as heroes in the memories of the Kalamar."

"Victory," Lucas says, holding his hand up to which Mike high-fives him.

Never has Will not wanted to play DnD.

That was, until now.

"Okay. Fine."

Will harshly sets his staff on the table, quickly ripping off his hat.

"You guys win."

He turns off the music.

"Congratulations."

"Will, I was just messing around," Mike says in that voice, and Will could slap him for it.

Will continues to remove his costume, his clothes from the day before underneath.

"Let's finish for real. How much longer is the campaign?"

"Just forget it, Mike," Will says as he gathers his things.

"No, we want to keep playing, right?"

"Y-yeah, totally," Lucas says, but Will can tell he doesn't mean it.

"We'll just call the girls afterward."

"I said forget it, Mike, okay? I'm going home," Will says, heading toward the stairs.

"But...come on, Will," Lucas says trying to stop him.

"Move!" Will yells, shoving Lucas out of the way and rushing up the stairs and to Mike's garage.

"Will, come on!" Mike says, following Will outside. "You can't leave, it's raining. Listen, I said I was sorry, alright? It's a cool campaign. It's really cool. We're just not in the mood right now."

"Yeah, Mike! That's the problem. You guys are never in the mood anymore! You're ruining our party."

"That's not true!"

"Really? Where's Dustin right now? See? You don't know and you don't care and obviously he doesn't either and I don't blame him! You're destroying everything and for what? So you can swap spit with some stupid girl?"

"El's not stupid! It's not my fault you don't like girls!"

Ouch.

Will, at first, is taken aback by Mike's words, but then, he's angry. So, so angry. So angry that he drops his bike and the tears he's been holding back start to flow from his eyes uncontrollably.

"Of course it's your fault! Are you kidding me? How could you have never once noticed? It's not that I don't like girls, Mike! Trust me, I've tried. I have tried so many times, but no matter who it is, no matter what the girl looks like or what her personality is like because for some reason that I wish I knew, believe me, my entire life I haven't been able to keep my mind off of you. So I'm sorry if me not having a girlfriend has become a 'problem' for you, but it is a hell of a lot harder when you wish you had a boyfriend who just so happens to be your straight best friend! I mean, did you ever even consider that?"

Will's words stop, still ringing in the air as he looks at Mike's face, and then he sees it. He sees that Mike is hurting, too. Guilt washes over Will, and the next words that slip out he shouldn't even be saying, but—

"I'm sorry. I should go." Will turns around and is about to pick up his bike when...

"Hey, hold on! Just wait!" Mike grabs Will's wrist turning him back around to face him again. "Can you please let me say something?"

"What is there that you could possibly say that would—"

Oh.

It's not words.

Mike places his free hand on Will's cheek, the other still holding onto his wrist. Then, he kisses him. Soft and sweet and warm and real. Will doesn't necessarily kiss Mike back, though, because he's not exactly sure how. This is, after all, his first kiss, and Mike knows that.

Or, he should.

Mike takes one step forwards, bringing his and Will's bodies closer together, and that's when Will pulls back. He doesn't know what he's doing.

"Will...?"

"I...you..."

"Will, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

A pause, a deep breathe, and then, "Everything."

Mike rests his head against Will's, his lips almost brushing his nose. Will is breathing deeply, a world's worth of words caught in his throat. So many things that he wants to say, but only a few of them slipping out, creating incoherent sentences.

"The swings...Halloween...the time when...I...you said...El...because then...you..."

"Will?"

Will just stares at him. He couldn't possibly respond to him right now. Not in a complete sentence, anyway.

"Okay, um..."

Mike searches Will's face and eyes looking for something, anything, to prompt him to continue with what he's about to say.

"...Will, I..."

Another pause, a glance away and then to Will's lips.

"...I love you...I am in love with you."

Will stares at Mike. He's still trying to get his thoughts together, but he's not sure if he's even having any. One second his brain is moving a thousand miles a minute, the next, it's almost as it's empty.

"Will? Say something?"

...

"I don't know how to kiss."

"Oh," Mike says, pausing for a moment before what Will is saying really hits him. "Oh, shit. Shit, that was your first kiss. Shit, Will I'm so sorry I should've– I should've asked and– oh my god I'm so..."

Mike bursts into laughter, his worry still clear as he rests his head against Will's once again.

"You don't have to ask," Will whispers, barely even audible.

"Yeah?" Mike asks, his voice earnest.

"Yeah," Will says, a breath he didn't know he'd been holding escaping his lips.

Mike kisses Will again, this time making sure to guide him through it, but even Mike isn't sure he knows what he's doing. After all, he's only ever kissed one other person before, and that was a girl. Is kissing a boy supposed to be done different than kissing a girl? Mike doesn't know (it's not), but he's doing his best to figure it out.

But it's...hard, because Will isn't helping. His mom did tell him middle school would be awkward. He just didn't think she meant this.

"Will," Mike mumbles against Will's lips, still kissing him.

"Hm?"

"I'm gonna go tell Lucas that I'm taking you home."

...

....

"You're staying the night?" Will asks with a gulp at the end, and Mike looks at him flustered.

"Um, I mean, yeah, if that's...if that's okay, I mean, I know I've done it a hundred times now but if because we kissed that make sit awkward then—"

"No, yeah, I mean, of course you can. You always can."

"Always?" Mike asks, that earnest tone still lingering around.

"Um, yeah. Yeah, always."

"Okay," Mike says, and he smiles.

That smile. It's not just any smile. No. It's the smile. The one. That big, cheesy grin.

And Will feels himself falling in love all over again.

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nobody-is-evil · 1 year

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Dream Receives a Letter

Summary: Instead of my name, I leave you my phone number. You should know that I am a guy. Please only call if you would date a guy as seriously as you have dated girls.

Your Nervous Admirer,

(XXX)-XXX-XXXX

Dream reread the words over and over again. Would he? He didn’t know.

Written for the Dreamling Nation Valentine’s Week. This is will be reblogged with the link to this fic on ao3.

Warning for unhealthy attitude towards food from the paragraph starting with “Dream had gotten his breakfast” to the one starting with “Dream stayed safe in his room”.

February. Valentine’s season.

In past years, Hob often had a date for Valentine’s Day. They’d never been anything but childish flings, though. Somehow, he insulted his partner, or they insulted him, and the two of them broke it off soon after—sometimes on Valentine’s Day. He couldn’t remember most of their names.

Sophomore year, Hob had come very, very close to having a partner for Valentine’s Day—a long-term one, at that! But Eleanor moved away in early February, and by then they’d already broken up after she decided she wouldn’t be able to keep up their relationship long-distance.

He spent the day that year sadly tending to Robyn, the oak sapling they’d planted in Hob’s yard. Eleanor had been so excited to watch him grow...

Junior year was different. Last year, the pain of the hellhole he escaped (the less said about it, the better) was still fresh, even months later. Not exactly the best frame of mind to be dating.

Not that that was common knowledge—most people would’ve described him as a happy, optimistic golden retriever. Only one person had known differently: The first person to show him kindness after the hellhole and his best friend, Dream.

Who Hob might’ve, sort of, kind of had a massive crush on at the time. And who might’ve, sort of, kind of gotten a girlfriend soon after Hob and Dream became friends.

Hob still didn’t understand why Dream had been so infatuated with his girlfriend. Thessaly was—how to put this—more disinterested in men than Hob thought possible. She was a 7 on the Kinsey Scale. Had to be, in order to miss how gorgeous Dream was. How neither of them had seen it, Hob didn’t know. But then, Dream had always had bad luck with relationships.

6 girlfriends, and not a single relationship had ended without massively upsetting Dream. Hob couldn’t see the sense in most of them—who would leave Dream for another guy? Who could break up with him over an accident, no matter how tragic? Who could date him just to sleep with him? Who could fall out of love with him? Who could date him without realizing she was a lesbian?

(Answers, in order: Killala, Calliope, Titania, Alianora, and Thessaly.)

(Nada...was different. But Dream’d changed since then. He wouldn’t do that again.)

Okay, so maybe Hob thought about Dream’s past relationships a lot. It was only natural to be upset on Dream’s behalf. If Dream was Hob’s boyfriend—

Nope, nope, nope, he couldn’t think like that. Dream was straight.

Well.

The thing was, all he had to go off of for that was that Dream had just never told him otherwise. That didn’t actually mean Dream for sure didn’t like men.

But Hob didn’t want to risk ruining their friendship. It was a little selfish—after he’d had to leave all his friends behind at his old school, the only true friend he’d been able to make at this school was Dream.

It was also out of concern for Dream. The last time they’d seriously fought had been the worst. When Dream refused to speak to Hob, well, that didn’t mean Hob had stopped caring about him, and it had been easy to tell—to him, anyway—that it was eating at Dream. If calling them friends had gotten that reaction, what would Hob confessing his love do?

No. Just like last year, Hob couldn’t do anything to show Dream that Hob was in love with him.

And that was final.

No way around it.

Period.

...

But as the holiday drew closer and closer, as the dating talk became inescapable, Hob found that he couldn’t stop thinking of ways he could do it while avoiding most, if not all of the consequences he was afraid of.

So here he was, writing a letter that he didn’t plan on signing.

Handwriting a letter to his best friend that he wanted to be anonymous seemed like a bad idea at first glance, but not when Hob’s usual handwriting was rushed. If he took his time and slowly wrote every letter in every word so they were all nice and neat, it looked like it was written by a completely different person.

He did have to start over several times whenever he wanted to erase something. Would using an eraser change Dream’s answer, maybe not, but Hob had to start over anyway.

Most of it ended up being him waxing poetic about Dream. Even if Hob was able to confess to Dream without the poetry, it could only help to stroke Dream’s ego—especially in places it wasn’t usually stroked.

...

Moving on.

The last sentence contained Hob’s instructions for getting in contact with him. It may have also seemed silly for an anonymous letter, but in his opinion, it was sillier to send it without. If he got an anonymous love letter that asked him if he could love the author, well, he wouldn’t know. For all he knew, they could be catfishing him.

So in lieu of a name, Dream would be getting Hob’s phone number. Considering he already had this info, Hob had downloaded an app that gave him a different one, one with the area code of the town he now lived in rather than the one from when he got his phone. Dream would see a number that could be most of his classmates—but not Hob.

Of course, just leaving the number would still defeat the purpose. Dream would call, he would hear Hob’s voice, and Hob still wouldn’t know if Dream even liked men. Even if he asked Dream to text instead, they were still close enough that he couldn’t discount Dream figuring out it was him too quickly. No, there had to be a condition on it. He finished the letter.

Instead of my name, I leave you my phone number. You should know that I am a guy. Please only call if you would date a guy as seriously as you have dated girls.

Your Nervous Admirer,

(XXX)-XXX-XXXX

There was a chance Dream would call anyway. He was curious like that. But more often than not, Dream followed instructions just because they were given, as long as they weren’t from one of his parents or a person he similarly disliked.

That didn’t always mean he would do as intended, though. Dream’s interpretation skills sometimes hit the mark and sometimes missed. Hob was as clear as he dared without using language Dream might not be familiar with.

This was all probably for nothing. Most likely, Dream would get to the part where his admirer was a man and discard it all on the basis of being 100% straight. He’d had six girlfriends before he was 18 that all left him devastated when they ended. He’d never said a word about being anything but straight even after Hob came out to him. He had to have thought about it. Dream had clearly just...decided he was straight, or to never tell anyone he wasn’t. He wouldn’t admit to liking men by answering a random love letter.

Hob stared at the completed letter.

No, that was the devil talking. He’d written the thing, and he was going to send it, for a reason—for he had a chance, and he wouldn’t stop being able to think about it if he didn’t take that chance.

—Line Break—

Dream woke suddenly, without knowing why.

Then he heard the excited squealing.

He rolled over and pressed the pillow against his ears, futilely. Ugh. Why was Desire so enthusiastic about Valentine’s Day when they weren’t even interested in romance?

Unfortunately, he knew the answer to that question: They were nosy, and this holiday was a great way to figure out what people wanted.

He let out a sigh, his morning already ruined, and got up for school.

Making himself presentable wasn’t high on his list of priorities. He tended to sleep in the clothes he planned to wear the next day, rather than change in the morning. He didn’t see the point in brushing his hair when it looked good as it was. As long as he wore deodorant and made sure his clothes were still reasonably clean, Dream thought he was decent enough to be seen in public (considering girls would inevitably find him attractive and guys would inevitably envy him anyway) and therefore decent enough to attend Family Breakfast.

Sometimes, he wished he could take longer so he could get to breakfast after his siblings had already left. It would make everyone happier...except Death. Death would only have to pout at him, and he’d go back to coming to breakfast on time the next day. It had happened before.

Dream had gotten his breakfast (coffee cake and a glass of chocolate milk, perfect for his sweet tooth) and sat down before he realized how quiet it was.

...why were all of his siblings staring at him?

“Is that food on your plate?” Desire asked. At Dream’s bewildered nod, they continued, “What have you done with our Dream? He would never eat breakfast without prodding.”

While Dream kept his face perfectly stony, he was an on-fire puddle of embarrassment. Further humiliation came from the fact that Death didn’t immediately step in—she was thinking the same thing!

He considered his words carefully, as always, before speaking: “Most days, I have no need for food beyond the basic necessities. Today, I do.” The former part was the reason he gave every day. Proof, not that he needed any more of it, that none of his siblings actually listened when he spoke. Why he bothered, he...well.

Now Death interjected to scold him, “Dream, you can’t just have chocolate from your valentines all day. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“I’m sure it won’t just be chocolate,” he acknowledged. He stood up with most of his meal unconsumed, “If you’ll excuse me,” without waiting to actually be excused.

He loudly scraped his meal in the trash and poured his drink down the drain. Or, at least, he hoped they thought he did (in reality he scarfed it down while he was out of their lines of sight, only leaving enough to provide the necessary noises). Maybe next time, Death would think twice about taking Desire’s side on his eating habits.

Dream stayed safe in his room until it was time for the next part of his awful morning: his parents’ call.

Even though they were out of the country, they always called on Valentine’s Day. Night and Time Endless only had one purpose in making this call. Not to make sure their kids were safe and happy, not to wish them a good day, not to tell them they’d be home from their trip soon.

No, his parents only wanted to ensure none of their kids had dates for Valentine’s Day.

Considering not a single one of his siblings had ever shown the least bit of interest in romance, let alone had a partner, it might as well have been a personal attack on Dream. It had been the last two years, when he’d been with Thessaly and before that, Calliope.

He informed them, “No, mother. I have not had a girlfriend since I broke up with Thessaly in August.”

“Good.” They hung up.

They wouldn’t have done anything drastic if he had a girlfriend—that would require a level of care he didn’t think they were capable of—but they would tell Destiny to pester him every day about why the rule existed: Because most relationships end in tragedy.

It was galling, but internally, he could admit that he was starting to think they were right. This was the longest he’d gone without a girlfriend in a while. Not for lack of contenders—the girls at his school were always trying to bag him, an Endless. No, he just didn’t see the point in dating a girl who held only that shallow interest in him. Not one of them could actually care about him.

Ugh. Why was he letting his parents further sink his mood? He had enough things to be upset about without making himself more upset because of a topic he’d already been thinking about for months.

Since he, Desire, Despair, and Delirium were all heading to the same place, it was better that they all take the same vehicle (logic that Dream despised) especially considering neither of his younger sisters could drive and Desire was perpetually on thin ice.

On good days, Death would drive them. However, as already established, today was not a good day. So Dream had to drive.

By the time he was finally able to part ways from his siblings and go to his locker, it felt like his mood was already at its lowest, and he hadn’t even had to deal with anything directly school-related yet.

At least his all-black attire and dour manner meant people made a wide berth around him. Dream reached his locker without any further trouble. He inputted his locker combination and was about to open it when he stopped.

His brain was telling him something was wrong—something undesirable would happen if he opened it. After giving his subconscious a moment to explain itself to his conscious self, he understood. In past years, he’d had a lot of valentines slipped into his locker, and that was while he had a girlfriend. There was sure to be a mountain of them this time, and some would fly out if he wasn’t careful.

Only now did he open it. As expected, letters threatened to scatter everywhere, how tiresome, but he didn’t let a single one slip away. He stacked them and set them to the side to deal with later—

Holy shit.

Despite himself, Dream felt a grin spread across his face. (He fought it down, of course—it wouldn’t do for the school’s gossip mill, of which he was unfortunately considered a celebrity, to see him and come up with any crazy ideas, like him having a secret girlfriend. If that made its way to Delirium, for example, she would tell the family and he’d never hear the end of it.)

Some girl had left a giant box of his favorite chocolates in his locker, far too big to have been slid through the slots. No, she knew his locker combination. As the only other person who should’ve been able to say that was Hob, and Hob would’ve just given them to him in person, that meant she broke in.

But how could he be mad, when she had such a good reason to?

Dream popped the lid off and was further surprised by a pristine white folded paper sitting on top of the chocolates. He hadn’t planned on reading any of the valentines, but this one earned it. While treating himself to one of the gifted sweets, he opened it and looked for a name at the bottom.

Hmm. No name, only a phone number. He flipped it over, scanned the (very neat) handwriting, but the only name he could find was his own. Who would send a love letter signed with a phone number? Intrigued, Dream actually read it now, starting from the greeting.

If he could live solely off of compliments, the letter would be enough to sustain him for likely hundreds of years. It was not just the sheer amount, nor the degree of flattery, but the kind—each one was actually characteristics he prided himself on, not just how others saw him.

His art was highly skilled and full of complex meanings. His hair and clothes were cool and did make him hotter, rather than hide it like so many other girls had bemoaned. He did put a lot of effort into his schoolwork, even though loathed doing most of it at all.

The author didn’t only heap praise on him. Interspersed were declarations of love. Dream had mixed feelings about them—he enjoyed them, but he wished she hadn’t sat on it for so long, if the amount of time she’d apparently harbored these feelings was to be believed.

He read to the end of the letter and froze. His...nervous admirer...was a guy?

Of course Dream knew his school had a not insignificant queer population, but he’d never had cause to think about it before. No guy had ever shown any interest in him before.

In addition to the author being a guy, he asked that Dream only use the phone number if he would date a guy.

Which, again, not something he’d ever had to consider before. Dream reread the words over and over again. Would he? He didn’t know.

At the minute warning bell, he quickly gathered his materials for his first class, leaving the chocolates and the letter behind, but not the thoughts they had caused.

What qualities were consistent with someone willing to date a guy? Well, probably the same qualities that made him willing to date a girl. She was interesting, she was hot, and she was willing to date him. Soon enough, Dream found that he cared about her, that his every waking moment was consumed by thoughts about her.

It was the first condition that no girl had met within the last several months. His heart had closed off. It had higher standards.

So someone who liked guys would find guys interesting and hot. Well, he was intrigued by the author of the letter, at least. Dream hadn’t found a guy attractive before, but then, it had never been an option before. He’d need a large sample size—after all, it wasn’t like he found every girl attractive.

He would take the rest of the school day, and if he didn’t find any of his male classmates hot before school ended, he probably didn’t like guys.

—Line Break—

By the time the passing period prior to lunch had started, Dream had found that the fact that he recognized people was interfering with the experiment, as he was dismissing guys he disliked straightaway.

Did he do the obvious thing, to change his sample from his classmates to pictures of men on Google or something? No, that took too much work. It was much faster to simply think flexibly and stop recognizing people. With just a little bit of concentration, the hallways became filled solely with strangers.

Hmm. Still hadn’t found any attractive guys at this school.

A flash of motion caught his eye. Dream’s eyes searched for it on instinct and landed on—

A hot guy. His search was over.

Now all he had to do was stop staring (and probably freaking the guy out, considering his stare had often been described as intimidating.) Dream blinked, letting his brain go back to its regularly scheduled programming.

Oh. That was. Hob. That he’d been staring at.

Naturally, Hob seemed concerned by his behavior. “Dream, are you okay?” By the way he asked, Dream could tell that this wasn’t the first time he’d done so.

“I’m fine. I just have a lot on my mind.” There, that was vague enough.

“Like what? Got a lot of valentines?” Hob teased as they found their way outside and to a quiet place.

The pieces fell together. Dream narrowed his eyes. Hadn’t he noted earlier that other than him, only Hob had access to his locker? And, as a guy who liked guys himself, Hob wouldn’t be opposed to other guys who did. “I found a large box of sweets in my locker this morning. Did you give the combination to someone or something?”

“Ah, yeah.” Hob looked down in embarrassment. “I figured you wouldn’t mind, considering what the gift was.”

Dream leaned in, unable to look away. “So you know who it’s from?”

He laughed, “I do, but I can’t tell you.”

No, Hob had principles. It would be useless to try to get him to break a promise like this. Instead, Dream tried to get other important information from him. “Is he attractive?”

“Umm...” Hob looked at him like a deer in the headlights. “I don’t know if you would think so or not, Dream.”

Ugh. As much as Dream wanted to know the answer, he didn’t want to make Hob uncomfortable. “I suppose I’ll just have to call him.” After all, he found at least one guy attractive, so there was possibility enough that he could date a guy.

He got his phone out and dialed the number he’d memorized without even trying, just from how much he’d stared at the letter. (Dream glanced up at Hob once, but he was laser-focused on Dream’s phone.) After the last number, he hit the green call button.

Hob’s phone rang.

That...that...

Neither of them said anything as Hob got his phone out and accepted the call. Dream’s call connected when he did.

“Hey.” Hob’s voice came out of two speakers.

Dream ended the call with shaky hands. He was glad he was sitting down, because the revelation left him light-headed. “You...”

He must’ve sounded angry, because Hob’s next words came out in a rush, “Look, I know I’m probably not—”

“The letter-those were your words?” he had to confirm. “You feel that way about me?”

Hob stared at him with a familiar look that it now occurred to Dream was adoration. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I...”

A lot of things were occurring to him, actually.

Hob was his best friend and most trusted confidant. Hob knew things about him nobody else did.

Spending time with him wasn’t exhausting like it was with other people—Dream had, on several occasions, initiated a hangout with him because he was thinking about Hob, and Hob never brushed him off.

Hob never raised his voice at Dream or called him weird, either, their first meeting notwithstanding. Hob listened to Dream’s advice.

Hob was always kind to him, even when Dream’s grief was hitting him hard or he was resistant to being called friends or he told him he began their relationship with bad intentions.

He held as much love for Hob as he did for Lucienne or Jessamy, except a distinctly different kind of love.

“I believe...I feel the same.”

“You do?” Hob breathed a sigh of relief. “I’d hoped so, but to hear you say as much...!”

The smile that Hob gave him was priceless. Dream would do anything to keep that smile on his face for the rest of eternity.

“We’re dating, then,” Hob said.

“Yes.” Just saying so set Dream’s heart aflutter.

“Then, maybe, sometime—” They were sitting close enough for Dream to tell that Hob’s gaze was drifting down to his lips. Hob noticed him noticing, “I’m sorry, I know you don’t really like kissing—”

“I’ve never kissed a guy before,” Dream countered as he leaned in.

They met in a chaste kiss. It didn’t take long for Dream to decide he was right—kissing a guy was different. The feeling of stubble against his chin was much better than his past girlfriends had made it seem. That couldn’t just be it, though. He’d never been this...giddy...to kiss his partner before. Perhaps it was something intrinsic to Hob.

Dream broke the kiss, and was treated to Hob smiling at him again.

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