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[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 14

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 14/? 18k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ An invitation to The Hideout answers some long burning questions.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter CW: kissing, heavy petting, jealousy, protective!eddie, drinking, smoking, fluff

Tuesday, December 10th 1985

Winter crept in like a lamb. It nipped at your ankles when you got out of bed, beckoned you to hibernate in the warm cocoon of soft sheets and heavy blankets. The room was a lightless cave, the sky still as dense as midnight. Feet shuffling blindly at the floor to find your slippers, you clicked on the small lamp atop your nightstand to offer some light to your habitat. 

Standard routine — making shadows on the wall as you brushed your teeth, emerging out the door to the dark hallway, squinting under the harsh light of your kitchen. Two eggs over easy. Two pieces of toast. One phone that hung to the right of your small kitchen table like an omen as you dipped the crust into the yolks. Looming. Waiting. You swallowed a feeling with your next sip of coffee; flutters that danced down your throat and settled in the pit of your stomach. 

By the time you returned to your bedroom, the sky touched your sheer curtains with the palest blue. Your clothing was already laid out neatly on your dresser, poised like soldiers in a row — thick ribbed stockings; plaid wool skirt; stiff white blouse; cream knit sweater. 

As you suited up, stripping yourself of warm pajamas to brace the chill of your formal attire, your eyes drifted to an object on your desk. Powder blue and collecting a fair amount of dust; an IBM Selectric II typewriter. It was more or less a decoration now, pushed against the wall to make room for piles of papers in need of grading. Still, you liked the way it looked; cheery against the drab apartment wall, like something a real writer would have.

It was a trusty old thing, still chugging along despite countless college essays hammered into the grey keys. It had been your only company in the wee hours of many mornings such as this one, only then there had not been sleep to separate you from the night before. Sturdy and dependable, it captured your imagination too, letter by black inked letter. 

Fastening the buttons of your blouse in a methodical rhythm, you could almost trick yourself into believing it was any other morning, except today there was something else you needed to do before you left, and the clock on your nightstand let you know in glowing red that your window to do so was closing.

Cold linoleum creaked under your stocking feet as you padded into the kitchen, stomach twisting into knots as you approached the phone. If you were going to do this, it had to be now. 

Running your finger down the laminated tabs of the well-loved address book on your counter, you flipped to the section labeled “J”. After scanning a dozen hand-written names, you found the one you were looking for. It was a mess of chalky white-out and hasty scribbles. Last name replaced, same with the phone number and address. You weren’t sure why you didn’t just write it all fresh under “P”, perhaps it was something about not wanting to erase the history entirely.

You took a deep breath and snatched the phone off the receiver. Pressing the cold plastic to your ear, you glanced down at the numbers in blue pen and whispered them quietly to yourself as you slowly, hesitantly, clicked them one by one into the cream button pad on the wall. 

You stared across the kitchen in sober contemplation of your life choices as the phone rang. Again. And again. And again, until a familiar, groggy voice answered.

“Hello?” 

“Hey! Janet!” you greeted brightly, sounding far too awake for 7:06 AM. In your nervous haste, you almost forgot to tell her who was calling. 

“Oh… hey there,” came a hesitant voice on the other line, a sharp squeal cut through the static followed by a hush.

“Hey, um, I know it’s like, super early and totally last minute but I wanted to catch you before I left for work. Listen, I’ve had a hell of a week already and I was wondering—and I totally get it if you can’t, but—well I was wondering if you’d be up for going out tonight. Like say around eight-ish?” You bit your lip and grimaced, twisting the gummy cord around your finger. 

The pause was filled with the rattling of tiny fists against plastic. “Oh! Well let’s see,” she said in a voice that was suddenly very awake. “The kids will be asleep by then, or at least they should be,” she chuckled, “and Bob doesn’t go to bed till after eleven anyway, so I’m sure he’ll be fine if I escape for a few hours. I mean I’ll check with him but I really don’t see why not.” 

It was equally as promising as it was a relief; the excitement that crept through her voice. 

“Great! Yeah, I figured you could probably use a night out.”

“Oh gosh, you don’t even know the half of it,” Janet laughed. “So where were you thinking? You wanna just go to Pal-Joeys again?”

Pacing toward the counter, you braced to offer your suggestion. “Actually, I was thinking we could go to The Hideout, I hear there’s a band playing tonight.”

“The Hideout?” she asked through an incredulous smile. 

“I know,” you breathed nervously, “it’s not really our um, regular haunt, but that’s kinda why I want to go, you know? Shake things up a bit. Everything’s just been feeling so… routine lately, you know?”

Janet’s sigh was deep and heavy. “Oh trust me, I know.” A bright coo crackled through the telephone line. 

“Like, I kind of want to just…” you coiled your finger deeper into the phone cord, glancing at the glaring red clock above the stove, “I dunno…pretend to be somebody else for a change.” 

“You know,” she started, a quiet mischief creeping into her voice, “I could really stand to be somebody else for a night too.”

You paused in your pacing as a smile cracked across your face. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Gosh, do you know your birthday was the last time I went out? Seriously! And before that I don’t even remember. Sometimes I look around and it’s like, man I used to be fun. You remember when I was fun, right?”

You chuckled, drifting back to memories of truths and dares, of creeping down her dark basement steps with freshly painted toes. “You still are fun, Janet.”

“Well maybe you can help remind me because sometimes I look in the mirror and I swear I don’t even recognize myself. Really! I swear I see my mother more and more and that’s what’s really terrifying.” 

“You mean you don’t see Bloody Mary anymore?”

Janet’s cackle would have woken the whole house had it not been wide awake and eating Cheerios already. “No that’s just at my parents’ house, remember?”

You snorted, leaning back against the counter. “I think we screamed so loud we woke the neighbors. I swear that bathroom is haunted.”

“That’s what I’ve always said! You feel like you’re being watched, right? My parents still don’t believe me. Oh well, not my problem anymore.”

You laughed, the knot in your belly releasing slightly before you glanced at the clock again, 7:13. “Crap, I’ve gotta get going. So I’ll see you at eight tonight? At The Hideout?”

“Yeah, should be fine. I’ll call you if anything changes. Ah!” she squealed, “I can’t wait.”

“Glad you’re excited,” you chuckled, gripping the smooth plastic. “Ok, see you later.”

“Bye now!”

You hung the phone back on the receiver and stood in the blaring silence of your kitchen, frozen by the impact of your choices. It was real now. In a matter of about thirteen hours you would be getting in your car, driving down a dark road, and parking it at a seedy bar where you would see Eddie for the first time in public. Your feet felt glued to the floor, but as the clock blinked to 7:15, you willed them to move.  

Before taking the dark road that led to a seedy bar, you would first need to get in your car and take another road — to work.

You cursed the cold. Cursed it as you hurried across the parking lot to find your car covered in fractals of frost. Cursed it vehemently as you worked the glass with your feeble plastic scraper, shaving holes just big enough to see out of your dashboard and rear window as the clock on your wrist ticked on minute by precious minute. You cursed it audibly when you turned the key and the engine whirred, and whined, and refused to turn over. It must have heard you, because after the fifth time of stomping on the brake and snapping your wrist forward, the engine roared to life.

You rode in on a wave; a daze like the fog that escaped your lungs in shallow breaths. The sun rose above the frozen farmlands, casting its golden-pink light across the empty fields. Out here the roads stretched on for miles. Flat and straight, with little variance in elevation. There was nowhere to look but straight ahead. No curves to surprise you, just you and the rumble of the salt-dusted road, bumping along in silence as an anxious fog rolled across the landscape of your mind. 

A sea of students swept you through the front doors of Hawkins High and into the bustling office. Amidst the flurry of ringing phones and voices settling into the cadence of their roles, you grabbed your punch card and stamped the date and time in line with the rest. Pushing the metal handle of the heavy glass door, you exited the humming reprieve of the office and into the din of the main hall. Your boots made hollow clicks against the glossy tile, wind at your face as you marched forward, dodging roughhousing students and hall monitors rushing toward them. 

Goodness was a mantle. A strap that dug into your shoulder; heavy with books, and papers, and responsibility. You wedged your thumb beneath it, shrugging it up onto the padded wool collar of your coat as you strode on, vision locked ahead as chaos swirled around you.

Your mug left a ring on the big desk; a remnant from where you’d sloshed it coming down the hall. You’d tried to be careful; slow and deliberate in your pacing when you left the teachers lounge with it, but when a blur of wild curls drew your gaze, your footing faltered. At least you missed your shoes. 

Coat hung on its solitary hook and grade book stationed at the center of the desk, you took your place in front of it. Clutching your clipboard, you glanced across the rows of desks, down at the rows of names, beside the rows of boxes that your green pen would fill with neat little P’s and A’s like it did every day. Bell after bell, swipe after swipe of your eraser at the board, the fresh sticks of chalk dwindled to nubs. Question after question, the patience in your voice grew thin. 

Between the bells at the top of fourth period, you stood poised like a sentinel outside the door to your classroom. Arms folded across your knit sweater, you sighed, shifting your weight back and forth between your tired feet, offering gentle smiles as your students filed through the threshold of the door. You smelled him before you saw him; the waft of leather and cigarettes with notes of shampoo more prominent than usual. 

Against the flow of traffic, Eddie Munson brought his salt-licked combat boots to a halt in front of you. Thumb hooked under the heavy strap of his backpack, he offered you a smile so broad it crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your knees want to give. 

You tightened your arms around your sweater, over the hard plastic of your faculty lanyard, and breathed a shy, girlish greeting. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” he mimicked, shifting his weight with a less than subtle restlessness as his dark eyes drank you in. They darted back and forth between yours, plush lips parted and primed with words. You felt them brimming impatiently behind his eyes, saw them in the pink flash of his tongue as it darted out to wet his lips. 

Out here in the bustling hallway, with eyes that watched and voices that echoed off the polished tile, Eddie edged a bold foot closer, dove in, and ghosted the shell of your ear with his burning question.

“Will I see you tonight?”

The words were a low, hot rumble — rippling from your ear down your spine, pooling deep in your belly. His heat thawed your shoulder as he hovered there, lingering for each aching second it took you to eke out your response. 

“Yeah,” you whispered into his curls.

Pulling back with a blinding grin, he tipped his head and ducked into the door of your classroom.

The slam of a locker made you jump. Arms crossed to shield your pounding heart, you stood there in the middle of it all, swimming in a sea of passing bodies, struggling to keep your head above the waves. It surged with images of a lighted stage, of bottles, and tables, and a dark corner for both of you to hide in. The bell echoed loudly down the hall, shrill enough to wake you from the dream you were surely having. Donning your mask, you took a deep breath and dove in, shutting the door behind you.

______

Eddie swung open the heavy back doors to his van, piercing the darkness with the dull yellow overhead light. Gravel crunched under his boots as he leaned in to grab the first amp from the stack, like a pile of black Christmas presents awaiting unwrapping. The night air bit at his fingers, stars twinkling in the patches where the clouds gave way above the tree line. Tightening his grip around the thick gummy handle, he hoisted it and followed the pale path the moon offered out of the side parking lot toward the patio behind The Hideout.

It wasn’t much; a stout fence in dire need of a paint job that caged in a few meager picnic tables. They still had umbrellas in the middle, wrapped tightly like mummies for the winter. He knew the back door would be open, it always was. Turning the weathered knob with his free hand, he welcomed the heat that wafted toward him. He could almost say he welcomed the piss smell coming from the bathrooms as his heavy boots thumped down the dark linoleum hallway, but that would be a stretch. Accustomed was a better word. Familiar was a better word. 

Stale beer and cigarettes soon drowned it out as he entered the dimly lit bar, stopping to plunk the heavy amp down to his left on the stage, which was little more than a raised platform painted black. The thud drew the attention of the five usual suspects at the bar, and Eddie wondered which one of them was responsible for playing “Free Bird” on the jukebox.

Bill raised his hand, tipping his baseball cap back in a friendly nod as his fingers splayed. “‘Ey, Eddie!”

He returned the gesture of a single raised hand and flashed a smile before turning down the hall again. Eddie took a deep breath at the door to calm his pounding heart before pressing it open. He couldn’t believe he had been crazy enough to suggest something like this. That soon enough, you would be perched atop one of those rickety stools at a tall, sticky table, watching his every move, listening to his every note. The chill of the night air was a welcome thing, sobering and distracting from the heat that was creeping up the collar of his thick, leather coat. As the gravel crunched under his boots again, headlights blinded his vision. 

He could hear the bass pounding from the outside of the small sedan as it rolled up beside his van, followed promptly by another. After a moment of squinting, the headlights shut off with the rumble of the engine, leaving him in the darkness once again. Seatbelts clicked and laughter emerged from the open doors as his friends tumbled out into the parking lot. 

“What the fuck took you guys so long? We left at the same time,” Eddie groused.

Dave lumbered over and sighed, a smirk playing on his broad features in the moonlight. “Jeff had to take a shit and he parked me in.” 

Jeff rolled his eyes, swinging the door shut with a huff as Gareth laughed into the night air. 

Eddie sighed, glancing toward the tall stack of amps and drum heads sitting backlit in the rear of his van. “Ok, well we’ve got like forty minutes to get our shit together so start hauling.” 

Dave groaned, cracking his back with a twist of his hefty torso. “Ugh, can you at least let me hit this doob before you put me to work?”

On any other night, Eddie would have welcomed the suggestion, but his nerves were traveling to his hands now and he itched to move them. “Dude, it takes us like an hour to set up, we don’t have time right now. We can smoke after we get this shit on stage.”

Jeff quirked his brows suspiciously, “Dude, since when do you care that we’re on time for anything?”

“Yeah seriously, we’re late like every week,” Gareth added.

Eddie balked, searching for the answer in the treeline, one that excluded you. “It just—if we’re ever gonna play anywhere else besides here we’re gonna have to start getting our shit together.”

There was a lukewarm pause as the band considered his answer. By the looks on their faces, Eddie wasn’t entirely sure if they bought it, but it was the best he could come up with and the statement was true. Dave broke the silence with an exasperated sigh. “Come on. I’ve been jonesing since we got to Gareth’s. His mom is so anal we can’t even smoke outside.”

“That’s ‘cause you reek when you come back in,” Gareth defended.

“At least I don’t reek of ass like you,” Dave chortled.

Jeff didn’t miss a beat. “That’s debatable.”

Gareth’s cackle wafted into the frigid air as he pointed a pale finger at Dave.

“You wanna find out the hard way?” Dave’s eyes glimmered wildly as he hooked an arm around Gareth’s shoulders, locking him into a power noogie position.

Gravel shuffled under their stumbling feet. “Let go of me you asshole,” Gareth gritted through a strangled laugh. Jeff only egged them on, howling uproariously like he had tickets to the show. 

Eddie dragged his hands down his face with a deep, seething breath as Dave ground his thick knuckles into Gareth’s mop of hair, kicking up rocks and pivoting as Gareth attempted to pry away. This was his circus, his monkeys, and he would have to step up and be the ring leader if they were going to take the stage at all tonight. “CUT IT OUT!” he hollered. 

Dave paused, arm still locked around Gareth’s neck. “Come on, we’re just having a little fun. You remember fun, right?” 

Gareth groaned weakly, looking up at Eddie with pathetic eyes. “Who’s we?” he choked.

Eddie’s expression didn’t budge from its scowl. With a roll of his eyes and a resigned huff, Dave released his arm and Gareth stumbled backward, gasping. “Fine, captain killjoy.”

A heavy plume of fog left his nostrils as Eddie stormed toward the back of his van, weaving his arm through a thick ring of cables to rest on his shoulder before hoisting another amp from the stack. Gravel shuffled behind him as the others followed suit.

You were risking a lot to come here. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint you.

______

The silence gnawed at you, filled you with an itching discomfort as you thumbed your dresser knobs. Staring into your open shirt drawer, you faced off with your biggest decision yet — what to wear tonight.

The chasm of options laid before you in neat, folded rows. An excavation site of cardigans, and turtle necks, and things you hadn’t unearthed in years. You ran your fingers through the layers of folded cotton, peeling them back with deep consideration. 

Nagging thoughts crept in like whispers over the softly ticking clock, pinball plunger pulled and ready to fire. With a determined huff, you stepped back from your dresser and padded down the hallway, out into the living room. 

Your skirt pooled around your stocking feet as you crouched down in front of the long wooden cabinet that housed your records. Fingers dancing over the worn cardboard spines, you flipped them softly forward as you perused one by one, walking steadily until one of them fell open to a scene; a painting of a man hunched over with sticks tied to his back that hung on a wall of peeling paper. You paused, pulling it out to scan the track list. This would do.

Placing the the record softly on the felt pad, you lowered the needle to the ridges, and with the press of a button, a crackle roused the room. 

Hey hey momma said the way you move

Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove

A smile, like a crocus peeking up from the snow, bloomed across your face. You cranked the volume, wrapping yourself in a sound that would carry to your bedroom. 

Your fingers found the tiny metal tab behind your waist, and with a downward tug of the zipper, your wool skirt became a puddle on the floor. Peeling back the layers, your tight sweater joined it in a heap, your thick stockings lay deflated on the pile, the buttons of your stiff blouse worked free until it was a crumpled afterthought. The chill that kissed your skin was a welcome thing. Goosebumps raised like the current flowing through you as your near-naked silhouette danced across the wall to approach the open drawer once more. 

Emboldened with a curious delight, you began to dig. Past the crust of crisp blouses, beneath the squishy mid-layer of cardigans, down into the sub-layer of camisoles and tees, deeper and deeper until finally your fingers made purchase with a soft treasure. 

It fell open as you unearthed it, the solid black gone grey from washing, the white letters and arched angel cracked and faded: Led Zeppelin — United States of America 1977. 

It happened on a Sunday in April, which began as most Sundays did, with you hunched over your powder blue typewriter in a race between the clock and the keys. You had it down to a science. At the speed you were typing, a rough draft could be finished by dinner, and the final could be churned out by cutting into a few hours of your sleep. A worthy sacrifice, as your final grade was on the finish line. This, like countless others, was how you planned to spend your day — until your roommate found you. 

You remembered the way she leaned against the wooden frame of your bunk bed, amused, watching the paper you hammered with black-inked letters grow longer and longer. Finally she spilled it; as of an hour ago, she was down one boyfriend and up one ticket, and now it had your name on it. When she dangled it between you and the tidy rows of text, your hands froze over the keys. 

You eyed the invitation — temptation printed on a neat, orange strip. Free admission, at a price.

The show was sold out. It had been for a long time. 

Your class was at 9:00 AM tomorrow. A late paper took twenty percent off your grade. 

You loved the band dearly, had a bigger crush on Robert Plant than you’d openly admit to anyone. Fights had broken out over tickets nation wide. You had no idea when they would play the states again.

The clock ticked on beside you, the long hand grazed past three. Maybe you could churn out the rest  in the next few hours. Maybe the rough draft would be enough. But the realist in you knew neither would happen if you seized the ticket. Your grade would never recover, your streak of straight As you’d kept since grade school would come to an end. Your GPA would dip for the semester.

On April 17th, 1977, you left your paper sitting unfinished in the typewriter to see Led Zeppelin play Market Square Arena. You didn’t know it then, but it was the last time they ever would.

On April 18th at 9:00 AM, you showed up to class with empty hands and a brand new shirt. 

You had altered your souvenir; taken scissors to the collar so that it draped off your shoulder. Time and your washing machine had made Swiss cheese of the bottom hem, so you cropped it. You admired the handiwork as it draped off you now, the way the black strap of your bra peeked out from the slope of your shoulder like a coy secret. 

Pulling open the lower drawer—opened far less frequently than you would like—your knuckles grazed the bottom of the smooth wood interior as you peeled back the layers of folded denim. A crease of black jumped out from the sea of blue, and you examined it. It had a nice worn-in fade for only having lived in your dresser a few years, a flatteringly high waist, and most importantly, tapered legs that could easily be tucked into the tall, black boots sitting in the back of your closet. Your bare legs welcomed the barrier against the chill, and you caught a glance at your rear as you hiked them snugly upward. They hugged you in all the right places, as the music electrified the air, you transformed.

A vision of you — sprawled across a blanket on the quad with your face in a book. Making shadows on your dorm room wall while transmuting fantasies to black-inked pages. Strolling down a lamp-lit street, face to the stars, fueling your wild imagination. Here, in your reflection, the ghost of you looked back.

You painted her darker than normal, swapping the usual chapstick for a deep, dusty red exhumed from the bottom of your makeup bag. Eyes smoked and cheeks dusted, you drew out the beauty from angles of your face with every stroke.

Coat donned and purse in hand, you paused at the front door, glancing over your shoulder, down the hallway, toward your coffee table piled with papers. There was another ghost of you here — tucked into her slippers and cozy robe with the voices from the television as her only company, flicking her green grading pen down rows of questions. 

On December 10th, 1985, you left the papers sitting on your coffee table to see Corroded Coffin play The Hideout. With a decided twist of the handle, you pushed out into the cold night air. 

Light pooled in sparse puddles as your boots echoed off the rough pavement. Stillness whispered on the wind as crisp remnants of fall scuttled across the asphalt. The apartments behind you were a tapestry of glowing squares, pictures of the rest of Hawkins tucking into their slippers and washing their dishes, grabbing their blankets and turning on their televisions. 

You grabbed your keys and unlocked your car, and when it roared to life with a swift flick of your wrist, a strange exhilaration coursed through you. 

It rose like the moon over the barren fields, thrumming in your chest, spreading to your limbs, alight with something wild and teeming as you drove past rows of lighted windows—vignettes of tired routine—and stopped at the same red sign you did this morning. Your fingers twitched over the turn signal leaver — an impulse to flick up, to turn right, to settle into the familiar rhythm of your muscle memory. This time you pressed down, pressed your foot to the gas, and cranked the wheel left.

Cruising boldly down the straight and narrow road, fields and farmland faded in your rearview mirror and soon there were trees on the horizon; dense and dark. Gripping the wheel as the silhouette closed in, the corners of your mouth drew upward, pulled by a wild, awakened force. Headlights illuminated pale, naked limbs. Eyes beamed back at you from the shadows. You cranked the volume on your stereo, and as you braced for your first bend, something deep within you—dormant and restless—howled.

______

The water was so cold it burned. Eddie cursed the old plumbing, instantly regretting having the decency to wash his hands in the first place. Soap just barely rinsed, he twisted the lime-scaled handles and shut it off. With a trembling hand, he grabbed one of the last paper towels. Gareth’s kick drum echoed down the narrow hallway, thundering just like his chest. He glanced at his watch again. 7:56. 

Eddie took a ragged breath, chucking the crumpled paper at the overflowing trash bin in the corner. It bounced dejectedly off the wall and onto the dirty tile. With a deadpan glare, he left it where it lay. Hands barely dry, he felt for the flask in his pocket. Screwing the tiny cap and flicking it open, he tipped it back. Eddie welcomed the burn. It chased down his throat and settled in his stomach with a warmth that radiated, instantly numbing his nerves.

Meeting his own eyes in the tiny, smudged mirror, he gave himself a final glance over. His curls were holding; fresh and clean from this morning, fluffed by the icy wind in the trips from van to stage. 

Here, in the dingy confines of The Hideout, words like freak and loser lost their stick. Words he could shake like a dog at the door. He’d fashioned them like armor in the daytime; a shield in hallways and in lunch lines. What was stickier were feelings. The feelings that came with chewed pens and answers left blank. The feeling of lectures slipping like a sieve through his brain. The feeling of stares and stifled laughter, of staring numbly at the board, of filling the silence with bullshit instead of an answer. 

Microphone feedback squeaked outside. The dull, heavy walk of a bassline. Laughter. Cymbals. That kick drum again. Eddie took another swig, searing the flutters in his stomach.

He wanted to be good for you. Seen under stage lights instead of fluorescents. 

Good like an answer he knew.

-

You saw the sign first, peeking from behind the trees — simple, effective, and yellowed with time. The Hideout: a hole in the woods. Tucked around the bend you now braced against, it sat like a neon beacon. The chipped, grey exterior faded into the shadows, leaving only the holy glow of Budweiser and Miller Lite signs to guide you to the promised land. 

Pulling into a spot along the narrow parking strip, you faced off with your destination. Looming and real. Frozen as reality stared back at you in the glare of your blinding headlights, you gripped the steering wheel and looked around. There were a few other cars beside you, but none of them Janet’s. Around the left of the building there appeared to be more parking, and the stout silhouette of a two-tone van you did know the owner of. Pinballs hammered in your chest. 

When you arrange a time to meet someone, you are always punctual. Perhaps a life organized by bells on timers trained you to be this way, but the thought of entering alone filled you with dread, and part of you wondered whether you should wait out here for her. Your hands were starting to shake, and not from the cold. 

The list of crazy things you had done in your life was a laughably short one, but this made the top by a long shot. As you turned the radio down and sat in the wake of your rumbling engine, the questions grew louder. Serious questions about where you thought this night would go, about where you wanted it to go and if you would truly go there. 

Suddenly your headlights felt too bright, like a beacon drawing eyes from the woods, or even more terrifying, eyes from the building. You promptly flicked them off and waited, staring dead ahead at the chipped grey siding. It was fine. You were fine. At least you could no longer see your breath. You could hide here as long as you wanted. 

-

“Alright man, it’s doob o’clock,” Dave said with a satisfied stretch as he took in the stage setup.

Eddie ripped another frantically scribbled setlist out of his spiral notebook and shoved it at him. “No it’s eight fifteen and we still need to do soundcheck,” Eddie scathed, glancing at the door. “You can start by plugging your mic in, Jesus Christ.”

Dave huffed annoyedly through his nose, squatting down to find the cord with exaggerated difficulty. “Yes sir,” he mocked. Eddie shot back a testing glare. “Dude, what’s up with you tonight? You’ve been on one since Gareth’s.”

“Yeah, you ok man?” asked Jeff.

The knots tightened in his stomach as the attention of all three of them closed in around him. “Just—let’s just get our shit together…please,” he deflected.

-

Glancing around frantically, you wondered, for the hundredth time, where the hell Janet was. You couldn’t be that surprised that a woman with two small children was late, but your exhaust was making a smokescreen of the parking strip, and you wondered if anyone inside had noticed, if anyone could hear the low rumble of your engine and questioned why this strange woman was idling. With an irritated sigh, you turned the key, leaving you in deafening silence and leeching cold. You could hear your breathing now, your pounding heart, the squeaking of leather as you shifted in your seat. What one of the kids got sick? What if she called after you left? 

What if she isn’t coming?

Eddie’s eyes lingered at the door as he clicked the pedals with his feet, plucking a soft, testing melody into the mic. His watch glared under the stage lights, confidence fleeting with every minute that ticked by. Gareth snapped his foot petal with a deep thud. Dave walked out a bassline before squealing feedback made the whole bar flinch.

The strum of a chord made you jump. Booming and electric, you heard it through the walls. They were starting. They were starting and you weren’t there. Gripping the steering wheel, you tossed your head back in an anguished sigh. You sure as hell weren’t going to stand him up. As you glanced around the parking lot one last desperate time, the bitter conclusion rose like bile — you may have to do this alone. Seatbelt clicking under your gloved thumb, you steeled yourself for the cold, for the eyes of strangers in a strange new place. With a decided pull of the handle, the door opened to the frigid night air, and you emerged from the heat into the unknown. 

You met your reflection in the glass of the entrance as your hand gripped the weathered knob. Pinballs fired off at lightning speed — a jackpot multi-ball bonanza. Checking your hair one last time with eyes locked on your own, you turned the handle with a determined sigh.

A bell dinged above your head, and winter’s chill gusted in on your heels.

The whole room turned at once — at you. You, from the front of the classroom. You, from behind the big desk. You, in the doorway of The Hideout. Across a dark sea of scattered tables, poised on an altar of sound and light, Eddie Munson smiled at you — brighter than all of it. 

The door fell shut behind you. Hot under the gaze of what seemed like the entire bar, it suddenly felt like you were the one on stage. Standing there like a deer in headlights in your long wool coat and clean black boots, you surely must have looked as out of place as you felt. Shoulders rolling back to counter your thrumming nerves, your boots left the rug and found the tacky linoleum as you approached the bar that lined the left wall. 

Eddie busied his shaking hands with tapping another test melody into his mic, pausing when he heard a voice over his right shoulder. 

“Is that…?” Jeff pointed toward the back of your head.

Gareth’s eyes lit up in recognition. Dave peered over with a shit-eating grin. “Did you invite her?” he mouthed.

Eddie’s face betrayed him, burning like it did under the fluorescents. Burning to greet you at the bar, for the liberty to patronize it, to offer you something more than his aching gaze. 

“No,” Eddie lied, “but I may have told her we play here on Tuesdays.” He struck the strings with the weight of his frustration, drowning out any further questions with the opening chords to the first song on the setlist. The others took their cue with chuckles and shaking heads. Heart pounding like the kick drum behind him, Eddie’s fingers found the frets, tugging a muscle memory from deep within as his eyes stayed fixed on you. 

There was an older man in a sweatshirt behind the bar. The owner, you figured, by the way he was standing — arms crossed, stance wide, unafraid to take up space. By the way he was looking at you, like he wondered what would drive a new face to his establishment on a random Tuesday night in December. From the glances the others passed between them, the feeling seemed unanimous. 

“How can I help you?” he half shouted against the chugging chords, leaning against the bar with a curious smile.

You braced with your brightest grin, placing your gloved hands down flat on the waxy bar. “Hi! Yes—um,” you scanned the selection under the neon lights, the liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes reflected in the dirty mirror behind them. The bar back was tightly cluttered with old stickers and hand-written notes taped behind the cash register, with half-empty bottles of bitters and bobble heads nodding to the palpable vibration. Having no interest in standing there awkwardly while he fixed you a cocktail, you selected a bottle of Coors. 

He nodded and ducked to open the steel, magnet-plastered fridge beneath the cash register. 

Your gaze, like a magnet, drew back to the stage. It was all you could do just to watch him — the way his curls fell gently at his cheek, the way they bounced with every strum. There was a tension lingering just under the curve of his lashes. The music was fast and loud, purely instrumental. You recognized nothing about it but the genre. Head dipped in concentration as his left hand tapped a frantic melody into the frets, he raised his eyes bravely to meet yours.

He wasn’t the only man staring. It was hard to ignore; the man in the baseball cap to your right as you stared right through his line of sight. You pinched off your gloves and shoved them in your pockets to occupy your hands.

A bottle cap plinked against the bar top. “Two bucks,” the owner stated, slinging a towel over his shoulder. 

You fished through your purse, feeling those eyes on you as you opened your wallet, as you slid the bills right under his gaze across the waxy counter. You snatched the cold bottle and raised it to your lips. Turning over your shoulder, your eyes clung to Eddie on stage, to his tendons as they flexed to pick a rhythm at the strings. His was gaze a soft and yearning thing, a contrast to the sharp and punchy chords that left his fingers. 

“You know these guys?” the man in the cap asked finally, pointing to the stage. Your eyes shot toward him in surprise, lips still pursed at the bottle. He had that working man sort of look. Average features, subtle crows feet, a whisper of sandy stubble across his strong jaw. His grey-blue eyes were gentle, but brimming with a heated curiosity.

You used the much needed swig to buy yourself a second. Did you? The cold, bready fizz sparkled down your throat. You supposed you didn’t have to specify how you were acquainted. “Yeah,” you answered simply, plugging your mouth with the bottle like a dam.

A bell rattled behind you. Grateful for any disruption, you whipped around quickly to break the connection. Janet lit up as soon as she saw you, a mixture of relief and apology playing out on her face as she strode across the room. Tight blonde curls emerged from her lowering leopard print hood. “Oh my god I’m so sorry,” she lamented, arms opening to embrace you. 

Relief washed through you like a warm buzz. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it!” you said as your nose took a dive in her soft, perfumed curls. 

“Sarah would not stop crying, it took forever for me to finally get her to sleep. I swear babies have a sixth sense, they always know when you have fun plans,” she said through a laugh. Her lashes were long and thick with mascara, eyeshadow a solid sky blue so vibrant that it popped even in the dim neon glow. 

Janet ordered a margarita. There was nothing new to speak of, really, over the electric roar of the band, but you tried to listen. Intently, you tried to listen to the new words her son was saying, to offer some lukewarm update about how work was going, but your eyes had their own agenda.

The rolled cuffs of Eddie’s tight, acid-washed jeans bunched against the pull tabs of his boots as he tapped the rhythm with his heel. There was no jacket for him to strain against, no flannel to constrict him, no sleeves on his T-shirt in December. It was more than you’d seen of him yet. Ink flexed with each generous swell of his bicep, and with every attack, he would flash you his ribs through the hand-hacked holes. 

“Mmm,” Janet mumbled, sipping off the top of the very full, salt-rimmed rocks glass. “Come on, let’s get cozy,” she said with a wink and gestured toward the tables. The air was thick with smoke wafting from the bikers at the bar. Eddie tapped out another lick and peered through a few stray curls as you followed her across the room to a high top, back and center.

You wanted to be closer. Close enough to see the umber of his eyes, the ridges of his knuckles as they plucked the strings. There were a few shorter tables down in front, back about five feet from the stage. But as the beams of light bounced off the glossy wood and over the seats in blinding white, you were grateful for the shadows ten feet would afford you. 

Janet stripped off her coat to reveal a tight black dress with long sleeves and sequined, padded shoulders. It hugged just above the knees of her sheer hose, punctuated with sharp ankle boots. 

“Look at you all dressed up! You look stunning.” You meant it, she really did.

Janet’s smile was a shy deflection, but hiding just beneath it, a glimmer of belief. “Thanks, this thing’s been sitting in my closet for like a year now. Can you believe it? I just felt like, you know, if I’m going out I’m gonna dress up goddamn it,” she laughed, punctuating with a slap against the table. “We coulda gone to Benny’s, I still woulda worn it.”

You laughed, for the first time since you’d talked to her that morning. Unbuttoning your coat, you let it drape over the metal back of the stool behind you. 

“You’re not looking too shabby yourself,” Janet said with a wink before taking a sip.

“Honestly I’ll take any excuse I can get to dress down,” you said with a sheepish huff, propping your elbows on the sticky table before bringing the bottle to your lips. 

A nervous crackle wound its way through Eddie’s stomach at the vision of you. You, perched on a stool in a dive bar. You, in jeans and a t-shirt. You, arching forward just enough to grace him with a sliver of your back. It was real — you, here.  He soured a note, and those words he shook off came creeping back in as he fumbled through the next lick. But you didn’t seem to notice. You propped your cheek against your knuckles and let the warmth of your eyes usher his doubts away. 

When the song came to a ringing conclusion, Janet’s cheer was uninhibited, clapping her hands above her head. It drew eyes from the couple seated at one of the lower tables, from the bikers at the bar, from the band. Your applause was more demure, but you couldn’t mask the brilliance of your smile. 

“Thank you, thank you,” Eddie said into the microphone. “Looks like we really have a crowd tonight. Seven drunks.”

The room erupted with hollers and cheers. 

The bassist muttered something to the other guitarist and the two shared a laugh, casting their eyes towards you. Suddenly your face grew very hot. Of course they recognized you, Jeff was in your second period class. You anticipated this, and yet it was the realness of it all that shook you — the hard stool beneath you, the stares you could feel as your finger idly traced the cold condensation on the glass. Pinballs fired off at rapid speed. You drowned them with a tip of the bottle. 

Eddie shifted, clicking the pedals with his foot. “Ok, so this next one is uh, definitely not an original.” He breathed a laugh into the microphone, glancing up at you — at your shoulders, hunched in shy defense, at your worried brow and downcast gaze. He wished he could reach across the room, lift your chin with his words and draw you from your shell. “Anyway, you’ll uh, probably recognize this one,” he said, to you.

Eddie nodded to the band, counting off silently before they struck a chord together — a low, droning thing, gritty and slow as the bass walked steadily over the foundation. Eddie swayed back and forth, rocking in time with the beat like a march, resting his heavy-lidded gaze on you. Across the divide of scattered seats, you — at the small table, saw him — on the big stage. His nimble fingers struck the chords with an ardent conviction, and the ice in you began to thaw. 

Suddenly the beat changed pace. Gareth smacked his drum sticks together to count off, and the first two chords sparked instant recognition. A smile rose up in you — a wild and thrumming thing, radiant and rising until it cracked through. 

You knew what was coming. Two chords, quiet taps for a count of sixteen, and then those two chords again, like a one-two punch, booming and building with anticipation. Again, and again, as the energy rose in the room. You caught the wicked glint in his eyes as his hands—those hands that fidgeted and fumbled with dog-eared pages and chewed up pens—wielded power. A surge of electricity swirled through your stomach, crackled because you knew what was next. 

Eddie took a deep breath, and opened his mouth. 

Generals gathered in their masses

Colors. Warm and bright, tingling like a shockwave from your chest down to your seat. 

Just like witches at black masses

In your secret daydreams, you often wondered what his voice sounded like in song. 

Evil minds that plot destruction

Tried to guess from his deep hums and brilliant laughter.

Sorcerers of death’s construction

Now, it suspended in the air like a battle cry, reaching out across the chasm of tables and chairs.

In the fields the bodies burning

Surging like a wildfire.

As the war machine keeps turning

Swirling through the darkness like a strange magic.

Death and hatred to mankind

Reaching out like it wanted to touch you. 

Poisoning their brainwashed minds

And so you let it.

Oh lord, yeah!

The music rocked and swelled. Like a balm reverberating through the air, it softened the hunch of your shoulders. Like an antidote, it dissolved the knot in your stomach. Like an arrow, it pierced the shell of you. 

Janet took a generous sip of her margarita and bobbed her head to the rhythm. You caught her gaze from across the table and shared a laugh, a mutual knowing through squinted eyes and shaking heads that this was, in fact, a Tuesday night in December, and the two of you were here.

As the cold drink warmed your limbs, you became acquainted with the hard curve of the stool beneath you, with the of rings left behind on the glossy table, with the crowded ashtray. Acquainted with the smoke that wafted through the air and the darkness that enveloped you like a blanket. The music settled over the room, and as you settled into that heavy buzz, you started to get the feeling you might actually enjoy yourself tonight.

Janet needed no convincing. Her first margarita went down easy, leaving nothing but the ice and her hot pink lipstick on the rim before they finished their fourth song. When she returned from the bar with one in each hand, she placed the extra in front of you. Her treat, convinced they were better than Pal Joey’s, insisting that you try it even with a few sips still lingering in your bottle. 

It surprised you — the balance of lime, and liquor, and something else you couldn’t quite place. It surprised you how it easy it melted the tension in your stomach, how it encouraged you to lean in a little more, to let your shoulders drop.

Eddie noticed it, peeking out from under the coyly dipping collar of your shirt; bare and soft as you leaned against the table — your shoulder. He missed a note. Cursing silently, he glanced down at his fingers and tapped into that deep, subconscious part of his brain again where they knew just where to go. But when he closed his eyes to find it, the image remained painted to his lids — a ripened fruit, tempting but too far to taste. Across it, a stripe of black hazard tape, a trail he itched to follow. 

There was a hunger in you, stirring more with every song, with every decadent flash of his pale ribs. He was good. Stadium good. Those nimble fingers tapped the frets, making them sing in a way that made you wish you were wire and wood, looking at you in a way that made you think he wished the same. He stroked the neck of his instrument with a reverent touch, attacked the strings with a holy power, like a wingless angel with a spotlight halo. You whispered a silent prayer, venerating him from your faraway pew in the only way you could — with your eyes.

The animal stirred in its icy den, roused by the warmth of his voice as it stretched across the bar. It stirred in that place you rarely acknowledged, rarely indulged as you considered what other talents his hands might have. You considered the shades of those sighs and swallows he took before painting the air, considered what they might sound like if he showed you. It settled and throbbed in that low, blooming place, and you smothered the feeling with a cross of your legs.

Busying yourself with what remained of your beer, you shifted your shoulders to face him directly, leaning your free arm against the metal back of the stool with an ease that Eddie considered looked almost as good on you as the shirt did. Your lips lingered on the rim of the bottle before parting with a soft pop. He swallowed.

There was a gap between you; a sea of scattered tables and wide open ears and eyes amongst them. What could he possibly say from his position? From a microphone on stage? A thousand words ached on the tip of his tongue and he swallowed them with a sloppy chug of water as the applause bought him a moment to consider. 

The white lettering across your chest jumped out at him from the shadows like a bright idea. Eddie swiped droplets from his mouth and turned to his bandmates, bringing them into a huddle as the noise drowned out what he was saying. Whatever it was, after some deliberation, they seemed in agreement about it.

You hadn’t seen Janet like this since the summer between your junior and senior year of college. She was always a happy drunk; talkative and bubbly, spilling over with laughter and the sort of wild enthusiasm that a child at a carnival might have.

“I wanna dance,” she said longingly, glancing toward the stage as she slumped in her seat. 

“Maybe we can go to a club next time,” you joked as you downed the remainder of your sweating drink.

The band assumed their positions again. Eddie tapped the pedals with his feet and rolled his shoulders back with a deep, collecting breath. His eyes found yours across the room, brimming with such a longing you wondered anyone else could sense it too. After the longest second, he snapped his head over his shoulder with a steely conviction and nodded off a count before making his attack — the opening riff to Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love”. 

Your hands shot to your face.

Suddenly Janet perked up, inspired by the catchy rhythm and her own suggestion. “We should dance! Will you dance with me?”

You balked, shrinking down. “There’s like… six people here! I don’t think it’s really that kind of—”

“Oh come on, please? What’s there to lose, huh?”

Oh, only my last remaining shred of dignity in front of my students. But you couldn’t say that. “Janet,” you hissed. “We are not—I can’t—”

Her three margaritas had a different opinion. They reached across the table and grabbed your hand. “Come on, live a little! That’s what we came here to do, right?” 

You buried your face in your other. The truth was you wanted to. You wanted a closeup of that smart smirk, of the sweat beading down his temple as he strummed the punchy chords he hand-picked just for you. You wanted the fantasy, the memory, the experience. It was convincing — her pouting pink lips and pleading eyes, almost as convincing as the tequila coursing through your veins. The truth was you left your better judgement at home on the coffee table. To her giddy satisfaction, you surrendered. Dragging you from your seat, she led you to the front of the stage.

Eddie’s smile could have blinded you, even through the shy web of your fingers. Cheers erupted from the bar, from the whole band, as Janet shimmied her sequined shoulders to the beat.

Eddie opened his mouth again, this time with an ardor you could feel in your bones.

You need cooling, baby I’m not fooling

He crouched down to level with your eyes. I’m gonna send ya back to schooling

You lowered your hand to mask the girlish grin that cracked across your face.

Way down inside, honey you need it

They were breathtaking up close — his eyes. Sparkling with an energy you’d never seen before. Rich umber alight with something you couldn’t quite place, too mesmerized by the promise his tongue wove through the air.

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you my love… oh!

He straightened with a backward toss of his head, and you found the word you were looking for in the droplets that flung from his curls. Power. 

Wanna whole lotta love?

Wanna whole lotta love?

Janet—having an absolute field day over the spectacle—offered you her hand like she wanted to tango. Freeing your face with a brave sigh, you accepted with a slap of your palm in hers. She tugged with a childish delight, and you took your cue — spinning into her waiting arm and shooting back out with a flourish dredged up from some long forgotten place. The room became a blur of sound and light, of cheers from the bar and the stage. You stilled to find your footing, landing on his eyes. 

You’ve been learning, and baby I’ve been yearning

He dipped down again. All them good times baby, baby, I’ve been lear-er-nin’, he punctuated with a shake of his head. He could see the whole vision of you, bright and clear under the stage lights. A wildness lingering just behind your eyes, a fragment unseen until now. It pounded at the cage of your chest, rose up in the shallow breaths you caught before Janet snatched you away again. He swore—silently on a deep inhale—that he would do everything in his power to coax it out of you.

Way, way down inside, oh honey you need it

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you my love

You couldn’t remember the last time you really danced. The last time you felt a rhythm with your body and followed its blind inspiration. No rhyme or reason, no plans or choreography. It felt awkward at first, like trying on skin fresh from the wash. Feeling your feet shuffle against the tacky linoleum, finding the rhythm of yourself with a room full of strangers as witness.

Somewhere between the beams of light and the wink of Eddie’s rings beneath them, you found it. Like a memory rising up, sweeping through you like a current. Visions of a stadium, roaring as a lion struts the stage with his golden mane, as he commands a sea of thousands with his voice. There was an animal in you too, wild and careless. 

It grew wilder when the music dropped to nothing but percussion. When the room fell away to nothing but the heat from Eddie’s eyes, sparkling with play. It made your hips want to sway a little more, your legs want to dip a little deeper to match his wildness with your own. Imbued with a sudden, potent energy, he struck his wicked instrument as the rhythm and melody unraveled. 

Janet took it in stride, leading you in a rocking shimmy as you swayed to the change in tempo. Light danced on her sequined shoulders as she tipped her head back in a blissful cackle. You followed her lead, eyes fixed on her with a surging power in the knowing of whose eyes were fixed on you.

The air was a cool kiss against the sliver of skin where your shirt left off, daring you to show a little more. With a twist of your arms toward the spotlights, you blessed him with the dip of your back — the alluring shadow of your spine that trailed into the high waist of your jeans. He panged with the urge to follow it, fell to his knees and wailed through his fingertips.  

You broke from Janet’s pull to face him, eye-to-eye level, watching reverently as the sweat glistened in his clavicles, as his pelvis jutted into his weapon to eke out his solo. Howling for you with each stroke of its neck, each bend in its strings as you matched his rhythm with your hips. A secret world, just you and him, the rest fading out into nothing. He swore, like a spell in each note that he wove through the air, that somehow he would make it last.

From his knees, Eddie grabbed the mic off the stand, and with a wordless nod earned by years of friendship, Jeff took over the melody. To the delight of the crowd, he stripped himself of the weight of his instrument, setting it carefully off to the side. 

You’ve been cooling, baby, I’ve been drooling, he crooned as he crawled forward.

All the good times, baby, I’ve been misusing

You played with him there. With your shoulders, with your eyes locked no more than a foot from his. Desperate to touch him, you worshiped every bead of sweat that fell from his temple, every wet curl that strayed from the nape of his neck and hugged the strong angle of his jaw. What left his lips next dripped with such fervent intention you that you couldn’t keep your hand from your face.

Way, way down inside

I’m gonna give you my love

I’m gonna give you every inch of my love

I’m gonna give you my love

He was pure energy; raw and manic. Free in the way that wild things are. He snatched your breath away, dragged it to his den and had his way with it as he queried the chorus to you. There was wildness all around; in glinting sequins and megawatt smiles. In the flashes of limbs under the lights. In the rhythm you carried with your whole body now, moving in a way that was both so foreign and natural all at once. 

You wondered how it looked from the outside; you and him. From the bar it might have looked like drunk spontaneity. From the stage it might have looked like a stint of support for the arts. You wondered, with a twinge of fear, if the others could feel the longing too or if you had masked it well enough as a performance. 

The music dropped out to make way for the final lyrics.

Way down inside, he belted into the silence, punctuating with a deep inhale. Woman, he shouted, locking eyes with you for a pregnant second as the world came to a halt, you need… he drew a deep breath in the space the two chords allowed him before wailing the final word at the ceiling — loooooooove!

You felt it with every cell of your body in one suspended moment. Felt—for the first time since you could vividly remember—truly and completely alive. With a crash of cymbals and an electric instrumental boom, the rhythm—and the world—reconstituted around you, swirling with a vibrant energy that swept you away.

His dark eyes opened with a wicked glint, and his next breath left his chest as a command. 

Shake for me, girl. I wanna be your backdoor man!

You obeyed with a shimmy of your shoulders and the room went wild. 

______

Janet left you with a tight, perfumed hug. A gentle reassurance that yes, she was fine to drive home. She left you in the vacuum of slamming guitar cases and distant voices as the jukebox picked up where the band left off. Left you to sober up to how idle and awkward you felt sitting at the table you once shared with her, picking at the peeling label on the wet, empty bottle.

When you heard footsteps approaching, a part of you was grateful for the prospect of someone—anyone—to talk to, though it wasn’t who you hoped. Instead, it was the man in the cap from the bar.

“Hey, love the shirt,” he remarked, glance lingering a little too long over the text across your chest.

“Thanks,” you said shyly, gaze drifting back to the bottle.

He stepped closer, setting his can on the table. “I take it you went to that concert?” 

“I did, it was really last minute actually.” You told him the story. You told him with your words and gestures, twisting in the tall stool to face him, but it was Eddie that drew your eyes. Crouched down with one knee bent beneath him and the other straining against denim slits, he collected his pedals into a tiny, vintage suitcase. There were words coming out of your mouth, but faced with the rigid angles of his thighs, you were helpless but to stumble over some of them.

It was then that you noticed he had already been staring, though not at you, at Bill — with a simmer behind his eyes.

“Man, I woulda killed to go to that show. I was working a double when tickets went on sale and a buddy of mine said he was gonna camp overnight for us. Well, he ended up getting into a fight with his girlfriend and flaked out. ‘Course they were sold out and closed by the time I left work.”

You expressed your genuine sympathy.  

“Boy I was pissed at him then, but even more pissed after Bonham died. Like damn, that was my last shot, man!”

“I’m sorry you had to miss it. It was quite the show.” You told him what you could remember. The setlist, the stage, what they wore.

Eddie watched closely, carefully darting between you amidst the gathering of cables and closing of metal latches. He watched your hands come to life like he loved so much, like you always did when you were explaining something with fond enthusiasm. Helplessly, he watched the way Bill leaned closer, the way his hand and forearm made themselves at home on your table. The simmer hissed and bubbled behind his eyes.

“Anyways, it’s good to see such a lovely new face around here. One with great taste, I might add. Made my night.”

The simmer kicked up to a full, licking flame. 

“Oh, well thanks. I don’t get out much,” you said with an awkward chuckle.

Bill stepped closer, as if his next point was something he had to lean in for. “By the way, and I hope this isn’t too forward, but… you’re a great dancer.”

Eddie watched your hand dive behind your neck, your face contort into a feeble smile, your shoulders hunch, your eyes glance down. He could hear the distress in your beautiful laugh and he boiled so hot he could have seared a hole into the back of Bill’s head.

He extended his hand. “I’m Bill, by the way.” 

Eddie wrapped the cable in hasty circles around his forearm. Heat rose behind behind his tight lips and exited in short fumes.

“Hey man, have you seen the drum key anywhere?” Gareth called from behind him.

It barely registered. The world was a fragment now. A red-hot, narrowing tunnel reduced to a singularity — Bill’s hand. 

Bill’s hand; hovering like a salacious invitation, too close to the soft swell of your belly. That open, rugged palm — weathered, experienced, and free. Free to reach into his wallet, to reach across the bar, to hand you a drink, to wander all sorts of places where Eddie could not.

You, ever polite and always accommodating, reached back.

He touched you. 

Eddie’s vision narrowed red. Helplessly, he watched Bill’s fingers snake around the back of your hand and squeeze, linger at your palm as they released. A coil wound through his body. It rose up like bile — up through his spine, into his shoulders that rolled forward and back with a deep, seething breath. Up, up, into that primitive space at the base of his skull where words and civil manners had no place.

“Can I buy you a drink?” 

Eddie dropped the cable. 

The world blurred in the wake of his target and in five swift steps he was at your side. “Hey, Bill. Uh—” his senses ebbed back to him with a curious look from the man he’d shared countless drinks with. A man he would call his friend had he not breeched a sacred distance, a contract he knew nothing of. His vision was clouded, the coil tight and hot. 

“She’s um,” he continued quietly, a murmur he had to lean in for. An urge seized his hand. The urge to claim, to slip across the divot of your back and pull you close where you belonged, to but the noise from the stage and the eyes that followed forced his hand deep into his pocket. He swallowed his frustration, hoping the simmer in his eyes would be enough to convey what he meant. “She’s with me, man.” 

A throb from that low, blooming place, rose up in a full body yes. In the arch of your back, in the dip of your eyes as you caught the desperate heat from his. 

Bill blinked in honest surprise. “Wait, you mean,” he pointed between the two of you, eyes darting back and forth with a confusion that only deepened the insecurity of everyone involved, “you’re—”

“Yes,” Eddie hotly interrupted. The coil in him released slightly, a low rumble replaced by a surge that settled in his cheeks at the trembling, nervous laughter in your voice. 

Flutters roared through you all at once, spinning the room well beyond the scope of the liquor that lingered in your veins, heightening your senses to the warmth radiating from the aching nearness of his body to yours.

“Well, hey man, we were just talking—”

“Yeah—well,” he glanced at you, an apology playing out in the widening of his eyes as the coil cooled to sobering embarrassment. He wished he could bury himself, open a trapdoor and take you with him. A parade of stomping feet and slamming cases trudged on behind him from the stage. He prayed the din was enough to mask the conversation. 

“It’s ok!” you nervously exclaimed to both of them. “Really. Besides, I—I need to sober up anyway before I go home, so… it’s really ok,” you soothed to Eddie specifically. 

Eddie’s pulse thrummed in his hears, his body a livewire of stress and embarrassment. “Ok. Well, I just, um… thought I’d let you know,” he concluded to Bill, desperate to string together some semblance of dignity. He dipped his head toward you until his voice hummed lowly in your hear. “It’ll just be a few more minutes. I gotta get the rest of this shit cleaned up, and then we can, um—” his eyes darted back and forth between yours in wordless exasperation.

“Yeah,” your body whispered, overriding any protest of your noble mind. To what you were agreeing to was unimportant. Whatever he wanted.

Eddie nodded and pivoted toward the stage in a swift exit.

In the wake of his absence was an awkward pause, a space Bill was quick to fill with words. “Well, um, it was nice to meet you,” he said with an awkward dip of his head. 

“Yeah, you as well,” you said, a feeble anchor to the spinning room. Bill’s gaze hesitated with a flash of disappointment before returning to the bar. It was all you could do to just stand there a moment, heart pounding in stunned realization as the space whirled with the clammer of footsteps, the thud of equipment, the clinking of glasses. Suddenly the weight of your aloneness in the middle of it all was crushing. You retreated to the down the short hallway and ducked into the bathroom.

She’s with me.

She’s with me.

She’s with me.

In the muffled quiet of the dimly lit reprieve, the words echoed louder than ever. You were almost afraid to check your reflection, to look yourself in the eyes and face the person who ached to hear them repeated, but you did, and she surprised you. Something about the way your lipstick feathered clean in the center from the kiss of the bottle, the way your mascara settled at your lower lashes in the delicate lines beneath. It was oddly flattering, like the shadow of a good time. 

You liked who you saw, and perhaps that scared you most. 

Jeff’s laughter echoed down the hallway and the pinball trigger snapped again. What the fuck am I doing?

You would ask yourself this question as you pressed the tip of your boot to the dirty toilet handle, as the cold water woke your skin, as it dripped onto the salt-stained tile, as you dropped the soggy remains of the last two paper towels into the overflowing trashcan. 

When the clammer of footsteps and slamming of the back door faded to nothing more than distant murmurs from the bar, you slowly cracked the door and peered into the empty hallway. Your boots clicked tentatively against the tacky linoleum, emerging from the shadows as you drew a steady breath. The stage was dark, the men perched on stools had their backs to you, all roaming eyes cast down over drinks — all except one.

Eddie stood in the middle of it all; hands on hips, damp curls clinging to his neck, chest still heaving from movement and stress. He locked eyes with you, and you could feel relief in his sigh from the apron of the hallway.

Your smile was a shy, timid thing, blooming to a helpless grin as the softness of his features heightened into focus with each progressive step. As the distance between you closed to less than a foot.

“Hey,” he breathed like a soft apology.

“Hey,” you answered, like you always did. A nervous crackle of anticipation wound through your gut.

“I um,” Eddie wrung a hand behind his neck, flashing a dark tuft of hair that made the animal in you stir. “I need to cool down,” he admitted with a raw, candid urgency. He patted his pockets. “I’m gonna step out for a cigarette… if you… wanna…” he nodded toward the back hall. 

Yes. Anything, the animal growled. You simply nodded and went to grab your coat. 

Eddie snatched the heap of leather from the railing by the stage and draped it over his arm. He ushered you forward with a sweep of his palm through the air, catching your eyes with a softness that threatened the strength of your knees. A giggle escaped you — honest, uncontrollable, automatic. Clutching your arm with a coyness that surprised even yourself, you shuffled in front of him, the towering presence of his closeness like a tingle at your back, a safety in the thud of heavy boots behind you. 

The night air was a cold refreshment, a sobering reprieve from the hot, smoke-dense air of The Hideout. Your lungs helped themselves, filling to the brim, releasing just a little of the tension that was mounting before you arrived. It left you in a thick fog, drifting out into the empty patio, catching the glow from the singular bulb posted by the door. Eddie pulled it shut with a soft thud and shrugged on his coat in a rattle of zippers and chains.

Silence. A howl of the wind through naked limbs. A sigh that left both of you at once. 

Eddie dipped his head in subtle reverence as he crossed in front of you, placing his hands on the short, wooden fence to your right. He paused a second, drawing a deep breath before spinning around to face you, hands splayed in an open plead. “I am so fucking sorry.”

Your mouth hung open. “A-about what?”

He ran a hand through his hair with a ragged sigh. “About Bill, about how I acted, a-about…” he swallowed, “what I said…”

An O trembled on your lips but never made it out. “It’s fine, really—”

“It’s…it’s not. It’s just that,” he huffed, “Bill was hitting on you a-and you just looked so uncomfortable and…” it drove him fucking crazy. It lit his blood on fire. It made him want to grab a man who’d bought him countless drinks by the collar and ram him into the wall. 

You stepped closer, close enough to see the whites of his eyes in the darkness, the shadow of his pinching brow. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t stir something in you. Hearing those words. Hearing the ones he said now in profuse apology. “Eddie,” you soothed.

He closed his eyes; a split-second relish of his name on your lips. “It—” he sighed. “It wasn’t cool, to say that…” he shook his head before meeting your eyes in soft earnestness, “in public.”

The breath froze in your lungs. Out here the world fell away to the rustle of trees, to a darkness that cloaked you like a blanket. You were alone. Truly alone. A question tugged at your heart, twinged on the tip of your tongue but felt still too bold to leave it. What would he say, then, in private? 

It played out like a tape behind his eyes — the curl of Bill’s fingers around your hand. It was such a simple gesture, benign outside of context. Yet there was something deeper, something that wound like a serpent through his gut. It struck, and stung, that in one fell swoop, Bill had touched as much of you as he had. That Bill could do as much in public as he could only manage beneath a shadow. 

“Anyway, now that… that’s out of the way,” Eddie shook his head as he fumbled with the zipper of his pocket, curls feathering his delicate cheekbone, gaze cast down in weakly hidden shame. He procured a box of cigarettes, thumb flipping it open with an ease earned by years of habit. Popping one into his mouth, he paused before snapping it shut. “Y-you want one?” he mumbled. It seemed rude not to ask, but the question felt dumber by the second as it hung in the air. You were good. Good like 6 AM coffee, like the early morning sun. Good like the buttons on a crisp, white blouse. Yet here he stood, hand extended, offering what little he could — an experience.

Goodness was a mantle. A weight that kept your shoulders back, your lips pressed tight, your head cast down, your feet in slippers, your curtains drawn. Eddie Munson stood beside you, rugged and regal like a dark knight, arm outstretched in humble offering. With hesitance, you eyed the invitation. 

Out here you could be anything — a vagabond, a runaway, a princess escaped from her castle. A woman who spends Tuesday nights at dive bars and smokes cigarettes with men in leather jackets. Anything you wanted. 

You wanted to taste it. You wanted the flame, and the smoke, and the raw, ragged air that wound through your lungs and left like a beacon that soared toward the sky.

You wanted to be bad for him, and so you accepted.

The cigarette almost dropped from Eddie’s mouth in shock. He fumbled another from the box before tucking it into his back pocket. With a flourish, bending in its presentation as if it were a single rose, he offered it to you. 

Never in a million years could you have imagined it. You, in a position like this. Him, in a position like that. Least of all that it would be so wildly romantic.

You accepted with the tips of your fingers, your index and middle, brushing ridges of his knuckles with feather-light indulgence. They closed around the offering, pausing for an aching second before drawing away with it. 

Eddie closed his eyes, so quickly he could have masked it as a blink, but you caught it. The sigh, the swallow, the batting open with a burning hunger as he relished in the barest fulfillment of what he’d been craving since he saw you this morning — to touch you.

The cold nipped at your knuckles as you took in the foreign sensation between them, admiring it like a sinful adornment under the moonlight.

With a flick of his thumb, the parentheses of his mouth lit up in a warm glow. He took a few quick puffs, smoke billowing from his nose and the corners of his lips before taking a long drag. Satisfaction exited his lungs in a deep sigh, a billow that rose toward the twinkling sky. He turned his attention back to you. “Here,” he offered gently, beckoning you closer with a gentle come hither motion, readying his lighter.

You held your hand out gingerly, willing the trembling of your fingers to cease with little success. 

Eddie closed in, bringing a finger to his lips as a gentle suggestion. “Put it in your mouth,” he said, unable to suppress the boyish grin that surfaced from the words. 

You did as he told you, held it in your smirk, searched for your next instruction in the depth of his eyes but found only delight. Delight in the whole sight of you; the way it dimpled the swell of your lips, in the attention of those dutiful shoulders, like you wanted to be good at misbehaving. Delight in the fact he was teaching you something.

Eddie leaned closer. “Like this,” he instructed softly, framing his own with his long, ruddy digits before taking a quick drag. Obediently, you mirrored him, like a natural smoker would, like they did in the movies and inside the bar. 

The flame ignited between you, flickering in the wild wind. Eddie cupped it with his other hand, forming a shield with the curve of his knuckles — gentle and protective. The fire caught the tip of the slender roll, but his palm was far more captivating. Inches from your face, you could study it closer than ever, plush and glowing — the broad heart line, the soft meat of its heel. 

A deep inhale had smoke ghosting over your tongue. Eddie pulled away to reveal the ember and you took your cue. The drag you took, long and determined, left you coughing. 

Eddie couldn’t suppress his chuckle, couldn’t mask the crinkle of his eyes as you—from behind the big desk and before the big board—were swallowed in a clumsy cloud of smoke.

“Are you laughing at me?” you asked through a giggle of your own.

Like oxygen to a flame, his laughter only brightened.  “I’m sorry, you’re just… so…”

“So…what?” You gave him a look, trying to suck your dignity back through the end of the cigarette. 

A million words ached on the tip of his tongue. The wind ripped across the small, frozen field, shyly disappearing in the treeline. Out here there were no bells, no footsteps, no concrete walls to listen. Eddie watched those fingers of yours pull away from your lips, blow a billow toward the open sky, and one in a million came tumbling out.

“Beautiful.” 

A puff retreated back through your lips, froze in your lungs. The truth hung like smoke in the cold night air, rolled around in your chest, warmed your body from head to toe. Eddie plugged his mouth with another draw to prevent more from slipping out. 

There was space for the truth out here. Space like a vacuum, vast and quiet. A shyly muttered “Thank you,” was all you could manage to fill it with.

Eddie raked his fingers through the damp curls at the nape of his neck, cheeks pinking visibly, even in the dim glow of the single light on the other side of the patio. He leaned against the fence and met your eyes again, nervous breath rolling over his plush lips.

His movement, like a magnet, drew your feet across the pavement. Deeper into the shadows with the gentle pull of his eyes. The tobacco settled in your body with a comfortable heaviness as you drank him in, and you suddenly grasped the appeal.

Out here he seemed even taller, shoulders stacked over slender hips as he leaned into the fence, an ease that washed over him with each generous draw, like the stress was rolling off into the shadows. Out here he took on a different posture, different than the one under fluorescent lights. Different than the one in the small chair next to you, the one with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes.

You tapped the ash of the cigarette off with your finger, like a natural smoker would. He smirked at the gesture, and you caught the twinge of pride in it this time. 

Out here he could be anything. He could be clever and daring; a roguish enchanter. A man who casts spells with his fingers and charms with his words. Anything he wanted.

He wanted to make your eyes light up. 

Eddie took another drag, hollowing his cheeks before sending out smoke in deliberate puffs with his tongue. It left his mouth in rings, hovering in the gap between you before drifting across the patio.

He got what he wanted. A gasp left your lips, eyes twinkling brighter than the stars. “What?! I didn’t know people could actually do that!” You exclaimed, delighted like a child on Christmas.

Eddie blew the rest off to the side and returned a blinding smile. It was more satisfying than the cigarette — the fact that he could do it, make your face light up. The fact that he had the power.

“How do you do that?” you asked, ever inquisitive.

His instructions were simple; take a big drag, hollow your cheeks, make the shape with your mouth, and push the smoke out with your tongue. Simple enough, from the sound of it.

Your first attempt failed, miserably. Uproariously.

“The shape is critical,” he reminded through a chuckle, “it’s gotta be like, a perfect O, not an oval.” His eyes lingered over your lips as you tried his suggestion, struggling to will his mind away from the gutter.

Your smile made it hard to maintain. “Wait—wait, hold on I think I got it.” You tried again with great focus, sending out puffs with your tongue that looked nothing like rings. It was worth it though. Worth making a fool of yourself for the amusement that colored his face, for the bright laughter it earned you. “Ok, fine. Maybe not.”

It looked good on him, just like it did on stage. This knowing that drew his shoulders back, made him lean with a powerful ease. The knowing that he was really good at something, that he could show you.

“It’s a bit advanced,” he said with a wink before taking another deep drag. He puffed a ring and cast it forward with a push of his hand, like a spell through the air. It broke on your nose and you relished in the soft sensation of his life-force ghosting over your face. 

It was all you could do just to look at him — rugged and regal in the way that only he could be. It was dangerous and thrilling; how alone you were right now. His aura pulled you closer, eyes tugging at those burning questions, serious questions at war with your lingering buzz. You broke the silence with the truth; soft and sincere. “You’re insanely talented, I hope you know that.” 

The curve of his lashes dipped shyly with a little puff through his nose. They raised with a sparkle that cut through the darkness. “Thanks, it uh… comes a lot easier to me than chemistry.” He tapped off his ash on the pavement.

You tucked your free hand into your pocket with a bashful shuffle of your feet. “Well, good thing rockstars don’t need to know chemistry then.”

Eddie scoffed and gave his eyes a quick roll, unsuccessful at hiding the brilliance of his smile. Heat crept up his neck, and he soothed it with a wring of his hand.

There was a gap between you; a space you were too scared to breach. The two of you filled it with shy chatter as your cigarettes dwindled to nubs. It was easy, to talk to him. About music, about anything. Easy because you gave each other turns to take it; the space. It almost made it easy to forget who you were to each other before you came out here, who you would go back to being tomorrow.

The cold was wicked and relentless; biting at your knuckles as you tapped the last ash. Even the tobacco’s heavy warmth sinking to your feet couldn’t stave it off. It was a Tuesday night in December, and the wind made sure to remind you. 

Eddie followed your eyes toward the door. “It’s ok,” he reassured. “Nobody comes out here. We’re safe.”

His words sparked a tingle in your chest, a pulse of heat; low and thrumming. Neither could halt the shiver that seized your limbs. 

“You ok?” he asked gently, stepping close enough to almost feel the heat from him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You blew on your hands, rubbing them together feebly to fight the cold. You were stubborn to surrender, determined not to end your stolen moment by succumbing. 

It was all he could do just to look at you. You, shaking like a leaf in the wind. You, with longing eyes and trembling lips. You, with your soft skin and softer soul. His fingers burned, wrestled with the silence, and the distance, and the howl of the wind through the trees. They warred with the ticking clock, with the chill against his precious moment, with the threat of it winning. Suddenly his fingers—bolder than they’ve ever been in his life—twitched to animation. They toyed with the cold metal zipper at his neck, and in one decided tug, he opened up for you. “Here,” he offered. 

You froze, more than the cold could ever manage, as you eyed the invitation — the warm leather cave, the exposure of his heaving chest. Your lips parted but words would not come. You wanted it — the heat, the tight embrace, to be wrapped in his aura, to feel his laughter with your palms. 

Your noble mind as it cast its disapproval like a shadow toward your heart, but your hands and feet were deaf to it. Boots shuffling boldly against the rough pavement, they filled the gap between his. You accepted with the tips of your fingers, delicate and tentative, like his skin was a hot iron and yours at risk to burn. You watched them disappear into the darkness, felt the soft cotton warmth as it enveloped you. With trembling slowness, you traced the divots of his ribcage, settled into them like grooves, felt him gasp into your palms when the ice that you’d become found the velvet, heated skin under his arms.

“Sorry—”

“Hah—hmm—no-no it’s ok,” he grimaced, pinning your hands beneath his arms to stop your recoil, as if the pain of the freeze hurt less than the pain of its absence. “I—ah—I asked for this.” His chuckle was a warm vibration, a flutter as the cage which housed his heart contracted. 

A shiver racked your body as you thawed. Whether it was nerves, or fear, or the chill that had settled deep in your bones long before you stepped foot outside, you were helpless to control it.

“Come ‘ere,” he breathed with equal care and need.

You submitted, tracing his contours as he pulled you closer — head against his solid shoulder, into the soft pillow of his hair, into the source of his scent: leather and tobacco and the sweet, salty musk of his skin. You closed your eyes and basked in it, nose buried in his curls, drawing in deeply to steady your rattling chest. 

Broad palms splayed across the fabric of your coat, pulling you deep into the comfort of his heat, tracing your waist to settle in a place they burned to be — your lower back. “It’s ok, you’re ok,” he murmured into your hair, bracing you tightly as your whole body shook.

You could have died here, buried yourself in his arms and made him your tomb. They would find you in the morning; frozen like a sculpture. Left out for all of Hawkins to see, to point and say terrible things. It wouldn’t matter. You would have died happy.

His heart was pounding with disbelief. You, here, in his arms. You could feel it through your coat, hammering against your chest, into your palms at his back. Eddie felt your breathing slow, your body soften and relax. He crooked his forearm firmly to your back, to the place where it belonged, fingers curling like a cage around your waist. Out here he could be anything — strong and stable, a haven for your tired bones to rest. Anything, for you.

In the dark leather cave there was a landscape for your hands to study. The satin liner grazed your knuckles as your hands explored the angles of his shoulder blades with tentative slowness — down along the muscles of his back, the dip of his spine, the birdcage of his ribs; expanding and contracting, deep and steady. 

He was real, here, in your arms. Two swelling lungs. One beating heart. Two hands that clutched the wool barrier between you. One solid shield of a chest. One humming column at your cheek. Eddie Munson; wildfire. Close enough to thaw you. Close enough to burn you to the ground.

Your hands settled at the slim taper of his waist. Pliant and yielding under soft cotton, swelling with each ocean breath. His cage around you tightened, and you breathed him in, felt him swallow, felt his hips slot against the groove of yours with sensed belonging.

The animal in you keened with curiosity, emboldened by the dark. Your hands wouldn’t dare beyond the roadblock of his belt, but they would move in slow strokes up and down his back. A gentle comfort, a mask for your indulgence.

A quiet moan rose up in him, one he couldn’t swallow. The best he could do was cloak it in a sigh. It hummed against your ear; your cheek so close to the crook of his neck you could almost taste it. You breathed him in again, lips pressed to his soft curls against tough leather as the smoke, and musk, and crisp night air filled your lungs. 

His hands were less patient; dipping toward the slope of your hips, pawing at thick wool, thumbs drawing aching circles there. It earned an arch from your back, a grasp from your hands at the soft cotton barrier. 

There was an animal in him too, preening at the cant of your hips, at the rub of your neck against his. With a dip of his chin he could sink his teeth in, but his noble mind willed it away, settled for the scent of you instead — soft like powder, warm and inviting. The heels of your palms drifted toward his belly, and the animal threatened to rear below his belt.

“Ah,” it leapt out his throat.

Hands freezing before reaching the healthy swell, you drew back from his shoulder, checking in. Your lids hung with visible weight, pupils blown by more than just the lack of light, dizzy from his touch. He could do that with his hands, he thought; a split-second revel before concern sobered your features.

His disappointment was palpable, like he’d burst some great bubble. “Mm—no, it’s fine, please—” please don’t stop. His arms around you tightened, eyes pleading with words he wasn’t bold enough to utter, even in the darkness.

A shadow of guilt fell across your face. Guilt for your greedy hands, for your lost control, for your bad behavior. It was a pitiful sight; worse than the one he saw yesterday. Worse because it was here. Worse because he was closer than he’d ever been before.

There was a gap between you; space for the cold to seep between your hearts. Space for the fear that he’d broken the spell. That you didn’t see him anymore, but your student instead. 

You thumbed his soft cotton shirt, buried in the shelter of his coat. Eddie Munson — frenetic and compelling. Beautiful in the way that wild things are. Breathing life into your numb hands with each  ragged swell. You studied him closely; his soft cupid’s bow, his pink, plush pout, the angles of his worried jaw, the pining in his eyes.

Want. A wild, elusive thing. A summer wind. An admission at a cost. Want didn’t budge. Want looked you dead in the eyes and tightened its grip.

Eddie knew what he wanted, burning like a question on his tongue. He knew he had to be the one to ask. He was terrified — of the question, of the asking, of the fact that he may never get another chance. Your hands grappled with it, clung like they feared he would vanish. He felt the ache in them, the want, the fear, the frustration. It opened up a narrow passage, and he entered with the boldest thing he had ever done.

He asked you with his forehead first. A gentle nod forward; the softest collision. A tickle of curls. A rock back and forth of his strong, sturdy brow. A smile even you couldn’t hide. Your hands released, settled at the dip of his back in quiet permission.

He asked you with the bridge of his nose. A delicate slope. A tender nuzzle. Rigid bone under soft flesh. Cold, round tip. Roaming the map of yours with heated intention as he swayed like a dance in the moonlight. You closed your eyes, surrendered to the fantasy. Felt the heat of his cheek, the pang of his palm at your back as he pulled you closer.

He asked you with a tilt of his chin, and brought time to a halt.

There was a gap between you. A fractional distance bridged by the ghost of his breath. Within it; every party that you never went to, every basement you were never led away from, every page you never shared, every experience you never had. Goodness was a mantle, heavy from a lifetime on your shoulders. 

What did freedom taste like? The question brushed across your lips like a warm invitation. You were desperate for the answer. Wanted it more than anything, ever, in your whole entire life. Wanted it for you, for only you. For once.

Eddie asked the question. You closed the gap. 

A sigh left both of you at once. One you could taste this time, humming against the plush cradle of his lips. Freedom could have melted you. It threatened the strength of your knees, but his arms were stronger. Locked against each other in the shadows you borrowed, your lips began to explore, to express every secret wish the two of you had dreamt apart. 

Freedom tasted tentative at first. A slow drag of his lips, a languid slip that rippled to the dormant parts of you. Catching like tinder as they grazed over yours, hot with an ache you could taste. It was sinfully exquisite; tasting the curve of his smile, the hyper-real rasp of his stubble as those lips—the ones that shot you smirks from down the hall and spilled over with song—found a rhythm with yours. Broad palms clutched the wool at your waist like you’d slip through a crack if he didn’t hold on.

Freedom was slick. It tasted like cigarettes, like a thousand unsaid words ushered past the border of your mouth. You could taste every one on his tongue, soothed them with the slickness of yours. Every aching word, dripping in each soft caress. Diving like a dance, echoed in the soft, wet smacks when you parted. You devoured them like you were starving. Every sigh, every hum, every color that left his lungs slipped eagerly down your throat. 

The wool at your back was a nuisance. Eddie pawed at it, desperate to feel the shape of you through the fabric, to store it in the vault of his mind, to play with it later in private. He halted his hands at your hips, willed them decent, rationed with the small working part of his brain that your lips would have to be enough. He relished in the way you accepted him. The way you spread for him, parting eagerly for his tongue. The way your lips closed around him, rocking as he prodded like you’d done it before. Like you wanted to elsewhere. 

The spell was broken. The line, miles away. There was a hunger in you, sudden and surprising, roused by the very first taste. Eddie palmed your hips with an urgency that stirred you. Like a bear in the spring, thawed by the heat of his touch, you devoured him. Devoured him with the wholeness of your splayed hands, tracing up his pounding ribs, dragging across the expanse of his broad chest. It heaved under your touch; solid muscle under soft cotton. You devoured his moan; a hot, strangled thing that escaped his plush lips. Like a match to the strip your tongue, you ignited. 

His hands lost their patience. Breaking from your waist, they dove behind your ears to cradle your face. Your face. Your jaw, your delicate cheeks he caressed with the rough pads of his thumbs, as if the swell of them—the rigid bones under soft skin, the absolute realness of you in his arms—could wake him from the dream he was surely having. He was tasting you, tasting the want on your tongue. More satisfying than a four course meal, more satisfying than anything he’d ever tasted in his life. You wanted him. More than that, you savored him; the taste of his hot, eager tongue as it slipped against yours.

Freedom was delicious. Bold and complex, acrid and rich. Full bodied. A smooth, sweet finish. You could have drowned in it. Drowned in the angles of his hands, in his tender strokes, in the sopping heat of his mouth. Drowned in his eager sighs, in his scent. Drowned completely if he hadn’t held your head above the surging waves. 

Eddie was good like a midnight snack. Good like a wide open road. He was good at this. Good at knowing how to ask and answer. Good at at finding the rhythm of you. 

You broke for air, stilling against the bridge of his nose, afraid to look him in the eyes just yet, to break away from the safety his shadow provided. Safe from the world, safe from consequences, safe from the thoughts that battered at the door of your mind. Safety was fragile and fleeting. You knew it, he knew it. Your breath mingled in hot bursts as you steadied your spinning world for a quiet moment together. You felt him smile—heard it—big and bright as it cracked across his face. The air stung your cheeks when he took his hands away. Leaning back against the fence, he tugged you closer, further into the safety of the shadows, enveloping you in the crook of his heat. 

It was good like this — the angles of you and the angles of him, fitting like they always belonged. It felt safe to explore them, to paint his pounding chest, down the soft swell of his belly, stopping at his hips. With a thick bob of his Adam’s apple, he closed the gap again. It was chaste this time, peppering your lips with space to breathe between each kiss. They were slow and savory, steady and sure. They lingered long enough for you to get another taste, to capture that plush Cupid’s bow and let it melt across yours, to flick your tongue over his soft bottom lip and taste him there too. 

You could taste his need when he greeted your tongue with his own. It was safe to show it here. Safe to let the animal inside him bare its teeth. Safe to let the animal in you do the same. It growled when he nipped at you, hooked its claws through his belt loops and tugged. It was a quick, testing thing, and your sound let him know that he passed. He lapped it up hungrily, soothed it before inflicting another.

It ached in a frightening way, in that deep, low place. Throbbed awake with each delicious bite. It scared you how quickly the path was veering south, but the pooling warmth encouraged his travels, let him go wherever he wanted. When his lips strayed far enough to track your jaw, a shrinking voice shrieked danger, but the rest of you simply submitted. 

Claws braced denim and leather, offering yourself with a tip of your head. Reverently, he accepted, setting his pace with a dizzying slowness. He worshiped you with every latch, every press, every lingering smack, darting his tongue out to taste the forbidden angles of your jaw. It was greedy but good. To him, to you. Letting go this much. Letting him go this far. The trail cooled in the night air, and he settled at the precipice of your neck.

His breath alone was enough to melt you; heavy with the weight of his new position. Heavy with desire, with the weight of thousand fantasies he never thought would come to pass. He drank in the cocktail of your scent; concentrated, warm, deliciously real. In the throws of your own heaving chest, sobered just barely by the pregnant pause, you awoke to your position: open, vulnerable, completely at his mercy. 

He tasted your swallow, felt your breath hitch when his warm, wet tongue found your pulse. Lathing there a moment, lingering and slow, he savored you. Savored the ridges of your neck, the way your head lolled to the side, like a feast laid out for him. He stored the image in his mind, packaged it carefully for when he would surely be starving again. His lips soothed where his tongue left off, over and over until your strangled sound stirred a fiending hunger. He bared his teeth, and you shattered. 

Freedom was falling apart in his arms. Crumbling into pieces and letting him grapple you whole. Letting him capture you in his maw and lap up your ruin. Letting him, letting him. His teeth dragged dull and slow, tingling every waking cell, turning you to putty completely. He dragged a moan out of you. A full one, loud and clear. He tucked it away, buried it deep alongside your squirms and your touch. 

The door opened.

Cold air shocked your lungs. Head snapping over your shoulder, you broke his latch and Eddie hissed a curse at the separation. With daggers, you both assessed the intruder. 

The silhouette of his cap gave him away. He might have even kept on walking but the gasps and the shuffling feet made him turn. “Oh shit,” Bill flinched back in surprise. “Sorry man I thought you left.”

Eddie’s arm tightened instinctively, pulling you as close as he wanted to earlier. Reflexively, you pushed away. It was a strange tug of war — his pride and your fear. “Yeah—no we’re still here,” he snapped.

You swallowed your pounding heart, sobering completely under Bill’s gaze. Suddenly your claws retracted, your hands felt wrong where they rested, shame bit at your neck along the cooling trail he left behind. 

Even in the backlit glow of the singular light, you saw it painted clearly on his features — the judgement, the disbelief, the questions rising up but not daring to come out. “Well um, sorry to interrupt. Have a good night,” Bill said with an awkward raise of his hand before making quickly for the parking lot. 

Footsteps faded over gravel and left a silence in their wake, thicker than the stillness from before. 

Eddie breathed a sharp sigh through his nostrils, brows lowered as he seethed toward the parking lot. The cold was setting in again. Your nose, and ears, and fingers stung with it. The rest of you stung worse; chest numbing, caving like a can under the weight of what you’d just done. 

When the flick of distant headlights made you brave enough to face him, frustration painted his features. He pawed at your coat, desperate to salvage what he could of his precious moment. “Anyway, where were we?” he muttered, eyeing your neck with a tilt of his head like he was about to dive in again. 

Your hand at his chest stopped him, and the look in his eyes was wounding. “Eddie,” you warned softly. A slow, heavy sigh left his nose, one you could feel with your palm. “I need to go.”

Crestfallen after a desperate, hesitant second, his arms went slack. Your hand dropped, leaving a fierce chill behind. One more, his lips begged, but struggled to release. Please. 

It hurt, to crumble like this after all you had built. With the roar of Bill’s engine, the fantasy shattered around you. The carriage became a pumpkin, your gown turned into rags. Shrill bells rang out in the distance, coming surely as the sun would rise. Pinballs thundered as that sweet oval face—the one from the back of the room and the chair next to yours—pouted with lips still swollen from where you had broken your contract. 

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed. 

Gathering himself with a deep breath, he straightened to a dignified height, conviction filling the cracks in his composure. “I’m not.” 

It was terrifying — the prospect, the consequences. What it meant for you, for him, for the world you’d have to face tomorrow. 

Most terrifying of all was how good it felt to hear him say.

______

A/N: Thank you all for your patience on this one. It took me nearly all summer to finish but I'm really proud of how it turned out. Please let me know what you think! I've missed hearing from and connecting with all of you. Next one won't take nearly as long, I promise. 💕

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @storiesbyrhi @cursedyuta @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @keeponquinning @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @big-ope-vibes @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

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MASTERLIST ⎮ AO3 ⎮ KO-FI

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #don't stand so close to me

[everlastlady]

Hello! Can I ask for a scenario where Striker and the reader are childhood friends? I think it would be nice to see a side of Striker where he knows the reader for a long time and cares for it.

- Crystal ✨️

I had fun writing this that I might make a part 2 because I enjoy scenarios like this so I hope you enjoy!

Striker X Reader: With You.

━━━━━━༺༻ ━━━━━━━━━━━━༺༻ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Author's Note: Hello! My little imps, powerful overlords, & demonic sinners. Welcome back to another story that I hope you enjoy and that I'll maybe write a part 2 for so if you want a part 2 or enjoyed then please consider liking, commenting, and reblogging. Always support your local community/fandom writers.

Word Count: 2911

Fandoms: Helluva Boss

Characters: Striker.

Striker groans and wakes up. The hybrid Imp sat up in bed, he looked at the time it was 5:30 am which meant it was time to start his job on a farm. After dealing with Stolas and the Imps again then Stella calls him off not to kill Stolas. He didn’t get much work so he decided to make a bit of money by working on a farm which he didn’t mind since he loved animals and hard work. He would only be there for a couple of months so he threw off the gray blanket and got out of his bed. His bags are already packed by his bed and ready to go. Striker got out the outfit he would be wearing to the farm on his first day. He already met with farm owners yesterday, a sweet old couple who needed the help and was willing to pay Striker a lot if he stuck around and helped them. Striker took a shower and ran his fingers through his white hair and stared off. He loved the assassin business a lot and he had his reasons for continuing his work. He just couldn’t help but wonder what if he decided to use all the money he had been saving up and live somewhere far away from everyone, to buy a farm and settle down but no his work wasn’t done. He was going to make sure every royal pays for what they took from him. Striker turned around and shut off the water. He wrapped the fluffy white towel around his waist and brushed his hair. Making a mental note of everything he needed to do. He slides on his boxers and black jeans. He brushed his teeth while scrolling through social media. He wasn't active but used to stalk his victims or people he found interesting. He never really posted, if he did then it was just scenery pictures from Wrath or pictures from bars he would visit. He never posted his face or anything that could lead to him. Striker pulled the long sleeve gray shirt over his head. And sat down on the bed putting on the brown cowboy boots. “ Time to grab some grub and a cup of joe. “ Striker walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge he grabbed two eggs and some bacon. He got started on cooking and brewing some coffee. A big cup of coffee since the drive would be long.

Striker pulled out the chair and sat down eating his breakfast. He would do his best to keep a low profile and just make his money besides working on a farm to help old people shouldn’t be too much trouble. Besides this farm was in the Sloth ring which he heard is the nicest ring in Hell that didn’t have much trouble but had some snobby people there but he would keep his temper in check if he met any of them. Striker finished his breakfast and carried his bags to his truck along with the carry he had his pet snake in. He got Bombproof into his trailer then hooked it to the truck. “ The ride is going to be long so get comfortable fella. “ Striker chuckled and walked back inside making sure all the doors and windows were locked. It’s not like he had to worry since no one really knew where he lived but better safe than sorry. Striker got into his truck and buckled up. “ Alright, let’s do this. “ He started up the truck and drove off, listening to a few rock and country songs while drinking his coffee. He was starting to relax, and was glad he decided to take up some farm work. The last farm job ended with him getting stitches. Striker sang along to a couple of songs while he drove. He did make a few pit stops since he had to piss or he needed a snack. But after the drive he finally made it to the farm in the Sloth ring. ‘Moon Side Farm’ Striker parked his truck and got out. An old lady who looked like a lavender colored sheep walked up. “ Oh, you must be Striker, don’t you look so handsome. “ She said, adjusting her glasses. Striker chuckled and shook her hand then a kiss. “ Thank you ma'am, glad I could be here to help you and your husband. “ Striker would get his bags from the car and walk with the old lady up to the farm. “ Me and Ned are so glad to have two people helping us, I’m sure you and (Y/N) will get along great, by the way my name is Janet. “ She said. Striker smiled and nodded but that name (Y/N) felt so familiar. Striker watched as Janet opened the door and he followed her inside the home.

“ Neddy and (Y/N), Striker is here! “ Janet called out. “ Were in the kitchen Janet, (Y/N) just fixed the sink. “ An older man responded. Janet walked into the kitchen and Striker continued to follow her. “ (Y/N) this is Striker, thank you for fixing the sink. Do you think you could show him to his room? “ Janet asked. Striker watched as the person pulled themselves from up under the sink, but his reactions made him drop his bags, no it couldn’t be this had to be a dream but here you were standing. “ (Y/N)..... “ Striker’s heart was racing like a horse. “ Of course, I don’t mind showing him to his room. “ You said. Motioning for Striker to follow you. He followed behind you and simply couldn’t believe that he saw you. The two of you walked upstairs, Striker was trying to find out how to strike up a conversation with you. What could he say to an old childhood friend, someone he grew up with, would go camping with, and watch the stars with. The person who always had his back and patched him up when he got into fights. Who listened to his dreams about wanting to be a bar owner and farm owner one day. But he thought you died….. He thought you were gone. But here you are standing right here. “ Here we are, Ned and Janet had me clean up the room a bit before you got here. I hope you like it because if not then oh well, but I know you never been one to complain about a room Striker. “ You smirk and turn around. Of course you would remember your old childhood friend. Striker was your first friend when you and your family moved to the Wrath ring. You enjoyed all the mischief and adventures that you and Striker would get into. How he would punch out any guy that harassed you or helped you with your farm work. Not to mention he was your first kiss when you two went to that party in your teen years.

You also wanted to help him with his dream since you did have feelings for him. But then that fire happened and you ended up so hurt that you were in a coma for a couple of years. When you woke up, you found out that your family was dead. That some of your friends were either dead or moved on with their lives. You tried to find Striker but there was no trace of him. So you gave up and fell into a depression. Until you met Janet who was shopping and almost got robbed, you had beat down the fucker who tried to rob her and then helped her put the bags in her car. She thanked you and offered you a meal which you agreed because you were tired of eating out of the trash. Janet and Ned welcomed you into their home and you told them about your situation and why you had a prosthetic arm. The two felt bad and offered to stay with them if you helped out of the farm so you agreed and ever since then. They were like an aunt and uncle to you. “ So where have you been? I missed you, I thought you died. “ You said, frowning. “ I thought you died too. “ Striker said, walking towards you and cupping your face. '' I was devastated when I thought I lost you along with everyone else. “Striker said, stroking your cheek. “ Where have you been ? “ He placed his forehead on yours. “ I was in a coma for a couple of years, and I started working here with Ned and Janet. They have been treating me nice. “ You smiled. As Striker lifted your arm and stared at the prosthetic. “ This is from those royal blue bloods who tried to run us out of our part of Wrath to build their stupid homes for only the upper class to afford, isn’t it? “ He said, with a cold tone. You nodded your head and watched as Striker examined your arm while he let out a hiss and a rattle. Those sounds brought back memories of how angry he would get whenever people made fun of him for being a hybrid or when someone messed with you. “ Yes, Mammom’s company donated it to me. “ You said. “ But I don’t want to talk about where you've been and what have you been up to? “ You said, stepping into the room and Striker picked up his bags and followed you. Wondering if he should tell you, but he didn’t want to keep you in the dark.

Striker closed the door and walked up close as he whispered. “ I’m an assassin now, I kill demon royalty or any rich bastards for a lot of money. I plan on using that money to buy a lot of land somewhere in Wrath and start a new life but also I want the upper class to suffer for what they did to us and how they treat imps like us. “ Striker said, looking at you. “ Oh, wow that job sounds exciting and dangerous. “ You chuckled but now understood why you haven’t seen him since he got out of the hospital. “ Yeah, I've been trying to kill this one Goetic prince but his annoying ass wife told me not to kill them now because they need his money or whatever. “ Striker crossed his arms still annoyed, this made you chuckle and shake your head. Still the same stubborn boy you grew up with. “ I’m surprised that you listened. You usually rebel against people who tell you what to do but I guess if she wants you to wait. Then it will be worth it, right? “ You tossed his bags on the bed. “ She said that she’ll triple what she is paying me so yeah I guess it’s worth it. “ Striker chuckled and looked at you. “ So how much do they pay you? “ Striker asked. He didn’t want to stay that long and steal any money that you had already been earning before he took this side job. “ $20.45 it’s good payment for me. I also get food and a nice room. Ned also gave me his truck as a birthday gift. “ You said, leaning against the desk. “ Oh! So that’s your beat up truck out there. “ Striker smirked and had a tease in his voice. “ Hey! I’m getting it worked on and trying to work on it. “ You said, crossing your arms with a pout. Striker always adored that little pout of yours, how your cheeks puffed out a bit, the way your (e/c) eyes looked at him, and how you crossed your arms over your chest.” How about I fix it up for ya darlin’ ?” Striker ruffles your hair as you look at him. Striker always fixed things for you when you both were younger whether it was your toys or bike. “ If you teach me how to do it then we have a deal. “ You stuck out your hand. Striker chuckled and shook your hand. “ We can start on that tomorrow. “ He said. “ Alright! Well I’ll let you get settled in and I’ll go put your horse in the stables. “ You were going to walk away but Striker grabbed your hand and looked at you. “ Hey (Y/N)..... I missed you. “ He said, looking like he was about to cry. “ I missed you too Striker. “ You said, smiling. The two of you hug each other, holding each other close like the other would vanish again.

Striker would make sure that he would stick around so that he could catch up with you. So when you left so he could unpack. Striker was quick to put away his things as he thought about the things he would tell you about and the things that your life has been. Striker walked out of the room and smelled something delicious, he walked downstairs and stepped back into the kitchen. Where he saw that you were cooking spaghetti. Striker’s stomach growling made you turn around and laugh. “ I think someone is hungry, do you still know how to make the garlic bread your mom used to make ? “ You asked. Striker nodded and walked over as you let him take over what you set out for the garlic bread. Striker stood next to you while making the garlic bread. He forgot how beautiful you are and how lovely you look when you are working hard. Striker wasn’t sure of his feelings for you when you guys were teens because he did want to date you but he didn’t want to make your friendship awkward. You also weren’t ready to date so the fear of rejection always plagued his mind. So after he assumed that you were dead; he never dated anyone, always turning down any woman or man that approached him or kicking them back when they wouldn’t respect his space. “ You dating anyone? “ Striker asked, his breath shaking a bit since he was scared of how you would answer or respond. “ No, I haven’t dated since I got out of the hospital. Besides, most people who hit on me are weirdos. I’m waiting for the right person though someone I feel safe around and that I can be myself around. “ You mixed the sauce around. You could be yourself around me and I’ll protect you from any bitch or asshole who tries to touch you, Striker thought to himself. “ What about you, are you dating anyone? “ You asked. “ No, I haven't met the right person besides most people in Wrath aren’t really my type. “ He said, but you were always his type, someone who could handle themselves but also someone who took it easy. You and Striker continued to cook while you both thought to yourself about how you felt for each other but neither of you knew how to confess. Once dinner was ready everyone sat down at the table. You listened to Striker tell his story to Janet and Ned about his life growing up on the farm and dangerous situations he had been in.

After dinner you and Janet cleaned up. Striker stepped in to do the rest which gave you time to go shower and brush your teeth. You took a nice warm shower. You stepped out of the shower and dried off. You wrapped the towel around your body and brushed your teeth, you were excited that Striker would be teaching you how to fix up your truck and the two of you would bond all over again doing farm work like when you were kids. You stepped out of the bathroom as your bedroom door opened. “ Hey (Y/N), Janet said that slice of apple pie in there is yours wanna share it? “ Striker stopped in his tracks seeing you wrapped in just your towel; this caused him to blush and look away. You stood there blushing as well and froze up. “ I~I’m sorry darlin’, I sh~should have knocked. “ He said, as he bit his lip. “ I~It’s okay, y~yeah you can have the pie. “ You said, while holding onto your towel so it wouldn’t drop. Striker was about to leave until he sighed and stopped in his tracks. It was better to say it now since both of you would be together on this farm working. “ (Y/N), I love you. I always have since we were kids, it’s why I didn’t date and it’s the reason I tried to look for you after the accident. I didn’t date anyone after I couldn’t find you because I thought no one would match up to how wonderful of a demon you are. “ Striker walk up to you. “ Striker. “ You said, in a soft tone. Striker placed his hand on your cheek and brushed your bottom lip with his thumb. “ Do you feel the same way? “ He asked. “ Y~Yes I feel the same way Striker. “ You enjoyed his touch as it set shivers and small heat waves through your body. Striker leans and kisses you, sending sparks throughout both your bodies. The two of you stood there kissing, your tongues dancing in each other's mouth. Striker picked you up and walked over to close the door. And they carried you over to the bed where the two of you made out on the bed. After an hour you both pulled away the string of saliva connecting between your bottom lip and his. “ I think I’m going to like working with you here~ “ Striker looked down at you and smirked.

#helluva boss #hazbin hotel #helluva striker #helluva striker x reader #helluva x reader #helluva fandom #helluva fanfiction #writerscorner #writeblr #writing #writers on tumblr #my writing #fandoms #fandom #fan fiction #fanfic #everlasting writes🪻 #everlasting request 🪻

[inklores]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐒.

pairing: henry!sherlock holmes x fem!oc

summary: sherlock holmes needs to find his intrepid little sister. clara bedi wants to keep his sharp nose off her trail. (word count: 3.1k)

content contains: fluff, sherlock being bad with women, slight strangers to lovers but they're both smart idiots

author's note: made originally for a class assignment but i'm too proud of it to keep it hidden away in my google docs!! enjoy

FUMES OF SMOKE lifting from the corners of his lips, he thumbed the lapis silk tie the pamphlet was bound by. The rhythmic movement was a rehearsed habit of his, charting keen thoughts that were falling into place.

Tea in the Parlor

Magazine of Modern Womanhood

25 April 1884

“A Problem With No Name. I’ve first heard that uttered so solemnly beneath the breath of a mother amid other mothers over the scent of teacakes and the English brew that her hands had surely processed the week before. Another cried. As your humble magazine writer, there have been women beyond our teatime who had answers to my questions. Those who sort matchsticks in factories, who raise children, who nurse other children. Those who live in the fine estates of Westminster, lodging houses along Greater London, and flats bordering Whitechapel, all have the same problem. The groping truths to their lamentations, brought into light when the children were away and their husbands attended to important business over a glass of sherry at their gentleman’s clubs,—”

Something more than a scoff and less than a laugh escaped Holmes.

“—were provoking. Just what was this nameless problem? A whisper that refuses to be said. The bond of pain, of womanhood, of the searing feeling that something great shall arrive to our fair England.”

— C.E. Babbington.

“Mr. Holmes, I hope you’re not mistaking me as someone with whom you are at odds with.”

Clara wore burgundy today.

Or indigo to a sharp eye, moreso if she sat in the dusky shade rather than by the window where sunlight was allowed to stream through the frosted glass tiles. The heat of the afternoon, Clara could tolerate. The brisk cold, the musk of tobacco, pomade, and fine English leather that filled her office—all mingling together to create one scent that floated around the man who stood in front of her— she virtually could not.

Well, “office” may have been a playful nudge to her ego. It was more of a closet with a pen, a hook to hang her coat when there was a chill, a canister of her favorite tea matched with her precious teapot, and a small sideboard that she used to stash her extra paper. Clara had spent enough time in that little closet to learn its quirks and commodities. The shutters would not close in blustery weather unless they were bound by a scarf. The gentleman who would take his Saturday morning coffee and eggs always found something to guffaw about in the newspaper. Clara knew because she could hear the fervor of his chortles from one story up. The fifth floorboard from the door creaked with the slightest movement and she had garnered the will to purchase a rug that softened footsteps over the parquet.

Now if only she could purchase a rug to wrap around the man filling her tiny corner with the fumes of… man.

A tall man. Haughty by the way he stood. He looked strong and sturdy, weaned on the finest food money could buy. Clara wondered if he teethed on crumpets and caviar as a baby. His clothing may have been picked to feign oneness with the people of England, but she noticed a grain on his breasted black coat. His crisp white shirt boasted no wrinkle, cinched around his neck by a silk ascot the color of charcoal. Chestnut curls spilled across his head—sharing no unified form—and fighting to be free of the pomade that gleamed in the dimness of the lamplight. She imagined an artless tumble of locks when he was nose-deep in a case. An errant strand fell over his brow, softening his countenance where his tone failed to.

“Have you anticipated me, Miss Bedi?”

It was Clara’s mistake for stopping short of her movements. Her fingers froze on the handle of her teapot and it was then she realized the incriminating ink stains that blotched her bronzed fingers.

She did not. He knew that. He likely knew what she had for breakfast as well. Hence the cloying pride that laced his query.

A tickle caught in her throat and she swallowed tightly to preserve her pride as she arched a dark brow. “No, I have not, but I applaud your effort. Nobody contemplates and makes a theater out of their face quite like you.”

Looking up from the tea she was pouring, Clara barely caught the indignant twitch in his face, even as his mountainous posture was unrelenting. For a man who was presumed to be discreet, he was quite eye-catching.

He dropped his gaze down to the lonely armchair and side table Clara would enjoy her tea in. It was the one perpetually surrounded by her basket of stained pen tips and folded newspapers— Clara had the habit of saving old prints—bits of thread, scraps of silk in cooler hues, linen from occasional embroiders, and stacks of books from Edith that never make it back to the shelf, being moved around constantly on the empty promise of being read to completion.

It was a detective’s heaven.

“The name ‘Holmes’ is beginning to mean quite a deal in this country,” her eyebrows slanted, copper eyes filled with constellations, “and do you think I would be in my position if I did not know?”

“Precisely why you flinched when I used your name and not your pen name.” His voice was rich as a fine velvet she let her hands graze over at a textile stand, but detached. “Deceit. To hide the plain truth, just as frills and elegant coifs do. Yes, it may dress you like a powder puff—” she parted her lips in protest but his eyes glimmered like opals, he was clearly not done—“but the man holding the pen is entirely different. In that…”

Her grip on her teacup could not get any tighter, for one tremor to rattle the porcelain would have him arriving quicker to the deduction he savored for last.

“He is not a man at all, is he?”

She watched in bated, almost nonexistent, breath—wondering how quickly she could get her hands on the cake spade lying unfashionably by the crumbs of a Dundee cake she had scarfed down the night before—as he fished a blue silk tie that bookmarked the yellowed book she just realized he held.

“How does a C.E. Babbington become… the elusive Clara Eashwar Bedi?”

A wave of cold took her from head to toe. If Clara wasn’t gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles quickly whitening, she was sure her knees would’ve given out. She stared down at the pretty silk tie, and then at the folded pamphlet he slid over the varnished surface, the black ink script almost snickering at her in mockery.

His words came as fluidly as water, uttered with a stone-cold expression she figured was his mask for his famous deductions.

“Four separate purchases of pens and paper from three different vendors.”

Spreading her tracks. No writer who desired anonymity would so foolishly expose herself by making a reputation with one seller.

He was studying her closet-office now. A satin kerchief protected his hand as he chose a stained pen to scrutinize. “Bills from Whitechapel. Cheaper ink—a shadowy writer such as yourself would not earn her dues to spend carelessly on finer supplies than supper for the night. Or silk ties to make her mark. To create a name.”

Cheaper ink bleeds easier. Her fingers, a blatant victim.

“Bedi.” He tasted her last name on his tongue for a moment, eyebrows pinched as if he was trying to paint a map in his acute mind. “When did your father leave India?”

Her throat was dry but she swallowed down her apprehension and managed out, “Fifteen years ago.”

“Does he work on the docks?”

“Worked.”

A flash of humanity lightened his eyes and the man of a chilly, pragmatic acumen faltered. “Apologies.”

The sound that tumbled from Clara’s lips could only be described as something between a shaking sigh and an aggravated grumble. “What is it you want, Mr. Holmes?”

“You write for the Magazine of Modern Womanhood,” he continued, making Clara bite back an exhausted groan. “Yet you affect a pseudonym. Why?”

“I don’t write for the magazine, I write alongside it,” Clara mumbled. Why was she entertaining him? “I don’t have the means to print my pieces independently— as you so cleverly deduced by my purchases of ink.”

“Your pieces… and other submissions, I’d bet.”

“Are you a betting man?” She lifted a brow curiously, daring him to stop this frivolous quadrille of tongues and get to the point.

“A cipher with the fingerprints of my sister was published in the personal advertisements column of your magazine, The Pall Mall Gazette, and The Journal of Dress Reform. It’s our mother’s interest she hopes to attract and with the choice of your publication, she has a good start.”

“God, there’s more of you?” she asked, feigning horror. “Is the world ready for that?”

(But where the name Mycroft Holmes was etched in cold stone and proud, old money, she had the sense the name Sherlock meant something else. Something whisper quiet like a dusty novel on crumpled velvet. Elegant with solitude.)

Sherlock took a step forward, his fingers still thumbing the fraying corner of the book. “Have you any idea where she might be?” He tilted his head. “I’m afraid our mutual acquaintance Edith had more to say of my “ostrich-like” nature than my sister.”

Clara couldn’t help the kick in her voice as she responded, “Appropriate.”

He smiled at her, a Private Investigator brand of Smile that Clara knew well enough from the numerous times a constable had approached the magazine for its inflammatory words, and which only deserved a Young Journalist Smile.

But what he said snagged her attention as well as a good story. Eudoria’s daughter. Little Enola. 

Edith had mentioned her once or twice. Clara might have seen a glimpse of a little brown-headed girl with quick feet, dashing about Ferndell Hall when ladies of a particular ilk huddled around a table, bearing swords on their tongues and determination in their hearts. Clara typically stood behind her bolder friend, Edith, clutching a pen that barely made a scratch against her worn pocketbook. She knew little for the illustrious Sherlock Holmes to knock on her door… but little was more than enough to be cunningly dissected and deduced by him.

“Enola’s missing?” she asked slowly, hoping to stall but Sherlock Holmes was not a man for idle chatter. Her head shook in a disappointing, deceiving refusal. “I’m sorry, but I have the faintest idea as to where she’s gone and why.”

“I find that highly improbable,” said Holmes in a tone that suggested he too was done with this waltz. “You’re protective of your name, or, names —”

“And what will you do if I use your name, Mr. Holmes?” Clara countered rigidly, her heart leaping into her throat. “Loudly? With proper dictation? Letting everyone know your business more than you’d like?”

“Then you’d also find yourself and Edith in a very difficult position, one that I’ve made clear to her and will to you if I must,” Sherlock warned, dropping his voice to a decibel that made a chill rattle her spine. A hint of vague frustration was tangled within his dull humor. 

Clara stilled, watching as he turned over the book and leafed through toward the back cover. Stuffed in the spine was a folded napkin and he paired it with the newspaper clipping for her viewing displeasure. Wrinkled and white and stamped with the crumbs of a pastry, her eyes were naturally drawn to the hasty scrawl in ink:

“C.E.B.

Matter of Bill —

Tea Rooms”

The same dismayed expression from when he dissected her alter ego took ahold of her face once more, even if she tried to disguise it by a clench of her jaw. 

“Macaroons could do with some attention but Edith has enough to worry about,” said Holmes. “She’ll notice the missing book from her seditious collection but not the message hidden inside— a message written to Babbington, who I understand is an intrepid young woman, so I’m sure you’re aware of what the proper connections can do for a man.” The distant, icy blue of his eyes warmed. “I asked of your father— a man who likely worked too hard for too little a reward and you, his daughter, silently fighting in favor of a bill that will help the men and women like him.”

“My,” Clara gasped, “Mr. Holmes, I didn’t take you for a man of politics.”

The stray little curl swished across his brow as he shook his head. “Oh, I’m far from it.”

She hummed curiously. “Then, what do you fancy? People? Poetry? Probably not. It’s your cases that keep you warm at night, which is why you hunt your own sister in blind circles like a dog chasing his tail.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice, “If Edith tells you nothing, I will say even less. Trust your sister… and the future. Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

She made to go around him, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered as she did, until a bleak and dare she say, concerned mutter caught her ear.

“She’s a child.”

“By my understanding, you’ve abandoned her once, Mr. Holmes. In the pursuit of where your mind takes you and little of your heart,” Clara said, more sharply than was her wont. 

“I beg your pardon.”

The anger in his voice flared like a bleeding heart. A man who was a fire next to gunpowder, ready to speak his mind and snatch the rug beneath a pair of unsuspecting feet. She could loathe him for being so perceptive and intelligent, yet plainly missing the changes of the world. But that tone… He was no longer a brilliant mind or a pleasantly distant man. He was a brother who wanted to know where his sister was.

And if there was ever a case that Sherlock Holmes would encounter, it would leave no secrets he could not crack.

Clara turned around, stained fingers toying with each other, teeth worrying her lower lip to a reddening bruise. Amusement danced in her eyes, quenching the frustration that twisted his sharply cut features.

“You have it,” she admitted after a pause, cheeks growing warm. “Because I’m a woman who believes in second chances… and the calling of her heart rather than her mind. And a desolate, hopeless bachelor tugs at that heart, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s face contorted incrementally, the corners of his lips curling up just a tad. It was not a smile. Another part of her would have thought so but not the smart part. Still, it was an odd expression that made Clara think it was gracious.

“I’m not aware of such a reputation.” Fond.

“Figures,” she sighed, eliciting a huff of laughter from him. The sound was enough to make her face crack with a smile. “Enola’s sixteen. And if she’s anything like her mother and brother, she won’t go down with a fight nor will she be drawn away from it. And the real fight is coming. I advise you to start there.”

He squinted at her. Then at the napkin. Then at the clipping signed by C.E. Babbington. The fight.

“A problem with no name,” he murmured.

“It has a name, Mr. Holmes. Whether it will be spoken is decided by men like you and your older brother,” she added, rightly hopeful. “Perhaps that will change.”

Silence settled comfortably between them until the pounding of her heart became too loud for her ears to bear. She cleared her throat and pulled the knob to her door, returning her gaze to Sherlock.

“Until next time, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled. “I hope your game finds its feet. My best to your sister.”

He tilted his chin in an understanding nod, hand pressing against the curly blue tie that still sat next to his evidence, her pamphlet. To her surprise, he waited. One hand disappeared in the flap of his jacket and came out holding a fine black pen shot with gold trimming. To a man like Holmes, it was a pen to write some very useful reckonings of the mind but to Clara, it looked more valuable than what she earned in a week. It clinked as he set it on her desk, accompanied by that slight, mysterious smile.

“Trust a bill won’t be made,” Sherlock assured, amused as he approached her. He extended the blue ribbon to her.

“And a secret will be kept,” she enforced, fixing him with a look as she curled her fingers over the forbidden silk tie, folding it into his palm.

His hand was cold, callused like the reward of cracking cases. Yet it managed to send a surge of heat swirling in her chest, akin to lightning crossing a black sky.

(And did she intend the other thing she did too? The split-second brush of her fingertips over his palm and the way the ball of his throat was disturbed by a tight swallow. Savoring the softness of the lapis silk strand against his pale flesh and her copper skin.)

He lingered by the doorframe for more than a second. Sherlock looked at her— perhaps a more bewitching case with the narrowest twists and the sharpest of turns. A shadow of a smile graced his prim lips and he let out a delectable, ruminative hum. “Is that a promise I would be foolish to break, Miss Babbington?”

“Indeed it is, Mr. Holmes.” She watched him depart, a puzzling black figure who had more to his voice than what he decided to speak. 

“Oh, on the subject of hearts…”

Sherlock paused and turned around. He studied the meticulous way she swept her indigo skirt behind her and made him wait until she finally, painstakingly met his gaze. Only then she made him realize how beholden he was to her unfinished prose.

“While surely hopeless for a… perspicacious man with such a baffling pigheadedness,” Clara murmured, smiling lopsidedly, “do keep yours open.”

Before he left with another curt, reserved nod, Sherlock ruminated on her words. Her tone— he barely noticed the way he wondered how all of her other pretty, printed words would sound if they were turned from ink to… to… that voice.

No… she was not a case. She was a quandary. An unsolved riddle that he cracked with the full assumption that the winning hand was in his, only to turn over his cards and see that it was she who had the royal flush.

What fresh hell was this?

#sherlock holmes x oc #sherlock holmes #enola holmes #henry cavill #henry!sherlock #cavill!holmes #one-shots #ao3 #sherlock holmes x fem!oc

[deexchanel]

Blind

Word Count: 2,692

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x BlackFem!OC

Warning: Swearing, Altercations, Fluff and feelings uprooted. mentioning of drugs!

Summary: Bucky is blinded by love from his girlfriend who is secretly just using him for good looks and money. Elara loves Bucky as a friend until she hung out with him more and the feelings for him grew.

A/N: It’s been a month or two. Writer’s Block is a pain the ass and this time I’m prepared. ( E-Lar-rah)

mf: motherfucker ( too lazy to keep writing it)

*Characters are 18 and older!*

Elara & Bucky

“Trying to make it to school kills me Corell.” Elara sits on the edge of the couch putting on her black and white dunks. It’s 7:30 in the morning, school started it at 8:30 sharp.

“Girl it’s just 2 more months of school before you graduate. Don’t let senioritis consume you whole.” Corell poured hazelnut creamer into her coffee. Elara fixed on her red curls in the mirror. Her outfit was a black romper.

“Sis that mf done swallowed me already. Where my keys ?”

As Elara walked past Corell pointed at the hook near the door. El kissed her big sister on the cheek and grabbed the essentials that she needed then left for school.

————-

“bestie what it do!” Elara walked up to her bestie as she does every morning near the 600 lockers. It was a lot of students that attended her school which why they found somewhere link.

Kaylee Jinsu had been Elara best friend since 9th grade. “I’m convinced Thor is into me.”

The pair walked side by side to breakfast. “Why you say that?” Elara looked up from her phone every so often so she wouldn’t run into anything.

“He messaged me on instagram on some friend type shit. Wait-“ Her phone buzzed and it created a little smile on her face. “Ignore that bullshit I just said. I met Thor last year because he was friendly to me first. We’re in the friend zone and I really like him.”

Elara furrowed her eyebrow in confusion,”Why are y’all still in the friend zone? Have he shown you energy that he’s feeling you back?”

Kaylee scratch the side of her next, “He’s fingered me, we’ve made out-“

“I’m going to stop you right there bestie. That’s a red flag. He’s toxicccc.” They walked in the cafeteria deep in conversation joining the line of students that also wanted breakfast.

They sat down at the table after being served two waffles, sausage, eggs and apple juice. “Oouh bestie today they got us right on breakfast.” Kaylee dipped her waffle in syrup as Elara ate on her eggs a bit.

“Girl what! I’ma be so sleepy in first block.”

“Elara!” A deep voice that belonged to Bucky made his way closer to the table. El’s smile grew seeing her other best friend who she have yet to talk to today.

“James you was real M.I.A this morning. Surprised you still my bestie.”

“I’m sorry Elara, I was busy this morning doing some shit with my pops.” He kissed her cheek, “I just came to talk to you, grab a juice then head to class.”

Elara’s cheeks turned red, “Okay Bucky enjoy your day.” Bucky ruffled Kaylee’s hair, smirking. “I will. Oh and Kay? Thor said Good morning.”

Kaylee cheeks grew red while swatting his hands away, “Bye Bucky, you play so much!” She thought he was being petty but in honesty Thor asked him to say that.

After Bucky left, The girls sat there for a minute talking. Their conversation died down a bit after hearing her best friend name in someone’s mouth.

“Bucky’s girlfriend been posting on her close friends that he is the example dude on how use them for only money and arm candy.”

Elara’s leg shook in anger hearing that shit. Bucky loves Rydee because they’ve been together since 10th grade year. Kaylee grabbed Elara’s hand pulling her from the table before anything broke loose.

“Kaylee you heard that shit ? Rydee been using Bucky for his money. I’m going to beat her ass.” She rubbed her lips together trying to calm down but it’s not working.

“Yeah I heard that shit. She wrong as fuck for that because Bucky actually likes her. When you planning on beating her ass?”

“At Lunch.”

————

Eventually the best friends separated for classes until it was time for seniors lunch block. “Hey Steve!” Elara kissed his cheek then dapped up the rest of the gang around the table. “Where’s Bucky?”

“Sitting with Hoedee.” Clint pointed his fork in the direction of Bucky sitting at a lunch table with Rydee hugged up to him and all of her friends over there. It was only Loki, Clint, Steve and Tony at the table.

“Should’ve known.” Elara sat in the empty space between Loki and Tony. She glanced down at their plates trying to see which one was appetizing.“Which station you got the chicken nuggets from??” She pointed at Tony’s plate.

He dipped a chicken nugget it in ketchup then plopped it in his mouth, “Near the pizza but I forgot the name of it. Want one?” He held out one towards her.

“Yeah I wanna see what they taste like.” When she went to grab it, Tony plopped it in his mouth with a devious smirk growing.

Elara jaw dropped for a second then she glared. “You greedy mf!” She reached forward trying to grab one as same time Tony tried to block it.

“Stark give me one !”

“No! I want all of mine!”

“Tony!”

“Elara!” He mocked back.

They looked like little kids with chicken nugget crumbs over their hands from fighting over it. Amused, Steve held out an chicken nugget from his plate “Here El.”

The glare went from Tony to Steve, “You had one this whole time?!” She huff not even wanting it anymore. Steve laughed, “Because you didn’t ask me, you asked Tony out of all people at the table.”

Elara smacked her lips, “You do be making points Steve.” Her phone buzzed grabbing her attention.

bestie4L

we’re walking in now

bestie4L

who tf is we?

As soon as the message sent, Elara looked up to see her bestie & Thor walking in. Wait for it…

holding hands.

This is the end. Elara happiness dropped seeing her best friend off the market. I mean yeah she’s happy for her best friend but she couldn’t help feel alone. Kaylee wasn’t going to drop her but it probably meant she wasn’t going to always be available. El cleared her frown and put on the best smile for her best friend.

“Kay?? What in the hell is going on today? Like it is so eventful on this Thursday.” El pointed at their joined hands. Kaylee blushed,

Kaylee blushed, “I’ll tell you later Elara, you know I am.” Thor flexed his muscles to the guys and the cheered for him.

“Congrats on the relationship dude!” Steve dapped up Thor. Kaylee sat down by Elara getting comfortable while Thor sat beside Loki after doing their handshake.

“What’s up Loki!”

“Hey Thor!”

“Where’s Bucky?” The long blonde asked for his other brother. The whole table in unison, pointed behind them.

“Hoedee.”

Kaylee snorted and the whole table burst into laughter. El glanced over at her best friend, honestly missing him. He’s been busy all week with his dad til they’ve barely facetimed each other. She saw Rydee rub up and down his arm, she couldn’t help but feel jealous.

Jealous? Pfft Elara is the type of person who is far from jealously. Or is she ?

In slow motion, she watched Rydee place a kiss on the corner of Bucky’s lips. That’s it! She couldn’t sit there and watch some gold digger kiss on her man. That shit sent her over the edge and hating to admit it herself she knew why.

All she saw was red.

El slammed her book bag down on the table getting up. “Lara??” Kaylee got up from her seat following behind her. “Oh we ready??”

“You damn right we is.” Lara made way over to Rydee table. Kaylee crossed her arms, not losing eye contact on Rydee. Bucky glanced up to his best friend from his phone, “Best? Hey, I was just finna text-“

Elara and Kaylee stared down on Rydee but Ry wasn’t going down without a fight so she stood up too.

“Bitch you think you’re going to use my best friend for his money and not think I’ll do anything??!! Are you fucking dumb?!?!”

“Elara shut the fuck up cause you’re not going to do anything about it!”

“Oh baby we gone do everything about it, don’t fucking play!” Kaylee spoke up, taking her ear rings out. Another one of Rydee’s friend stood up too. The cafeteria was still rowdy from the other kids so not a lot of people was aware of what was going on.

The boys watched from afar, completely confused on what the hell going on. Bucky stood up, just as confused as his friends. “Elara what is going on? What’s the reason on why you walking up to Rydee like this??”

Elara pointed at Rydee, anger written all over her face.“Tell him Rydee! Tell him that you been using-“

Rydee lurched forward aiming to Elara’s face but El’s fist connected to Ry’s face first. Punches were thrown left and right but Ry slipped on a bookbag so she fell backwards which had Elara on top.

Rydee’s friend inched closer to the fight but Kay kept watched the whole time. She went over to the friend “Oh bitch you trying to jump in?!” Kaylee grabbed her hair, pulling her to the ground. “Bitch don’t you ever think you can jump in my best friend fight!”

The two fights caught everyone attention and the cafeteria erupted into a lot of commotion. Bucky had enough of the fighting from Elara, he grabbed her waist trying to get her off. “Elara let her go!”

He didn’t understand what was the whole fight about. Bucky was upset that El fought Rydee for nothing. He had a lot of questions to ask both of them. “El stop!”

Bucky’s strength successfully pulled El off but it wasn’t enough to contain her. “Bitch I’m not finished with you!!” Rydee yelled as a teacher held her back. Both girls had a scratch or two on their faces.

“I’m forever ready you stupid bitch. You knew you were fucking wrong to do MY best friend like that!!” She thrashed around in Bucky’s arm cause every piece of her wanted Rydee head tore off.

It be them damn light skins that wanna fuck over the good guys. Bucky held on to her waist, with all the moving Elara was still in his arms. He pulled her into the hallway, not even upset because he wanted to know what’s going on.

“Elara calm the hell down and tell me what happened? What is you talking about with Rydee?! I’ve asked that question about a thousand times and no fucking answer! Plus you’re fighting her over this means this some deep shit so what is it?”Bucky ‘s angry but determined expression stared into Elara’s chocolate eyes.

She closed her eyes taking in a deep breath, not knowing how he will take this. Now realizing that she cause this mess without even knowing how Bucky would react. Shit! All because she was jealous.

The guys walked out the cafeteria excluding Kaylee and Thor. Steve wanted to speak up but the argument looked heated.

“This morning I overheard some girls say that Rydee has been using for you money and good looks. I went a little deeper and found out she’s still with Martin.”

Bucky heart sank, he didn’t know if it was true or not. He didn’t want to believe it. “Th-That doesn’t makes sense El. Rydee didn’t-” Ry was Bucky’s first relationships since he had lost his arm in a car wreck. Yeah Elara was in the picture but only as friends.

What El told him stuck in his head, “You can’t believe stuff you hear Elara. Why are you trying to sabotage my relationship? You fought her for no reason!”

Elara looked at Bucky in disbelief “I had a reason! No don’t you fucking dare take up for that gold digging bitch!” The anger kicked back in. “Bucky ain’t no fucking information like that is just going to float around school as a rumor.”

“Everything’s a fucking rumor. A real best friend would’ve just told me personally instead of fighting my girlfriend. You don’t have to fight all the time Elara!” Bucky got closer and their eyes never broke contact. He was angry for not knowing if this information was true and he’s taking out on the wrong person. His heart was telling no but his head just wanted him to keep going.

“Buck!” Steve jumped end cause they’re friendship was on the edge. “Both of you just chill out on this right now.”

“You hear your fucking self right?! You know what everybody can’t handle a real bitch like me so I’ll do you a favor and leave. She did you dirty, I took your side and beat her ass cause I’m your best friend plus overprotective of you and you’re mad with me?” She shook her hands trying not to put her hands on him. Elara’s heart was just torn from what he was saying. “I’ll chill out when he take his head out of Rydee’s ass.”

“Fuck you Elara cause you don’t know how I really feel!” Bucky balled his fist, and that’s when everyone intervened. Tony held back Elara who fist were balled as well.

“Fuck you Bucky!” She tried to move but Tony got in the way. “Stark you can move cause he’s pushing it!”

“No you two need to cool it. You guys obviously need some time apart!” Feeling in defeat when Tony didn’t move, El flipped Bucky off. She nodded her head as her eyes filled with tears.

The principal opened the door pointing at El, “You come with me.” Elara followed her without protest to the office.

—————

Elara laid into bed, her feelings for Bucky were everywhere. She liked him but the way he acted today, obviously showed that he wasn’t into her.

Her love life was hard and not being with her parents made it harder. In her side nightstand, El reached down grabbing an old coach purse which held what she needed. 5 minutes later she was done rolling up.

Yeah…

Done rolling up…

When your love life and losing both parents is hard, something has to take the pain away.

*Incoming call from bestie4L*

The facetime call answered with Kaylee sitting on her back porch.

“You done rolling up?”

“Yes, just looking for my lighter.” Elara always losing her damn purple lighter. After finding it under her pillow, she made a walk to her back porch.

“You always looking for that damn lighter!”

“Hush cause you be losing yours too!” El laughed, then sat down in a chair.

*********

The world echoed around Elara as the grass became interesting. “Elara what happened between you and Bucky?” She heard Kaylee’s voice from beside her, honestly forgetting that she was on the phone for a second.

“He took her side with his confused ass and how I know that was true about Rydee cause when I was making her ass confessed, she cames towards me first that’s why I took the first lick.” She hit the blunt against the ash tray to knock some off.

“I was there on the second part slow ass , keep going on the first part when I was in the office.” Kaylee laughed at the slow moment Elara just had. “El you high as fuck. He took her side how?”

“Man he said he didn’t know if it was true or not so he don’t know whose side to take and plus it was wrong to fight her. All that pure bullshit.”

“How the fuck he can’t believe you? You were here first so he should know you by now. You took his side and he still chose hers. Men.” Kaylee shook her head then inhaled the smoke through her nose. “I had to hit the blunt for the stupid shit, you just said.”

Elara laughed putting out the blunt. Kaylee always know how to put a smile on her face and Elara’s forever grateful for that. “Girl ima be there in 2 minutes so we can smoke these together bye!”

“Bye bitch!”

After smoking, Elara regretted nothing from today but he was still on her mind. The way his eyes stared into hers…

——————-

Yupppp my ass wrote this while high and sober. my first post since a month or two ago. I’m out for the summer so I should be more active.

stay slutty my friends 💗

#marvel #bucky barnes fluff #captain america #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky imagine #steve rogers fanfiction #bucky barnes one shot #bucky x poc!reader #bucky barnes x black!reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #tony stark x oc #thor x black!reader #steve rogers x original female character #marvel fanfiction

[augment-techs]

Literary Witches: A Celebration of Magical Women Writers

As Writing Prompts~

wife, sister, virgin, whore

an incantation, a naming, a blessing, a curse

weavers, potters, cooks, and healers

flip to any page; follow your wyrd

conjurer of hurricanes, zombies, and tall tales

with each story, the basket gains an apple

alchymist of monsters, children, the living and the dead

a terrible baby, their very arrival a murder

even the freshest thing is mixed with rot

a painful tale about the creation of life and what happens to shunned, abandoned children

shaman of dew, hummingbirds, and mushroom language

could not read or write and lived in poverty on the mountains

healer and oral poet

hermit of hospitals, belonging, and lost souls

"You think you're the only one who doesn't belong?"

at least some creatures can find a home

receiving two hundred electroshock treatments and narrowly escaping a lobotomy

grand dame of trickery, murder, and teatime

"Most unpleasant."

a consolatory apricot biscuit

sibyl of masks, extraterrestrial eggs, and twisted fantasies

smashes the crystal ball on the ground

what remains--glass shards and a black, sticky substance

the room is clean and the crystal ball intact

madame of roses, geometry, and repetition

grow feathers, slink into worms, shrink into dragonflies--anything to get out

undine of introspection, opulent dreams, and voyages

some collect seashells, others chart the sun's movement

some keep house, make lace, pursue lovers

dakini of holy ecstasy, the dark one, and ankle bells

poison becomes ashamed

miraculously escaped their poisoning attempts twice

fantasma of silence, death, and lilacs

a bird of blue bones drops a piece of paper

the paper unfolds into a palace

step in through the door

the music hollows

cursed to hear it forever

give in, eat the bird whole

storyteller of rattlesnakes, turquoise, and the sacred desert

the drought has gone on too long

spider's silk holding all things together shines with the light

high priestess of scholars, volcanoes, and eros

a grim jewel of astronomical price

fondles their muscles over coffee and toast

sorceress of islands, venom, and histories

the soup boils down to a thick black sludge

soothsayer of utopias, creeping women, and evil wallpaper

the unseen fairy

the people must realize the changes for themselves

the disastrous, sexist "rest cure" prescribed for postpartum depression

sorceress of names, houses, and solitude

sometimes the mango is perfectly juicy, sometimes underripe, sometimes too sweet, or bruised

cigar in hand, walk into the jacaranda trees, hanging black bras off the branches

'Use this to climb out,' read the notes tied on with ribbon

guardian of the waters, the porcelain, and the lexicon

they love these puddles

they will not survive this one

wolf child fight their way to the bank of the river; they survive

after a lifelong struggle with mental illness

fairy godparent of bloody tales, the circus, and mirror

"Not another one."

doll in a red riding habit

and a bleeding wolf escapes from under the cloth

dark drops of blood sink into the soil and the roses bloom a deeper, more delicious red

sumptuous tapestries depicting sexual, violent scenes

ornamented with symbols and adjectives

warrior witch of otherness, bodies electric, and sisterhood

the sword is for slaying ghosts and demons along the way

lava filling their wounds

the coroner writes

populated with mothers, children, sisters, anger, cancer, the erotic, unicorns, snails eating dead snakes, witches, fire, and the importance of refusing silence

specter of windows, flies, and the unexpected

travels freely between the afterworld and this world

a white dress kneeling in the flowerbeds

rebel of sensual love, green gardens, and perfume

they never speak of it, but each man is haunted by his vision

withered leaves, wilted geraniums and lilacs

write explicitly about sexuality

siren of the lyre, honey, and ruins

the rest of the words are illegible

how seriously each child puts those wings on in the mirror

seer of peacocks, weird country people, and glass eyes

pray to see humanity clearly

the doors creak open

cosmic traveler of crows, horses, and survival

joy lies down in a field

the music is a spell

courageously survived an oppressive childhood, teenage pregnancy, and domestic abuse

koldunya of winter, endurance, and willows

the sodden papers become bandages for the wounded

rations of potatoes, cabbage, and milk

queen of miracles, generations, and memory

fury of motherhood, marriage, and the moon

dismembers mannequins with ferocious, precise claws

terrified into the thrill of living

enchantress of bitter love, treachery, and jewels

summons a moonbeam into a locked room

climb down to find an underground chamber

"I am the ruler of this prison."

locked up in the bedroom for six months

witch of villages, domestic horrors, and omens

rabid cats, poisoned beetles, blood-tipped needles

the ice cream section of the twenty-four-hour grocery store at three a.m.

doesn't need help finding anything

marries the ordinary with the supernatural

sower of strange seeds, species, and the future

mutating with violent need for food, power, and sex

covertly tosses seeds kept in pockets into the neighbors' yards

watcher of the moors, fantasy, and cruel romance

brushed the carpets and took walks in the hills

death of tuberculosis at thirty

#literary witches: a celebration of magical women writers #source: Taisia Kitaiskaia #writing prompts #word prompts #sentence starters #theme prompts #GIMME

[lets-talk-spirituality]

anon 😂 I've been thinking too you're not alone and waiting mod will do analysis on Keep driving* as well as the others I'm curious mod please can you do it 🫢

I’m in the vibe. Here we go.

Black and white film camera, Yellow sunglasses

So contrast between black and white and yellow, I think this could relate to how his mind has opened past black and white thinking to something more vibrant “doors broken yellow blue” everything is black and white but I’m looking through a yellow lens, choosing a positive mindset

Ashtray, swimming pool, Hot wax, jump off the roof

“I’m on the roof” now he has jumped off the roof, “jumped in feet first”

to me he’s setting a scene and is very much using imagery to evoke a feeling, like I can almost see a group of friends having out smoking and swimming, to me this stanza is reflecting on his time in 1D

A small concern with how the engine sounds, We held darkness in withheld clouds, I would ask, "Should we just keep driving?"

He knew something wasn’t right but picked yellow sunglasses anyway, he knew there were storms brewing, but he kept trucking along. This relates back to how he mentioned emotionally coasting in my opinion

** spinning out** like a car spinning out. This is in satellite and to me it’s about him having this big emotional awakening and him feeling out of control. I think SM is part of this emotional awakening he had.

Maple syrup, coffee, Pancakes for two, Hash brown, egg yolk, I will always love you

To me this goes back to whomever he would stay inside his house and have breakfast with which he wrote in some older song— hunger maybe?—this feels like him releasing an ex to me, however from a SM perspective it could also be something he imagines doing in the future and is reassuring them that he will always love them, breakfast together is an innocent enough way to indicate he tried to establish domestic bliss with someone but they never dealt with their issues and just kept going along anyway

Passports in footwells, Kiss her and don't tells

Reminiscent of the song about seeing someone in footwells and many places, but again it’s a string of images which is kinda how his life has been, just shit being thrown at him as he coasted emotionally

Wine glass, puff pass, tea with cyborgs

Cyborgs, ahhh I love this word. I’ve had a fascination with our loss of humanity. I have written so many poems about it, about us being zombies or androids, walking products of progress. People took this to reflect on connecting over zoom but to me it’s deeper. He’s saying if we just keep driving through everything we lose our humanity, we become machines, it’s what the system requires of us. We drink and smoke to feel, have tea with other people who have lost their humanity hoping connecting with them will bring us back our own humanity, with no emotions we aren’t human. These are things people do to feel alive

Riot America, science and edibles, Life hacks going viral in the bathroom

This is about how we live so much of our lives online and it’s a spectrum from riots due to what’s exposed on social media, to stupid life hacks, how we use social media to try to feel too, social issues, science all things we use to try to feel

Cocaine, side boob, choke her with a sea view, toothache, bad move

To feel something, you progress into more painful things, if you are numb you try some rough sex, you try going somewhere, you try drugs, all still things to try to feel, toothaches can happen from grinding or clenching your teeth on drugs, I also like to think he wanted to confirm for us all that yes, he is kinky like smut writers have been giving us for years.

Just act normal, Moka pot Monday, it's all good

My favorite line, we’re all out here doing god knows what to feel but we go right back to being cyborgs, like nothing happened, just act normal, fake it till you make it

Hey, you, Should we just keep driving?

This is a call out to the collective like hey how is this working for us all? We’re losing our humanity, and he achieves this sentiment through specific glimpses of his own memories. It’s actually brilliant.

I know it’s not as SM focused but that’s because it’s a song about society and loss of humanity, but ultimately I think it’s still at the end a question to SM too. Like hey, should we just keep going along like everything is normal, should we just keep going through all this meaningless human stuff, I’m trying to describe it but when I hear the end it’s like there’s this exhaustion with society and how people live and he’s asking not only should society keep doing this, but should you and I keep doing this thing, being human, being here, going along like we’re normal and everything is fine.

Ultimately his answer is no. We should embrace who we truly are and step into the light, hey you is meant as like a break in the images and it’s a lyrical way to break the fourth wall. He’s not this unattainable cyborg, he’s a person too, asking you directly, should we keep living like this. Also if you think about the sentiment in Matilda “you can see the world, following the seasons” this is the same thing. “I can see you’re lonely down there, don’t you know that I’m right here?” Basically all this says to me, hey! Wake up. You don’t have to live how you’ve been, you don’t have to be lonely and feel unloved, you can change your life, you can spin out, you can stop the car, you can turn around, you can see me! I’m here for you. I think this to me demonstrates he knows intuitively they’ve been through it, and he’s urging them to not give up hope.

That’s why Matilda is special to him other anon who asked that. Because Matilda is a song of hope, a song he wrote to remind them that things may have been bad but that doesn’t mean they always will be, they can choose differently, he’s showing them how.

#lyric analysis #harry styles #satellite

[mitchipedia]

Via Rusty Foster at Today in Tabs.

Foster notes: "Yes this is funny, but Saltz wrote a long story for Vulture at the beginning of the pandemic that’s nominally about his relationship with food, but is actually a pocket memoir and autobiography. I missed it when it first came out, and it adds a lot of depth to both his career as an art critic and his otherwise baffling eating habits."

Here's the Vulture article, which turns out to be both funny and moving. It starts with Saltz's weird eating habits and goes on to talk about his childhood and young adulthood, which were very hard.

In normal times, every few nights I buy six large black deli coffees; three caffeinated and three decafs. I put them in the fridge. Each morning, I combine the two into a 7-Eleven Double Gulp cup, add ice, Lactaid, and stevia. I drink two a day, which I tell myself equals one big cup of coffee. We bought a dozen 7-Eleven cups and tops in 2017; we wash and reuse them; ditto four metal straws. Foodies and the art world are aghast when I post myself drinking these. I grew up in an art world where everyone drank this kind of coffee, but the world has changed, and I get it.

Neither of us really cooks. Roberta can but doesn’t; I can’t but do, in a manner of speaking. We rarely go out to eat. It takes too much time. We can’t plan it with two regular deadlines in the same house — two critics living on the manic edge while trying to write, daily battling the demons that tell every writer “You’re through; quit.” Honestly, being in public at all in those flaky states always seems hair-raising to me. We do go out for pizza slices on weekends, after galleries have closed and the openings are over and people are off to big dinners and after-parties. I haven’t gone to more than five sit-down art-world dinners in ten years. Instead, over slices on paper plates, we go over lists of things we’ve seen, what we missed, gossiping about which dealers wouldn’t leave us to look in peace (hi, Gavin, you know we adore you!) and scraping over each other’s wrong ideas about shows.

We don’t do takeout either. It just seems like an invitation to overeat, which is something I worry about constantly. I haven’t had a pancake, waffle, or piece of French toast in decades — afraid I’d instantly become addicted the same way I know if I took one puff of a cigarette, I’d start smoking again. I did this once in 1986, a month after Roberta and I met. I wanted to show her how cool I looked with a butt in my mouth. I took a drag, and as the smoke filled my lungs, I still remember thinking, I am going to dedicate the rest of my life to smoking. And so I did, for 18 months from that day, before going cold turkey. Do I sound like someone with food or possible substance-abuse issues? I do. But I’ve white-knuckled it this far.

Anyone who has ever heard about how we eat and drink thinks we are insane.

Usually, about once a week at a nearby place called Agata & Valentina, I buy two large boxes of something called chicken paillard — which, now that I think about it, I’m not sure what that actually is. Premade pieces of non-breaded skinless chicken with a teriyaki-ish sauce. The chicken is stored in the fridge in Tupperware containers. We microwave one for lunch, one for dinner. Ditto bags of greens. I boil potatoes and steam Brussels sprouts or broccoli. For breakfast, it’s scrambled eggs and toast. I cook these. Other than snacks, fruit, sugar, carbo binges, and eating while going to galleries and museums, that’s it. I am a hunter-gatherer-microwaver providing for my wife, who is my eyes and mind. We got these lives and learned how to make them talk. We adapt to our environment with our shortcomings and survive.

At least, that’s how I see it. But I know that with food, as with everything else, I have acquired only partial self-knowledge. At different times, I think of myself as a glutton and an ascetic. I can see myself as a person of endless appetites and curiosity, who can imagine going everywhere and seeing everything and eating anything. But I can also straight-facedly say I have no interest in food or any kind of social life other than a monkish one. Barack Obama has talked about narrowing down his clothing — suits of one or two colors — so he didn’t have to think about anything when getting dressed. I get that — doing everything you can to open up time and space in your life for the things you really love. (Bernie Madoff, actually, got dressed the same way.) For me, that thing is looking at art and writing about it. Everything else feels like a wind blowing dead leaves away.

I feel a great affinity to Saltz Like him, I eat simple foods, from a limited set of choices every day. Most days, I have the same thing for breakfast, and same thing for lunch, with a limited number of choices for dinner. I have the same thing every night for a bedtime snack, too. I can't do, or choose not to do, a lot of the things that normal people do. I'm not as comfortable with my choices as Lewis seems to be—but I'm getting there, and this article has actually been a big help.

I can make coffee. I'm actually very good at that.

#coffee #writing #Jerry Saltz #food #twt #living well

[porcelaincvnt]

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 ♡

🛁 i’m antonio, but everyone calls me toni (short version of my name) capricorn. 15. he/they. infp. aspiring artist and writer.

🏳️‍⚧️ trans masc. bi (heavy male lean)

𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒 ♡

writing, literature, anything involving books and storytelling really. coffee and anything caffeinated. art, but mostly painting and watercolors. sketching. the color white, blue, black, and red. white is my current fav tho. wintertime. snow. cloudy and rainy days. cyberpunk, especially mecha. watching anime and reading manga ofc. cinema, sci-fi and horror especially. jfashion, fashion in general tbh. video games, my favs are nier automata and final fantasy.

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒

hot and humid weather. socializing. writer’s and art block. narcissists. entitled people. math. mornings. loud noises and weird textures (sensory issues). when there’s not enough milk and sugar in my coffee.

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

julie. lamp. ichiko aoba. perfume. radiohead. deftones. grimes. beabadoobe. babymetal. paramore. ghost. mazzy star. the neighborhood. arctic monkeys. duster. cigarettes after sex. mitski. the marias. dir en grey. buck tick. $uicideboy$. blank banshee. løren. my bloody valentine.

𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 / 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐀

tokyo revengers. naruto. neon genesis evangillion. ajin: demi human. nana. ghost in the shell. alice in borderland. berserk. tokyo ghoul. death note. serial lain experiment. ergo proxy. alita: battle angel. csm. angel’s egg. demon slayer.

𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐒

my favorite dish is arepas and teqüeños.

im latino (full venezuelan 🇻🇪)

i can speak fluent spanish, and im learning japanese as of now.

although i write for everyone, i mostly will write male reader.

current favorite charecters are: baji keisuke. kazutora hanemiya. chifuyu matsuno. souya kawata. senju karawagi (tokyo revengers) pain. shikamaru nara. shikaku nara. shisui uchiha. konan. (naruto) aki hayakawa. asa makita. reze. (csm)

thank you for reading. ♡

#hi <3 #new intro post #get to know me #<3333

[mrchiipchrome]

When a craving for beef Wellington strikes, you have two options: You could indulge and spend the rest of the night in a food coma, or you could try our lightened-up veggie Wellington instead. And with the help of store-bought puff-pastry sheets, this twist on a comfort-food classic couldn’t be easier to make.

RELATED

30 LAZY VEGETARIAN DINNERS YOU CAN MAKE IN 30 MINUTES OR LESS

PREP

COOK

TOTAL

SERVES

25 MIN

25 MIN

1 HR 55 MIN

6 SERVINGS

Ingredients

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1 bunch leeks, thinly sliced

3 celery stalks, minced

3 pints mushrooms, minced

2 garlic cloves, minced

4 cups spinach

¼ cup chopped fresh parsley

2 teaspoons chopped fresh rosemary

1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 sheets store-bought puff pastry

1 egg

Sea salt flakes, as needed for finishing

GET INGREDIENTS

Powered by Chicory

Directions

1. Preheat the oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

2. In a large sauté pan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the leeks and celery. Cook until tender, 3 to 4 minutes.

3. Stir in the mushrooms and continue to cook until they have browned and lost their moisture (they will shrink significantly), 8 to 10 minutes.

4. Add the garlic and sauté 1 minute, until fragrant. Add the spinach in batches, stirring until it wilts completely.

5. Stir in the parsley, rosemary and thyme, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Set aside to cool. (The filling can be made up to two days in advance and refrigerated in an airtight container.)

6. On a lightly floured surface, gently unroll one sheet of puff pastry to flatten it. Using a rolling pin, roll the dough out to about ⅛-inch thick and then transfer it to the prepared baking sheet.

7. Arrange the filling in an even layer in the center of the puff pastry, leaving 1 inch uncovered around the perimeter. Using a pastry brush, coat the exposed edges with water.

8. On a lightly floured surface, gently unfold and roll out the second sheet of puff pastry to about ⅛-inch thick. Carefully lay it over the filling and then seal the edges by pressing with your fingers.

9. If the edges don’t match up, use a knife to trim away any excess.Then crimp the edges with a fork.

10. In a small bowl, whisk the egg with 1 tablespoon water to combine. Brush the egg wash evenly over the surface of the puff pastry.

11. Using a paring knife, cut diagonal lines about 1 inch apart all the way across the puff pastry. Rotate the pan 45 degrees and then repeat this process, making diagonal lines going the other way to create a crosshatch pattern.

12. Sprinkle flaky salt over the surface of the puff pastry and then transfer the pan to the oven and bake for 40 to 50 minutes until golden brown. Let cool at least 15 minutes before slicing and serving. Serve warm.

NUTRITION FACTS

530 CALORIES

36G FAT

44G CARBS

10G PROTEIN

3G SUGARS

POWERED BY Note: The information shown is Edamam's estimate based on available ingredients and preparation. It should not be considered a substitute for a professional nutritionist's advice.

MADE IT? RATE IT!

purewow author

PureWow Editors

Our editorial team works with a variety of writers and experts across all fields to produce thoroughly researched stories that resonate with you. Our mission is to be that...

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[marat1]

I spotted the mute grey corner building creating a wedge between Columbus and Kearny, the small black and white sign of Réveille Coffee hanging sharply overhead pointing towards the direction of the Transamerica building. I joined the queue and stepped inside, my nostrils inhaling deeply taking in the aroma of freshly roasted and ground coffee beans, the baristas working in a perfect quartet behind the round middle island, steam bellowing out around rapidly moving hands. The air was warm inside and the hum of conversation from the other customers reverberated around the glass room. Croissants, kouign-amanns, eggs and avocado on toast created a sea of aromas all combined with the nutty scent of freshly pulled espresso. As I neared the central bar I placed my order for a cappuccino and a croissant - just the right amount of sugar, butter and caffeine to wake me properly and bring me back to my senses. Read the Full Article: https://post.news/@/marat1/2N1DK1y45qpy6Vu9yg6AvJnA91C #Reveille #ReveilleCoffee #SanFrancisco #ColumbusStreet #NorthBeach #LittleItalySanFrancisco #LittleItaly #Storyteller #Writer #Traveler #WordIllustrator #Travelogue @northbeachneighbors @reveillecoffee @sfchronicle @northbeachfarmersmarket (at Reveille Coffee Co.) https://www.instagram.com/p/CpyB0R3PLjy/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#reveille #reveillecoffee #sanfrancisco #columbusstreet #northbeach #littleitalysanfrancisco #littleitaly #storyteller #writer #traveler #wordillustrator #travelogue

[petrovanity]

acknowledging   a   character   has   been   traumatized    ≠     condoning   her   behavioral   response   to   the   trauma    .

acknowledging   a   character’s   unhealthy   mental   state     ≠      condoning   the   way   she   treats   others   ,      possibly   as   a   result    .

acknowledging   a   character’s   struggles     ≠     forgiving   her   actions    .

#this is not shade or salt ! #it's not mean spirited at all #i just wanted to clarify #esp . in reference to my portrayal of kat #* & . writer › coffee black and egg white . #* & . headcanon › she is a forest fire .

[phandoz]

Morning Debrief

For Week 8 @writer-wednesday

Summary: Benjamin Miller is a better gossip than cook.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F Reader

Rating: Explicit, 18+ Only folks

Warnings: Some swears and brief mentions of sexy times

A/N: Gave myself half an hour to vomit this idea out of my sleep deprived brain at 1am and for that, I apologise.

"I'm sorry about the eggs."

Benjamin Miller apologised sheepishly from where he sat opposite you.

You smiled down at your plate. As much as he tried, he really was a terrible cook.

"Don't worry about it," you managed to get out through a half chewed mouthful. "They're a bit like my brain at the minute," You speared a chunk of the white rubber that was once an egg. "A bit rough around the edges."

"I heard you get in late." He mentioned offhandedly. "Good night?" It seemed like innocent, light conversation but you knew Ben well enough to know better.

"You could say that. What is this, your morning debrief?!" Your eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"That's exactly what this is and you are trying to avoid the question. You pulled, didn't you?!" He waggled his eyebrows at you, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"You could say that."

Your eyes remained on your plate but you could see Benny lean forward in anticipation. Here we go.

"A lady never tells though I suppose..." He trailed off dramatically.

"You know, I think that's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me."

He held his hand to his heart in a mix of sadness and offence but you both grinned like idiots at each other. Your efforts to dodge his prying would only last so long. You knew this from experience.

You had originally stumbled into each other's lives when you had moved to town and were looking for somewhere to live. You needed a room and you suspected that he needed to fill a lonely house with some company more than anything. Regardless, the two of you had fast become close friends.

The kitchen was quiet bar the sound of cutlery on plates as you both persevered in eating Benny's abomination. The silence didn't last long as he tried again for more details.

"So, who is this mysterious stranger you met after my fight?"

"After your fight?! You're taking credit for it then?

"You could say that."

Using your own words against you. He was feeling cocky today. You scoffed as you took a sip of your now lukewarm coffee.

Benny wrinkled his nose at the mug in your hand. He gave you shit for it ever since sending you some stupid BuzzFeed article that said people who drank black coffee were more likely to be psychopaths. You might just prove that this morning.

"All I'm saying is that he must be a massive fan of mine if you met him at the bar during my celebratory drinks."

You smirk. If there is one thing that will make him back down it is playing him at his own game. If he wants details, he'll get them.

"He was massive alright." You replied nonchalantly.

Benny's eyes widened and he choked on the last of the eggs he had been shovelling into his mouth. "I didn't think anything could make this breakfast taste worse, but there you go. I think I've lost my appetite."

He pushed his chair back, deliberately letting the wooden legs grate over the floor like nails on a chalkboard. He smiled innocently as he stood, knowing the noise made your eye twitch in annoyance every time, before turning his back to you at the sink.

"Good for you though. It's about time you got back out there after that last asshole."

He was right about that.

"Well, I'm glad I have your blessing, oh wise Benjamin" you joked, trying to lighten the serious turn the conversation had taken.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah I do." Did you ever. "Thanks Ben."

You saw a shadow cast from behind you appear on the floor. This should be good. The figure crossed the threshold silently into the kitchen and you soon felt warm arms slide down to your waist before giving you a light squeeze. You let your head fall back until it hit a solid stomach, closing your eyes as a warm smile spread across your face. You felt pleasantly loose this morning despite the late night activities you engaged in with the man now stood behind you. Late night, early morning, it was all a blur. One hazy, sweet, orgasm filled blur that left you wondering why the hell you hadn't done this sooner.

"I just want you to be happy." Benny continued none the wiser, the sounds of him viciously scrubbing the blackened pan filling the room. "We've been living together for like, what, three years now?"

"Mmmm," you replied distractedly as the arms around you slid up to your shoulders, "Best three years of your life, right?"

"Obviously, but you're like a sister to me."

A nose in the crook of your neck gently nudged your head to the left so plush lips could latch on to your neck.

"You deserve to be happy. I keep saying the same thing to Fish you know. You two are as bad as each other."

Teeth grazed across your skin before a tongue darted out to sooth along the same path. "Oh yeah?" You managed to smother the waver in your voice. Why hadn't you done this sooner?

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure I caught him checking out your ass the other day though, that's a step in the right direction I suppose."

"Francisco Morales..." you tsked in mock scandal before a calloused hand squeezed your breast through your tank top in response, thumb flicking across the nipple teasingly.

"You know if lover boy were still here, he would be more than welcome for breakfast, right?"

"Oh, he knows." The man behind you stood up straight and moved his hands innocently to the back of your chair as he finally announced his presence.

Ben's back straightened immediately. "Fish." He turned, hand on one hip in his best attempt at an overprotective brother stance. "You old dog." It might have been intimidating if not for his shit eating grin.

Frankie bent down to redirect your fork of eggs to his own mouth. After chewing for far longer than expected he politely declined any future offer of Benny's.

"I think I'll pass on the offer of breakfast. Jesus Christ Ben, you still can't cook for shit."

"Well you're more than welcome to do better."

"I can and I should. But, I actually had something else in mind for breakfast and it doesnt involve you."

"Ugh, in my own house Fish?! This is a kitchen. People eat here."

"I can eat here if you want."

You happily watched the back and forth between the two friends over your coffee as Benny's jaw dropped the moment he got the innuendo. You also found yourself subconsciously rubbing your thighs together under the table, the skin there anticipating that same delicious scratch of facial hair from the night before. This confidence. It was a good look on Frankie and damn if it wasn't doing something for you right now.

"You know what, I'm going to the gym and then I'm going to Wills. I can't deal with this right now."

"Don't hurry back." You chirped

"You sure?" Benny looked right at you as he stage whispered. "Fish is getting pretty old these days."

"It's not so bad," you shrugged. "Flying for all those years has really paid off for him. Great with his hands. He does this thing-"

"Alright. Just stop." Benny held a hand up, the other hastily snatched his keys from the counter, and headed for the door. "Just message me when it's safe to come back or something."

"Fine." You conceded, "But as I was saying-"

"No! Bye!" The door slammed shut and Ben's truck could be heard starting up only moments later.

You looked up to Frankie where he stood at your side as you sipped your coffee, licking your bottom lip for the stray drop that may have been intentional on your part.

"You know," Frankie cleared his throat, dragging his eyes from your lips back up to your eyes, "I read somewhere that coffee before sex gives you better orgasms."

"Honestly, what is it with you guys and your shitty BuzzFeed articles." You rolled your eyes.

"Benny sends me at least one a day." Frankie shrugged.

"What is he, like fifteen? Of course he does."

You swayed your hips just a little bit more than usual as you crossed to the sink, placing your dishes inside for later when you could think about anything else besides what Frankie had planned for you.

Before you know it he is behind you, hands gliding down your sides before slipping into your sleep shorts, grabbing a handful of each bare cheek.

"Well, their research wasn't conclusive. You going to finish that?" He nodded to your mug.

"And you are nothing if not thorough are you. Bottoms up, Morales" You wink over your shoulder as you tip your head back onto his shoulder to drink the rest, the angle giving him a clear view of your cleavage while pushing your ass back into him.

"Mmm, bottoms up." His voice rumbles next to your ear, giving your ass a playful slap. "That sounds like an excellent idea."

Tags:

@tuskens-mando @littlemisspascal @asta-lily @radiowallet @aliwritesfic

#writer wednesday #frankie morales x f!reader #f!reader #Frankie Morales x reader #triple frontier fic

[whatareyousearchingfordean]

Come As You Are

Summary: Dean takes Y/n dress shopping for a hunt, both of them blissfully unaware of where it will lead. 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus Size Reader

Word Count: 3.9K+

Warnings: Language, self-esteem and body image struggles, public intercourse, unprotected intercourse (wrap it before you tap it)

Author’s Note: This was written for an anonymous request, 

“Hey babe I don’t know if your taking requests but I had a groovy idea dean x shy plus reader where they have to get the reader nice sexy clothes but she feels really uncomfortable in them and refuses to leave the dressing room and dean confess how he feels and they have sex in the dressing room ? Fluff and smut” 

I truly enjoyed writing it so I hope it lives up to your expectations anon. Remember, feedback is like crack to writers, and we always love to hear what you thought xoxo Alex

Consider checking out a book from Alexandra’s Library!

A frown etched itself on her face as she ran her hand over the fabrics hanging from the racks. All of it felt foreign underneath her fingertips. Satin, chiffon, and everything else that was far more expensive than she was used to. Y/n’s wardrobe mostly consisted of denim and polyester blends that tended to fray after two washes. It was all that a hunter could afford, after all. 

“How in the hell are we gonna afford any of this crap?” She whispered to Dean, who was eyeing the rack behind her, the gowns in front of him all a deep shade of red. 

“Charlie’s miracle card, remember? There is no limit,” Dean raised his brow at her, a grin etched across his perfect face. 

“Fine,” she groaned. “I still don’t see why I even need to go dress shopping, I’m sure I could find something in my closet.” 

“I’ve seen your closet, and none of it is right for this case. You’ve got to distract the coroner for the night and you can’t do that in baggy jeans and flannel.” Dean huffed as he picked a dress off the rack. Y/n’s eyes went wide as she took it in, the hem was short for anyone’s standards, then add in the plunging neckline and this dress left nothing to the imagination. 

“That is so not happening,” Y/n pointed at the offensive garment, her stomach fluttering at the simple idea of even trying to slip into it. Every spot on her body that she hated would be on full display in that thing. Her thick thighs, the roll that sat on her bra just under her arms, and don’t get her started on her abdomen. 

“Come on, just try it. You never know ‘till you try it on.” 

“Ugh,” Y/n snatched the dress from his hand before stalking off to look at more dresses. There were a couple more options that she grabbed to try on that were closer to her comfortability level. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t be caught dead in any of the items in her arms. But Dean had this way about him, always able to convince her to do anything without question. Maybe it was the way his skin crinkled around his eyes or the brightness that always seemed to live behind those deliciously green eyes? Who was she kidding, it was all of that and then some. The huntress had fallen hard for him from that first meeting. Sometimes she wondered why she chose to torture herself. 

Dean Winchester was the cream of the crop when it came to hunters, as was his baby brother, Sam. The whole world knew who they were, including heaven and hell, so how could she be expected to resist him when he smiled at her the way he does. Or even when he made her coffee in the mornings just how she liked it and picked up chocolate and pain killers for her when he knew it was that time of the month. He was exceedingly attentive to her, something that she was sure he only directed at Sam. It was just another thing that surprised her about the legend of a man. 

Yeah, like an idiot she fell for the eldest Winchester. There was no stopping it even though she was certain that her feelings would never be reciprocated. Y/n wasn’t like the other woman that Dean went for when he was on the prowl at bars. It’s not that she was ugly, it was that she was plain at best. People didn’t turn their heads when she walked in the room, men’s gazes didn’t linger on her from across the bar, no, Y/n was merely average. That’s how she knew that Dean would never see her as more than a friend because he had never looked at her in any form of want. 

“Are you ready to try those on?” A sales woman’s voice broke her out of her unrelenting train of thought. Dean answered for her before she could process the woman’s words. 

“Yes, please.” He smiled brightly and Y/n watched as the woman’s face flushed under his gaze. Y/n almost felt bad for the woman who was now just another victim to his charm. The saleswoman at least would be able to relish in his attention, wondering about what could have been had Y/n not been there with him. Y/n on the other hand already knew her fate. But mostly, if she was being honest, she was jealous. 

Dean put his hands on her shoulders and guided her along behind the boutique worker who took them into the back of the store where the dressing rooms were located. The area was mostly quiet, just the music from the speakers could be heard in the space. Three large mirrors sat in front of a stage on the far wall, the rooms spaning out on either side of it. In the center of the room were three plush chairs for those waiting for others to sit in. 

The worker unlocked a door for her as Dean plopped down in one of the chairs. Y/n slipped behind the door, letting out a deep breath as it closed behind her. If there was one thing she hated it was trying on clothes. Nothing ever seemed to fit her right or look anything like what it did on the hanger. It made the task a constant battle with her self-consciousness. 

Y/n had always carried extra weight on her body. It wasn’t that she didn’t live an active lifestyle, she was a hunter, after all, it was the diet that hunters were accustomed to. It was fast food and dives in every small town in America. Not many mom and pop places tended to offer an egg white omelet, and it wasn’t her inclination to eat them either. So, she had always been bigger than most, and if she was being honest she had grown used to that. Maybe she used it as a shield to protect herself. Making connections with people as a hunter only tended to end in heartbreak, so this was easier. 

The hunter hid the scary red thing Dean had selected behind all the rest of her haul, hoping she would find something before she ever even got to the thing. Y/n stripped from her flannel and jeans tossing them on the bench in the corner. She also added her bra to the pile, knowing all of these garments necessitated that she did not wear one. That left her in her favorite pair of panties. They weren’t anything special, but they made her butt looked its best.

The first dress in the line up was a straight black dress that hit just above her knee. The neckline wasn’t anything too crazy but the sleeves rolled off the shoulders a strip of fabric wrapping around her bust. Y/n was able to slip it on and tug up the zipper on the side. With a slide of her hands against the fabric, she frowned at her reflection. Not that it would flatter any figure, in her opinion. 

“What’s taking so long in there?” Dean called out from his spot in front of the mirrors.

“I’m not coming out in this thing,” she called back as she began to take the dress back off. 

“Oh, come on sweetheart,” 

“Nope, next,” Y/n heard him huff even through the door and she imagined he rolled his eyes as well. 

The next dress was a deep blue color. It had a wrap and pencil skirt, with an asymmetrical shape between the hem and the neckline. She supposed it was pretty but it also kind of looked like she had wrapped herself in a towel. Mostly, she felt like the point in the neckline was going to stab her in the throat, and she was not sure how to be sexy when she was trying not to die. It was another pass for her. 

There was only one dress left, and at that moment she was wishing to whoever was listening that she had picked out a few more choices. Dean was whistling now, some Zeppelin tune she couldn’t exactly identify and she knew he was getting impatient. Y/n swapped the fabrics on her body, pulling the thin straps of the red satin piece up onto her shoulders. The dress clung to her skin, the fabric lightweight. 

“Y/n/n,” Dean’s voice was just outside the door, the new proximity of it startling her. “Come on, you have to show me at least one. I know you and you’ll just try vetoing them all.” Y/n swore under her breath because he was right and it pissed her off that he knew her that well. The zipper was out of her reach on her back and she supposed she wouldn’t be able to truly see what it looked like on her unless she zipped it up. 

“Fine, I need help with this zipper anyway,” she sighed and held the fabric against her naked chest while opening the door with her other. Dean was beaming when he came into view on the other side of the door. He snuck inside faster than a flea, the slamming of the door startling her again. 

Get it together woman, you kill monsters for a living, Y/n cursed herself. 

“Turn,” Dean instructed her with his fingers, and the woman obliged as she faced the mirror. Dean brushed her hair off her shoulder with his fingertips, the action barely distinguishable but it sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention. With one hand holding the bottom stop, he used the other to tug on the pull tab, sliding together the teeth in one fluid motion. 

“Thanks,” Y/n’s words were soft as she made eye contact with the green-eyed hunter in the mirror. He ran his tongue of his bottom lip, pulling the plump flesh between his teeth as his eyes wandered over her exposed skin. 

Y/n visibly cringed as she looked at herself. Unfortunately, this was her favorite out of the three, but that didn’t mean she felt like she could venture anywhere in public in the thing. “Sweetheart, if that coroner hadn’t already been eyeing you up today, he would not know where to start when he sees you in this.” 

“Shut up,” Y/n scrunched her nose as she spun around to whack Dean’s shoulder. “You are so full of it.”

“Am not,” Dean scoffed, his eye softening before he continued. “Y/n, why don’t you see how beautiful you are?”

Y/n whipped around to stare at him, her arms crossing over her chest, not believing that those words come out of his mouth. Surely, he was playing with her…

“Have you looked at me, Dean?” Y/n slapped her hands against her thighs, emphasizing their jiggle upon impact. “I’m nothing special.” 

“I have looked at you,” His gaze traveled down her body again, his breath hitching slightly as he did so. “I’ve been looking at you for a while now.” The drop in Dean’s voice sent heat rushing through her body, the gravel undertone making her shiver. 

“Dean--” words escaped her as the hunter stepped into her personal space, pushing her back against the mirror. Dean’s left hand came to rest against the reflective surface just beside her head as he chewed on his lip. 

“I don’t think you know how hard it is for me to keep my eyes off of you,” he leaned into her, his nose brushing alongside hers. “And now, seeing you in this dress, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my hands off you.” 

A rush of confidence coursed through her blood as his hot breath fanned over her face and Y/n slipped her hands behind his neck, pulling his lips down to meet hers. The movement was anything but smooth, though the action sent both of the hunters into action. Dean growled as he nipped her lower lip and she opened up to him, allowing his tongue to invade her mouth. 

A moan involuntarily came from her as his hands moved to her hips, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin material where his finger pressed into her flesh. He stepped back, pulling her after him as he backed up and dropped to sit on the plush bench. Dean bunched up the material to her hips as he urged her to straddle his lap. Y/n used her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, the new bulge in his pants a surprise to her as she settled in his lap. 

“Yeah, and you thought I was kidding,” Dean took in the slight rise in her brow, leaning forward to run his lips across her jaw, taking note of the places that made her shiver. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she allowed Dean to explore her body and let herself just feel him. Dean raked his teeth along with the shell of her ear, causing her to buck her hips and both of them to groan.  

“Fuck,” her words were a breath on her lips as she repeated the action, the roughness of his jeans just enough friction on her aching sex. 

“That’s it, beautiful, take what you need,” Dean sat back and used his hands to keep her body moving against his own, watching the way her brows scrunched together in the center of her forehead. With a shift of his hips, he had her pushed back and straddling his left thigh, his hands still in their place on her hips. “Can you come like this, sweetheart?”

“I don’t--” a jolt of electricity had her halting her denial, instead she chose to just nod and place her hands against his chest to balance her movement. She could feel Dean’s heart hammering in his chest under her palm and the quick rise and fall of his breath. Even at this moment, she was disbelieving that he was that turned on watching her get herself off on his thigh, but she had the proof hammering under her fingertips. Y/n was biting her lip to keep quiet in the small room. “Dean, I’m so close.” 

“I’ve got you, come for me, Y/n,” he husked as his grip tightened, though she wasn’t sure how that was even possible, seeing as there was already gonna be bruises there later, that she was sure of. The sound of his voice reverberating in her head had the coil snapping inside of her, heat flooding her body as every nerve sparked and faded out. A rush of air left her lungs, her body slumping as her muscles relaxed post-orgasm. 

“Oh my god.” As her arousal ebbed from her body and the reality of what just happened came to her sense, Y/n clammed up and she tried to climb from his lap. Blood rushed to her face and her hands flew to her cheeks to hide the heat settling there.

“Woah, where are you going?” Dean stopped her from making a hasty exit, his eyes searching hers in question. 

“Dean, what the hell just happened?” 

A smirk replaced the confusion on his face as he leaned forward and nuzzled his face in her neck, tracing his tongue up her pulse. “You just got yourself off on my thigh while I tried not to cream my jeans,” he breathed in her ear. It was like he already knew every button to push on her body, his dirty talk doing everything she needed it to for her body to already be aching for him again. 

“I--”

“Shh, sweetheart. That was hot as fuck, and all I want now is to be buried deep inside that pretty pussy of yours.” 

“Jesus,” her eyes shifted to his, taking in the mischievous glint shining behind his iris. “You aren’t kidding.”

“Nope,” he popped the ‘p’ at the end of his word and Y/n nodded as she climbed off him. She turned her back to him so he could undo the zipper, and it took a second for Dean to catch on to her silent action. He jumped to the edge of the bench and tugged down the zipper before sliding the material down her shoulders. Dean hooked his fingers into the edge of her panties, placing a kiss on the dip in her lower back before pulling the soaked material to pool at her feet along with the dress. He stood then as she turned back to him and pushed his jacket and flannel down his arms, adding it to the pile of discarded clothes in the room. 

“Come, on we don’t have a lot of time before someone gets suspicious.” There was a quiver in her voice as she lifted the hem of his tee and tugged open his belt. It was taking everything in her to quell the shaking in her hands. Dean’s fingers came down to wrap around her wrists, halting her movement and she looked up at him. 

“Y/n we don’t have to,” he was trying to read her mind as he examined her face. The trepidation was seeping through her pores, but not because she didn’t want this. Hell, the painful ache between her legs told her how much she wanted this, but her brain couldn’t help to race through the million thoughts about what it all meant. 

“No, I-- God do I want this,” Y/n began chewing on the inside of her cheek as she tried to come up with the words to explain to him what she was thinking. But the longer the time passed the more nervous she grew, standing there stark naked and he’s still basically fully dressed. “I think I’ve wanted this for a long time now, but I’m just scared.”

“Of?” He urged her to continue.

“That this doesn’t mean the same thing to you,” Y/n cast her glance down, her eyes fixated on the way the fluorescent light glinted in the metal of his belt. 

“You think that this is about getting my dick wet for me.” It wasn’t a question, because she had all but spelled it out for him. “Y/n,” He put his fingers under her chin and turned her head back up to his, brushing his lips against hers, the action soft and unhurried. “I told you, I’ve been watching you for a while now, trying to learn everything I could about you. I would have done this the first night I met you if I hadn’t thought about what it would do to you. But I’m done being scared because I think I fell for you a long time ago and no amount of whiskey or other women could make me forget that. So I’m done fighting it.” 

“Yeah?” Her eyes were swimming with unshed tears now, and Dean answered her with another kiss, pulling her body flush against his own as he invaded her mouth. The pair only pulled apart when they could no longer fight the need for air. “Dean--”

“Yeah,” he breathed, dropping his grip on her to finish what she started with his belt. Y/n watched his movements, her breath getting caught in her throat as she watched him pull his length from its cotton confines. Dean signaled for her to turn with one hand as he stroked himself with the other. She obliged, of course, and Dean pushed her gently between her shoulder blades until her hands were pressed against the mirror. He nudged her legs to open a tad wider, meeting her gaze in the mirror. 

“Do we--” 

“I’m good if you’re good,” she told him, knowing where he was going with his question. He nodded to her before lining himself up with her entrance. Dean held her gaze as he entered her from behind, both of them sighing together as he became fully seated. Y/n closed her eyes as she tried to compose herself, her head falling between her arms. 

“Fuck, open your eyes, look at yourself,” Dean was biting his tongue as he swatted her ass to get her to lift her head again. She indulged him, looking at herself in the mirror before turning her eyes back to his in the mirror. “There you go,” he praised her, the words like music to her ears as he pulled back out and slammed into her hips. 

Dean set up a steady rhythm, careful to not shake the walls of the dressing too much with his movement. The couple kept their eyes on each other in the mirror, the moment the most erotic thing she could ever remember doing, but for the life of her, she couldn’t be bothered by it. Even from her vantage point, she could see how blown his pupils were, the black of his iris’ all but drowning out the green that she loved so much. To be honest, she wasn’t sure which she liked more now. All she did know was the feeling of him moving inside her and the way her muscles were shaking. 

A small knock had Dean stilling his movements, and Y/n stood up, pressing her back against his chest. He slipped an arm around her chest as she signaled for him to be silent. “You doing alright in there?” 

Y/n swallowed the lump in her throat and let out a breath, “Yeah,” she called back, afraid her voice would be too wrecked if she said anything else. 

“Is there anything else I can get you? Maybe some different sizes?” The saleswoman tried again. 

“Nope, I’m all set, thank you.” 

“Okay, just let me know.” The sound of her footsteps could be heard retreating from the dressing room, and Dean pressed his face into her neck, the pair of them chuckling. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he adjusted their position, resuming the movement of his hips as he snaked his free hand down to rub against her clit. Y/n jolted in his arms at the contact, this time closing her eyes as he built her back up. “I’m right behind you. Can you come for me again?” Y/n nodded against him, her hands flying to his forearm as she felt herself jumping over the cliff, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her knees buckled and Dean had to adjust himself to keep her from falling, still fucking her from behind as her fluttering walls milked him to his own orgasm. He bit into her shoulder to keep himself from groaning out loud. 

“Sweet Jesus,” her body went limp in his arms as the pair of them caught their breath in the now muggy space. 

“Yeah, you are so not going out with that coroner tonight. We will find a different way.” Dean admitted as he pulled his now softening cock from her. Y/n flinched at the feeling and the subsequent rush of his release inside her. 

“What?” She turned to him as he began righting himself, not understanding why he didn’t want her to do her job.

“‘Cause you are all mine now,” Dean tugged her into his chest, his fingers around one of her biceps. “And I want to spend all night making sure you can’t walk tomorrow.” 

“Oh,” Dean laughed as she blinked at him, clearly lost for any sort of coherent answer to what he just told her. 

“Get dressed so we can get out of here and kick Sammy out of our motel room.” Dean tapped her ass again and she pushed him away from her, a stupid grin on both of their faces.

Forevers: @22sarah08​ @akshi8278​ @anathewierdo​ @atc74​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​​ @callmekda​ @dawnie1988​ @deanwanddamons​ @ellewritesfix05​ @emoryhemsworth​ @flamencodiva​​ @foxyjwls007​ @hobby27​ @janicho88​ @jensengirl83​ @katehuntington​ @lyarr24​ @malfoysqueen14​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​ @msmarvelouswinchester​ @polina-93​​ @sleepylunarwolf​ @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan​ @smol-and-grumpy​ @superfanficnatural​ @supraveng​ @talesmaniac89​ @tranquility-or-chaos​​ @waywardbeanie​ @winchest09​

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x plus size reader #dean winchester x plus sized reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester smut #dean winchester #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fic #spn fanfic #spn fic #spn #supernatural #mine #alex writes #come as you are

[myrandomfandomramblings]

Making memories - a Chenford fanfic

For Chenfordficweek2021 - as described by @therookiebook

Instead of a fic a day for chenford fic week I decided to just write one incorporating as many prompts as possible. This is because when I read them a few just connected in my head and then I had way to much fun seeing how many I could kinda incorporate. Some of the quotes aren’t word for word but the lines are inspired by the original prompt.

*Note: my beach fic was also inspired by this prompt list but I got antsy and posted it early so if you haven’t read it, you can check it out.

Main prompt: Road Trip

Other prompts:

July 11th- 

"Is that you...singing? Since when can you sing?" 

"I wish we could stay like this forever." 

Fight 

"You're comfier than a pillow." 

July 12th- 

With Child(ren)- theirs or not

"I fucked up."

"Where have you been?" 

July 13th- 

"You're crushing me." "I can't breathe with you on me." 

"Stay here." 

"What do you want?" 

July 14th- 

"I'm calling the police." "We are the police." 

"Don't move." 

"That a new dress?" 

Sweet tooth

July 15th- 

Locked out (Car/house/station) 

"Stop hogging all the blankets." 

"Why are you bleeding?" 

"Make me." 

July 16th- 

Shopping together or for the other 

Getting lost

"Is that my shirt?" 

Under the stars

July 17th- 

Competition 

Tears 

"Why are you so late?" 

When Lucy arrives in role call and hears she’s partnered with Tim for the day, she’s excited. When she hears they are to wear civvies and take Tim’s truck to surveil a suspect, she’s confused. And when said suspect drives further and further out of LA and they are instructed to keep on his tail, she’s annoyed. If she didn’t know better she’d think some writer designed the assignment purely because it was convenient for their story. Nevertheless, this is her life: crashing at a random hotel nearly nine hours from LA, after finally being relieved of surveillance detail, by the local sheriffs department, at 2:30am. The plus side is she’s being paid overtime, not only for the late night but also for the commute back to the city tomorrow. The down side is despite being exhausted she twists and turns all night unable to get comfortable in the strange environment. So when Tim knocks on the adjoining door between their rooms at 10am she’s already been up for a few hours. She has written a journal entry in her notes, preordered drinks for them to pick up at Starbucks and spent more time than she’d like to admit on google maps and various travel sites researching their trip home. She has also found time to plunder the continental breakfast and is currently demolishing a strawberry danish and a cinnamon bun. This earns criticism from Tim, whose plate carries sausage, eggs and an orange.

By 11am they’re on the open road again, coffees in the console between them. The small talk they had been making since they left the hotel had slowly died out so now they sit in comfortable silence. That is until Lucy reaches over to turn on the radio. 

“You know how I feel about car radios Chen,” Tim warns in his best TO voice. 

“Even off shift?” Lucy scoffs, and continues to press the on button and turn the volume dial up. Nevertheless, nothing happens.

“Looks like it doesn’t work anyway,” Tim states as he continues to hold the volume down button on the steering wheel, unbeknownst to Lucy.

“Fine then I’ll be the radio.” “You like Lady Marmalade, right?” She’s referencing Tim’s LA CLEAR security answer but she doesn’t wait for his reaction or reply before beginning to belt out the opening lyrics.

As she sings his initially surprised expression, morphs to shock and then awe. 

“Since when can you sing?” he asks when she finishes.

She just shrugs, looking down at her hands as they begin to fiddle in her lap.  

“Now I wish the radio really was broken,” Tim states as he turns it on and music starts playing.

Lucy shoots him a quick death glare before turning her attention back out the window.

---

By noon Lucy’s singing quietly along to the music (causing Tim to reevaluate his opinion on car radios) when she suddenly sneezes then freezes as her eyes go wide.

“Ah, can you stop at the next place with a bathroom?” she asks bashfully.

“We haven’t even been driving that long can you hold it?”

“Find me a bathroom or your truck will be covered in blood,” Lucy says, her tone conveying urgency.

“What? Why are you bleeding?” Tim asks, confused.

“If you don’t know why I, a woman, would be bleeding and thus need a bathroom then the public school system failed you.”

 “Oh, ah, right, sorry,” Tim stutters, “I think there’s a small town at the next exit.”

“Thank-you,” Lucy replies clearly relieved.

“Do we need to find a drug store or do you have what you need?’

“Ya, if you could find a drug store.” She’s fiddling again, unable to shake the feeling of embarrassment even though she knows, rationally, she has nothing to be embarrassed about.

Several minutes later Tim’s pulling into the drug store parking lot and Lucy’s unbuckling her seat belt to run in. But as soon as she stands up Tim’s voice stops her.

“Wait Luce.” There’s a tenderness to his voice especially when he uses the new nickname that stops her more than the instruction itself. “I think we’re too late.” 

Lucy looks down at the seat she just vacated to see its center now decorated with a dark red stain. A matching stain is present on the butt of the long yellow dress she’s wearing. 

“Of course,” she spits as she tries to fight back tears that are already running down her cheeks.

“That a new dress?” Tim questions awkwardly, caught off guard by the sudden display of emotion.

Lucy lets out a choked laugh as Tim flounders to find something helpful to say.

“I ruined your truck, I ruined my dress and now I have to walk around the drug store with a giant stain on my ass,” Lucy sniffs.

“Hey Lucy, everything’s going to be okay.” He reaches across the console to put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll go in and get what you need.”

She stares at him surprised and unsure. The idea of him buying her tampons and pads and, she realizes, new underwear seems uncomfortably intimate.

“So, ah, what do you want?”  

Because she has no desire to walk around the store with a giant blood stain on her butt she gives him her order, eyes down, face turning redder by the second.

He just nods and returns a few minutes later with three grocery bags and immediately hands them to her.

Inside she finds much more than she requested. The first bag contains two chocolate bars, two bags of candy, and two bottles of water. The second holds 6 different packages of assorted pads and tampons.

“How much blood do you think someone loses on their period,” Lucy teases.

Tim gives a small shrug. “I didn’t know which kind you wanted.” 

Inside the third bag Lucy finds a bottle of Advil, a package of wet-wipes, a spray bottle of stain remover, a new package of underwear (simple white cotton), a pair of black tights and a box of black garbage bags. 

“What are these for?” she asks holding up the garbage bags.

“They didn’t have any shirts so I thought we could make some head and arm holes and-“ he stops talking when he sees Lucy’s unimpressed expression. “I know it’s not ideal.” 

“Good thing I already have that figured out,” she says holding up a plaid button up. 

“Is that my shirt?” He had taken it off as soon as he got in the car, since like usual he had a henley underneath, and thrown it into the back. Lucy must of retrieved it while he was in the store. 

“Please,” she says fixing him with those puppy dog eyes. “I promise I won’t get blood on it. Well, I’ll do my best. Please don’t make me wear a garbage bag.” 

He laughs. “I forgot I had that. I guess I didn’t need these.” He takes the garbage bags from her and is about to throw them in the back when Lucy speaks up.

“Actually I’ll take one,” she says ripping the cardboard and freeing a single bag. She proceeds to rip a hole in the top of the garbage bag and pulls it over her legs like a skirt. Then she puts Tim’s plaid shirt on overtop. Tim is watching her with raised eyebrows.

“What? It’s just temporary. I promised I wouldn’t get blood on your shirt.” She puts everything she needs in her bag and goes into the bathroom to clean herself up. When she returns Tim is just finishing cleaning the blood off the passenger seat. 

“I would have done that.”

 “It was no trouble.” “Here spray some of this on your dress before the stain sets,” Tim offers as he hands her the stain remover.

Lucy does then drapes her dress over the backseat.

“Ready to go,” Tim asks.

 Lucy nods and by 1pm they’re back on the road.

 ---

By 2pm they’re both hungry and decide to stop for lunch. The place they choose is a fast food joint connected to a gas station. It’s busy. Probably because it’s the only place to eat for miles around. While they wait in line to order, Lucy goes to use the bathroom, only to find another line just as long. She decides to try the gas station bathroom instead, telling Tim that she’ll be right back but if he gets to the front first he knows her order. He goes to argue but she’s already gone, which is probably a good thing since he has no rebuttal, considering it’s the truth. 

A few minutes later Tim has their food: a veggie burger with extra pickles and fries for her and a burger and fries for him, but she still isn’t back. He wanders over to the gas station to find her standing in line at the register. 

“Put the candy back Chen.”

“Make me,” she says shaking the bags as she holds them by her shoulders.

Tim reaches for them but Lucy moves to evade his grasp. “Too slow,” she teases.

“You’ve already had two pastries, one bag of candy, a chocolate bar and a frappa-cappa-crapacciuno or whatever.”

“It was a chai tea latte and you know it.”  

“It was more sugar than anything and we still have more candy in the car. You’re going to give yourself diabetes.” 

She shrugs. “It’s not a road trip without excessive amounts of junk food.” 

“It’s not a road trip. It’s a commute home.” 

“It’s whatever we make it,” she says as she taps her card to pay for the candy. 

They find a state park a few minutes up the road and unpack their lunch at one of the picnic tables. They talk as they eat, familiar banter flying across the table. As they near the end of their food Lucy is animatedly telling a story about a recent arrest. She has a french fry in one hand and as she gestures, a little too aggressively, a glob of ketchup flies off the end of the fry and right into Tim’s face. 

She sinks down a little in her seat and covers her mouth to try to suppress a laugh.

“Did you just throw ketchup at me Chen?” he glares as he slowly removes the offending condiment.

“Not on purpose,” she giggles.

“If you start a fight you better be prepared to finish it,” he says as he rips open a package of mustard and squirts it at her.

Although it has poor projectile power a small amount lands in Lucy’s hair. She looks back at him mouth wide. “That was on purpose. That’s assault. I’m calling the police.”

“We are the police,” Tim deadpans as he rips the top off another mustard package.

“You wouldn’t” Lucy warns as she opens a mayo.

Then words are abandoned as condiments fly. They go through 5 ketchup, 3 mustard, 2 mayo, 1 bbq sauce, 1 ranch dressing, 1 aioli and 1 pepper packet before they both surrender. In fact the only packets left untouched are the hot sauce and salt. Both their faces are covered in assorted condiments. Most that had been scooped off the picnic table and smeared directly onto their target when it became clear the packets could barely project their contents a foot. The only one that was truly an effective weapon was the pepper which successfully gave Tim a sneezing fit. 

As they sit back down to finish the last bit of their lunch Lucy picks up a fry and runs it along Tim’s cheek then throws it in her mouth. 

“Not bad,” she says as Tim makes a face of disgust.

When the last fries are gone they throw out their garbage, wipe down the picnic table, then turn their attention to themselves.

“It’s a good thing I bought these wipes,” Tim says as he passes one to Lucy. 

She laughs as she takes it and begins to wash her face. 

“Did I get it all?” she asks when she thinks she’s done. “Because you didn’t,” she adds as she reaches up to wipe the side of his mouth.

He’s startled at first then his expression morphs into something she can’t quite read but something that makes her linger just a little longer than strictly necessary. Then she steps away and climbs into the drivers seat and by 3pm they’re back on their way.

---  

By 4pm Lucy’s in the middle of a seemingly endless monologue about the bachelor franchise when she looks over to realize that Tim is fast asleep. She would be insulted but instead she sees it as an opportunity. She starts to take every turn she can. Whenever she comes to an intersection she turns on to the smallest street. By the time Tim wakes up, about half an hour later (of course he would have is body trained to nap the ideal more than 20, less than 40 minutes), they are in the middle of nowhere. She waits until he’s fully awake then slams on the brakes.

“I’ve been shot. Where are we, Tim?” she demands in her best Tim Bradford voice. He looks out all the windows to see nothing but ranches then back at her, confusion clear on his face.

“Did you get us lost just so you could prove a point?” His tone an odd combination of annoyance and amusement.

“We’re not lost I’m taking the scenic route.” 

 “I’m pretty sure the scenic route is supposed to run along the ocean not through the desert in the middle of no where.” 

“We’re not in the middle of no where we are North of Martinus Corner at the intersection of Cross Rd and and Lockwood Jolon Rd,” she brags. 

“Great you know where we are. Do you know how to get us back onto the main road?”

“It’s not all about the destination, you know, It’s about the journey,” Lucy offers. “When’s the last time you did something just for the fun of it.”

“We go for a hike or a walk along the beach with Kojo every weekend.”

“I know I’m fun to be around,” she teases, “but that’s an errand, Tim, the dog needs exercise.” 

“I see your point but what are we supposed to do in the middle of ranch land? You want to go cow tipping?”

“We won’t be in ranch land for long,” Lucy replies, but half an hour and at least twenty turns later they’re still surrounded by fields and livestock.

“Will you admit you’re lost now?” Tim asks.

Lucy sighs, “Fine, can you please google map how to get to Route 1”

“We were on 5.”

“5’s the freeway. 1’s the scenic route,” Lucy explains. “the one that runs along the ocean.”

Before Tim can bring up the app they’re emerging into a small city centre. As Lucy continues down the main street she excitedly points ahead. 

“Let’s go bowling,” she says indicating the bowling alley sign.

“I thought you wanted to go to the ocean.”

“We can still take the scenic route home, after we go bowling.”

Tim sighs.

“Come on let’s have some fun, make some memories,” Lucy encourages.

“You’re not going to take no for an answer.”

Lucy shakes her head and happily pulls into the bowling alley parking lot.

Several minutes later they have their bowling shoes on and their names entered in the computer on lane 4. Tim goes first and immediately gets a strike.

“You want to put money on this game Chen?” he asks cockily.

“Lucky shot,” Lucy replies. “I’m not betting money but if you win I’ll let you pick the route home but if I win you can’t complain when we take the scenic route.

“Deal,” he says shaking her hand.

Lucy goes next and gets two gutter balls in a row. “Why didn’t we get the bumpers?”

“The bumpers are for kids.”

On her third throw she throws the bowl with two-hands after swinging it between her legs.

“Speaking of for kids,” Tim teases.

“Don’t argue with results,” she counters as her ball connects with the pins.

They continue going back and forth, Tim using the classic one-handed bowling throw and Lucy trying a different technique each time. She tries sitting down and pushing it down the lane, pulling out the ball slide meant for toddlers, standing backwards and throwing the ball between her legs but eventually settles on the two-handed granny throw. 

By half-way through the game Tim’s score is double Lucy’s and he starts to get cocky. He throws with his eyes closed, on one-foot and after spinning in a circle 10 times. 

3 quarters through the game the black lights come on and they laugh at each others teeth glowing in the dark. The disco lights and music follow. Then Lucy who had been giggling and joking around all game suddenly becomes serious. 

“I have two more turns and I really want a strike,” she states. She has a couple spares on the board but strikes remain elusive. Tim on the other hand has three.

“Can I show you? he questions handing her a ball.

He initially tries to coach her through the throw but she isn’t catching on so he steps behind her, puts his hand over hers and leans into her back as he guides her through the motion. The ball knocks over all but one pin but Lucy almost misses it because she’s looking up at Tim. He lets go and steps back.

“You think you can do that on your own next turn?” he asks shaking the huskiness from his voice.

She nods. Tim bowls, then it’s the moment of truth as Lucy throws her ball imaging Tim’s arm along hers, guiding it. The bowl rolls straight down the alley where it connects with the pins and knocks them all down. STRIKE flashes on the computer screen as Lucy jumps for joy then right into Tim for a celebratory hug. He’s initially surprised but is able to catch her and himself before they fall over. He spins them around as she laughs and he’s suddenly really glad Lucy made him stop.

With that the game is over. Tim’s still ahead but the margin had narrowed. They return their bowling shoes and head out to the truck.

“Fine you win this time, we can go back to the interstate but I want a rematch. I’m thinking mini-golf or the arcade,” Lucy says as she pulls out of the parking lot. 

“Nah, go to the 1,” Tim says as he starts to read the directions off his phone.

Lucy looks at him quizzically but doesn’t push her luck. By 6pm they’re driving along the ocean.

---

By 7pm, although it’s not that late, it’s already dark. That combined with her lack of sleep the night before is making Lucy sleepy. When she yawns for the third time in less than 20 minutes Tim suggests they switch drivers. Lucy happily obliges pulling into the next rest stop. During the day it would have a beautiful view of the ocean but now all one can see is darkness. The only evidence of the ocean’s presence being the rhythmic, crashing of waves against the base of the cliff below.

They pull into the abandoned lot; Lucy takes her time backing into a spot, mostly just to annoy Tim and they both get out, reflexively closing their doors behind them. As they pass each other Tim holds his hand out for the keys. 

“I just left them in the ignition,” Lucy explains. Tim looks over to the truck then back to her a look of defeat on his face.

“Your doors lock automatically, don’t they?” Lucy asks rhetorically, “I fucked up.” 

They try the doors just in case but sure enough they’re locked. 

“Well it could be worse,” Tim offers much to Lucy’s surprise, “at least it’s not running.” “I’ll call Angela and see if I can convince her to grab the extra set of keys from my house and come meet us but its going to be a couple hours.” 

Lucy nods. “Thank-you and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tim shrugs, “we’re making memories remember.” Then without another word we walks away from her as he hits a button on his phone and puts it to his ear. The conversation doesn’t last long. Angela obliges but insists that Tim now owes her one. He thinks she still owes him a couple from everything he did as her man of honour but decides now isn’t the time to bring that up. When he hangs up he finds Lucy has lowered the tailgate of his truck, where she now sits. She’s shivering, arms wrapped around herself, but she’s smiling as she looks up at the sky. 

“You can see the stars here,” she explains hearing him approach, “away from the lights and smog of the city.” 

Tim climbs up into the bed of his truck and removes a stack of old moving blankets from the storage box he keeps in the back. 

“Angela’s on her way but in the meantime we should stay warm.” He wraps one around Lucy’s shoulders. Then lays the rest on the floor of the truck bed. 

“Good thing I left these in after helping Tamara move last weekend.” He shimmies his way in-between two layers then taps the spot beside him, inviting Lucy to join. She climbs in beside him eager for more warmth. With the sun gone the temperature had dropped fast. 

Lucy pulls up an app on her phone and hands it to Tim so he can identify constellations for them while her hands and arms stay hidden under the blankets. Then they lay down and look-up at the stars. Tim uses the app to find constellations, points them out to Lucy, then reads the story about them provided by the app. Meanwhile Lucy snuggles deeper and deeper into the blankets. Tim stops in the middle of the story he’s reading about the the swan constellation as the blankets are pulled off his torso. 

"Stop hogging all the blankets,” he complains pulling them back.

“Sorry, I’m freezing,” she confesses. 

He pauses for a second clearly debating something internally before opening his arm out to the side. “Then come closer,” he finally says. 

She hesitates for a second before slowly moving to snuggle against his side. The possibility of warmth far outweighing any awkwardness she’s feeling. She rests her head on his chest. She can feel his heart racing to match her own and can’t help but smile to herself.

“Better?” he asks once she’s finished squirming around trying to maximize her view of the stars and the amount of body heat she’s receiving from him.

”You're comfier than a pillow,” she confirms, nodding. 

Tim doesn’t respond just wraps his arm around her shoulders. He continues to point out constellations and read the stories in Lucy’s app. 

“None of the constellations actually look like their name sakes,” Lucy says after a while.   

“You have to use your imagination.” 

“I could use my imagination to name my own constellations.” 

He shrugs. “Go for it.” 

She finds a cluster of stars that vaguely resembles a duck. She points it out to Tim then makes up a story about a duck that joined the LAPD and saved the city from a gang of geese. When she’s finished she turns to Tim,. “Your turn.”

He gives her his best ‘not happening’ look but he’s met with those pleading brown eyes that hold more power over him than he’ll ever admit and caves almost instantly.

He points out an X made of stars. “That is where the space pirates buried their treasure.” Lucy looks up at him expectantly. “The end,” he finishes.

“That’s your whole story? One sentence.”

“I’m not as creative as you.”

“Then tell a real story,” she says, “here I’ll go first.”

She points to a jumble of stars. “That is Caligula’s toy chest,” she says then proceeds to describe in great detail all the filthy, horrid things she had seen the day he taught her the DEAR method.

“Why would you tell me that?” he asks when she is done.

“Now you share my pain.”

Tim laughs and points at four stars arranged in a rectangle. “That is the phone that was used too much at work.” He spends his entire story essentially mocking her for always being on her phone. Lucy would be annoyed or insulted but the amount of detail he remembers about the completely benign things she has done is kind of sweet and a little exhilarating.

She next finds a ’surf board’ and tells the story of a weekend getaway with some collage friends that ended with a black eye, a broken board and a lot of great memories. 

Tim follows suit finding a ‘football’ and telling the story of a particularly memorable championship game during his high school career. He’s half-way through his story when he interrupts himself. “You're crushing me,” he tells Lucy who is draped over his torso. “What are you even doing?” I can't breathe with you on me."

“I’m tucking in the blanket so our heat doesn’t escape,” she says as she pushes the edge of the blanket under Tim’s side along the length of his body. When she’s done she rolls off of him, cuddles back into his side then tucks the opposite blanket edge under herself. 

When Tim finishes his story they continue to go back and forth, learning more and more about each other each turn. Lucy tells stories from the time she spent travelling and working odd jobs, from her time as a psych major and her time in the academy. Tim talks about his family, his time in the army, and his early years on the force and with Isabel. 

He tells her about a colleague who despite being a great cop made the mistake of using his radio near an explosive and paid for it with his life. He is the reason Tim baby powder bombs every Rookie: so no other good officers will be lost because a critical piece of information was taught so dryly that it couldn’t possibly be recalled under pressure. 

She tells him about her ring as she twirls it around her finger. About how she found it in her grandma’s dress-up chest when she was six and it immediately became her favourite item. How every time she played dress-up the ring was part of the costume, whether she was a princess or a ninja, a cat or a witch, a clown or a police officer. How unlike her parents, who always thought she’d follow their career paths, her grandma always told her she could be anything she wanted. How when her grandma passed away she had found the ring again as she helped her parents pack up her things. How she had started wearing it to feel closer to her. How as she looked at the ring day after day she heard her grandma’s voice in her head:  “You can do anything you put your mind too,”  “the sky’s the limit,” “do what makes you happy.” How that made her realize she was not where she wanted to be and led to her decision to quit her Master’s program.  How her parents had chalked it up to grief and tried to use psychoanalysis to convince her to return. How that had pissed Lucy off and led to her applying to the LAPD. How she had continued to wear the ring as a reminder and motivator during her training. How much it had meant to her to have it returned. How now it not only symbolizes her grandma’s belief in her, but also Tim’s and her own. How it continues to give her strength.

As Lucy talks Tim rubs circles on her back as if connecting the stars that constitute Lucy’s ‘ring’ constellation. 

Just as she finishes she excitedly points up. “Look a shooting star!”

“Make a wish,” Tim advises.

“I wish we could stay like this forever.” She surprises herself by how quick and confident that comes out. She hadn’t even thought about it, but it is true. In this moment everything is perfect. She is no longer cold. She is warm and happy in her little burrito with Tim: wearing his shirt, listening to the ocean, surrounded by stars. 

Lucy half hears Tim name a constellation “the best boot I ever trained” and start to tell a Coles notes version of their story but she’s already falling asleep.

She wakes up some time later to Tim shifting beside her. 

“Don’t move,” she groans still half-asleep.“

“Ange is here Luce. It’s time to go home.” 

“Am home,” she mumbles before falling back asleep.

Tim manages to free himself from Lucy and the blankets. He shuffles out of the back of the truck and walks around it to meet Angela who is just getting out of her car.

“Where have you been,” Tim asks. 

“Driving.” 

“I mean, what took you so long?” 

“I thought you might be enjoying your alone time with Lucy more than you’d admit, so I didn’t rush.” 

He wanted to argue but he couldn’t. “Thank-you for coming.”

She shrugs. “Honestly, when your baby refuses to sleep anywhere but a moving car a 4 hour drive is not as inconvenient as it sounds.”

As if to prove her point the infant starts wailing from inside the vehicle.

Before Angela can move Tim’s opening her car door and removing his god child from the car seat. He holds the baby to his chest and starts rocking him. As the baby continues to scream and Tim continues to rock, sway and bounce, Lucy emerges from behind Tim’s truck seemingly woken by the crying.

“There’s my favourite little guy,” she coos as she approaches. “You’ve gotten so big. Next time I see you you’ll be taller than your Uncle Tim,” she continues as she rubs the baby’s back. Despite all the attention the baby continues to fuss.

“He’s hungry,” Angela explains. “Give him this,” she continues handing him a full bottle, “I pumped on the way here.”

“You pumped while driving?”

“It’s called multitasking.”

Tim takes the bottle and offers it to the baby who immediately begins suckling. While the baby drinks Lucy goes back to Tim’s truck and grabs some blankets. She gives one to Angela, drapes another over Tim and the little boy and wraps herself in the last. 

Over the next half an hour Tim and Lucy work together to feed, burp, and change the baby before putting him back in his carseat, all while his mother watches with a very amused expression. When he’s buckled in they say their goodbyes, thank Angela again, then head back to Tim’s truck, which is now unlocked.

By 10pm they are back on the road. They spend the rest of the drive cooing over baby Evers and talking about their own theoretical future kids. While conveniently avoiding any mention of theoretical future spouses or co-parents.

By midnight Lucy is just getting home. As she walks through the door she sees Jackson on the couch watching TV. 

“Why are you so late?” he asks turning towards her.

“Long story.” 

“Is that Tim’s shirt?” 

“Longer story.” 

“Aha,” Jackson says giving her a knowing look.

She just rolls her eyes and goes to get ready for bed. She falls asleep almost immediately and dreams of sweets and stars, babies and bowling and a life with Tim.

#chenfordficweek2021 #chenford #lucy chen #tim bradford #the rookie

[glamorizingchaos]

Green Ribbons and Silver Pistols

Wild West AU Jack Daniels x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Rating: T

Warnings: Some Angst, mentions of guns, mentions of a previous relationship with a women but reader is GN. Please let me know if I missed any!

Summary: After hunting bounties, Jack decides to spend the night in a small town. There he is reminded of the past he's trying to get away from.

A/N: So I wanted to try my hand at a Writer Wednesday! (I know I’m late but let’s pretend it’s Wednesday yeah?) They always sound fun. Let me know if you don’t want to be tagged in this stuff! I wrote this pretty quickly so sorry if there are any mistakes.

@autumnleaves1991-blog @clydesducktape thank you for cultivating creativity and positivity!!! 💕

Masterlist

Jack’s hands tightened on the worn leather reins; the rough leather cracked from wear and tear. It had been a long few weeks. He could feel the weight of the coin purse tied to his waist as he rode towards the small town. This job was easier than most, he didn’t have to kill anyone this time. The petty robber barely put up a fight when Jack came bursting through the door and dragged his ass down to the local sheriff. Nope, the poor son of a bitch just trudged along behind Jack’s horse with barely a word.

So all things considered it was a good day. He had warm food in his belly and an easy job that gave him just enough silver to last through winter. Yet he still felt the familiar slump in his shoulders. The frown didn’t leave his face. All that coin he earned was from taking non-stop jobs. Anything he could find, any bounty big or small. Anything that pulled him away from home, where everything just reminded him of her. It’s been a year but he still can’t seem to shake her. She chose someone else. She didn’t want you. Move on.

But everywhere he went she was there. He couldn’t get away from her sweet smiles and contagious laughter. So he left. More like fled like a thief in the night, nary a word to anyone. Just a thunder of hoofbeats and a flap of his long dark coat in the cool night air.

The sun started to set and Jack continued west towards a small town to rest for the evening. The comforting lull of his horse's trot brought memories crashing over his senses; The feeling of the warm sun shining on his face, the sound of a soft melody on the breeze, a green ribbon nestled in a bundle of messy chestnut curls. He reached out to wrap a curl around his finger, but they slipped through his fingertips as quickly as the memories came.

Jack shook his head to clear his thoughts. His thoughts turned as cold as the evening air. That was a long time ago. That’s not my life anymore. With a squeeze of his thighs, he was off towards the flickering lights of the town. Away from his past. Far away.

As he strolled through the town he spotted the livery on the south side of the town. Hidden away from the ruckus of the saloons, brothels, and inns. The town is rife with travelers passing through and businessmen hoping to get fat on their coins.

Jack slowly lowered himself from the saddle, his back and legs sore. He paid the stable hand for a night and watched as the boy led his horse to her stall for the night. His horse is the one thing Jack took with him from his old life, he left everything else behind. She was a beautiful, haughty bay with a small white star on her forehead. During the day the sun made her body shine and the dapples that covered her body could be seen. She was clever and fierce, but as loyal as they come (as long as you had plenty of peppermints.)

Jack left the livery with his saddlebags in tow and headed towards the quietest inn he could find.

—

Jack slept well into the early afternoon the next day. Three weeks of non-stop riding, camping, and hunting takes a toll. He wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore. He picked up the porcelain pitcher and poured water into its matching basin. He quickly splashed water on his face and neck before leaning over to gather his shave kit. His face was getting a bit too prickly for his liking. So he lathered up the brush with soap and carefully spread it across his face and neck. He methodically dragged the straight razor across his tan skin until he was happy with the results. After he was done, Jack gave himself a good look in the mirror. Even though he slept in the bags under his eyes were still prominent. More wrinkles were forming around his eyes and lines on his forehead. When did I get so old? He thought to himself. With a sigh, he rolled up his shave kit and got dressed.

He stopped at the saloon to scarf down some bacon, eggs, and coffee before going to the general store. The bacon was burnt and the coffee was bitter, but it wasn’t cold canned beans or hardtack so he wasn’t complaining. The owner of the general store was chipper and greeted Jack with exuberance. The man was scrawny and had a bushy grey mustache and matching beard that covered most of his face, and was all too excited to spend Jack’s money.

Eventually, Jack was able to tear himself away from the general store and head over to the livery. He walked in but no one was there and his horse was not in her stall. His hand went to rest on one of his pistols and he quickly moved outside to look around. He soon found her standing tied to the hitching post in the back. They must’ve groomed her for me, Jack rolled his shoulders and stalked over to the horse.

He had expected to see the stable boy tending to his horse but what he found was a little girl, no older than seven, standing on a block braiding his horse's mane. Not only that, she was braiding a bright emerald green ribbon into it.

Jack couldn’t stop the yell before it left his throat. The little girl jumped with a cry and immediately detangled her hands from the mane. “What do you think you’re doing? Where are your parents?” Jack’s tone was harsh. Maybe a bit too harsh. Tears welled up in the girl's big blue eyes and he immediately felt a pang in his chest. It's not her fault. She's just a little girl who saw a pretty horse. “Shhh. I’m sorry for yelling’ darlin’. Where are your folks?” Jack eased his voice back to a soft tone.

Just then the stable boy rounded the corner, he probably heard Jack’s outburst. “Lilliana! You know you ain’t supposed to mess with the horses! Go home.” The boy yelled to the little girl who must be his sister. “NOW.” Jack watched as the little girl skittered off the block and around the barn. “I am so sorry Mister. My sister just likes to play with the horses, I can take that out-”

Jack stops him with a raised hand, “It's fine. I gotta get movin’.” The boy nods his head and rushes off to get Jack’s tack.

—

Jack spent time double-checking the saddlebags and tack before setting off. He reached under and cinched the girth of the saddle, making sure it was secure. He clambered up into the saddle and with a nod to the stable boy he was off.

About a mile out of town Jack’s eyes couldn’t help but wander to the half-finished braid. The emerald ribbon shining in the late afternoon sun against the dark black hair. He reached out with one hand and grabbed the end of the ribbon. He gently rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, he felt the smooth fabric and the coarse hair. He was lost in thought for a moment, just staring at the ribbon, his eyes unfocused and staring through the thin cloth.

Jack was yanked from his thoughts when he heard the cock of a gun behind him. He froze, dropping the ribbon back down to lay on his horse’s neck. He slowly tried to lower his hand down to the rifle attached to the front of his saddle, “Don’t even try it.” The voice behind him was firm and cold.

“Get off the horse. Slowly. Any funny business and there will be lead in between your eyes.” Jack obeyed the order. He raised his hands above his head and clumsily slid out of the saddle. He turned around slowly to face whatever bandit had him at gunpoint. His eyes widened as he saw you standing with a pistol pointed directly at him.

A smirk blossomed on your face, “Hiya handsome.”

Tagslist: @over300books @foli-vora @sharkbait77 @ikinmahlen @lordmotherofcats @mishasminion360 @queridopascal @lich1 @queridopascal @alberta-sunrise @jayda @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @wantingtobekorra @bxxbxy @andruxx @dobbyjen @floraandfrost @cowboy-turtle @nicolethered @mrsparknuts @almaeunice @drinkingwhileblogging @pintsizemama

Let me know if you would like to be added or removed!! 💕

#Writer Wednesday #jack daniels x reader #Jack Daniels x gn!reader #jack daniels x you #Jack Daniels fanfiction #Kingsmen golden circle fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfic #angst #agent whiskey #jack ‘whiskey’ Daniels #agent whiskey fanfiction

[thisisapaige]

This is for @plantjender who sent me the prompt: “dean takes cas on an actual date...since cas hasn’t gotten that human experience.” Thank you! This broke my writer’s block.  It’s pure fluff and established relationship. It fit into my little human Cas ficlets so here we are. I hope you like it! Word Count: 986

Have a prompt? My ask box is open.

Human Cas has never been on a date.

It hits Dean all at once. They’ve been together for a while now and Dean never, not once, took him on a date. There Dean is, sitting at the kitchen table with his morning coffee in hand, suffering from a sudden crisis. Sam, happily munching away on his egg white omelette with spinach (not bacon? What is the point, Sam?), is blissfully ignorant. 

Drinking coffee will not help the anxiety creeping up on Dean about this realization, but he drinks it anyway. Caffeine is life, after all. As he drinks, he thinks.

Dean’s not a big romance guy. He tends to just kind of fall into his relationships. Well, after twelve years, at least. Dating has never really been on Dean’s radar. 

But what if dating is something Cas wants? He is a new human. He deserves the full spectrum of the human experience (the good parts) and Dean wants to be the one to show him all of them. Cas deserves that. Cas deserves everything. 

So, Dean swallows down the last of his coffee (and his pride) and asks Sam, “What do you even do on a date?”

Poor, innocent, unsuspecting Sam chokes on his weird-ass protein shake. “What?”

“Like…” Dean sets down his mug, sighs, and looks Sam in the eye. “Like, where do you go? What do you do? I’m betting it’s not drinking at a bar and seeing what happens.”

“I mean, it could,” Sam replies once he recovers. He leans forward, his elbows on the table and his puppy dog eyes going strong. “But you wanna do something special, right? For Cas.”

Dean knows he’s blushing. He can feel the heat rising all the way to the tips of his ears. He shifts in his seat and wraps his hands around his empty mug. 

 “Yeah,” Dean says, “yeah I do.”

“C’mon, dude,” Sam says, soft and sweet, “you’ve got nothing to worry about. Be you. Don’t go all fancy. You could just, like, go to dinner or something. Cas would be happy no matter what. That guy loves you. Honestly, it’s kinda disgusting.”

Dean snorts, then rises from his seat for another coffee. What Sam says is true, Dean knows it’s true, but still, every time someone mentions it, every time Cas says those three little words, Dean feels overwhelmed (in a good way). Dean is never going to get used to it. He kind of hopes he never does. 

“You’re right,” Dean says. “He does love me.”

Every time Dean says it, it is a revelation.

⁂

Dean takes Cas out for dinner. It’s not a fancy place, just a diner not far from the bunker, but it is very Dean. Neither Cas nor Dean would be comfortable in a fancy restaurant with black-tie servers and a huge, way-to-freaking expensive wine list that didn’t even serve burgers (a crime). 

So, the truck stop diner with vinyl seats held together by a few strips of duct tape that serves the best burgers in Lebanon is, in a way, the perfect place for the two of them. Other than the lone truck driver eating his late lunch at the counter, the waitress, and the cook, Dean and Cas have the place to themselves.  

The noise Cas makes when he bites into his bacon cheeseburger is absolutely obscene and the smile on his face when he peers across the table at Dean makes everything (everything, even Hell, even the Apocalypse, even fighting God) worth it. Because, after all of it, after finally winning, Dean gets to have Cas. He gets to have Sam alive and at peace. He gets to pray Jack down out of Heaven for a movie night every so often. Dean wouldn’t trade that for anything.  

The late afternoon sun shines through the window next to their booth, casting Cas in an otherworldly glow. He’d always be a little angelic. The sun itself gives him a halo. He may no longer be an Angel of the Lord but he is an angel. He is Dean’s angel.

“You’re right,” Cas says, “these are the best burgers.”

Dean smiles because Cas smiles, because Cas is happy. “Well, in Kansas at least. I got a whole list of the best burger spots in the lower forty-eight.”

Cas hums, eyeing the last bite of his burger. “You’ll have to take me out on a date to those other places, too.”

Cas finishes off his meal while Dean chokes on his coffee. Dean hadn’t used the word date when he asked Cas out. Man, Dean should have known making Cas watch all those chick flicks would come back to bite him.

“Who says this is a date?” Dean asked. 

Dean receives one of Cas’s best ‘quit your bullshit’ glares and, yeah, justified. 

“You asked me to dinner,” Cas says, counting off his points on his fingers, “and you insisted on opening all the doors, which you never do. You’re wearing your”-- and that adorable, cute little dork really does use air quotes-- “‘special occasion’ cologne and that green henley I like.” Cas leans back in the booth, one hand resting on his full stomach, and raises his eyebrow. “This is a date.”

Yeah, Dean is wearing the green henley because Cas once mentioned he liked how it brought out the colour in Dean’s eyes and, yeah, he did open all the doors (hey, he only had movies to work with) and he did have a special occasion cologne. Sometimes, Dean forgets how much Cas notices. Cas notices things about Dean because he loves him. 

“Okay,” Dean says, “if this is a date, would you say you enjoyed it?”

“Very much,” Cas says.

“So, you’d like to go on another one.”

“I would.”

“How about Friday?”

Cas smiles again, his eyes shining bright in the sun and Dean loves him so, so much. 

“It’s a date,” Cas says. 

#spn #supernatural #destiel #destiel fic #deancas #spn fic #prompt fill #castiel #dean winchester #human castiel #established relationship #finale? what finale? #ficlet #enjoy! #writing paige