This author does not condone the feeding of their works to generate AI content.
Tags: Fix-it fic, canon divergence, time and dimensional travel, canon-typical violence, mental health issues, found family, angst and hurt/comfort, eventual romance, slow burn, trauma, period-typical racism and bigotry.
Pairings: Eventual Steve Harrington/AFAB!Reader (Taking the slow burn very seriously here haha :') !)
Rating/Content Warnings: Rated M (primarily for depictions of violence/uncomfortable imagery). Chapter-specific content warnings will always be posted at the top of each chapter. Reader discretion is advised.
Summary: The United States Department of Defense thinks nothing of human mortality, yet the world in human endurance. Cloaked as a promising parent-child clinical trial, you and your mother are deceived, separated, and conditioned for "the greater good." During a particularly grueling test session, you are pushed beyond both physical and dimensional limits. As prepared as the study personnel were for death and noncompliance, no one anticipated for a retrieval mission to bring you, their only successful child participant so far, back home (and out of 1980s Hawkins, Indiana).
At the same time, the city of Hawkins quietly drowns proceeding Eleven's emergence, Will's disappearance, and a young girl's peculiar concussion.
-
History repeats itself, and loops the spiral of cruelty.
-
You unwrap yourself like a doll, with gentle and curious hands. You start first at the scalp, slowly tapping and poking amidst cool strands of hair. Eyes glued to the mirror, you notice yourself rubbing the same spot. It throbs. Your hands prod for further abnormalities before your stress does, and the lack of urgency screams at you to act.
This author does not condone the feeding of their works to generate AI content.
Pairing: Eventual Steve Harrington/AFAB!Reader
Word count: 3.3k
Content warnings: N/a
The second search party for Will Byers was not an appropriate place for you to be. Much to Chief Hopper’s dismay, he rather you be here than thrusted back into stifling yellow-lit halls and bustling teen dramatics. You needed space, was what your mother said. And space she gave you.
The morning’s pale, endless sky nearly engulfs Hawkins. If it weren’t for the occasional group of crows or sparrows here and there, silent while flying past, a brief look up would leave some breathless. Clumps of earth and dead leaves go on for miles. The vastness made everything buzz. A stub on something plastic. A clumsy stomp on old soda cans. An arm, leaning on the wet-cold trunk of a tree, to refine more focus to what could be on the ground. Layered with the various shouts of “Will!” “Will Byers!” “Will, we’ve got ya, bud,” everything felt charged. But that was the thing about energy. It shifts.
Quietly brewing among the shouts, the turning-overs, the double-checking, are stifled scoffs, baseless rumors, and doubt.
“The chief and her, they’ve screwed before, huh?” Callahan’s voice is slightly hushed, yet steady—a reckless invitation that Officer Powell doesn’t fully entertain. He responds back with a sneer and a solid call of Will’s name.
“That a yeah or did they…” Saying it out loud feels relieving—released into the world away from the volunteers, away from Will (who, to Callahan, is more of an idea of a child than an actual missing child) and most importantly, away from the Chief. And what is relief without release and enjoyment? A keen eye could catch it in his relaxed shoulders and upward tilt of his lips. To Callahan, the forest is too vast to hold something so trivial and hushed. Once released, his words are gone. Separated from him and scattered to the wind. Separate from his person to a degree almost as severe as his gleaming badge, hidden at the cross of his arms, to the volunteers’ neon orange vests.
Contrary to Callahan’s excuses, the earth remembers. It adapts. Would a mere disappearance bring forth change? The Byers child isn't some wide-sweeping environmental disease. Nor is he a caterpillar, attributable to the evolution of plants with poisonous leaves as a form of protection. In the literal, earthly sense, he is missing. Missing posters are taped in places he has and hasn’t been. They lay in a pile on the Byers’ dining table—rejected by his mother, who searches beyond, and hugged to the chest by his brother, who thinks Will can come back if he pins, staples, and tapes carefully enough.
His bike is found, with its pedals lightly stamped in dry leaves and dirt.
His castle stands noble, unfazed from the previous night’s rainfall.
Reminders remain, making the lack of his presence unsettling. Wrong. And such is the case of this question. It isn't a matter of whether he would make an impact, but what impact his disappearance makes.
“Will! Will!” Officers Callahan and Powell bellow. Officer Callahan reels himself in, a slight shakiness to his call (in comparison to Officer Powell, who is all chest and mostly business).
With Will’s disappearance, comes peculiarities. Some run deep, hidden, and gnarled like roots. The earth remembers, and houses what lies within.
--
Having more hands on deck was supposed to be reassuring. Instead, Chief Hopper finds himself distracted. Every so often, his ears pick up on the softness of your mother’s voice, breathy and familiar when directed towards you. It steers bright, almost shrill, when she shouts amidst her search. As well-intentioned as she is, her decision to bring you along brought more. More doubt, more confusion, and more straying. While organizing the search party, Flo called back multiple times to redirect your mother elsewhere.
“The Byers family still needs help with printing and distributing posters; this may be a better alternative.”
“I apologize again, but it is not recommended for children below the age of 18 to volunteer. Circulating the news even with a close circle might help.”
“Flashlights, first aid kits, and walking sticks are always in need. We could use a pair of hands or so to pick these up and store them for future use.”
Nothing stuck, and against Flo and Chief Hopper’s better judgment, here you both were. The father didn't come, likely still on the way to Hawkins Town Square to open up. He couldn’t afford to miss a day at work. They fought about it last night and briefly this morning. Something about, “She is our daughter, damn it! She's only been back for two days, and you're the one losing your mind? What about her?! What about our daughter? What about volunteering in a search party sounds helpful to you?” And, “Do you hear yourself? Go fix your fucking shoes—that’s the only thing you seem to care about anyways. I will do everything. Unlike! You!” Also, “You’re giving her everything but the thing she needs most: time.”
Several yards away from the top of the slope, Hopper sees you clearing the leaves and sticks with the front of your shoe. At first, he’s far away enough to observe—and only that. His mind has better places to be. Joyce kept mixing up what Will wore last night, running through her pack of cigarettes at a rate that concerned even him. He was sick of her hand tremor, shaking like she carried everything and then some. He didn’t just ask questions—he asked the right ones. He didn’t just find Will’s bike—he gathered information. Joyce met nearly every question, every speculation, with distance and unease—a reminder that she is a parent, and Hopper is a cop.
In the span of twenty minutes, Hopper’s moved closer to the two of you than he’s liked. Planted a few trees away, his feet wait for his mind to move.
Certainly, volunteering in a search party was not a part of your discharge instructions. Outside of a doctor’s opinion and care, a parent tends to their child’s health with rampant comfort and hesitant technicalities. It bewilders Chief Hopper that something like this could look like that.
Hopper doesn’t take long to work out that you are distracted. Your mother trails closely behind your crouched form, attention tightly tethered, looking where you look, and toeing where you toe. Crunchy leaves part at the heavy drags of your feet, leaving a trail of visible earth. Your movements are machine-like, feet slithering at a steady pace with help from the downward slope. Yet every now and then, your engine jerks, and you peer over your mother with a partial turn of your head. She meets you with a quick jut of her chin.
You resume.
Hopper scrunches his brows at the sight of her, cogs turning when he realizes that her head is angled not at you, but rather around you. At the ghost of your smile whenever you pause to check on her. At the end of your jeans, brown from kicking up dust and dirt. The stiff smile your mom gives is foreign. He reasons to himself that that doesn’t mean much. That the performance before him makes sense. That he doesn’t know enough, and that it’s none of his business. He crumples this up to keep for later.
Pulling his shoulders back, Hopper returns to the forest. The air is light and crisp, and as nice as that is—you should be elsewhere. School wasn't an option just yet, but there should be at least five anywhere elses for you to try. He shakes his head and tightens his jaw; his mind is made up, legs following with him. His stride is unyielding, twigs snapping and heels trudging into the dirt. He surges towards the both of you, stuffing down his perplexity when you freeze before your mother does. You stand up, eyes wide and posture rigid.
“You two need to go home.”
“Chief Hopper, we’ve barely covered any ground-” Your mother has to look up to speak to him.
“And we will cover just as much with two people short. Please.” The frustration building in his voice is hot and steady; it comes out soft and quiet because he lets it. His hands speak with him, and something about the way he holds himself has your mother leave quietly.
He was the last person deserving of judgment, but as he sees you two off, your distant eyes set his lips with unease.
He is given another reminder as you’re driven off.
Joyce is a parent, and Jim was one.
Off to the side, one cold glance is all it takes for Officers Powell and Callahan to bury their noses elsewhere. At least, until they’re back in the office.
--
For whatever reason, your concussion becomes everyone's problem, and a palpable one at that. Parts of Hawkins are still asleep, brisk air doing little to prod it awake. You pass by slouching trees and gloomy fields, cloaked heavily in the cold. It's hard to tell how much life occupies the houses you glance at. Some still have their curtains closed, cars in the driveway; others pour out warmth in spite of their emptiness. On occasion, another car drives by, and every time that happens, you look down.
Something settles at the bottom of your stomach, dark and grim. You pick at the skin of your thumbs, panic rising with the quickening of your pulse. As certain as you are alive, the aimless search your heart has on whatever to make it better, suffocates you. The picking curbs other signs of stress, ones that would otherwise show on your face. You drag out a long sigh, and sink further back into your seat. When you reach to adjust your seat belt, your eyes couldn't help but flit back to your mother before settling once again, on the view outside the window.
Calling her your mother came easier than expected. When you came, bawling and desperate and eyes crusted shut, she cradled you in her arms, hands trembling and alive. At that moment, it felt all the same—the low chant of your name, her fingers brushing through your hair, the tightness of her hold as she rocked you. She felt just enough like Mom for you to stop crying.
What you managed to grasp at the time was incomplete, broken. You were falling into yourself, endlessly. Every cycle became an attempt for you to stay together, with nothing to hold you in place. Wearing your face like a mask, slipping your hands on like gloves, flailing your legs until they clicked in place. You slipped through yourself each time, failing to stay whole. Darkness was your only company, echoing your dread back to you.
"I need to go back." The thread snaps, and you hit the ground.
Laying there in her arms, you pretend that this is how it should be. That you are her daughter, ready to go home and… be. Her comfort is thick like a balm, momentarily numbing your anguish. You lay heavily in her arms, surrendered and tingly; remnants of the dark now distant, but still within reach.
It didn't take long for a nurse to come by, informing you both that a doctor will attend to you shortly.
What felt like years ended up being an hour-long stay at the ER. Your mother had little to worry about; the concussion was deemed mild. The diagnostic process took up the bulk of the visit. You were hesitant at first, something she caught when you paused at certain questions. She picked it up with ease, the way you wracked your brain. You were intentional.
"And, do you remember what day it is?" The doctor looks up from her notes, pen held loosely in her hand. Her smile is kind, yet distant.
"N-no. I don't know how long I've been out so…" You don't know if that helps your case. It probably worsened it. By a lot. You gulp.
Sensing your distress, your mother breaks through with a rub on your shoulder. "It's okay. The doctor just wants to make sure you're okay. I'm right here. She, uh, slipped in the bathroom. I heard it from downstairs, ran up, and when she wouldn't wake up, I called 911."
"Then, do you recall how you hit your head?" The doctor looks back at you. This time her brows are furrowed.
Your shoulders sink, and you answer truthfully. "I don't remember how it happened."
The doctor nods, noting everything down.
The rest of the diagnostic is uneventful. She finishes with, "It's likely your daughter experienced a mild traumatic brain injury, or concussion. Concussions have a largely positive prognosis, but keep in mind that symptoms may appear in the days after it happens. This is typical, but if your daughter finds that they persist, or that she continues to be disoriented, ask her primary care physician to refer her to a neurologist. They'll be able to run more tests and provide further care if needed. Everything is detailed in your discharge instructions. She should be able to return to her daily activities in as soon as two days."
The both of you leave in silence, discharge papers rolled up and clutched tightly in one of your mother's hands. The other rests on the back of your neck.
"I called your dad a bit ago. Told him to close up early and prepare dinner—just in case they let you come home tonight." She helps you into the passenger's seat. You nod slowly, only giving yourself room to think after you buckle your seat belt. Meanwhile, your mother is making her way towards the other side of the car.
"I have a dad?" You sighed incredulously.
The car ride from Hawkins General Hospital to home is filled with silence. Your measly attempt at adjusting goes unwatched, as your mother's attention is fixed to the road. Eyes glued to the night beyond your car window, your body remains frozen; a clear sign of compensation for the amount of effort your brain puts in, rifling through the unknown. You cross your arms, digging your nails into the side. The faint pain gives you a direction.
The dad is waiting in the driveway by the time you both return home, pacing back and forth in the dark with an apron on. He waves several times, making sure that your eyes meet his. Your chest tightens, and before you could fully get out, he scurries over and crushes you in a hug. He strokes your hair, and you grimace at the way his mustache tickles your cheek. Both parents lead you inside, your mother giving the dad a brief rundown of what happened. Her hands are animated as she speaks; he's nodding along, tension in his jaw slowly fading away.
"I'll call in the morning to make an appointment. Need me to close up for tomorrow?" Your mother shakes her head.
You walk into the smell of dinner, a familiar medley of tomatoes, dried herbs, and warmth. Making your way further into the house, you take off your shoes and stand by the staircase, watching two people seamlessly fall into the motions.
"Mom?"
She hums back as she's setting the table.
"I'm not that hungry yet. You and Dad can eat first. Is it okay… if I eat later? I just want to lie down a bit." You muster up your best smile, wearing it like a silent plead.
"Yes, but I want you back down in no later than an hour. Come over and take a glass with you." You give your mother a nod, raising a thumbs up to the dad when he holds up your plate. A hefty portion of spaghetti will be waiting for you. Before anything else, you head straight upstairs with the glass of water in hand. The rooms with closed doors are neglected; even the bathroom is only spared a few seconds of attention. It's easy to tell which room was yours, decorated with various stickers on your door, and slither of pastel yellow wallpaper peeking through.
Set on autopilot, you close the door, set the glass on the desk, and walk up to the mirror.
You unwrap yourself like a doll, with gentle and curious hands. You start first at the scalp, slowly tapping and poking amidst cool strands of hair. Eyes glued to the mirror, you notice yourself rubbing the same spot. It throbs. Your hands prod for further abnormalities before your stress does, and the lack of urgency screams at you to act. You back away from the mirror.
Your soul is yours, but this body is not. Off to the side of your reflection, your eyes catch on the calendar.
The date reads November 6th, 1983.
"I need to go back."
You lurch forward in the car, pulled back into the present.
"Sorry, hon. Squirrel on the road."
"S'okay." You try to ignore your mother’s grip on the steering wheel, clamped to the point it tightens your own throat. She's been looking into you. Through you. And you weren't sure if she knew what she was doing—if her watchfulness was only the beginning of the search for her daughter in you.
--
The sudden pour makes the terrain more bearable. Dead leaves and sticks become pliable, less likely to resist against her footsteps and sink further into the mud. Earlier, when the skies turned murky and gray, and the air wet and earthy, she contemplated on whether to hide. But, she was never good at that, and she knew that if she stayed still, they would find her. The only solution was to keep going forward.
Eleven cloaks herself with the dark, rain muting out the wet sloshing of mud and skin against earth.
The pace she set is beginning to falter, heart pounding against her ears. With each stride, her calves ache and quiver. The endlessness traps her—not unlike the white, cold walls of the laboratory or the hushed deaths that pile behind her.
Raindrops pelted, unrelenting. With the night's persistence, it gets harder for Eleven to see. She trips over a dip in the ground, knees stinging from the prickly leaves and pebbles amidst the mud. She steadies herself, reaching an arm out on a nearby birch tree to keep steady. The strength of her grip causes the bark to peel. With what little visibility there is, she stares at the piece of outer bark in her hand, and back at the inner bark on the trunk, its color a ghostly gray between tannish paper-like wood. Her breath hitches, and she drops the bark on the ground. Then, she starts to run.
Coldness creeps from the inside. Her head is awfully quiet, waiting for the chance to finish its puzzle but she resists. And for naught. Fear overrides her, thoughts clicking in to place.
"Gray. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong." It's too cold to scream.
Off in the distance, something squelches.
Eleven's pants start to sound like pleads, desperate and shaky. Her arms are stretched out in front of her, a force of habit to shield herself from the bad things. Without thinking, she changes direction, charging ahead clumsily.
Time stretches. She feels its croaking reverberate in her chest. She's pulled back there, back with Papa, back into nothing. Eleven is tired. Papa said it can't hurt her. Papa said it wasn't really there. But she touched its slimy cold skin, saw it open itself, and felt it try to kill her. They made her do something wrong.
Eleven almost yields. She slows down her pace, arms limp at her sides. A gust of wind nearly takes her with it. One foot back; that shouldn't be hard to do. She shifts her weight, and turns her head slowly.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, a flicker of light.
Author's note: Yippee, I finally got this out! This was postponed for much too long because I just so happened to go through the worst couple months of my life ;; Anyways, I can't wait for the behemoth this will become!
Tags: One shot, alternate universe, romantic soulmates, fluff and hurt/comfort, mutual yearning/pining/longing, dreams, loneliness, mental health issues, & spoiler-free.
Content warnings: Depictions of mental health struggles, mentions of self-harm (vague, passive, and not further elaborated), possible unrealistic depictions of romantic love due to the nature of a soulmate au, and possible ooc depictions of Xavier.
Summary: He lingers the most in the mornings, in tangled knots of hair and heavy sleep. You can't say you remember him; you've never met. But as you sink deeper in the bog, thick and unforgiving, you feel him, guiding you to the surface.
Or: it's hard enough to live. Xavier helps you exist.
The air in your car feels heavy and lethargic, a stark contrast to what you walked through just seconds ago. It was enough to sting your eyes. You fail at blinking back the tears, and debate on whether you should start the car before you grab a tissue. As eager as you were to leave work, to detach completely from it's monotony, you settle in your seat similarly to how you would the couch before the start of a movie. The seat lets out a timid squeak as you mold your back to the cushion. It seems... peaceful. Quiet. But Time gnaws at the world's bones, turning the sky its striking orange. Time finishes its dinner, full and content, and moves along to eat, sleep, work, and play as always. It doesn't wait for you to do the same. Or more so, it doesn't wait for you to try to do the same.
You fill the commute back home with the usual mutterings.
Ran out of that good fruit juice... But it's so expensive... Do I really need to go grocery shopping this week? I need to make a list. I'm not cut out for this meal planning shit- It's so boring and it takes up my whole Sunday.
Ugh, I really don't want to do laundry. Do I still have enough underwear? I'll just wait until I run out.
I need to text mom back. I keep forgetting. She gets so worried when I don't reply right away. She's suffocating sometimes.
I just want to go home. I just want you.
--
You wonder if it's shameful, how desperately you want. It's a guilty relief to not have met him yet. He's a ghost of a lover; closer to a figment of your imagination than a soul love persisting through and through. You tell yourself not to cling, and the embarrassment sets into your frown. The grip on the steering wheel is tight, and you start to notice the ache in your knees from sitting so long. Your sigh is long in length and frustration. Opening the window and letting the outside pour in is an appreciated aid. It helps you forget. Forget how shame clings to your clothes, how it tickles your skin, how it pulses like a dull metronome in your head.
The last fifteen minutes of the drive is met with static. The wind outside is comforting in spite of its biting cold, and the sun, nearly hidden, makes your view easy on the eyes. It became easy to go. To drive and relish in the crunching of the gravel. A speck of relief sputters in your chest as you make the turn into the parking lot. It's familiar, safe. You don't head in until it's blue and dark, no clouds in sight. Tiny stars tremble above, and you smile at the moon before dragging yourself away.
--
Dinner is spent half-present, mind elsewhere with a YouTube video essay filling parts of your appetite. A monster of a video breaking down the latest TV series you devoured. A perfect pairing to your leftover lunch and hastily made dinner. Everything tastes lesser these days– less flavorful, less satiating. You don't bother to skip the ad in the video, chewing just to chew, hearing just to hear. Just to finish, wash the dishes, and head to bed.
You don't think of him when you stand up, empty chair across your small table (perfect for two). You don't think of him returning home, eating dinner with you. You don't think of how eager you'd be to hear his thoughts on what you cooked that night. No, you think of him as you wash the dishes. And you think and nag at Fate for it's cruelty in muddling him. How you remember the heat from his lips, sweet on your neck. But not what he said, and how he said it, as he spoke against your skin. One thing, but not the other; until it was dizzying to try and piece him together. You loved all of him regardless. You know you do. Even the faint wisps of him are precious. You catch yourself before you start the chase.
The one thing they gave us were our names. I know yours, so you mine, right? Do you think we'll know when we meet? That... you're mine, and I'm yours? I'm scared I won't know. That I'll pass by you one day, and the only you I get to know gets trapped in my head. In me.
I forget about you entirely sometimes. When I don't want to be here, when I'm stuck. And I don't want that. I know you. I know I do. I want to love you fully.
Mom keeps bringing up grandchildren lately, but I- I can't even remember your voice. At least, not today. You're safe to me, alive and warm. I don't think about everything else- marriage, children, whether I move in or you move out. If my family will like you, if I'll even want to introduce you to them. Are you always this warm? I think I'll cry if we- once we meet. I don't want to take myself away from you. Is it annoying, the way I push and pull away? I bet if the red string of fate existed here, I'd have bled from how tight I hold it. Good thing we can't hear each other's thoughts-
You finish washing the dishes just before the water feels too hot.
--
The few steps it takes to get to your bathroom are rushed and uneven. It's not physical; there's no heaviness in your chest or throbbing in your head. No soreness in your shoulders or knot in your back. It's a coldness that wraps your soul, not your skin. The look you give yourself in the mirror is desperate; you know what for, but you refuse to voice it in your head. You've been here all this time. Why falter now?
You woke up this morning, came to work on time, finished work with no complaints, and reached home in one piece. You had all the ingredients to bake a cookie recipe you had saved for months. Your mother is coming this weekend to spend time with you. You have an outing that made it out of your group chat in three weeks.
You will wake up again.
But you catch it, the way you lug yourself along. The way you push and push. It hurts beyond your bones.
--
Sleep is a dangerous thing to cling onto. It's the only good thing you feel at times. It means waking up to mornings. To the soft blue glow along the windows, and birdsong. He lingers the most in the mornings, in tangled knots of hair and heavy sleep. He visits you beyond never, beyond anything of quantifiable measure. With all of him, even if you can’t remember. So you'll curl up in the covers to mimic his warmth, and gently peel the sleep from his visits. Sometimes there's a tingle in your skin, a reminder from him that you're pulsing and beating and alive. You love when he takes you away, deep into what hasn't been, what may or may not be. But what you love most is his forever, a silent vow to fight against your currents, a spiteful spit at your inner sufferings. To be with you now, as it is. He finds that better than dreaming, than conjuring up grand, cloudy-sweet deviations. To one day make memories, to revel in your present. His forever is Knowing, something of a blade heavy and threatening. Raw and throbbing and final from its endless duels. A swing powerful enough to begin and end.
--
"I let you go to grab the eggs just for you to spawn in the noodles section." He lets out a breathy laugh, stopping the grocery cart just enough so that he can slot himself in between. You don't look up to respond just yet.
"Are these noodles more important than me?" He leans in close, heat comforting and pleasant.
"Well, they're for you, Xavier. You almost always come over hungry." (And through the window somehow, but you don't mention that part. Dream mechanics or... something, considering you live on the fifth floor of an apartment complex.) You step back to stare at him before throwing a pack in the cart. He throws in another.
He's always so close. Too close, and you get desperate to step back and look. Look and see and just try to remember even if you wake up with Xavier in splotches. His hair is soft and messy from the ride here. The car was getting stuffy, but not hot enough to turn the fan on, so he cracked a window open. His shirt's slightly wrinkled, and the little rabbit charm from his phone is peeking out of his pocket. You feel for your matching one inside your pant pocket.
"You think this is enough? Ready to check out?" Xavier waits. He doesn't head back to push the cart. You turn your whole body to face him, and when you look at his eyes, you can't help but want to cry. You hate that that stupid charm is peeking out. You hate that you probably woke him up in the middle of a nap, and that he didn't iron his shirt in a rush to meet you. His mouth's slightly open, and you see him shift. He's more slouched, eyes concerned. He's waiting.
"No. I don't think it's enough. I think you should just move in at this point." You pause heavily between every sentence, breaths uneven from holding in your gasps. Your eyes are glassy, and you nearly break when the tears start to blur his face.
He takes both of your hands in his before he mumbles an, "I know."
"Your hands are always dry around the fingertips. Have you not been using the hand cream I gave you? Why were you napping at 9 PM? Why did you rush over when I told you to take your time? You're always looking at me like that. S-Stop looking at me like that." You shiver at the pads of his fingers. They ghost along your shoulders, soothing and ticklish against the fabric of your shirt.
"Look at you like what?" He stares at you like you'll stare back.
"Like you want me. Want me just as much even though-"
"Don't finish that. I know how I feel about you. I know I love you." He's said it just as much as you have. He wraps his arms around you, and you hope, if anything at all, you remember his scent. Deep, nostalgic, familiar. This one thing, if only that from this moment. Your name leaves from him shaky and cracked.
When you look up, you feel his lips on your forehead, shifting into a smile before adding a few more pecks. It's too much, so you smile all goofy. It's all you can muster in spite of it. Of everything. The want, the shame, the spiraling.
"Fate will only ever bring us closer. You have given me you, and that is all I ask for. Think of me in Fate's confines; that's all we can do. I will find you, and hold you as you are."
--
You wake up with specks of him all around, invisible to the morning rays. Your skin feels raw and crusty around the eyes, like you cried. You can't process what you've remembered yet.
But he's here. Like clockwork, he lingers.
Author's note: welcome! to my first ever completed fic :DD ! ! love and deepspace has been my comfort game these past few weeks, so i hope this provides some sort of comfort and/or entertainment for any readers out there experiencing anything similar.
hey folks, it’s been a while since i’ve posted anything for singed ends. just wanted to give a bit of an update, since i’m unsure as to when the next set of chapters will be uploaded.
i’ve been experiencing health issue after health issue, and while it’s not too concerning, it’s certainly been very exhausting. with that said, i haven’t been able to work on anything. though, what’s most important is that i have the next few chapters planned! so i’m not totally leaving myself in the dark. it’s been difficult to work when i’m constantly in a state of discomfort :/ please bear with me! once i’m better, i’ll definitely be able to work and post again :’)
Summary: Soulmate prompt: When meeting your soulmate, your tattoos get filled in by their favorite color(s).
Meanings only exist if they’re given. To Jake, red is love.
Or: In which you’re scared that your story’s already written, but Jake’s adamant that there are blank pages you can fill (with him).
Author's note: To be clear, I am not posting everyday </3 Fortunately, my head was just brimming with ideas this past week, all of which are now here! I know it's only the second chapter, but if anything, please let me know your thoughts! And thank you so much for 50 notes on the masterlist holy cow ;-;.
pairing: volleyball player!Jay x fem!volleyball player!reader
summary: one may ask, what would happen if you put a prodigy and a hard worker in one room? Absolute chaos. Jay and Y/N absolutely hated each other’s guts. Having been rivals from middle school until present, it’s a cruel twist of fate that they ended up going to the same university years later. To make matters even worse, both have been selected as captains for the men’s and women’s volleyball team respectively.
The coaches, the managers—hell, both teams knew they had to put an end to this ridiculous beef as they were slowly tarnishing the esteemed reputation of both teams, but the question is: how?
genre: social media au, college au, enemies to lovers/rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, humor and crack
warnings: y/n is a bit of a menace, Jay is a bit of a dick, cursing, dirty/inappropriate jokes 💀 and some tension lmao
featuring: ENHYPEN, Stray Kids, STAYC, Weeekly and brief appearances of other idols.
status: COMPLETED
started: october 7, 2021
ended: december 21, 2021
a/n: ages have been adjusted to fit the college setting. Will probably reference Haikyuu a lot… since I kinda did base this au from said anime lol.
bonus content:
set 47 (FIRST DRAFT): say you know me
profiles 1 | profiles 2
set 1: mating ritual
set 2: elevator music and screaming collab
set 3: Jay impression
set 4: right in the kokoro
set 5: demon rat
set 6: twink vibes
set 7: crying.
set 8: I begin to pass out
set 9: man-zoned
set 10: YOU ARE EVIL. (written)
set 11: meat is god
set 12: #brocken
set 13: the zoomies
set 14: fraud and extortion
set 15: brain gymnastics
set 16: coconut looking bitch
set 17: with me***
set 18: Hinata’s wife
set 19: what. (written)
set 20: true crime case
set 21: what are you, 5?
set 22: Siri my beloved
set 23: (starts barking)
set 24: yelling and yodeling
set 25: IMPOSTER
set 26: Jake the wise
set 27: 2 sides of the same coin
set 28: first
set 29: might have forgot us, would you remind me? (written)
set 30: I think…
set 31: I’m swimming in everything you said (written)
set 32: a single mom that works two jobs
set 33: like the whores of babel
set 34: alright fuckers (affectionate)
set 35: SOS for this kitty
set 36: team rocket era
set 37: ooh kinky
set 38: favorite
set 39: it’s Y/N
set 40: mondays (derogatory)
set 41: whore era
set 42: throw me off the deep end (written)
set 43: Sad Girl Era
set 44: cold
set 45: ball smacking
set 46: BOOLIES ૮(꒦ິ ˙̫̮ ꒦ິ)ა
set 47: say you know me (written)
set 48: monstrosity, masterpiece
set 49: dumbification
set 50: plump up those booba
set 51: okay im WORSE
set 52: w word
set 53: this is bribery
set 54: give me all the truth you’re holding (written)
set 55: onlyfans
set 56: couples (derogatory)
last set: no more wasted days between us (written)
Content warning(s): slapstick humor (getting pushed down the stairs, lightsaber to the eye), Beomgyu just not having it.
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Summary: Soulmate prompt: When meeting your soulmate, your tattoos get filled in by their favorite color(s).
Meanings only exist if they’re given. To Jake, red is love.
Or: In which you’re scared that your story’s already written, but Jake’s adamant that there are blank pages you can fill (with him).
Author’s note: Ah, I'm so glad I was able to get the first chapter posted today :'> Wanted to mention that I will be using both Twitter DMs and iMessage; the former will be for group chats, while the latter will be for personal one-on-one conversations. Please let me know if there are any issues with my posts! Learned the hard way that I should not be editing on the mobile app huhu ;;.
