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lewmagoo · 2 months

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six summers | bob floyd

description: it's been six years. six years since you walked away from the man you loved. six years since the night that your own foolish actions led to the disappearance of sixteen-year-old melissa seresin. you’ve spent these last few years living with crippling guilt. and after everything that happened, the last thing you are expecting is an invite to return to the camp and reassume your role as counselor. but here you are, staring in disbelief at a letter asking you to do just that. providing you with the opportunity to make things right. will you be able to come to terms with the past and allow yourself to accept this second chance? or will you let your guilt consume you?

characters: bob floyd x reader, the dagger squad as their respective characters, pete mitchell, penny benjamin, a number of my own ocs

warnings: 18+ only, mentions of death, guilt, references to sex, mentions of anxiety

series status: ongoing

listen to the playlist here!

this story is inspired by @ryebecca and this fantastic moodboard she made ; i also drew some inspiration from riley sager's the last time i lied

*this is my own original work - i do not consent to having it reposted or redistributed in any way

July 30th, 1980

1:15 am

All you felt was terror. Icy cold, like someone had shoved their frigid fingers beneath your shirt, digits pressing harsh, angry bruises into the skin while they were at it. Your arms were wrapped around yourself as you stood in the damp morning air, your eyes flitting about nervously, your gut churning with nausea.

“You do realize that your negligence in this situation is going to come with consequences, right? How could you be so stupid?!” Penny Mitchell’s voice had a sharp edge to it, despite her lowered tone. Her eyes were piercing. You couldn’t look at her.

“Don’t try to pin this all on her. I’m just as much to blame.” That was Bobby’s voice, coming from beside you, an air of protectiveness emanating from him as he stepped closer, standing in solidarity with you.

“Oh, trust me, I’m holding you responsible, too. But she’s the one who was supposed to be in charge of that cabin. If she would have been at her post, this wouldn’t have happened. But no! The two of you were off doing God knows what, while one of our campers wandered off into the night!”

Penny got into your face, pointing her finger, her anger palpable, radiating off her in waves. “You had better pray that girl is still alive, because if she winds up dead, her blood is on your hands, counselor.”

May 18th, 1986

10:30 am

“Mail’s in!” The voice of your roommate carried through your apartment, pulling your attention from the rhythmic tapping of the antique typewriter you’d picked up from a yard sale. Without a second thought, you sprang from your chair, flinging open your bedroom door, bare feet quick against carpet as you hurried toward the kitchen, where Margie was just walking through the door with a stack of mail.

“Any of it addressed to me?” You asked, a hopeful inflection in your voice.

Margie nodded, tossing the envelopes onto the countertop. “Yeah, you’re popular, got two letters addressed to you.”

Eagerly, you shuffled through the stack before you located the letters she was talking about. One had no definitive markings, so you had no idea where it was from. But the other had a promising logo on the front– The Capital Gazette.

“The Gazette sent something back!” You exclaimed, flipping the envelope over, fingers trembling as you tore into the seal.

Margie gasped, her attention immediately zeroing in on the letter you held. “What did they say?!” She exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Gimme a minute!” You shot back as you rushed to unfold the paper. Your eyes hurriedly scanned the contents, but within moments, your shoulders fell, the thrill of hope fading away to heavy disappointment. The words we regret to inform you were all you needed to read to know what the letter was about.

“I didn’t get the job,” came your glum statement.

“What?” Margie snatched the paper off the counter when you let it drop, reading it for herself. “Oh, come on! You’re the best damn writer I know, how could they turn you down?!”

You shook your head, fighting the tears of disappointment that had gathered on your lash line. “They don’t need me. They’ve got better writers.”

“That’s bullshit!” She huffed, shaking her head, knocking some of her unkempt curls loose from her haphazard ponytail.

“Whatever,” you said, bitterly. “There are other newspapers I can apply to. Other magazines. People are hiring all over the place,” you said, hoping to instill hope in your own heart. But it did little to lift your spirits.

Your roommate sighed softly, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’m sorry. Really.”

“Thanks, Mar. So am I.”

Her attention shifted to the other, unopened letter on the counter. “What’s that one say?”

With a clueless shrug, you reached for it. All it bore was your address in handwriting that was oddly familiar. Tentatively, you tore into the envelope, brows furrowed as you unfolded the paper and began to read.

And then, “holy shit.”

“What is it?” Margie demanded, curious. When you looked at her, she noticed the expression of worry etched into your brow.

“Camp Mitchell,” you whispered.

At that, the woman’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God.” And then, she waved her hand, motioning you on. “What does it say?”

“They…they want me to come back as a counselor.”

I hope this letter finds you well. I am reaching out to you because I wanted to extend a formal invitation to return to camp as a counselor this summer. I know that things ended on a sour note for all of us involved, but Pete and I desire to breathe new life into this camp. We want to give other campers the chance to experience the wonder and magic of summertime at Camp Mitchell. I understand if you would prefer not to return, but it would be an honor to have you back with us again. Think we can agree to let bygones be bygones? I sure do hope so. Please give me a call at the number below and let me know if you would like to return and reassume your role as a camp counselor. Arrival deadline for counselors is May 24th. Hope to see you soon!

Best wishes,

Penny Mitchell

You stared at the words in absolute shock. They wanted you to come back? After everything that had happened? After your own foolishness had resulted in a girl going missing? You had to admit, it was a bold move on Penny’s part.

The police had heavily investigated you when young Melissa Seresin went missing six years prior. Penny had even blamed you for the girl’s disappearance. It was hard to imagine her wanting you to come anywhere near her camp ever again.

“I need to sit down,” you muttered, tossing the letter back onto the counter and stepping toward the kitchen table, where you hurriedly pulled out one of the chairs and lowered yourself into the seat. Two life-altering events had just taken place in the span of five minutes. You needed to process all of it.

As you tried to regain your wits, Margie scanned over the letter. Then, she sauntered over to you, letting out a sigh as she pulled out the chair across from you and flopped down into it, her legs parted, arms falling down to dangle over the sides. She blew a pesky curl away from her face.

Sympathetic brown eyes landed upon you, and the girl before you smiled softly. Understandingly. “What are you gonna do?”

“I really don’t know,” you said. “Since the job with The Gazette fell through…I might have no choice but to take up the offer to go back to camp. At least I’d be making some kind of income during the summer while I try to figure things out.”

Margie raised a dark brow. “Listen, you do what you think is best for you. But…after everything that happened there, are you sure you’re ready to go back? It’s only been six years.” She was not coming from a place of judgment. She was coming from a place of genuine concern for her friend.

You groaned softly, placing your head in your hands. “I dunno know what to do. Honestly, I’m not ready. But then again it might give me closure. And maybe that’s what Penny is thinking. If she wants to make things right with me after the way things ended…maybe I should go.”

The girl sighed. “Yeah, I guess closure might be something that comes outta this. I just don’t want you to have to go through all that shit again, though.”

Your mouth quirked into a grateful smile. “I know, Mar. I’ve gotta think about it, first. I’m not making any decisions yet.”

“Well, let me know what you decide. Whatever choice you make, I’ll support you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

As Margie left you at the table to be alone with your thoughts, you considered the weight of the situation. It had all happened so fast, and you felt as if you were caught up in a whirlwind. You only had a week to make a decision, because you had to be at camp on the 24th if you decided to go.

Were you ready to go back, after only six short years? The thought made your stomach turn. Camp Mitchell was a place that held a lot of trauma for you. Your life had fallen apart there.

You had been a first-year counselor in the summer of 1980. A job meant to get you through the summer, before you returned to college in the fall. You remembered being so hopeful and excited about what the summer held.

Camp Mitchell was a camp situated in Michigan’s wilderness. Secluded, surrounded by forests as far as the eye could see. Quaint little wooden cabins. A mess hall. A volleyball pit. A lake. All the other amenities that a typical summer camp would have.

You were put in charge of the junior/senior girls' cabin. Eleventh and twelfth graders. You were slightly intimidated because you were only a few years older than they were. You worried that they would not respect you. But much to your relief, the girls accepted you with open arms.

Throughout the many weeks of camp, you bonded with several different girls who passed through your cabin. But none of them connected as well with you as Melissa Seresin.

July 1980

She was the younger sister of one of the other counselors, Jake Seresin, and she was sweet as could be. She attended camp most of the summer, because her brother worked there, and she didn’t want to remain stuck at home alone while her parents traveled for the summer.

So, she tagged along with Jake. Unlike her brother, she was not cocky. She had a very kindhearted demeanor. A little spoiled, once in a while, due to being the youngest and only girl of rich parents and a doting older brother, but nothing you couldn’t tolerate.

Melissa remained a semi-permanent fixture in your cabin, even as groups of girls from different places — schools, church youth groups, family groups, so on and so forth — passed through all summer.

She knew the camp like the back of her hand, and had spent a few summers there already. You didn’t have to worry about her like you might other campers, because she was well aware of the camp’s procedures.

That was why it was so jarring when, one night in the middle of the summer, she disappeared without a trace.

Late one night, after lights out, the girls in your cabin noticed her absence. Melissa was always in bed come lights out. Not always asleep, but certainly always present. Her neatly made, unoccupied bed raised suspicions, but it was her missing backpack that made the girls think that she had left altogether.

You were not at your post like you were supposed to be. Earlier that night, you had enforced lights out, but soon after had slipped out into the night to meet someone. The girls ranged from fifteen to eighteen years old, so you were not particularly concerned about them getting up to mischief. But in your haste to leave, you neglected to double-check that Melissa was present.

To your utter shame, you had left to meet up with another counselor. The head counselor of the seventh and eighth-grade boys' cabin, Robert Floyd. Bob to his friends. Mr. Bob to the campers. Bobby to you, and only you.

It wasn’t in your nature to sneak around. Neither was it in Bob’s. But you had gotten tangled up in an impassioned summer fling, and you took advantage of every free moment you had to be together.

It was in that time span of you and Bob sneaking off to the lake, that Melissa had gone missing. And when you returned to the cabin an hour later, the girls were all awake, in a slight state of upheaval.

“Where have you been?!” Asked Claudia, one of the senior girls. “I was about to leave and go find Mrs. Mitchell!”

“I needed some air. Why, what’s up?” You cautiously asked.

Claudia motioned to Melissa’s empty bed. “Melissa never made it in for lights out.”

You stared at the bed, its covers untouched and meticulously tucked in, as a hotel bed would be. That was the way she made it every morning. She hadn’t been in that bed since last night. “No, she was here when I left!” You insisted.

“Um, no she wasn’t,” Marissa, another senior, piped up. “Plus, her backpack is gone.”

“Oh, God. Well, that’s my bad for sure. Okay, um, I’m sure she can’t have gotten far. She knows this camp well. Don’t worry, I’ll go take a look around. The rest of you, stay put. Lemme just do a count to make sure nobody else went off with her.”

After a headcount, you came up with fourteen girls. Melissa would make fifteen, so she was the only one missing. Huffing out a sigh, and attempting to keep yourself calm and neutral so the girls wouldn’t panic, you squared your shoulders.

“I’ll go grab another counselor and we’ll take a look. Claudia, you’re the oldest, so you’re in charge. Make sure no one leaves. The rest of you, try to get some sleep. I know you’re a little freaked right now but it’s gonna be okay.” The biggest lie you could have told them. It was, in fact, not going to be okay.

“What should we do if she comes back?” Claudia asked, running a nervous hand through her thick brunette locks. Her dark eyes were fearful, although she was trying to appear brave, just as you were trying to do.

“Just make sure she stays put. I’ll come back and check in a bit, if I don’t find her, and we can touch base then.”

Once you were certain the girls understood the plan, you excused yourself again, stepping out into the humid July night. Crickets sang as you ambled down the path that led to the boys’ cabins, but the pounding of your heart in your ears drowned out the sound.

Your hands shook, unsteady as you held your flashlight before you. Tears blurred your vision, and the heat of embarrassment washed over you. How could you be so stupid? Here you were, off getting laid while one of your girls was nowhere to be found.

You had to look for her, but you weren’t going to do it alone. Hurriedly, you ascended the steps of cabin 13, the first of the boys’ cabins. Light on your feet, so as not to step on any squeaky boards, you crept closer to the door.

Three soft raps, five seconds apart. That was your code. And sure enough, within moments, the door inched open, and there was your Bobby. You had just seen him twenty minutes prior, but he’d already changed into his sleep clothes. An old camp shirt and basketball shorts.

Brow furrowed, he quietly closed the door behind him, stepping out onto the porch. You reached for his hand and guided him off the porch, onto the soft, sandy ground. “What’s goin’ on, Kit?” He asked. The nickname he’d dubbed you for reasons so much more lighthearted than the situation you were facing.

“Melissa’s gone,” you whispered. “The girls said she was never there for lights out.”

“Huh? But you checked on them before you left.”

“I did, but I…I guess I just missed Melissa. I thought she was there, but tonight was so chaotic…God, I can’t believe I could be so stupid” You despaired.

“Shh,” Bob soothed, reaching out to run comforting hands down your arms. “Hey, she probably just went for a walk. I’m not close to her, but I know she likes to go and write in that journal of hers a lot. She’s probably doing that.”

“But that’s not like her. Yeah, she writes in her diary but she’s never done this before. Just…up and left like that. I’m scared, Bobby. I think something might’ve happened to her. And it’s all my fault.”

But he was already shaking his head. “No, don’t even let your mind go there. You’ll drive yourself crazy.” His hands had moved to cup your cheeks. “Tell you what, I’ll help you look for her. If we don’t find her in the next hour, we can tell Penny and get a search party goin’.”

You prayed it wouldn’t come to that, but the sick feeling in your gut told you otherwise. It was your fault, no matter how much Bobby tried to assure you it wasn’t. If Melissa was truly missing, then you were the one to blame. But you didn’t dare speak it into the air. You couldn’t.

“O-okay. We can look together, then.”

And so, the two of you set off on the search for Melissa Seresin. Missy, as her brother liked to call her. You thought of Jake, who was in charge of the senior boys’ cabin. You knew he’d be pissed that you didn’t wake him up immediately and tell him what was going on. He was very protective of his baby sister. But you didn’t want to involve him just yet. You had to try to find her yourself, first.

You set out to search all the places she frequented. Melissa wasn’t as outgoing as her brother. She had a vibrant personality, but also had introverted tendencies. She cherished her alone time, so it wasn’t odd for her to be at the lake, or the horse stables, writing. But she was always visible, and she had never sneaked off before. And certainly not after dark, either.

These woods were terrifying at night. It was easy to get lost in their vastness. Even a girl who knew her way around could get lost. But you prayed that wasn’t the case.

You took to searching her usual hangout spots. The lake, even though you and Bob had been there a half hour ago, and hadn’t seen her. Sure enough, she wasn’t there. Then, you took a peek in the horse stables. The camp had not yet obtained horses to occupy the stables, so it was just an empty building.

Hopeful, you followed Bob inside, holding your breath as he called out, “Melissa? You in here, honey? It’s Bob Floyd.”

But you were met with dead silence, so deafening it brought a shiver down your spine. “Oh, my God. She’s gone. She’s gone forever. This is all my fault!” You panicked, burying your face in your hands.

Bobby, ever the calm and steady one, gently soothed you. “Hey. Hey! Look at me.”

You lifted your tearful eyes to his face, illuminated by the yellow glow of your flashlight.

“It’s gon’ be okay, alright? We’ll find her. We just need to go get Penny and Pete and tell ‘em what happened. We can get a search party organized. We’ll cover more ground that way.”

Lovingly, he took your hand, and together, you made the trek back toward the main part of camp, where the office, mess hall, and staff quarters were. The entire walk, your mind was spiraling with all the possibilities of what could have happened to Melissa.

Something was wrong. You knew it.

And, as it would turn out, you were, unfortunately, right. Melissa Seresin never was found. Not when you and the other counselors organized a search party. Not when the police got involved. Not when Jake and Melissa’s dad, an agent in the FBI, got his team involved. It was as if she’d vanished into thin air. Gone without a trace.

Jake blamed you. But that was okay, because you blamed yourself, too.

Your own negligence was the reason Melissa was gone. And the police grilled you for it. Much to your utter relief, the Seresins chose not to press charges. But you were left to live with the guilt, and that was punishment enough.

And now, here you were. Six years later. Wounds from the past only partially healed. Presented with an opportunity to go back to the place where it all started, and ended. If you did return, would those wounds reopen, and drain the blood from your veins? Or would those wounds finally heal?

And most importantly, did you have the guts to find out?

One Week Later

A ticket reading Harper, Michigan was clutched tightly in your hand, the paper rumpling from your grip. Your suitcase and duffel bag were beside you, as you stood at the bus depot, waiting for the Greyhound to pull up and take you to your destination.

“I still think you’re crazy for this,” Margie spoke from beside you. She’d come to see you off.

You turned to her, taking in her soft smile, despite her disapproval of your choice. “I know,” you replied.

“But I also understand why you want to do this. I really hope it gives you the closure you’re looking for.”

You threw your arms around your friend’s shoulders, hugging her tight. “Thanks, Mar. I’ll try to give you a call at some point in the next few weeks, but the only phone on the property is the one in the main office and I doubt I’ll have time.”

“Don’t worry about it. You can tell me all about it when you get back,” she assured you.

You took one last good look at her, as you knew you wouldn’t see her for a few months, if you fulfilled your commitment to work the entire camp season. The late morning sun shone down from the sky, illuminating her dark curls. Always so unkempt, but the style suited her.

“I’ll be seeing ya,” you finally said.

She nodded, squeezing your hand. “Take care of yourself. And good luck.”

The bus pulled into the stop as you bid your final goodbyes, and then, you handed off your luggage to the attendant to pack away beneath the bus before you climbed the steps into the large vehicle, flashing your ticket to the driver. You took a seat toward the back, settling in and placing your purse beside you, hoping that you would get two of the tackily upholstered seats all to yourself.

As soon as you were settled, you fished your Walkman out of your bag, unraveling the headphones and placing them on your head. As soon as you hit play, the opening sound of the 1975 Eagles album, One of These Nights, filled your ears.

You had purposely chosen this tape to accompany you on your trip, because it held a lot of nostalgic memories for you. Namely, it had been a gift from your Bobby. He’d given it to you in the beginning stages of your romance, after you’d expressed to him that the album was one of your favorites.

“I want you to have it,” he insisted. “A memento that you can have all the time, to remind you of what a great time we had together here.”

And you did have a great time. But the trauma of Melissa’s disappearance had soured the whole thing. All you had left of Bobby was this tape, and a few braided jute bracelets he had made you, from plant fibers. You still wore them on your wrist to this day.

He had tried to keep in contact with you after the camp shut down. He’d sent letters. Called your home phone. But you never answered. As much as you loved him, the reminder of what had happened was too painful, and you let your connection to him fizzle out.

But as you listened to the familiar cords, a rush of memories flooded you, the wave so intense that it took your breath away. Flashes of Bob’s beautiful face. Twinkling eyes, blushing cheeks, a crinkled button nose. The prettiest laughter you’d ever heard.

Large, warm hands exploring. Lips trailing searing kisses down your sternum. Whispers of your name. Groans of pl–

With a gasp, you snatched the headphones off your head, eyes flickering about, as if someone around you could have heard your thoughts. But everyone else was in their own little world, completely oblivious to the salacious flashbacks you had just experienced.

But they made you warm with shame nonetheless.

You’d be foolish not to admit that you’d thought of Bobby over the years. Looked back on your encounters with fondness. With desire. You’d been sexually involved with a few other people since then, but the entire time, you could only think of him. It was why you’d stopped seeing other people. They weren’t your Bobby.

You wondered if he thought about you, too.

More importantly, you wondered if he’d be returning to Camp Mitchell like you were. Were you ready to face him again? The thought made your stomach flutter with butterflies.

You imagined he’d moved on. He had to. Hell, he probably had a wife and kids already. Imagining such a thing sent a queasy rush through you. You still weren’t over him, and you supposed you never would be. He was your first great love.

But he wasn’t the only person you would potentially face from your past.

Your mind went to the other counselors you’d worked with that fateful summer. Specifically, you thought of Jake Seresin. Surely he wouldn’t return to camp, right? Not after his baby sister had disappeared from that very place. It had to be too painful for him.

Little did you know, everyone you had worked with was also traveling from their own respective homes and cities, headed right for Camp Mitchell, just like you were.

The camp was founded by Pete and Penny Mitchell, a husband and wife duo. They had started it with the best of intentions. It was in its fifth successful year when you came on staff. And that just so happened to be the last year it was in operation.

Until now.

What had made the couple decide it was a good idea to reopen the camp, you had no idea. But you were going to give it a chance. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

But several hours later, as the Greyhound pulled into the station in Harper, a tiny town boasting of a general store, a bus depot, and a long, winding road that led up to the camp itself.

As you stepped off the bus, you realized one very important detail: you had no idea how you were even getting up to the camp. Would they send a driver down to retrieve everyone?

Your question was soon answered when you caught sight of a large white poster board propped against a nearby lamppost. CAMP MITCHELL STAFF WAIT HERE. A DRIVER WILL ESCORT YOU TO CAMP.

With a sigh, you rolled your suitcase over to the post, hoping you wouldn’t have to wait long. And you didn’t. About five minutes later, an old teal-colored truck came down the road, its engine obnoxiously loud. On the side, Camp Mitchell was printed in bold letters.

You straightened, smoothing out your travel-rumpled clothes as you grabbed your belongings, prepared to help load everything into the truck. It didn’t even occur to you that you might know the driver. You expected to meet someone entirely new.

As soon as the vehicle pulled to a stop at the curb, you were already moving to the truck bed, hoisting your duffel bag over the side, letting it land with a satisfying thump.

“Here, let me,” a familiar voice spoke up, and in moments, a pair of hands were stealing your suitcase away, heaving it into the bed.

You looked up at the man assisting you, and your blood ran cold. As he turned from putting your luggage in place, he froze, too. Wide blue eyes, no longer hidden beneath a pair of wireframes, locked with your own.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

But he did. In a voice as smooth and soft as butter, yet breathless with surprise. “Kit?”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Kit. The nickname he’d dubbed you six years ago. It was something so simple. So silly. You’d had an affinity for KitKat bars that summer. They were the only candy bars you liked from the camp store. As a joke, Bobby had said “I should call you KitKat, since you like those things so much.”

And thus, it was shortened to Kit. The name stuck.

Hearing it again made your head spin. You felt woozy on your feet. You swayed a little. A memory flashed in your mind. You and him. Sitting under the old weeping willow. His fingertips wiping chocolate from the corner of your mouth.

It sent a burning ache through your chest.

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “B-Bobby.” The first words you’d spoken to him in six years.

He let out a breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “I didn’t think you’d show.”

You gathered yourself, trying to regain your composure. “I didn’t either,” you whispered.

He offered a tentative smile. “That doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you, though.”

You lifted your head, brow furrowed in confusion. “You are?”

“Gosh, I am. It’s been too long. I didn’t…didn’t know what happened to you. You never responded to my calls or letters. I thought maybe…” He wouldn’t speak it out loud. He couldn’t.

But you inferred what he meant from his tone. He’d feared that the trauma of what had happened had been too much for you to handle. That you’d succumbed to it all.

“I was working on myself. Trying to heal.”

He nodded. “Understandable.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled again. “I really am glad to see you, though. You look well.”

You shrugged. “I’m workin’ on it. And I’m glad to see you too.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and you realized how much he’d changed, but also stayed the same. He’d filled out. His shoulders were more broad. Muscular. His glasses were gone, presumably replaced with contacts. His hair, once close-cropped, was longer now, curling at the nape of his neck, peeking out from beneath the baseball cap he wore. His jaw was shadowed with stubble.

He looked like a man.

But there was still that boyish glint in his eyes, and hiding behind his smile. Still that same gentleness reserved particularly for you. It was overwhelming, and you could feel your chest beginning to tighten.

“Are you, uh, are you ready to head up there? Or do ya need a minute?” Bobby asked, his voice low. Laced with concern.

You stepped back. “I thought I could do this. Maybe I can’t.”

He let you have your space. “Take all the time you need.”

The rush of memories flooding you was overwhelming. The last time you saw him. The last thing you said to him.

Six Years Ago

The day you left camp, it was raining. Pouring from the sky in sheets, washing everything in a gray hue that made the world look like a watercolor painting.

The sandy ground squashed beneath your feet as you walked toward that old truck, with the camp’s logo on the side. Your luggage was stuffed into the truck bed, wrapped in plastic garbage bags so it wouldn’t get wet in the downpour.

As you climbed into the cab, Bobby came running out of the main office, making a beeline for the truck. He scrambled to wrench open the door and join you inside, breathing labored as he settled into the seat.

For a few moments, it was silent, save for the sound of him moving to start the engine. He fiddled with the heat dial, hoping to reduce the fog on the windows, as the rain had made the air unseasonably chilly that morning.

You both sat there, staring out the windshield, watching the water trickle down the glass. He made no move to put the truck in gear.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Bobby—”

“No, listen to me. I’m sorry it came to this. It shouldn’t have.”

“What’s done is done. Please, let’s just get out of here. I can’t stay in this place another minute.”

Bobby lingered for a moment, his eyes on you, even as you refused to look at him. You were afraid that if you did, you’d melt into a fit of tears. So, with a soft sigh, he put the truck in drive, and began the journey down the winding dirt road that led out of camp.

The trip was silent. You had nothing left to say, because you’d exhausted all your words these last few weeks. Countless hours of interrogation. Recounting that night over and over again. The conclusion was that a girl was missing, and it likely would not have happened if you’d been doing your job. That was a sense of guilt that you would have to live with for the rest of your life.

Bob pulled into the bus station fifteen minutes later, and you didn’t hesitate as you hurried to slide out of your seat, shoes colliding with wet asphalt. Your chest was tight, eyes blurring with tears as you rushed to grab your luggage.

“Would ya stop for a minute?!” Bobby exclaimed, reaching out to gently grab at your arm.

But you jerked away from him. “Please, don’t…don’t make this harder than it is,” you whispered.

He stared at you, brilliant blue eyes wide, filled with emotion. “So, what, you won’t even say goodbye?”

You feared that saying goodbye would break the dam, and you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself together. You’d fall into his arms, sobbing your heart out, and you would never get on that bus. The man before you sighed, shaking his head before he moved to haul your suitcase out of the truck, placing the plastic-covered bag on the sidewalk.

“That’s it then?” He spoke, his tone grim.

Squaring your shoulders, you nodded, forcing yourself to hold it together. “Goodbye, Robert.”

You turned to leave, and he watched you go, his heart falling to pieces within him. He was losing you, perhaps forever, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He wanted to go after you. Wanted to shake you and tell you to just listen. But you were so entrenched in the trauma of what had happened that he wasn’t sure you could listen to reason at all.

So he let you leave. He watched you climb onto that Greyhound, bound for home, all while he was left there with a wound in his heart, wishing that things could have ended differently. Wishing that your love for each other had been enough to keep you with him.

But it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. And that was something he had to live with.

May 1986

Seeing you again was a lot for him. You were just as beautiful as he remembered. Even more so, now, if that was possible. He was also hit with a rush of emotions. He never thought he’d see you again. When he’d received the letter from Penny, inviting him back to camp, he had thought about you, and was sure you wouldn’t come back.

But here you were, standing before him, uncertain and anxious, and he found himself wanting nothing more than to pull you into his arms and comfort you. But he kept his distance, not wanting to invade your personal space. You weren’t his any longer. He could not touch you the way he used to.

You took a moment to pull yourself together, taking a deep breath, counting to ten, trying to ground yourself. Then, you fixed your posture, and nodded in Bob’s direction. “Alright. I think…I think I’m okay. We can, um, we can leave if you’re ready.”

“Okay. Let’s go then.” He opened the passenger door for you, and you climbed into that old truck once again, just as you had six years ago.

Everything had come full circle.

Bobby rounded the truck and settled into the driver’s seat, and soon, he’d started the engine, pulling away from the curb, turning onto the road that led up to camp. Your gut churned with anxiety. You were really doing this. There was no turning back now.

The radio played softly as Bob drove. Some old country song. Hank Williams, you thought. Its grainy, peaceful tune did well to calm your anxiety. Your hands had stopped trembling.

“It’s been a while,” the man beside you murmured. His accent seemed to have gotten thicker, a slight twang to it.

“I know,” you replied, staring down at your lap. Then, “God, I’m so sorry, Bobby. I shouldn’t have gone no contact like I did. I got the letters you sent. And I got every message you left on my answering machine. But I just…I couldn’t bring myself to respond.”

He shook his head. “No, I get it. I should’ve given you more space. I know everything that happened was a lot for you.”

“But that’s no excuse for me to just ignore you. It wasn’t right of me. I’m really sorry.”

“Apology accepted. It’s in the past, Kit. We can leave it there.”

It was that easy. A soothing sense of relief washed over you, warming you from head to toe. That exchange made you feel a little more at ease, and the conversation soon shifted.

“Did everyone come back this year?”

He nodded, humming lowly. “Most of ‘em, surprisingly. Bradley, Natasha, Mickey, Reuben, Javy. Half got here last night. The rest came earlier this mornin’.”

You hesitated, picking at a jagged nail on your right hand. “And…Jake?”

Bob was silent for a moment, his jaw tightening. “Yeah, him too.”

You recoiled in confusion. “But…why would he come back?”

“Penny didn’t say it in her letter, but they’re doing a dedication ceremony for Melissa. There’s a new garden area they installed in the main part of camp. It’s gonna be called Melissa Jo’s Garden. They had a plaque made and everything. Jake agreed to come for the ceremony. I dunno if he’s staying all summer though.”

“Oh.” It felt like all the oxygen had been sucked from your lungs. You had not left things on a good note with Jake. He harbored deep resentment toward you for neglecting to watch over your cabin. He blamed you for his sister’s disappearance.

“He seems to be handling everything alright. He might actually be okay with seeing you again.”

But you weren’t so sure. There was that nervousness again, roiling in your gut. Did you have the nerve to face him? And how would he react? You doubted he’d welcome you back with open arms.

You’d soon find out, because just up ahead, the Camp Mitchell sign could be seen. Large, deep green in color, with white lettering. So familiar, yet so foreign all at once.

You couldn’t believe you were back. What if this turned out to be the most foolish decision you’d ever made?

You didn’t have time to consider that, because Bobby was pulling into the common area in no time, and killing the engine. It was time to face the past you’d been running like hell to get away from.

As Bob got out to gather your luggage, you pushed the old, squeaky passenger door open and let your feet land in the soft sand.

The scent of pine and honeysuckle filled your nose. It sent an intense wave of nostalgia through you. So much had changed, and yet nothing had, all at the same time.

The layout was still the same. Clinic. Main office. Mess hall. Common area. But in the middle of the main entrance was a small garden. Stone paths weaved throughout. Spindly bushes, multicolored flowers, and other plants decorated the soil. Right in the middle of the garden was what appeared to be a large stone, covered with a tarp. You assumed the plaque for Melissa was hidden beneath the tarp.

And then, a voice caught your attention. You looked up to find Penny Mitchell approaching you. Blue cotton shorts, accessorized with a belt. A blue and white striped t-shirt tucked into them. A pair of hiking boots were on her feet. Practical, that one was. Always ready for an outdoor excursion at a moment’s notice.

You braced yourself, unsure of how she would behave toward you. She had rightfully held you responsible for Melissa’s disappearance, and you weren’t sure if she’d moved on from that. But, if she’d invited you back, she had to have at least found it in her heart to forgive you. You hoped so, anyway.

“Welcome!” She said, sweeping her arms out in greeting. “I’m glad you could make it!”

“Oh, um, thanks. Me…me too,” you said, unsure of the proper response.

Bobby sidled up beside you. You didn’t feel so alone with him there.

“Did Bob fill you in on everything on the drive up?”

“Kinda, yeah,” came your answer.

Penny nodded. “Once everyone is settled, Pete and I will take you on a tour. We’ve made a lot of changes these last few months.” Then she looked at Bob. “Would you show her to her cabin? We’ll put her in cabin five.”

“Sure thing,” he replied.

“We’ll have a little orientation meeting after dinner. There’s a whole itinerary we have to go over. I put a schedule in your cabin. Any questions?”

Yeah, lots. You stared at her for a moment. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you invite me back? After everything that happened?”

She regarded you silently, her expression neutral. Then, she said, “Because I believe in second chances. Or, rather, my husband does. He wanted to bring all of you back and start with a clean slate. Whether or not you’ve earned that second chance remains to be seen. But I hope you have.” Her words sent a painful ache through your chest. You didn’t blame her for being wary of you, but it still hurt.

As she excused herself, you were once again left alone with Bobby. “Y’alright?” He gently asked, cadence low and comforting.

You processed his words for a moment. “Yeah…yeah. I’m okay.”

“You need a minute?”

“No. Let’s just get my stuff to my cabin.”

With a single nod, he grabbed your suitcase and duffel bag, moving to walk up the hill. You followed closely behind, letting the rush of memories ebb through you. The cabins were small, build from dark wood, with green paint detailing the shutters and doors. They looked like they’d received fresh coats of paint, but otherwise, everything was still the same.

It didn’t take long to reach cabin five. Bob carried your things inside, and you slowly followed, your heart quickening as you stepped through the door. The scent of cedar and pine was familiar and painful all at once.

This wasn’t the cabin you’d been in when you were here last. You were in cabin two then, just one over from this one. Even so, it looked so eerily similar that for a moment, you were transported back to the summer of 1980.

Funnily enough, Bob had been the one to show you to your cabin for the first time that year, too.

“You’ve still got ‘em.”

Your eyes flickered to him, and your brow furrowed. “Huh?”

“The bracelets I made you.”

Oh. You looked down, eyeing your wrist, where the two braided jute bracelets remained, from when he’d made them for you that year. Dyed faintly with berry juice. Fraying at the edges, but still intact. “Um, yeah…I do. Guess I just could never bring myself to take them off.”

He stepped forward, reaching his hand out. You let him gingerly take your wrist into his palm. His fingers brushed against the braided rope, and his touch sent goosebumps across your skin. “After all these years,” he whispered, afraid that if he spoke any louder, his voice would fail him.

All at once, you were floored with an intense wave of emotion, so powerful it nearly drove you to your knees. It hit you out of nowhere, like a gut punch. “Bobby,” you whimpered.

Shocking blue flickered to meet your wide-eyed gaze, and his face crumpled, bottom lip quivering. “Kit.”

You weren’t sure who moved first, but you were in each other’s arms then, holding on tightly, as if the other would float away if you loosened your grip. The sound of soft sobs reached your ears, and you realized that they were coming from you.

“I never should have walked away from you. Never, ever!” You cried against his chest. “I’m sorry!”

“No, shhh,” he soothed, cradling your head against him. “Don’t do this to yourself. It’s okay, you’re forgiven.”

You pulled back to look at him, shaking your head. “It’s not okay!”

Two large hands came up to hold your face. “It hurt me, alright? I’ll admit that. Broke my heart in two. But I never held it against you, because…because I knew everything you’d been through. I know that summer was the worst time of your life. It made sense to me if you didn’t want to speak to me ever again. I would’ve just been a reminder of everything that happened.”

“But I did want to talk to you, Bobby. I did. I just couldn’t get past the goddamn trauma.”

He shook his head, his face kind. “I know. But we’re here now, together. That’s gotta count for something.” Maybe we’ve been given a second chance, he wanted to say, but he didn’t want to move too fast. He was well aware that your romance might never be rekindled. However, he was content to just remain friends with you if it meant that you would be in his life again.

You went quiet, letting your head fall against his chest again. You couldn’t believe you were here, standing in the middle of a cabin at the place where you had lost everything. It felt so surreal. It was as if a million years had passed since you saw him here last, and yet, it also felt like no time had passed at all.

There was so much that needed to be discussed. But there was no hurry. For now, you were just relieved to know that you had not burned a bridge with your first great love. If nothing else went right for you this summer, he was the one good thing that would come out of it.

“I’m glad…I’m glad it was you who picked me up at the station,” you admitted.

Bobby smiled softly. “So am I.” He searched your face, as if memorizing it. “I really thought I wouldn’t ever see you again.”

You hummed in agreement. “Me too. But I guess fate wanted us to meet again.”

“She’s a tricky one, that Fate.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Finally, he parted from you, though the absence of his body made yours feel cold. He didn’t want to overstep. “Well…I guess I’ll let you get settled.” He moved toward the door, but your voice gave him pause.

“Actually, wait for me. I don’t want to face everyone alone. I’d prefer it if we walked together.” Bobby might be the only person in this damn place to accept you again. You wanted to cling to that, and the security it provided.

He gave a single nod. “Alright. You want any help getting settled, then?”

Together, you set about getting everything situated. Bob went around and checked the cabin for spiders, because he knew you weren’t a fan of the little (and sometimes big) guys. He found one, which he very gently coaxed into his hand (murmuring “c’mon, little buddy” as he did) and released it outside.

Once you had your stuff organized, and did a quick clean sweep of the cabin, you were ready to join everyone else. There was a paper posted on the wall just beside the door, detailing the itinerary for counselors and other camp staff. In about fifteen minutes, dinner would be served in the mess hall.

Directly following that, there would be an orientation meeting in the meeting hall, a place where staff meetings usually took place. Assemblies with the campers were also held there. It ws in that hall that you would be forced to face people from your past. Namely, you’d have to face Jake again.

The thought made your stomach churn, and your hands tremble. But then, Bob’s gentle presence brought you back to the presence, and your racing heart calmed down a little.

He offered you a kind smile. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” you said with a nod.

Together, you walked out of that cabin and into the camp grounds, falling into silence as your steps synced up. There were so many things Bobby wanted to say, but he didn’t want to inundate you with questions and confessions, so he left it. He knew you had to be terribly overwhelmed as it was. He didn’t want to be the cause of more stress.

So, silence it was, all the way until you got to the mess hall. He stopped to open the door for you, and you hesitated.

“It’s okay,” he assured you. “I’ll be right here with you the whole time.”

You liked the sound of that.

So, with a deep breath and squared shoulders, you stepped through that door, entering the room. Dark wood stretched out before you. The mess hall was a similar design to the cabins, just much bigger. High ceilings with unfinished wooden beams. Wooden floors and walls. Dark green paint detailing. Windows on each wall to let in natural light. A large stone fireplace in the middle of the room.

It was very cozy, but as your gaze shifted to the table of faces to your left, you felt a chill run over you. Here goes nothing.

You appraoched the table, taking in each person seated there. At the head of the table was Pete Mitchell, Penny’s husband. He lifted his head and offered a smile, but you couldn’t quite place the look in his eyes. Beside him, Penny glanced up at you.

Then, to her right, you saw Natasha Trace. Another person you had once had a connection with. She was good friends with Bobby before you met him. The two of them had gone to school, and eventually college, together. Beside her was a woman you’d never seen before, but judging by the way Natasha held her hand, you inferred that they were in a relationship. It was no surprise to you. Nat had always made it clear that she only had eyes for women.

Then, on the other side of the woman was Mickey Garcia, another one of Bob’s good friends. His best friend, in fact. Mickey offered you a smile, and you took that as acceptance of you. He always had been rooting for you, all those summers ago.

Beside Mickey was Javy Machado. You couldn’t get a read on him. His face bore a neutral expression as he regarded you. Back then, he’d been best friends with Jake, and had therefore been completely on his side. You assumed the sentiment was still the same.

Then, of course, there was Bradley Bradshaw. He was Pete and Penny’s surrogate son, in a way. After Bradley’s mother died when he was a teenager, Pete had brought him on to learn how to run the camp. One day, he would take charge of the place, after the husband and wife duo retired.

All of them were seated around that table, but you noticed that one was missing. You had no idea where Jake was. Maybe he wasn’t joining everyone for dinner. Maybe he’d left. A part of you hoped so.

“Wanna sit here?” Bobby asked, motioning to two seats next to Bradley.

You nodded, and he pulled out your chair for you. Once you were seated, he took his own seat beside you, between Bradley and you. The other man leaned over the table, and you got a look at his face for the first time in six years. He’d lost his baby face, and was now sporting a defined jaw. A neatly kept mustache shadowed his upper lip. You thought it suited him. “Good to see you again,” he said.

Bradley’s statement seemed to break the ice, and a few murmurs of greeting echoed around the table. Even still, an air of awkwardness hovered over the group. You wanted to crawl out of your own skin. But you were here now, and there was no turning back.

The food was set up around the table like a regular family dinner. Simple foods. Sandwiches. Veggies and dip. Chips. You grabbed a sandwich, but you found your stomach in knots, and the thought of eating anything nauseated you.

“Well, Penny, you did it. Got us all to come back. Good on you,” Natasha spoke up.

Penny shrugged. “Pete and I have been talking about it for a while. I know the way things ended back in ‘80 was…bad, to say the least. But we really feel that this place has potential, and we could breathe new life into it.”

“What do the Seresins think about that?” Javy asked, his brow raised.

“We think it’s an okay idea,” a voice spoke up from across the room.

The group looked up all at once to see the man stepping through the door. You tensed, taking in a breath. Your heart rate picked up, thudding against your chest as the chill of anxiety crawled along your spine.

“Really?” Natasha piped up.

Jake nodded as he approached the group. “Yeah. Seeing as how Penny wants to dedicate this place to Missy. We all remember how much she loved it here. I firmly believe she’d want it to keep going.”

Penny smiled. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, Jake.”

He stopped at the empty end of the table, hands coming up to rest upon the back of the chair there. “But I do have one question.”

“What’s that?” The woman asked.

Jake smiled, but you could tell is wasn’t a real smile. In fact, when you looked at his eyes, the pale green was filled with snake’s venom. “What the fuck is she doing here?” He jabbed his finger in your direction, and you froze, your eyes growing wide.

That was more like the reaction you’d been expecting.

Penny faltered, her smile fading. Beside you, you felt Bob stiffen. But you didn’t dare pull your eyes away from Jake’s accusatory glare.

“I-I just thought that–”

“I don’t care. Look, Penny; I really appreciate you putting this all together, but in what world did you think it was okay to invite the person who had a hand in my sister’s disappearance?”

“She isn’t the one who wanted to invite her. I am.” Pete stood from his seat, his eyes narrow. “I thought that she deserved a second chance. And I wanted you to find it in yourself to allow her that chance.”

“Oh, really? What, is she gonna bring my sister back? Hm?” Jake’s gaze was so cold. You wished the ground would swallow you up. How on earth could you have thought this was a good idea?

“No, but–”

“If she stays, I’m refusing the dedication. She’s the reason I lost Missy. She doesn’t get to just stand there and pretend she’s sorry, while my parents and I are still grieving.”

Your eyes had blurred with tears, and your chest was tight. You should never have come.

But then, “leave ‘er alone, Jake.” Bobby stood up, facing the other man.

“Oh, you coming to her rescue is rich, Baby on Board. Wasn’t it your dick she was sucking when my kid sister went missing?”

The room went dead silent.

Bob took a breath. Then two. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that. She’s here, whether you like it or not. And she deserves another chance, just as much as anybody.”

“No, you know what? You’re right. This was a mistake. I should never have come,” you spoke up, rising from your chair.

But Bobby grabbed your arm. “No. Don’t let him drive you away.” His eyes were pleading.

You pulled away from his grasp, sadly shaking your head.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. Then you turned to Jake. “I wish I could bring your sister back. But I can’t. You need to know that I cared about her. And I should have been more thorough when I did bed check that night. I regret it every day, and I’ve lived with that guilt for the last six years. But my guilt is nothing compared to the loss you and your parents have had to endure. And for that, I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll leave, if that’s what you’d prefer. I never should have come in the first place.”

With that, you ducked your head, pushing your chair out of the way as you scrambled toward the exit. You could hear Bob calling your name, but you ignored him, your legs carrying you quickly toward the door. Your vision had tunneled, and your chest was heavy. You had to get out of that building. You felt like you were suffocating. Like someone had pulled a plastic bag over your face.

You threw your arms out in front of you and shoved the door open, letting out a great heaving sob as you stumbled down the front steps. You made it a few feet from the stairs before you leaned forward, hands braced on your knees as you fell apart.

“Oh, God!” You cried. You heard footsteps quickly approaching. It made you whirl around. “Just leave me the fuck alone!” Came your wail.

“No! I don’t care what he says, you deserve to be here!”

It was Bob, you realized.

“What do you want me to do, then?! He doesn’t want me here, Bob! And I never should’ve come. So just…just pull the truck around and I’ll get my luggage and get the fuck out of here.”

“No.”

“Either you take me back to the station, or I’ll get someone else to do it!”

“No other buses are running until tomorrow morning, so you can’t leave anyway! You’re stuck here for the night.”

“Goddammit!” You yelled. “I just want to leave!”

He grabbed you by the shoulders. “You’re not listening to me! I can’t handle watching you walk away from me again. I lost you once, and I’ll be damned if I let Jake Seresin be the reason I lose you again!”

And then, silence.

“Oh.”

He released your shoulders suddenly, his face stricken. “I-I’m sorry. I’m coming on way too strong. This is probably super overwhelming for you and I’m just making it worse.”

“No. No, you…you aren’t.” A pause. And then, “I don’t want to walk away from you again, either.”

“If you want to leave, then I’ll take you to the station tomorrow morning. But I just want you to try and stay. I know Jake doesn’t want you here, but I’m sure Pete can convince him to at least give you a chance.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

However, back inside the mess hall, a discussion was happening. “I’m sorry, Jake. I know we should have told you we invited her back. I take full responsibility for that oversight. But your parents…they knew she was coming. We checked with them beforehand. Your mom is of the belief that we should give her another chance.”

“What?” Jake asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. So, I know it’s hard for you, but if your mom is willing to forgive, then I’m going to respect that, and give this girl a chance. You know she’s lived with this guilt for so long. I think that’s punishment enough.”

The blonde sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t like it. If it was up to me, she’d be on the next Greyhound outta here. But if my mom wants her here…” He looked out the window, eyeing you and Bob as you spoke to each other. “It boggles my damn mind, but I’ll respect my mom’s wishes. That doesn’t mean I forgive her, though. I don’t think I ever will. But you go ahead and keep her on staff. Something tells me it ain’t gonna end well, but what do I know?”

And with that, Jake stalked off in a huff.

He swung the screen door open, and your head shot up, your eyes widening as you saw him coming down the steps. Bobby took a protective step toward you.

“You can stay,” Jake said as he walked past. “But only because my mom is the one who wanted you here.” Then he leaned in close. Well, as close as Bob would allow him to get. “But just know this. If you fuck up in any way, shape, or form, I’ll ship you back home myself. We clear?”

“Y-yes,” you responded with a curt nod.

“Good.”

And with that, Jake Seresin walked away.

You let out an unsteady breath, your shoulders slumping. Bobby looked at you, his gaze questioning. “What are you gonna do?”

You shook your head. “I…I don’t…”

“You don’t need to decide now. Just sleep on it. Make your decision with a fresh mind, alright?”

“Yeah,” came your whispered reply. “Yeah, that’s–that’s what I’ll do.”

He took his baseball cap off, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry. I know this is a lot for you. Do ya wanna just turn in early? I’m sure they’d understand if you skipped orientation.”

You considered his words, and finally, you shook your head. “No. I’ll, uh, I’ll try to go, and see how I do. But I think I’m going to just go and lay down for a while until then.”

“Want me to walk you back?”

“I’d like that.”

With a soft smile and a nod, Bobby began to guide you back toward the cabins. Your hands were shaking, and your head was spinning. It felt like someone had shoved their hands into your chest and taken hold of your lungs, squeezing them with all their might.

It was a painfully uncomfortable feeling, and you hoped that it would pass soon. But as long as you were here, in this place that held so many memories, it would probably remain a permanent fixture in your body. The only thing that soothed it was Bobby’s presence.

Even after all these years, and after the sour note you’d left him on, being near him still felt so comforting and peaceful. It was an odd, but welcome, sensation. You hadn’t expected it to be this way. When you thought of seeing him again, you imagined it would be painfully awkward, or that maybe he would refuse to speak to you.

But this was Robert Floyd you were talking about. He didn’t hold grudges. And if he did, then he’d been deeply hurt beyond repair. It was a relief to know that things were not beyond mending between you. At the moment, you were too overwhelmed and emotional to even consider what it might mean for you in the future. You were just grateful that he was near you again.

So much had changed. When you’d left him, he’d been more gangly. Twenty-two years old. Large wireframes perched atop his nose. All round cheeks and softer features. Now, he seemed a little taller. Or maybe, his slight bulk made him appear so. Gone were those gangly limbs, replaced with muscle that had been defined by physical labor.

His hands, though. His hands had stayed the same. They’d always been big, but he’d grown into them. They suited him now. Strong and steady. Farmer’s hands.

“You want me to come get you when it’s time for orientation?” The low cadence of his voice jarred you from your daydream.

“If you would? I forgot to pack my battery alarm clock, so have no way of keeping time.”

He nodded. “Sure. I can get ya one of those clocks. I actually have two, you can have one of mine.”

“You sure?”

“Yep, I don’t need two anyway. I’ll bring it to you later tonight.”

You shot him a grateful smile. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Together, you stopped just outside your cabin, lingering at the foot of the stairs. Bob’s face was gentle, his eyes kind. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here. I know it’s a for you lot to be back here. And Jake didn’t help anythin’ by reacting the way he did. But if no one else is happy to see you, I want you to know that I am. I’ll respect whatever decision you make, but I really do hope you’ll stay.”

You considered his words, mulling them over in your mind. He didn’t expect you to decide at that very moment, and you knew your brain was too overworked to make that decision then as it was. So, the best you could do was nod your head. “I’ll see you in a bit, Bobby.”

He hummed, mouth quirking into a smile. “See you in a bit, Kit.”

You watched him walk away, his footsteps sure, his stance confident. He had a swagger to him that he didn’t have six years ago. It suited him well.

With a soft sigh, you finally turned and made your way into the cabin. As soon as the screen slammed behind you, you surged forward, collapsing into your bed, which was right near the door. Immediately, you buried your face in the pillow, and everything you’d been keeping inside came spilling out of you in bitter waves.

What had you gotten yourself into?

to be continued...

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#bob floyd x reader #bob floyd fanfiction #bob floyd smut #bob floyd angst #story: six summers

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laracrofted · 1 year

Text

and so it goes

synopsis: bradley accepts maverick's invitation to spend christmas in the mountains, not realizing penny benjamin's hot niece will also be there.

pairings: bradley bradshaw x fem!reader (no y/n)

wc: 4.1K

warnings: an emphatic 18+, minors and ageless accounts dni, swearing, explicit smut, unprotected semi-public sex in a hot tub (writing this made me want to take a cranberry pill, please be safer than these two), thigh riding, dirty talk, a dash of exhibitionism, a sprinkle of praise kink

note: i... can't believe i wrote this. if you read we'd run inside out from the cold, i make a brief reference to bradley spending christmas skiing in the mountains. and somehow, here we now stand!

summoning @theharddeck (thighs) and @bioodforbiood (rooster is being slutty again) and a few people who wanted we'd run inside smut (if this isn't the worst thing you've ever seen, i'm working on that part two, i promise): @blue-aconite @thedroneranger @dhwanishah09 @six-bloodyminutes

“We should probably go inside…”

…is what Bradley should have said 20 minutes ago when Penny and Maverick turned in for the night, leaving him alone in the outdoor hot tub with an open bottle of champagne and oh yeah, Penny Benjamin’s niece.

December is frigid cold in the mountains, especially at this altitude, but from the deck, Bradley has a clear and perfect view of the mountains, peaked with snow and ice, glittering in the bluish moonlight.

He also has a clear and perfect view of you, sitting across from him in a bikini top that barely covers anything at all. Steam rises from the surface of the water, doing precious little to obstruct the sight of your smooth skin, the barest tease of cleavage with your every shuddering breath.

Are you breathing like that on purpose? Bradley wonders, almost accusatory, then feels like a complete asshole.

You could be having trouble breathing this high in the mountains. You shouldn’t risk altitude sickness, just because Bradley can’t look at your face without drifting down to your chest.

And once again, Bradley could've suggested going inside.

He didn’t do that, choosing to instead refill his champagne glass, and now Maverick is probably going to let the damn missile take him out next time. He could’ve spent Christmas in San Diego alone. Not risking death at Penny Benjamin’s rented cabin.

He’d met you a few times at the Hard Deck, covering a shift at the bar for your aunt, like a good and dutiful niece. You were damn sweet too, taking orders and serving up drinks with a wide smile and an untouchable brightness in your eyes, even against the rudest patrons who’d had too much to drink.

You would smile all the way to the bell, ringing it without missing a beat, calling the nearest and strongest-looking Navy guys over to throw the asshole out in the sand.

Hangman was the first one on the team to meet you, which was a little unfortunate for you. You did catch him in Relationship Jake mode when Jake had just started dating another Naval aviator on the team who was way too good for him. He wasn’t as much of an ass as usual.

Walking into the Hard Deck, dressed in his usual open Hawaiian shirt, Bradley did a full-on double take at the unfamiliar bartender that Hangman was chatting with. You were effusive enough to dim the lights and the noise, drown out the loud music and chatter. He walked closer without even realizing it, drawn in.

He didn’t catch the whole conversation, only the tail end.

Where Hangman had said something like, “Aren’t you sweet?” with a scheming edge to his expression, something that the new Hard Deck bartender wouldn’t know to catch, not knowing him like Bradley did.

And with a subtle shake of his head, Hangman tucked it away, buttoned behind his signature smirk, and caught an eavesdropping Bradley around the shoulder.

“Bradshaw! You meet Penny’s niece yet?”

Hangman shoved him forward, and Bradley stumbled into the bar hard enough to nearly knock the empty glasses from the counter. He turned to glare at the other man, but Jake had already melted in the crowd, no doubt seeking out his girlfriend – and again, too good for him – in the masses.

You were watching him with raised brows, clearing away the glasses that had nearly shattered in the chaos and wiping down the counter. An expectant look on your face.

He looked you up and down, like Bradley had been looking anywhere else for the past three minutes straight, and offered you a sheepish smile and a handshake. You met him with a warm smile and slipped your hand into his, telling him your name.

“Pretty name,” Bradley repeated it, holding your hand for a half second longer than was strictly polite. You looked down at your hands, still joined over the counter, the cutest wrinkle in your forehead. He gave you your hand back, already mourning the contact. “I’m Bradley.”

You eyed him and asked, “Bradley Bradshaw? What kind of name is that?” with a teasing lilt to your voice, passing him an IPA and opting to linger for a moment, despite the Hard Deck patrons clamoring for your attention on the other side.

Rested your elbows on the sticky counter and leaned in.

He nodded a confirmation. “Bradley Bradshaw.”

Women had always complimented him on his hands, wide palms and good fingers, and Bradley made sure to circle the bottle in his hand right in your line of sight, lingering there, not lifting it to his mouth. You watched him the whole time, an expression on your face that was unreadable. Not self-conscious though.

You didn’t seem to care that Bradley noticed.

“You can call me Bradley.” He traced a knuckle through the condensation on the bottle, watching you watch him, gaze flitting from his face to his hand and back again. “Rooster works too. Hell, I think I’d probably answer to Bradshaw.”

“Oh, so I can call you anything I like then?”

Something shifted in your expression, warmed that bright smile into something more knowing, more flirtatious. Look at that, Bradley thought, taking another sip of his beer, fist tight around the glass. Teeth dented your lower lip, and Bradley wanted to reach out and pull your lip from between them.

He wanted to sink his own into it.

He opened his mouth to let out his best line when Penny appeared from the back and called your name. You shot him a parting smile, rescuing a few crumbled bills from the counter on your way over, and Bradley was left to watch you go, mind spinning with the possibilities.

And now, Bradley doesn’t have to imagine the possibilities anymore.

Sure, Maverick will probably sabotage his snowboard on the Black Diamond tomorrow and make his death look like an unfortunate accident, all in the name of Penny Benjamin, but Bradley is feeling a little daring right now.

You last all of 10 minutes alone together before Bradley has you in his lap, grinding down on his bare thigh under the bubbling water with the damp fabric of that obscenely small bikini top balled up in his fist.

And in his defense, Bradley makes a gallant effort for those 10 minutes.

He really does.

He pulls out all the good conversation starters. Such as…

“Moon looks really cool tonight.”

He whips that one out around the 2:45 minute mark, after Bradley already finished his champagne and offered the rest to you in the name of being polite and like, a goddamn gentleman. Forgetting that Maverick had taken your glass inside.

You reassured him, “Oh, I don’t need a glass,” and proceeded to pour champagne directly into your open mouth. It bubbled over your parted lips, spilling over the edge of your chin, trickling down your neck and collarbone, and Bradley had to look at the stars overhead and count backwards from 200.

200, 199, 198… You can’t fuck Penny Benjamin’s niece and ruin Christmas, or Maverick will leave you for dead in the wilderness… 197, 196, 195…

And Bradley’s tried and true check out the moon distraction doesn’t work out so well for him either. You can’t see it well from your spot in the hot tub and end up moving next to him to get a better angle, and now, Bradley has a front-row seat to the steam drifting off your skin.

Not your best work there, Bradshaw.

“So…” Bradley tries again, around the 5:00 minute mark, after finding and losing Orion’s Belt six times. “You’re Penny’s niece, which makes you like… the daughter of her sister, right? That’s… cool.”

You send him an odd look and don’t respond, closing your eyes and leaning your head back on the edge. Tuning him out.

He probably deserves that.

And around the 9:30 minute mark, Bradley has thought too hard about the steam rising from your skin and the flush that is spreading down your torso from the temperature. You get to your knees to look out over the dark blue mountains, and Bradley watches a droplet of moisture run from your shoulder down the length of your spine.

He can’t get out of the hot tub like this. He’ll need to wait you out.

It is fine. He can wait.

He can stay out here all night.

Less than 30 seconds later, Bradley is digging his thumb into the hinge of your jaw, opening you up to him, licking inside your mouth. You are sticky warm from the steam. A stark contrast from the chill of your lips, cold from the below freezing temperatures.

He’d seen you sucking on a peppermint stick all evening, twirling it around a spiked hot chocolate, and Bradley can taste the rich chocolate and mint on your tongue. He could probably lick your neck and taste the spilled champagne.

He wants nothing more than to lift you onto one of the wooden lounge chairs and press his face between your thighs. He wants you to ride him into oblivion and make his last Christmas alive a good one.

Maverick can kill him on New Year's.

He doesn’t want to risk moving much closer to the still-dark cabin, so Bradley catches you around the waist, pressing and grabbing at any available skin. You make an encouraging noise against his mouth, and Bradley gets bolder, covering your breast with one large palm and anchoring you in place with the other one.

He bounces his thigh, grinding you down on him at the exact same time, and god-fucking-damn, Bradley could come from that delicious sound alone, as gasping and needy as the hands that cling to his slick shoulders.

He does it again, soaking in those gorgeous noises.

Bradley breaks the kiss, hooking a thumb underneath the loose sting of your bikini bottoms that are still on for some fucking reason. You don’t need them anymore. He needs to feel you.

“Get these off,” Bradley whispers against your throat, pressing a hot kiss to the spot below your jaw. A quick taste confirms what Bradley suspected. You taste like champagne and sweat.

“Take them off then.” You look at him with a challenge in your eyes, a twitch in your lips giving away your amusement. “I’m comfortable right here.”

And to demonstrate your point, Bradley feels you rock down on his thigh once more, moving your hips without his guidance. He watches you, incredulous and turned on behind comprehension, and as retaliation, Bradley doesn’t bother unknotting the tie.

He closes his fist around the strings and pulls hard enough to make them snap in two, shoving them to the side. Fabric floats up to the middle of the jacuzzi, joining the untied bikini top. It is damning evidence, and Bradley will need to remember to grab those on their way inside.

You go still on top of him, and Bradley bites back a smirk.

“Oh… my god, Bradley. I didn’t bring another swimsuit.” You slap your wet palm against his shoulder, looking about as menacing as Bradley has ever seen you look. Like a little baby kitten with a fluffed tail. “If I can’t use the hot tub for the rest of the trip because of you and your… your caveman hands…”

“Oh yeah? You seemed to like my caveman hands a minute ago,” Bradley teases, testing his luck to the max.

He grips your thigh in his ‘caveman’ hand, hard enough to leave marks, and yanks you forward. His swim trunks ride low on his hips, so Bradley can feel you against his torso, smooth and warm and spread wide.

“What changed, baby?”

You shiver, and Bradley sneaks a hand between your bodies, pressing the pad of his thumb right on your clit. Nails dig into his bicep, urging him on, and Bradley smiles again.

“You still like them, don’t you?”

“Maybe…” is more of an exhale than an admission. You look at him from under half-lowered lids, mouth slack from the feeling of Bradley gently circling your clit with his fingers. “But… I really did want to use the tub again. It’s, ah…” He sinks an index finger into you without preamble. You take him like a dream, all honey and silk around him. “It’s relaxing.”

“You need to relax?”

You nod, and Bradley nibbles at your neck, licking away the drops of champagne that still cling to your skin. He feels buzzed. It is probably just your proximity, the feeling of you on him.

“I’ll help you relax. Sweet thing like you, always looking out for everyone, aren’t you? Always helping everyone. You need someone who’ll be sweet to you too, don’t you, honey?”

He winds your damp hair around his fingers at the base of your skull, reveling in the way your mouth falls open, the way you clench down around his fingers, absently canting your hips into him. God. He is hard enough to hurt, watching you like this.

You don’t answer, and Bradley gives your hair a gentle but firm tug.

“Answer me, sweetness. I need to hear you say it.”

A sharp inhale brings your chest against his, and Bradley can feel your hardened nipples. He’ll get to those later, right now Bradley is too busy watching your face, feeling you flutter around his fingers.

“Yes.”

“Yes…?” Bradley prompts, capturing your gasp with a crushing kiss against your open mouth. He pulls away, letting your hair flow through his fingers, moving that hand back down to hold tight to your hips. He stills you, ignoring your whimpered protest. “Gotta be more specific than that.”

You look him right in the eye, despite the embarrassed flush that’s overtaken your cheeks. “Yes, I want you to be… I want you to be sweet to me, want you to help me relax. I want all of it.”

“Good girl.”

Bradley pulls away all of his fingers except the one that’s teasing your clit. You give him this sad, mournful look and open your mouth to complain, maybe even to whine, but Bradley slides you back down onto his leg. He slots his firm thigh between yours, bends his knee to push against you, and the only sound that passes your lips is a breathy ‘fuck’ that makes him groan.

“I’ll take care of you, baby. I’ll be sweet to you,” Bradley promises, guiding your hand to the front of his swim trunks. He is so big, straining against the loose fabric. You tug your lip between your teeth. “But I need to get you ready for me. I need you to be good for me. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I… Tell me how.”

“I need you to come all over my thigh.”

You really shouldn’t let him talk to you like this, shouldn’t be in this position at all, completely naked on the broad thigh of the cute Naval aviator who sometimes smiled and flirted with you at the Hard Deck.

Actually… You should probably give yourself a little more credit here.

You knew Bradley was interested in you. Had been able to tell from the moment Hangman called him over on the very first night when Bradley had been hovering only a few feet away, obviously listening in.

He’d smiled at you, all big and unassuming brown eyes that probably got him both in and out of all sorts of trouble. He was built like a brick shithouse, tall and wide and completely, utterly hot.

Hot enough that when Penny asked you to come on the annual Northern California trip while Amelia opted for a tropical Christmas in Hawaii with Aunt Penny’s ex-husband…

You might have not so subtly asked whether Captain Mitchell had any plans to invite Bradley there for Christmas, accepting the invitation after Penny snorted and informed you that yes, Maverick had asked him. You choose to ignore the knowing undertone of her response.

You hadn’t been expecting anything in all honestly, more curious about whether Bradley would act any different towards you outside the familiar environment of the Hard Deck. Hoped for a kiss under the nonexistent mistletoe at most. Maybe even a dinner invitation back in San Diego.

Nothing like this.

Bradley is still holding you between his hands, a crooked knuckle stroking and teasing at you under the water. It’s… different doing this here, hot water sloshing around your elbows, a fine layer of steam rapidly cooling on your skin in the cold mountain air. You didn’t expect to like it so much.

Snow starts to drift down from above, melting on the surface of the water, and Bradley is looking at you with liquid warmth swimming in his deep brown eyes, an intense concentration on his face.

Right. He asked you a question.

Not a question. He told you how to do something.

How to be good for him.

Shivers run down your spine at the thought.

“I think…” You aren’t doing all the much thinking right now to be honest. It is mostly overwhelming arousal and radio static up there right now. “I can do that. I want to do that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And the corner of Bradley’s mouth kicks up into a self-satisfied smirk. “Better get to work then. Don’t know how long I can stand having you spread open for me and not fuck you, but I’ll wait for you, baby.”

Something about that flips a switch in you, the idea that Bradley is holding himself back from grabbing you and sinking you down on his cock. You pick up your previous pace, rolling your hips forward and down on his thigh. He meets you at your level, working your clit, letting you push against the palm of his hand.

It feels unreal.

Before Bradley even really gets talking.

“Look at you, baby,” He hums the words against your neck, littering the skin with open-mouthed kisses, sometimes pausing to suck and bite in the places that could easily be covered with a scarf.

“You’re so fucking sweet, aren’t you? Everyone loves you. Such a sweet little angel, and yet, I’ve got you out here riding my fucking thigh. Someone could come out and see us. You don’t care, do you?”

You can’t help the clench of your thighs, the too loud moan that bubbles from your lips. He shushes you and continues to torment you with dirty words whispered in your ear, voice deep and rasping.

Pleasure is building and building.

You are hot enough to burn.

“Fuck yourself on my thigh, angel,” Bradley instructs, pressing down on your clit. Everything disappears in a streak of white for a moment, and then Bradley comes back into focus, an apparition in the steam, urging you on. “Come for me. Come all over me, and then I’ll fuck you. You want me to fuck you, don’t you, baby?”

You can’t get the words out, too drunk on the sensation of his hard thigh slotted against you, the perfect friction of it. Feeling more benevolent, Bradley accepts your nod as an answer this time. You can feel him, hard as a rock against your thigh, and in your pleasure drunk state, fumble with the band of his swim trunks to free him.

It takes a few attempts, and one particularly well-placed thrust from Bradley almost makes you give up. You manage to get him out though, taking him in your hand, thick and heavy, running your thumb over the top of him.

It’s no small satisfaction that Bradley seems as needy as you right now, as unbalanced, groaning into your shoulder.

“Come for me,” Bradley repeats, low and warm against your skin.

It doesn’t take much more than those words and a few more strokes, and Bradley has to catch you against his chest, shaking and shuddering around him and over him, miles away from here.

You can barely make out the soothing praise that Bradley mumbles into your damp hairline. Good. Good. So good for me. Did so well for me. He is throbbing in your hand, and as soon as the white-hot pleasure has cooled, Bradley is pulling you back over him, sinking you down on him in one smooth thrust.

A large hand comes over your mouth to muffle the high-pitched cry that threatens to echo through the damn mountain range, and Bradley’s dark gaze flits between your eyes, waiting for your nod.

He doesn’t waste much time after that, seeming to realize at the same time as you that time is limited. Riding his thigh might’ve been a spiritual experience. It doesn’t mean that Penny and Maverick aren’t currently sleeping in a cabin less than 15 feet away.

Sweat drips down his neck as Bradley lifts you up and lowers you back down again, fucking you in deep and unrelenting thrusts, filling you up over and over again. You pulse around him, still sensitive from the aftershocks of that orgasm, and still moving in you, Bradley drops his head back against the edge of the tub, letting out a pained exhale.

“You’re so fucking tight. Taking my cock like a fucking dream. So perfect for me.”

He hits a spot that makes your toes curl, makes electricity shoot through your entire body. You cling to his chest, pulling at his broad shoulders and insanely muscular arms. Kiss the underside of his jaw, cupping his jaw.

You’re not even sure Bradley is aware of the words coming out of his mouth right now, eyes screwed shut, thrusting into you with increasing sloppiness, both of you growing closer to the edge.

“God, baby, I wish I didn’t have to be quiet right now, I want to hear your moans and screams. Want to hear you scream my name.”

“When I get you back to San Diego, I’m going to keep you in my bed for a whole fucking week, make you come on my tongue and my cock over and over and over.”

"Bet you'll be so fucking sweet. Can't wait to..."

“Fuck, I think… I’m…”

He brings up his fingers to pinch at your nipples, to get you there with him, and barely 30 seconds after your second orgasm of the night pitches you forward, Bradley is spilling inside of you, moaning your name.

Later, Bradley wraps you in a towel, carefully fishing the ruined bikini from the cooling water and grimacing down at the hot tub with his hands on his hips. He picks up the bottle of champagne, weighing it in his hand.

“Do you think if I tell Mav that I spilled champagne in the hot tub and not to use it for the rest of the trip…” Bradley starts, tugging at the towel that sits low on his hips, squinting at the remaining liquid in the bottle. “…that there is any chance he’ll believe me?”

A smile quirks your lips. “I’d say an even 50-50 split.”

“Good enough for me,” Bradley says with a shrug and dumps the remaining dribbles of champagne into the tub, tossing the bottle in after it. He looks proud of his work, tugging the cover back into place.

You are both silent on the walk back to the cabin, lost in thought. You are watching the snow that’s started to fall from the sky again, wondering what… all of that meant for the future.

Bradley is gnawing the edge of his lip, probably thinking about the champagne or the slopes tomorrow or…

He loops a naked arm around your waist without a word.

Giddiness warms your chest.

You clear your throat, trying not to let it show in your voice. You deserve at least a veneer of coolness after letting him fuck you senseless in a hot tub, what with the infection you’re definitely going to get from this.

Worth it.

“So...” You remember his earlier words, the ones from the heat of the moment that Bradley probably doesn’t even remember saying out loud. “‘When I get you back to San Diego’, huh?”

He scratches at the back of his neck, and in the dim light, you can make out the softest flush that creeps over his bare chest. How Bradley could be embarrassed now is beyond you. Sheepish is an adorable look on him though.

“Did… Did I forget to ask you out?”

“It might’ve slipped through the cracks.”

“Ah,” Bradley says, looking down at you with bright eyes and color high in his cheeks. Snow catches in his lashes and his mustache. You have the sudden and overwhelming urge to kiss it away. “Well, I’d like to take you out back in San Diego. How’s that sound to you?”

You stretch up on your toes to kiss him, right there in the snow, dressed in nothing but your towels. He is warm enough for the both of you right now, skimming his palms over your shoulder blades, cupping your nape.

You give your answer.

“Thought you’d never ask, Bradshaw.”

(...anyway... thoughts?)

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x reader #rooster x you #laracrofted writes #fic: bradley bradshaw

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undercoverpena · 6 months

Text

iv. anchor me

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter four of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

chapter warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. hand stuff (f receiving), illusions to the past, bi!frankie.

an: thank you to @thetriumphantpanda for reading this after bake off and telling me that i can do the thing.

wordcount: 3.4k

The moment Benny’s (insistent) invite landed in your messages, you had expected the one from Frankie.

Phone in hand, tapping your foot, counting, barely making it to 30 seconds before the banner slid down your screen. Because, of course, the can’t-say-no invitation was on the day the two of you had a scheduled thing.

Unsurprisingly, his simmering annoyance hadn’t vanished when he came to pick you up—another thing insisted—and you came out to meet him.

I’ll pick you up. I can drive there and meet you, save you coming across town. I‘m picking you up. Means I get to make sure you get home okay.

The sound of the car door slamming into place as you lock up, turning to walk towards his vehicle to find him eyeing you up in a way that makes your cheeks burn and you want to hide your face.

He keeps having that effect on you.

Make heat lick up your spine, your brain forget its sentence or thought, and your eyes find themselves unable to stop dropping to his lips .

It’s why it takes all your strength to say, “Eyes up here, Morales.”

He does, although he does take a second. Licking his lips, before doing exactly that. “Do I tell you enough that you look good?”

Laughing, you roll your eyes. More for him. An act, a pretence. Because you’re trying to seem unfazed—attempting to ignore it, the flutters of wings in your stomach.

Having to focus on it more and more when he stops in front of you, the bill of his hat shielding his eyes from the sun, allowing you to see how they drink you in, swallow you. Practically smothering you in simmering heat that makes you want to tear your clothes from your skin.

“You’ve mentioned it a lot lately.”

He doesn’t move, a thing which makes the wings flutter worse. More intense. Practically beating them as you stare at him, fighting the urge to wrap your fingers around the back of his neck and pull his lips to yours.

To have him. Kiss him.

Remembering as you shift in your shoes, that you’re not with him. This is all an arrangement, a plan—a schedule, a date each week (or two) that Benjamin Miller fucked up.

Nudging him, you wink. “C’mon, I want first dibs of the food Will is cooking before you lot leave me with the scraps.”

You were outside in the backyard an hour, before a water gun soaks you.

Benny’s—of course—a stupid gift you’d purchased him, now used on the neighbours’ kids, with you caught in the crossfire.

By the time you’ve realised, you’re being flooded with apologies. Each coming from Benny’s tongue tenfold, rushing over as though he’d sprayed you in bullets and not water.

Your discussion with Will all but ended with a gasp as you stared down at your now transparent shirt. Watching his eyes lift up, trying not to glance or look.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I was—and then—let me show you where the towels are—“

You’re not sure who you laugh at more: Will or Benny. Holding a hand up, accepting one of the many apologies that fall, waving it all off, as your eyes scan the other guests, not finding the one pair of eyes you really want.

“It’s fine—can I, borrow something?” you ask, dropping your voice, “There’s kids around.”

Before Benny has even finished nodding, you make a beeline for the house. The one you know. You’ve been here enough times, dipping in through the side door, feeling your top cling to your skin more uncomfortably than it had outside.

That’s when you stare outside. Noticing that the gathering was closer to a party, it all loud and busy—even from inside. Suddenly grateful for the cover to spend a minute cooling off in the house. An excuse merged with gratefulness when you could hide and slide your shades off—wanting a drink, water, ice.

Suddenly needing a second.

Because all you’d done is eye-fuck your friend. The one you’ve seen naked—the one who looks more than good, and fucks even better.

The one, you suddenly can’t spot.

The glass in your palm lets condensation droplets slide down your wrist. The rim against your bottom lip, staring out at the people laughing, smaller kids being chased by Benny and his water gun. Eyes scanning, nervousness bubbling, mind beginning to worry you’re about to see him with someone else.

Like you have done so many times before .

You’re so lost in it, you don’t hear him, never mind feel him, until his arm snakes around your waist. The man you’d been missing—the one who’d been burning holes into your spine, but never coming over.

Now, though, he’s all warm mouth again to your ear, a whispered shh, as he peels your glass from your hands.

“You’re all wet, querida. We best get you dry.”

And then you’re walking, being led. Moving with ease as Frankie—who you hadn’t even seen come inside—was wrapping his fingers inside yours. Leading you, down the familiar hallway you’d helped paint several years ago, to the bedroom you still called Frankie’s, even if he hadn’t lived here in years.

You remember when you‘d knock on the very door to call for him, or hang out on the other side of the frame.

Frankie and Benny had shared this space before Frankie had found his own. The offer of your spare room had not been good enough—even if he painted it in, not wanting to be an inconvenience. How you’d sit on the bed that’s now for guests, perched, waiting for him before the two of you grabbed food or visited the movies. Simple things—friend things.

It isn’t like that today. His mouth slants over yours as soon as you’re both alone, pressing your back to the wall, devouring, licking into your mouth as you gasp.

Because the two of you could be caught. A shudder spreading out at the idea. The thought of the door being thrown open, making you groan into his mouth.

But, you’re not sure you’d care if you did.

You don’t fucking care if they all found you like this.

Lost, whimpering, desperate—all for him.

Not at his hand places itself around the base of your neck—lightly touching, pressing the smallest amount of pressure down, as he hushes your soft moans. His finger resting against your chin, the others slowly bury themselves in your underwear, giving you more reasons to be loud than be quiet—not something close to friend things.

“You been thinkin’ about me?”

The yes leaves your lips, but it is swallowed by a moan. It travelling from somewhere deep, flowing up, rippling out as you begin to writhe against his touch. Your eyes fixed on his—drowning in brown, sinking in as he curls his fingers inside of you. Beckoning, pleading with you to hand him what it is he wants.

Fuck, you want to give it to him. Had done from the moment you’d arrived, pulled up in the space outside Benny’s home—the former fixer-upper, turned dream house.

Frankie always looked good, even if his wardrobe was minimal. The back of him easy to pick out from a crowd, so broad you’re sure you could draw it with your eyes closed. You’ve stared at it so much—and that was before this all began. This, whatever this mutually beneficial thing is between the two of you, neither of you will properly name.

It’s why you kiss him, needing to taste his groan, lather your tongue in the way he says your name. Pronounces it. It more noticeable when your hand cups him—greeted by the hard outline of him against your palm, all noticeable, barely contained by his cargo pants.

“—tan bonita,” he croaks, throwing your hand away before placing it back to cup your cheek, forcing your head to his, the base of his palm catching your bundle of nerves as he slows his ministrations. “Be good for me, querida. And just focus on being quiet.”

A chaste kiss pressed, a signature on the dotted line—one you agree to as you chase his lips. Just tasting the beer-tinged air of his breath as he continues to bury his fingers inside of you. The sounds of it so vulgar, loud, barely muffled by the strangled whimpers you try to keep back.

“So good for me, tan perfecta.”

Your eyes close, lashes clenching. His whispered words make it harder to stay quiet, to be the thing he’s just told that you are.

And the worst is, you know he knows it. Can feel his smirk against your jaw, the way the tip of his tongue swirls over your pulse as his hip pins you in place, his fingers continuing their wanted assault, keeping your feet rooted to the ground, head barely able to think about anything but this.

“Please,” you ask.

Eyes open, capturing his. Hooking in. Watching him drink it in, your request—your ask.

“Alright baby, I’ve got you,” he whispers, more breath than words, right against your cheek, finger drawing circles against your clit. “Always got you, haven’t I?”

It’s electric, and also fire. It surges and licks up your spine as you nod. As your throat goes dry, sound goes fuzzy, before he’s good—to you, for you. Alternating between filling you with the same fingers that built your furniture.

“Doing so well for me,” he says, nose against your cheek, fingers pumping—

In and out.

“Be good though, let me feel you squeeze my fingers—wanna feel you come, querida. Please. Please.”

Your eyes clench, feeling both nothing and everything. Because someone could walk in. Your teeth bite into your lip as you try to keep back the chants of his name. His fingers are so deep, feeling so good.

“Let go, querida.”

It falls from his lips like honey. Sweet. Almost sticky in how it clings to the air as your eyes open, finding him.

The first thing you think is: earlier was nothing on the way he’s staring at you now.

Doing more than devouring, he’s drowning in you—likely unaware you’re doing the same with him.

Each nerve illuminated, your ears slowly buzzing louder and louder as you crash your mouth to his and lick into his mouth as you still, tense and writhe all at once.

Then you are stars, feel yourself unknotting, all at once. In the bedroom that used to be his.

Frankie shouldn’t like seeing you in an old t-shirt of his, but he does.

Unable to tear his eyes away from you as he leads you to two seats, your laugh flowing—something he said under his breath, now forgotten, still swirling through you, forcing your eyes to close and your fingers to dig into his forearm.

He likes you like this—has always liked your laugh.

Blissfully aware that he should, but shit, he can’t take his eyes off you. Even if he knows he needs to—plenty of eyes around, ones who have always teased, always taunted.

You’d be so good together. You pair are so cute.

The comments go on, and on. Have done for years.

Except now, you’re dressed in him.

To most, it’s a simple, old tee splattered with paint. To him, it’s when the group of them painted Ben’s house. His eyes having drank you in, wishing he could wash the paint from your legs, unsure how you’re covered in as much as the wall.

Your clumsiness having painted itself against you, your own clothes ruined, before you’d purposefully (and intentionally) splattered yourself against him when you’d come in for a ‘hug’.

Now, you’re sitting next to him, curled under one leg, shades hiding where your eyes are—but he hopes they’re on him—wishing you’d be on him.

“You dry, querida?”

“Oh, jodete.”

Smirking, he takes a sip of his drink. Licking the front of his teeth, leaning forward.

“Rather fu—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

Your tongue traces the bottom of your lip, slowly shaking your head. A part of him wanting to pull you close, have you in his lap. Fuck everything and just give in and—

“So,” Will announces. Suddenly there. Blocking the sun, pointing at an empty chair before he sits beside you.

And Frankie drowns his throat in beer.

He listens, while staring off, as Will asks how your friend is—when she’s back in town, because Ben won’t. You knotting and unknotting the end of the tee around your finger, chatting and chatting.

Something tightening inside of him when he catches sight of you, from the corner of his eye, throwing your head back as Will makes you laugh. Him trying not to grimace each time his friend does so.

Because Will is his friend.

A good one, a great one. Yet, when it comes to you, he always feels inferior. Less than. Somehow more broken more than—

“Fish?”

Will’s voice drags him from his thoughts, blinking. Thumb tracing the neck of his bottle as he nods.

“I said have you heard from Pope?”

He tenses. Frankie feels himself still. Back all straight.

The question cuts through his bubbling thoughts. Suddenly aware of the sound of his own heart in his ears. That knotted ball of things, the one full of rope, strings, steel wire, as it all tightens inside his chest—and in his stomach.

Worst of all, he then feels your eyes land on him. Searching, cutting through the sheets he throws up as walls, desperate to press something warm to him, keep him rooted.

He takes a breath, feeling you willing him to. Appeasing you, even if you’ve not asked verbally, finding himself easily able to.

It’s always easy with you.

Just like it was the night he told you. Confessed it. Whispered it out on the floor, his back to the wall in the same bedroom he just had pressed you against.

I’d suspected it, honestly.

Your fingers brushing, carding through his curls until you pulled his head into your chest. A whole other sea of emotions bubbling, both of his long loves out of reach—even if one had their fingers buried in his curls, attempting to soothe him. The rest of his confession dying on his tongue, letting it rot, fester.

Because that one was and still is harder to confess.

It desperate to escape. Almost coming out the night you’d suggested he found you repulsive. Not knowing how wrong you were—

“Um…” you murmur, eyes digging further into him, practically clawing. Not to hurt, but to pull him back. “I don’t think I have—not since before?”

Frankie swallows. His heart hammering heavier, lifting his eyes and landing on you—and it all goes calm. Your face, like it always has been, is like a blanket that smothers the leftover hurt and anguish, an anchor that roots him in place.

“N-no. Not heard a thing,” he says, as plain as possible. Direct. Trying to hide the shake.

Because he can still feel your eyes on him. Focused, unwilling to leave his face as Will mutters and mumbles about something until he’s shouted away, beckoned by an overzealous neighbour, Frankie plants a smile on for, not moving to greet or speak to.

You say nothing.

But you do lift your shades. Smothering him in warmth and kindness, and a bit of sorrow too. Your teeth nursing the skin on your bottom lip, picking and picking.

Fuck he wishes he could tell you.

He wishes he could tell you that Pope knew—knows. Had already guessed it. Teased him on it before he dragged it out of him in the cold, rainy depths of Colombia.

You just have a thing for friends, Fish. That it!

It had ripped from his throat then. Shooting, spitting in mixed English and Spanish as he told Pope his feelings for you—how long they’d been there.

How they were messy. The same as his feelings had been for him. That they churned and turned for months with the conflicting ones he had for him.

That it has shaped him—the thing that neither of them talk about, but had let happen the handful of times it did.

And now he was repeating himself, but differently. This time, he suspected there was something more there. Something there in your eyes in the moments after he’s brought you to pleasure, it twinkling, it licking into his mouth when you kiss him, softer, desperate in a different way.

“Are you okay?”

“Come to mine. Tonight. After.”

You release your bottom lip. Staring. Thinking. “Are you going to take me home after?”

He tries not to let his face shift, but he fails. It falls and drops out over his features as you take a sip from the bottle in your hand.

“Frank…”

“You like my bed.”

You roll your eyes, brow slightly arched. You’re faking annoyance, he can tell. He can tell because you’re ticking, pondering. Weighing up the options of what difference one night would make to your principles.

“It’s not because of that.”

“No?” you say, arched brow and laced in sarcasm.

Fuck, he wants to take your hands. Pull them to his face. Because he doesn’t feel like that for him anymore. He hasn’t. Not for a long time.

Not since before he showed up with his plan, and his lies, and his mission that ended with Redfly’s death.

He wanted to let it roll from his tongue that he meant it that first night. That he has hated all of your exes for the reason you must think, deep down—the one you’re unwilling to question or acknowledge for the same reasons he won’t.

Because he’s scared. Because he knows he’s only worthy of being a dirty secret—not something real. Not something stable and concrete, things you truly deserve.

And, he wants to respect your wishes, your rules. But, he also wants to wake up beside you in his bed. Wanting nothing more than to have his cake and eat it too, because how could he not? How could he not want you there for one morning, when he wants you there every single day?

That thought was the one he had shouted, it burning the air between him and the man he now doesn’t hear from.

You gonna tell her? Depends on if we fuckin’ get outta here, doesn’t it?

He didn’t. Even if he did make it out, make it back. You in his arms, sobbing, worries running from your mouth to his ear as he held you—silently sobbing into your shoulder for reasons he has never explained.

Which is precisely why he doesn’t reach for your hands. It’s why he lets the silence thicken before he answers.

Because he knows he loves you.

“No,” he says firmly.

Hoping it’ll be enough. Hoping the finality of the word will inform you that, if anything, it’s in spite of the memory of his former friend, former brother-in-arms, former…

“I live closer to here,” he shrugs. Not wanting to admit that it’s for any other reason. “Means we’d be quicker to—“

“Morales!” you cut him off.

All stern, cute—as though he hadn’t had his fingers buried inside of you half an hour ago in his old room.

“How have you been sleeping?”

It’s a simple question, easy. Your lips around the straw, draining your cup before placing it on the grass, next to his empty bottle.

His fingers reaching up, itching the front of his fringe under his hat—your eyes following his movements, holding on to them, adding them to the mental notebook you’ve likely made.

Frankie shouldn’t be surprised that you remembered. The trip that lasted more days than it should have and left its own marks on you, too. Scarred you in ways that you can’t explain or ever get rid of.

“Fine. I guess, just…”

“I know,” you say with a faint smile. Forced. Placed there to soothe him, but it doesn’t do much.

You don’t play with the radio.

You don’t even really talk. Just drumming your fingers on the door, staring outside, letting streets pass the two of you, until he pulls up outside his place.

All the way, he thinks about apologising.

For everything, and yet for nothing all at once. His eyes sliding over to you as he drove down roads, turned his chin a little more to gather more of you as he turned a corner.

You don’t look at him until he turns the engine off. Head rolling on the back of the seat, the softest, most beautiful smile on your lips—one he wants to taste, feel moulded to his mouth. Capture and steal it, in case he never gets the chance to again.

“If you say you’ll stay, you haven’t broken the rules,” he whispers.

It is all quiet, except for the little noises made by the car as it cools and relaxes from its journey here.

Frankie hears you swallow, and then sigh.

“Won’t I be?”

Shaking his head, he turns to face you on the plastic seat. Palm cupping your cheek, thumb stroking soft lines, hoping it’ll ease you. Relax you.

“If you prefer me to take you home—“

Your eyes drop.

“—then I will. But…”

Your eyes flash back up to him, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. Even under twinkling lights, he can see each fleck of colour in them.

“But?” you whisper.

And he drags his thumb across your skin. “I just really want you to stay, for tonight.”

Sliding your lips to the side, your fingers move over his, pressing his palm to your cheek, giving him a smile—a gentle one, reassuring, sweet. “I want the right side. When you let me sleep.”

Smirking, he nudges closer, going to kiss you, but finding himself pressing a kiss to your forehead—one brimming with a smile.

Only realising he’s done so when he retracts.

Little lines appearing in your brow, gone, vanished in the next second, because then you’re moving closer, your lips on his—and for a brief, but pleasant moment, he forgets all of this isn’t real.

Falls into it, lets himself live there as he runs his hand up your thigh, before he’s dragging it over his. Uncaring that there’s a bed some so many feet away, he just runs his hands over your cheeks, along your jaw, thumbs on your neck—as he groans against your mouth.

Swallowing your moan, he fights a smirk at the way you rock your hips against him. Hand moving to your hip, pinning you—chasing your lips before kissing you again, and again.

Not ever having enough. Always wanting more.

As he has done for years. As he’s thought about for years.

Because there may have been others, but since he let himself think it, it’s always been you. A notion he kisses against your lips, writing them with his tongue against yours, content, happy.

“Can’t wait to spread you out on my bed, querida.”

He feels your lips spread into a smirk against his. “Can’t wait to have your cock down my throat again, Morales.”

He groans. Loud, almost undignified. Unsure how he got to be so lucky. Your fingers digging into the base of his neck.

CHAPTER FIVE ->

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #Frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #jo: iltwy #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #francisco morales smut #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #frankie morales x f!reader smut #pedrostories

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dawnoftime22 · 6 months

Text

adorable.

| T.S

Warnings: None!

Summary: Taylor sees you sleeping adorably, and couldn't help but pull out her phone.

Word Count: 587

Category: Fluff

A/N: I've started to actually write more taylor and like what I did with the fics, so I thought, why not just post them :] if this one does okay then I'll continue <3

| Started on 09/09/2023, 11:36 PM |

| Finished on 10/09/2023, 2:38 PM |

Masterlist | T.S Masterlist

“My darling, you are far too much of a work

of art for a picture not to be taken.”

|——————————— ⸆⸉ ———————————|

It was yet another day full of work and exhaustion was all that filled the blonde's body as she drove back home from work.

She got out of the car and unlocked the front door of the house, only wanting to have you beside her, cuddles, and kisses, and every single other thing she could think of.

Though the house was quiet. Too quiet. The tv wasn't on, and you weren't in the living room or the kitchen. She didn't get a message from you of you going out or anything, so her head wandered a little.

And then, before Taylor could panic any more, she walks into the bedroom, not expecting to see you laid on the bed horizontally with your eyes closed, covering the space of both her side and yours, while her guitar was placed just a few inches below your legs.

You must've been practicing to learn the guitar, and got exhausted too, she thought. She adored how you were learning, and not only for her, or from her, but also because you got inspired by her music.

What was important was the way you were breathing. And your face, oh, your peacefulness in your face. It made her smile so lovingly at you. She couldn't find anyone else who she would be more in love with.

Before she got any closer or that you would somehow wake up, she pulls out her phone from her pocket and captures a quick picture of you. It was the perfect picture.

She wanted to just jump into bed already and cuddle you, with how fuzzy she's feeling from seeing how adorable you looked, but she needed to shower first. She was sweaty from all the rehearsing for her upcoming tour.

And so, she got her clothes ready on the bed and went to take a shower. When she got out, you were still thankfully asleep. But your position did change. You were more curled up into a ball this time, like a cat, which made her want to squeeze herself and you. But she didn't wanna wake you, so she quietly put on her clothes, and tip toed to bed. Gently laying down next to you, which she could do so now, since you were more curled up, letting more space on the bed loose.

She takes you in her arms and pulls you closer like a teddy bear without waking you up, but also making sure you're in a more comfortable position.

Nothing could be better than this feeling she has in her heart. But then you instinctively snuggled closer to her, your nose nuzzling on her skin near her neck, tickling her a little, but the feeling of her wanting to melt overcame it. Well. That was a better feeling.

She went to sleep with you that night with a precious memory.

|——————————— ⸆⸉ ———————————|

You were smiling as you looked through her gallery of pictures, full of Meredith, Olivia, Benjamin, and basically all the cats. Some pictures are of you and her, and to see them warms your heart.

Until you scrolled and perhaps accidentally found something you shouldn't have. Your eyebrows rose while Taylor blushed from behind you.

"Um, babe, you took a photo of me while I was sleeping?" You questioned softly, so as to not make her feel embarrassed. But her cheeks only turned red even more

"I couldn't help it. You're just too adorable." she giggled, now you're the one who thought she was adorable.

You playfully rolled your eyes, turning your head to look at her, and then went in to kiss her. She gratefully accepted it and kissed you back. Soon after, she pulls away and admires your face, just as she had the night before.

"I love you." The both of you smile at each other like two idiots in love.

"I love you, too."

---------------------

taglist <3 - join here! :]

@dmenby3100

#🥀 dawn’s collection #taylor swift #taylor swift x reader #taylor swift fluff #taylor swift imagines #taylor swift comfort #1989 taylor's version

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gatorbites-imagines · 11 months

Note

SPIDERNOIR WITH A A FTM READER ??

Peter Benjamin Parker/Spidernoir x ftm reader

Headcanons

Peter is from the 1930s, so sadly there probably isn’t much medical treatment you can get done. That doesn’t mean you can’t wrap your chest, though you would have to do it in unhealthy ways. You would also wear men’s clothes and have your preferred hairstyle.

Peter would have no issue with you being trans, though he wouldn’t fully understand it in the beginning but would support you anyways.

Because it’s the 30s you two can’t be open about your relationship to the public out of the dangers it poses, but in your own home you are able to be yourselves and be together.

If you guys are together you are most likely his MJ because that’s something every spiderman has to some extent, at least all peters seem to have an MJ. MJ is a very gender neutral nickname too which would help with dysphoria or confusion.

Peter is smart, so he would find a way to help you bind your chest in more healthy ways, if you wanted to bind your chest. He wouldn’t be able to get you hormone treatment because I don’t think that was a thing at the time, but he will help you with voice training.

He could also help you in working out to build more muscle to be more masc presenting if that’s what you wanted. You guys just convince the outside world you’re just a guy with a smoother face, smaller hands, and a higher voice, no one really questions it.

When he joins the spider alliance he learns that being trans is actually a common thing, and it would lead him down a longer path to learn as much about it as possible.

He gets you a binder with the help of some of the other spider-people, and is able to get you both literature and books about it so you can both learn about it.

Up until then you most likely didn’t have a way to explain what you were, but knowing there were people out there like you helped you and peter a lot. It meant Peter had someone to ask questions, and you had someone to bond with.

Because Peter would most likely bring you with him to the headquarters because he knows how helpful it would be, and maybe to have you seen by some more futuristic doctors who could give you the treatment you want, in case you want it.

But no matter what, Peter would love you anyways. Whether you bind, or don’t. whether you want hormones or not. He would always respect you, your pronouns, and however you decide to present yourself.

He’s just smitten with you like any person of Peter is with their partner, this also makes him quite protective during your day to day, because the world is dangerous. Both because of his work as spiderman, but also because the world isn’t so accepting of people like you.

He isn’t overbearing though, and he tries not to be too much, since he knows you can protect yourself If you need too.

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madelynraemunson · 7 months

Text

CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book 1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club)

(strip club owner!eddie x fem!exotic dancer!hargrove! reader)

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ MINORS DNI

006: The Eddie Special

Rent is paid, food is on the table, and Max finally has a YMCA membership! All because of you. But just when you think you've got your two lives under control, Robin and Vicky show up to Hellfire for date night — and see you dancing center stage.

* = somewhat smut

** = smut

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013**, 014**, 015, 016**, 017, 018, 019, 020*

word count: 5.2k words

warnings — eddie being an asshole again but also very sweet, mutual pining, angst, yearning, profanities, power imbalance, double standards, smoking, alcohol, sexual harassment, health issues/disparities, trauma, pedophilia, incest, name-calling

“A compromise would surely help the situation.”

♡

“Hey, stranger.”

Robin flashes you a “good morning” smile as you’re washing the dishes. Scooting to the side, you continue to scrub as she leans against the sink with her back, munching away at her breakfast sandwich that Vicky had prepped for her the night before.

“Morning,” you grin in return.

“Funny,” she says. “We live under the same roof now but our friendship still feels long distance.”

“Sorry… ” you frown. “Work’s just been a lot.”

So is living a double life. To shake off the guilt that constantly gnawed at you, you dry your hands and proceed to make yourself some coffee. When you scan the fridge, the only creamer you can get your hands on is...

Hazelnut. Just your luck.

There’s a tinge in your chest as you dunk it into your mug. You stir aggressively. Robin notices how tense you are and walks over to you.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, my guy,” she says as she pats you on the back. “Healthcare is tough. I dated a travel nurse once and that poor woman had back problems for days.”

“Such a physically and emotionally taxing job,” Vicky adds as she emerges from their room. “I don’t know how you do it, Hargrove.”

“Good morning, baby.”

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

Smooch.

You chuckle to yourself as you sip your Eddie-coded coffee.

“Yeah. I don't know how I do it either…”

The wooden stairs creek and crack as a pair of Vans stomp against them. Max is awake. This morning is an exciting one. After many, many overtime shifts at Hellfire, you've accumulated enough tip money to pay for Max's membership for 12 months. On top of that, rent had already been paid so you had a hefty cushion leftover for leisurely expenses.

You can hardly contain yourself. Seeing the surprised look on your sister's face is sure to be the highlight of your morning.

Max stares at you in shock when she sees you in the kitchen.

“Whoa,” she says. “She’s awake.”

You only ever see Max in passing when she comes home from the skate park. And that's right when you leave for work. From what she tells you she hasn't made many friends, but her main priorities right now are her hobbies and preparing herself for college classes in the Fall. Sometimes Max will tag along with Robin and Vicky to run errands, but you can tell she misses spending time with, and seeing, her sister.

“Shocker, right?” you sigh. “Thought I'd catch you before you head out.”

With your hands behind your back, you stride over to Max to give her her well-earned gift.

“What’s this?” she wonders.

“Your ticket to the Y,” you explain. “A band and a quarter, should last you a year.”

"Whoa!" Vicky exclaims.

"Holy shit! Look at that!" Robin cheers.

Max's eyes widen as she takes the money from you. “ $1200?! What bank did you have to rob to get $1200?”

“No bank,” you shake your head as Max counts all of the Benjamins. “Just the pockets of old, retired folk.”

You grin from ear to ear as you watch Max get bombarded with hugs that she is reluctant to accept, but does regardless. Vicky and Robin hoot and holler and squeal and cheer, reaffirming to Max that she deserves it the most.

“You’re really giving the elderly a run for their money,” Max says as the celebration comes to an end.

You watch in amusement as Vicky and Robin take turns counting Max's money.

“Yeah well it’s the least they can do for me,” you sigh. “My body feels like it’s aged 10 years.”

Max excuses herself from your roommates and throws herself onto you this time. You do your best not to cry. You've really missed her hugs.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Seeing how happy your sister is makes all your struggles worth it. Anything for Maxine.

———— 🔥 ————

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I don’t really give a damn right now.”

The past couple of weeks at Hellfire have been nothing short of awkward.

Eddie only really comes to you when he needs something, which — now that you've taken off those rose-tinted glasses — pretty much fits the bill of who he is as a person.

But he still lingers. For example, when you and Chrissy go on breaks together, there is always something for Eddie to do in close proximity. Table needs wiping? Eddie is there. Aisle needs sweeping? Mike, go help in the back. When you're dancing on customers, Eddie comes out from doing paperwork in his den to greet the regulars. And whenever you would turn to look at what Eddie’s doing, his gaze is already fixed on you and what you’re doing.

Like cat and mouse. But of course, he does it with all his dancers. Right?

A part of you wants to confront Eddie and his behavior, but before you even can he's out the back door to go on a "smoke break" with Argyle after closing, which usually is a short jump to him leaving. So you try to act unbothered by it by staying just a while longer with Henry… just in case he does come back.

But Henry puts you to work when you stay. He typically has you make sure all doors are locked, all chairs are stacked, and that any stray garbage is thrown away. You two play music while you work alongside one another, talking shit about customers and about how every day is starting to look the same.

You’re aware of how you openly contradict yourself, saying the days all bleed into one another and how you miss your bed. Yet you’re still at Hellfire. Way past closing time. Henry for sure has caught on to your odd behavior, but he doesn’t seem to mind because he enjoys your company.

It’s like clockwork now, this ritual-slash-routine.

Today is different for some reason.

"Hey!" Eddie calls out. “Shy Girl!”

You’re alone eating in an isolated part of VECNA’S LAIR when Boss Man makes his way over to you.

You’re frozen in your spot as he approaches you…willingly. Although you could care a lot less about his presence, the gesture still causes you to sit up a little straighter and blot-dry any remnants of your food with your napkin.

Eddie sets down new laminated prints of his menu in front of you. Plop.

"New item on the menu,” he gloats, very amused with himself. “Waffle fries. What do you think?"

Annoyed, you huff.

"Sure."

Two weeks of barely uttering a sentence to one another. Two weeks of avoiding eye contact and possibly one ‘excuse me’. Two weeks of being a background character in Eddie’s life and his icy shoulder making sure you knew it.

Now you’re more than an extra today. Because today Eddie decides you’re something of value, and that just for today your input actually matters. It's pathetic. It all makes Steve and Nancy look like best friends.

Your eyes travel to his firm hands. His silver rings. You hate to admit that you miss how they felt against your skin, especially since your skin seemingly isn't the only one he grazes. I do this with all my dancers. Your hands ball into fists. How can someone be so okay with using someone the way Eddie did with you?

"So we'll do regular waffle fries and the crinkle cuts will be our sweet potato fries from now on,” he explains.

“Mhm.”

“And eventually,” Eddie booms dramatically. “We’ll introduce the concept of different types of fries. Cajun fries, cheese fries, chili cheese fries. Then we'll introduce new cuts like curly fries... wedges..."

Not a word from you.

"Then we’ll do animal style fries like how you Californians do it at In-N-Out. I’ll call it ‘The Eddie Special’. It’ll be amazing!”

"You call the shots, Eddie."

Like he always does.

Eddie finally gets the message. You watch as his shoulders droop as he surrenders.

"Are you okay?" he dares to ask perplexedly.

"Never better!" you exclaim.

You grab your finished meal and dart past him, not even bothering to pardon yourself when your shoulders brush his slightly. You hear Eddie exhale, super displeased as the taps he makes on the table with his fingers render themselves fast and impatient.

“You don’t wanna stay and chat?” your superior demands sharply.

“I have to clock back in,” you answer coldly. “Sorry.”

“K then,” Eddie quietly mutters, returning the energy.

You try to look busy, so you pull out your phone and pretend to check something. Luckily, a text message from Robin pops up for you to reply to.

ROBIN BUCKLEY ☀️🤍

Date night with Vicky tonight. Breakfast/lunch/dinner waiting for you in the fridge when you get home 😁

You smile.

You da bestest 🩷 thank u

Buzz.

ROBIN BUCKLEY ☀️🤍 loved “You da bestest 🩷 thank u”

“Hey, Hargrove?” Eddie calls out to you.

His voice sounds a lot softer and apologetic. With the optimism that your tactic worked, you spin around to face Eddie with eager eyes. Maybe today is the day things go back to normal again.

“Hm?”

“No going on your phone when you’re clocked in, k?”

A blow to the chest. Bitter and agitated, you shove your phone into the back pocket of your booty shorts. Yes sir, you mutter to yourself mentally.

After thanking you, Eddie struts to the kitchen, using his own phone to pull up Dio on Spotify. He and Argyle like to head-bang and fuck around in the kitchen when they’re together. Messing around is only okay if Eddie does it, you assume.

To make matters worse, Eddie then proceeds to use his stupid phone to send someone a text. You scoff at the irony. Fucking prick.

Another trigger of yours? Power imbalance and double standards.

Attempting to be drama-free, you ironically make your way over to Steve and Jonathan, who are posted up at POTIONS.

“Hey Shy Girl,” Jonathan nods.

"Hey Johnny," you greet him.

You turn to the literal love of your life.

“Sup, Steve.”

"Hey, Hargrove," Steve nods. "How'd you do on tips last night?"

"Stellar," you answer. "Fucking love Fridays."

You and Steve are still casually hooking up. But just as you predicted, things aren’t quite the same. The problem this week is that Steve is struggling to finish, and you start to feel discouraged and insecure when he softens up inside of you.

Steve always used to finish. Now when you look up at him his gaze is fixed on something else, his strokes are less enthusiastic, and he mistaked one of your kinks for someone else’s once. But you pretend not to notice. A part of you even feels like you deserve it.

Steve is struggling with the eye contact today. You kick at the floor, trying to find a way to make your presence relevant in this corner of Hellfire. Knowing very well what you’re doing, Steve holds up a French fry from his red picnic tray as a supportive gesture.

"Would you like some?"

You beam at him and open your mouth so he can feed you. Steve obliges.

“Thanks boo,” you say to him as you chew.

He blushes. “Welcome.”

“You guys are cute,” Jonathan smiles as he wipes his hands with a hand towel. “I gotta run to the restroom, you mind watching the bar for a bit, Hargrove?”

“Not at all,” you oblige. “I’ll be here. Eating Steve’s fries.”

“Great,” Jonathan says, excusing himself. Then he halts. “Oh! If you open the register, Eddie has something for you underneath. Code is 0-1-1.”

Eddie has something…for you?

You turn to Steve and he just shrugs. As if it weren’t already obvious, you and Eddie weren’t exactly on friendly terms. What could that man possibly have for you?

It’s a termination notice, you can feel it. Bracing yourself for the absolute worst, you punch the code in.

0 - 1 - 1.

CHA-CHING! The register pops open. You lift the till that housed the cash and coins to unveil a pile of cash joined together by a small paper clip. There is a tiny note that was written onto a ripped piece of paper.

You pick it up. This couldn’t be for you, you think. But the sloppy handwriting with a partially bleeding pen says otherwise.

‘Hargrove: $600 — YMCA MONEY’

----- ❤️‍🩹 -----

“She the devil, she a bad lil bitch, she a rebel.”

Tonight you’re doing private dances with customers and also doing tip rail. But you wish you were just doing tip rail 'cause tonight’s clients were ballsy.

One patron said you look like his daughter. But it’s okay because ‘she’s married and out of the house’. Another said you look like one of his students. But it's totally okay because he teaches at the community college, therefore almost every pupil there is ‘at least 18’. It still doesn’t make it any better. All you could think about is your 18 year old baby sister — someone’s daughter and someone’s someone — someone who will also be walking the halls of Hawkins Community College later this month.

This customer, however, takes the cake. After guiding his hand away multiple times during the lap dance, he always manages to find the straps of your bra again. Upon strike three, you lose all patience.

“Yo, can you not do that?” you hiss, your inner Cali dude coming out to play. “I moved your hand away many times.”

The man is almost appalled. “It’s a strip club, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I strip on my terms.”

"I paid for your services," he spat. "So I'm sure I get to do what I want, hoe."

“Don’t call me that!”

“I'll call you what I want,” the customer insists. “It’s what you are anyways if you’re in this job right?”

He takes out another dollar and tucks it into one of your cups. You could only stare in shock. The audacity of this guy.

“Here,” he says degradingly. “Looks like you really need it. Now let me see those tits. Please.”

Anger consumes you. Whatever amount of the Neutral Wolf you had left in you has now melted away. The Big Bad Wolf is taking over now. You give the man a shove, hoisting yourself off his disgusting body.

"What the FUCK is your deal, bruh?" you bark, a piece of Billy coming out of you more than you intended. "You want a piece of me that badly, don't you?"

Your words cause a scene in the surrounding area. Not even phased by it, the patron decides to push you further.

“Easy, easy,” he rolls his eyes. “If it’s that much of an issue I’ll just take my money back.”

He yanks the dollar back from out of your bra. His knuckles just grazed your tits.

“What kinda strip club is this anyways? Theme is janky as fuck. The STRIPPERS don’t even strip. They’re RUDE, and they’re butt ugly. The owner should be ashamed. Oh and by the looks of it, you don’t have much tits to work with after all.”

“Pull up your shirt,” you quip. “I think I found ‘em.”

This poor man. He didn't know you're a Hargrove.

And soon you’re throwing shit. His money. Your shoes. Every curse word in the dictionary, both traditional and urban with the exception of a few. You’re seeing all red now, and you’re pretty sure if no one stopped you, you’d have ripped the guy’s head off.

“If I don’t have tits, why you trying to get at me?” you roar. “You like little boys or something, bitch?!”

“HENRY!” Eddie shouts.

You turn in the direction of Eddie’s voice. He had been watching. Through your furious, free-falling tears, you can see in his dark eyes, closed fists, and flared nostrils that he is angry as well.

“On it, boss!” Henry shouts as he scampers on over. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, asshole?”

The friendly bouncer swoops you off to the side and asserts himself between you both. Lucky for the guy, no dislocated limbs were in the cards today. All it took was another person with a penis to get this fool to back down. He tries to reason with Henry but it’s far too late. Henry’s already pushing him towards the door.

“I’ll be coming BACK to have my way with you,” the beast growls and spits. “Fucking SKANK!”

“I HOPE THE FUCK YOU DO, MOTHERFUCKER!” you challenge him. "I'll be right here waiting!”

A calloused hand lands on your lower back. Thinking it’s another customer, you turn aggressively, fist winded up. As quickly as you lunge, a large palm catches it mid-air.

It’s Eddie.

Worry washes over your boss’s face when you two lock eyes for the first time. After what seemed like an eternity. He looks at you with the utmost concern. You almost see a tear glistening in his eye. A portion of his hair falls over his face in attempts to conceal it.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks again, genuinely.

You nod, gulping.

You aren't okay, that's the thing. Not when Eddie looks like that. And not when he's looking at you, like that. Suddenly, Hellfire melts away and you're back in his van, fighting back every urge to fall into him and his musky, pine aroma infused with nicotine, weed, and beer. Just like home. Eddie feels like home.

Papers beat rock. Slowly, Eddie lowers your fist with the palm he had draped over you. The pulsing music and blinding strobe lights trickle back into your system.

"It's okay if you aren't..." Eddie starts. “You know... alright.”

"Eddie," you stop him. "Please. I'm alright."

“That was a lot.”

“But it's nothing new to me.”

He studies you. Doesn’t speak for a while.

“It's true!” you insist, attempting to diffuse Eddie's concern. “It kinda reminded me of the frat parties in San Diego I used to go to. You know what I’m saying?”

You try to laugh. But Eddie doesn’t. Henry and some dancers come to check up on you, especially Chrissy, to ask if you're okay. They even try to start a petition to jump the guy. You repeat the very thing you've been saying since it happened — yes, you are okay — and thank them for their concern. Then it's back to you and Eddie the moment they all disperse.

"Want a break?" he offers.

You shake your head. Dancing it off would help more, actually. And besides, if his offer is just another attempt to get you alone in his car and fire you up only to extinguish it all again in one sitting, you'll pass.

"Wanna go on stage now then? Get a break from individual dances?"

You smile and nod. "I'd love that."

The night can only get better from here. Eddie offers you his hand and helps to hoist you onto the stage. The DJ announces your name, and you’re back in business, putting on your million dollar smile and batting your seductive, little lashes.

Your song comes on and you start to shake your ass. Lost in the trance of the song, you become one with the pole, climbing it and gliding along it, twirling from it, and hovering with it, twerking and spreading your legs whenever you saw fit. The audience revels in it.

It all feels so good. Yes you are being provocative, everybody and your brother's worst nightmare -- but you're the one in control. No one can ever take your body autonomy away from you. Never again. Not anymore.

You do a death drop to the floor and quickly ease into your splits. The crowd goes wild as you roll your hips to the song, allowing yourself to get showered by the dollar bills that were raining down on you like a storm.

To thank everyone for their overwhelming support, you spin yourself around to face the crowd. But your heart nearly stops.

“Oh my god,” you gasp aloud.

Nothing could ever prepare you for what... or who rather... you see in front of you.

“Oh…my god,” Robin repeats, face sheet-white like a ghost.

Vicky is right beside her with the same shock on her face. Of course, your roommates have acknowledged this place before, so it wouldn't be a surprise that they eventually made this place their date night.

Your mind short-fuses and all you can do is crawl away backwards. Luckily, no one in the crowd seems to suspect how thrown off you just became. Your body quickly calls on another dancer as your mind races. And soon Emmy is taking your spot at the tip rail.

You look over at Eddie, who was in the corner leaning against the wall, but now he is standing upright and confused. Throwing on your cloak, you thank everyone for coming out and run out to the back alley.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," you mutter to yourself, as your heels click against the cold floor. Your cover is blown. What do you do now? "That's what you get for working local, Hargrove."

You find an area in the alley to rest and hit your dab pen ferociously. As you pace back and forth, you start to develop your exit plan. Nothing new, you develop these plans all the time.

Eventually Robin and Vicky find you. Clumsily spilling out the back door comes Thing 1 and Thing 2, assessing your body language and emotional well-being before finding the right words to say. It’s uncomfortable for everybody.

“Well this is quite the nursing home,” Robin remarks.

“Babe!”

“What?!” Robin exclaims. “I’m trying to lighten the mood.”

“Yeah but that can kinda come off as witty and sarcastic.”

“Well I don’t mean for it to.”

“Just because you don’t mean for it to, doesn’t mean it won’t come across that way.”

“Well knowing Hargrove I would hope she knows it’s not meant to come across that way.”

“GUYS!” your overstimulated self shouts.

All is quiet on midwestern front. Vicky and Robin switch between looking at you and back down at the ground while you resume your stress-filled nic break.

Finally, you speak after exhaling.

“So how’s everyone’s niiight?”

Robin gets straight to the point. “Why didn’t you tell us you work here?”

“I was protecting Max.”

“From what?” Robin wonders. “Ass and boobies? Extensions and falsies and freakishly high, high heels?”

“Doesn’t sound like nightmare fuel to us,” Vicky shrugs.

“It is when you consider the women Billy’s brought home.”

“What does Billy have to do with any of this?” asks Vicky.

“A lot, actually,” you answer.

You shove your pen back into your cloak pocket.

“Look,” you say. “I really needed the money. And I needed it fast. With my server and dancing background, I figured being a stripper was the best way to make it. And I was right. It’s quick money, but it’s sure as hell not easy. It’s draining for the most part, but—”

You stomp at the ground in frustration.

“My sister is fed and she can go to the Y and go to school and she’s away from Billy anditsallthatI’veeverwantedokay? That’s why I did it.”

“Okay, but I don’t see the point in coming up with this elaborate story that you work nights at a nursing home,” Vicky squints in thought. “Come on Hargrove, we are the least judgmental house in the boonies. I mean look at us.”

“Art Hoe Lesbians in a red state,” Robin points out. “I’m sure exotic dancer is a very mild offense.”

They did have a point. And it's not like Max is the type to slut-shame either. But you wanted Max to live as normal of a life as possible. Having a stripper sister also didn’t seem like the best conversation starter in Hawkins.

"I guess I'm just used to living a lie," you admit exhaustedly. "And running away... I also know Max would be worried sick for me."

"You only live lies if you tell 'em," Robin points out. "But as long as you're here with us, you're free to be your true and authentic self."

"Your job right now is to provide," Vicky adds. "And you're doing a wonderful job."

You beam. "Yeah?"

They both nod, yes. Sometimes you forgot what a support system is like. It always used to be everyone for themselves.

"Thanks guys."

"You're welcome," Vicky grins. "For now we'll keep our lips locked. We did not see anything."

"But you are going to have to tell Max eventually," Robin scorns.

"I know," you sigh. "I appreciate the stall."

The three of you hug. That's another thing you've been needing these past few weeks. A warm, authentic hug.

"Nice ass by the way," Robin compliments you.

"And tits," Vicky adds.

"Thanks."

———- ❤️ ———-

“I’ll kindly take you up on that Eddie Special, please,” you mumble.

Eddie had last-called everyone 15 minutes ago, but deep down you hope he had enough room in his heart for you. It’s been a dumpster fire of a shift.

Sure enough Eddie caves, judging by the way he starts up the fryer again after having shut it down right before you got to him.

He grins warmly. “Coming right up.”

As the fryer starts to bubble, Eddie loads in the last of the crinkle cuts. He waits close by with crossed arms.

Eddie’s first to break the silence.

“You seemed to know those customers,” he comments, referring to Vicky and Robin. “Judging by how fast you ran from them. In pumps too.”

“They’re my roommates,” you reply. “My best friend and her partner. They didn’t know I work here.”

He raises the eyebrow at ‘best friend’. “Even they didn’t know you work here?”

“I don’t know what they’d do with this information,” you utter defensively. “I guess it’s just hard for me to trust people.”

“Is it really, Miss Flight Risk?”

He’s referring to moving in with a girl you met online. You shoot him a look. The “I-didn’t-really-have-any-other-choice” look. He quickly digresses.

“I’m kidding,” he surrenders. “Okay? I understand that there are some things you gotta keep secret.” Eddie wriggles the basket full of fries around in the fryer. “…Even from your loved ones.”

Something tells you he speaks from experience. You shrug it off, ensuring he’d elaborate if he wanted to eventually.

Meanwhile you just decide to hit him with some small talk.

"How’s Chef Lucas been doing back here?"

"Fine and dandy," Eddie breathes. "For the most part. He burnt some things a couple of days ago, but that's part of being an apprentice, right?"

"Totally,” you nod. “Mistakes are bound to happen."

"Ohhh yeah," Eddie mutters, almost to himself. "Lots and lots…of mistakes."

"Trial and error, if you will,” you pitch in.

"Yup,” he draws on. “Seeing what works and what doesn’t. Testing the waters..."

Your eyes meet again. Briefly at least.

Eddie struggles to hold his gaze and instead resorts to clumsily playing around with a cloth nearby while whistling a tune. You can feel it getting awkward again so you find a way to keep the conversation going.

“Thank you for being there,” you attempt. “And helping out with my sister’s membership. You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” Eddie insists. His back is towards you so you can't read his expression. “You’ve been working very hard.”

“That’s why you don’t have to,” you say as-a-matter-of-factly. “It’s already paid off.”

Eddie chuckles. “Okay, then use it to buy yourself something nice. You deserve it.”

A hoot sounds from the opposite end of the hall. It’s Henry making his way over with some keys.

“Alright Babyboy, I’m out,” he announces. “I can lock up if you’d like? Not like I have anything to do.”

“I can take it from here,” Eddie insists. “Sweet dreams, Mr. Creel.”

Henry makes his way over, narrowing his eyes.

“Thought you normally go see Wayne after this.”

“I do,” Eddie replies. “But he had company earlier and I’m sure he already put himself to bed by now. I’ll stop by for breakfast.”

Henry’s eyes shift between you and Eddie. There’s a small smirk but he tries to conceal it. You’re staying late again, huh?

“Your words not mine,” Henry says. “Goodnight you two.”

You both bid Henry goodbye and he sees himself out. Eddie proceeds his periodic check-ins with your taters.

"You've uh, been appointing Henry a lot," you point out.

"Hell yeah, like clockwork," Eddie shrugs. "This industry is predator central. Just hate when dickheads think they can disrespect my girls. I don’t play that way.”

My girls.

“Not his first time doing shit like that,” Eddie adds, referring to the customer. “I regret giving him another chance. I should just get Henry or Jim to print a picture of his face and plaster it all over the walls. DON'T LET THIS ASSHOLE IN.”

You laugh. Eddie laughs at your laugh and then goes to melt the cheese for your dish.

“Yeah,” you say. “You give a man another chance and all he does disappoint you.”

Eddie sighs and nods timidly. “Yeah… Men ain’t shit huh?”

It falls silent for a bit. Eddie slowly stirs the melted cheese concoction he had going on in his pot while eyeing the time. You fiddle around with your cloak out of habit. Eddie speaks first again.

“You know what Shy Girl, I’m gonna do it,” he says. “Gonna broadcast his face and I’ll have you sign off on it.”

“Really?” you say.

“Of course,” Eddie shrugs. “You know how I am. I don’t play when it comes to you.”

The rasp in his voice sounds like melted butter. For a fraction of a second, you start to wonder what you were even mad about earlier.

You really missed talking and bantering with Eddie. Aside from whatever the hell was going on between you both, his companionship was not something you felt was fake.

Eddie begins mixing some sauces, and when he's done he hands you what you assume is your tips that you forgot to collect. You know, when you bolted off the stage.

"Already tipped everyone else out," he explains. "Rest is yours to keep."

You thank him and count all your bills. Now you have $600 of reallocated YMCA money and tips from tonight to pay off your bills and splurge.

You haven't had this much money since your waitressing job. You are forever grateful.

“Is there...anything I owe you Eddie?” you question. “Like at all? You’ve done a lot for me lately.”

“Ehhh you’re in the clear, I guess,” Eddie sheepishly smirks. “Lucky for you I’m a sucker for flattery.”

The fries are now cooked to a golden crisp and Eddie adds the components needed for The Eddie Special. He spends a decent amount of time to perfect the presentation before sitting down in front of you. In true Eddie fashion, he takes a bite of his own creation.

"HOT," he comments, trying to blow on the fry that's already in his mouth. "Hot, hot, hot. Fresh out the fryer."

Judging by his face, however, he approves. You can’t help but giggle over and over again. He gestures for you to try some.

It’s love at first bite.

"Mhm," you coo. "Thank you, Eddie."

"You're welcome," Eddie says. He grabs a washcloth to clean up the area. “Now… when you’re finished, how about I treat you to a real dinner?”

-------

author’s note: school has been taking over my life but i’m so glad i got to crank out this chapter for you guys 🖤 i’m excited to see how y’all are gonna react to shy girl’s orientation dinner…. 👀

tag list: @changemunson , @the-fairy-anon , @ali-r3n , @corrodedcoffincumslut , @bebe07011 , @mmunson86 , @eddiesguitarskills , @chelebelletx , @imonhereforareasonsadly , @eddies-trailer-babe @hideoutside , @motherfckerrr , @jxpsi , @munson-magic , @lindseyj23 , @sidthedollface2 , @manda-panda-monium , @elvendria , @micheledawn1975 , @hereforshmut , @siriuslysmoking , @nymphetkoo , @m-chmcl-rmnc , @holabeans00

#Spotify #eddie munson #joseph quinn #stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #joe quinn #stranger things 5 #Eddie #Eddie x reader #reader x Eddie #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #hellfire club

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wheredostarsgowhenyoudie · 2 months

Text

Once upon a Monday night after patrol...

Peter (swinging in through the window in the spidey suit, taking his mask off): Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark! Guess what! Guess what! Guess what!

Tony (who is in the middle of fixing Dum-E paused his tinkering at the whoosh, lips twitching to a smirk which he hid by drinking coffee): What, what?

Peter (beaming so wide): I made three friends today! Well four if you count the elusive one who approached me but shied away from the others. I named them Stephy, Stacey, Gwen and Michie!

Tony: Aha, and what are they this time? Birds? Bees? Iguanas?

Peter (still smiling, brings out a phone to show him a photo): They're cats Mr. Stark! And they're so cute, I love them so much! See. One white, one cream, one grey, one black. They're all cat colors!

Tony (shuffles the kid's hair): Hm-hm. Nice going Underoos. Looks like a menagerie.

Peter (suddenly goes shy): Uhm, could we- I mean if it isn't too much, sir, and only if it isn't! Err, could we maybe, if it's alright with you, go to the petting shop for my birthday?

Tony (felt his eyebrows rising automatically, looking at the camera, knowing Friday is already making a list of pet stores he could acquire): You want a pet? Is that your wish?

Peter (looks down): Ahm, no, I just...ahm, I just thought it'd be fun to pet some cats and dogs with you. It'd be a memorable experience, but uhm, you don't have to if you're busy or if...if you'd rather not. No pressure Mr. Stark! I mean, I just thought I'd ask.

Tony (face softening into a smile): Of course. Tell you what, meet me outside your apartment 10AM tom. We'll get breakfast, go to the pet shop and then the other three places I planned to take you to.

Peter (eyes widen): Really? You'd spend the day with me Mr. Stark? But aren't you busy or something?

Tony: Nope. Not at all. All free for my favorite spiderling.

Peter (is unable to hide his excitement and went for a hug): Thanks Mr. Stark!!

Tony (finds himself squeezed by his favorite half arachnid child, not really complaining and patting his kid in return): There, there, Underoos. There, there.

Later, several people will receive a meeting cancellation and request to reschedule.

President Elis, Nick Fury, Steve Rogers and the entire board of Stark Industries.

And when they reach out to Pepper Potts to ask what the heck, her polite and professional answer would be simple and concise.

"Code S," she would say, and they would all perk up into a knowing smile, understanding and accepting the code for what it is.

Code S. Reserved for one specific boy from Queens who happens to be Friday's, every Stark employee's and every affiliate's and partner's top priority over everything as per the mandate from Tony Stark himself. Everything else will be put next in line if the code is triggered.

There's even a video/threat attachment to the email to discourage anyone who dares disobey or violate the terms and agreement.

Officially, it stands for Code Superior. In front of Tony and Peter, the avengers sometimes call it Code Spider-man, even if Peter has no idea about the mandate and signed agreement that anyone who needs Tony Stark/Iron-Man to work with or for them has to sign. But they all knew it meant something else anyway.

Code S, in Friday's coding and among Tony's closest relations, could only stand for one thing. Code Son. A spot unofficially but exclusively reserved for one clueless Peter Benjamin Parker.

#irondad & spiderson #avengers #irondad #spiderson #peter parker #tony stark #peter parker & tony stark #stark industries #mcu #tom holland #spider-man #iron man

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javiddenkins · 10 months

Text

Javid Denkins is not interested in answering questions.

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across from Denkins in a conference room at the AMC Studios offices. Denkins declined to meet anywhere more personal than this beige and glass room, impersonal Muzak buzzing through the speakers, windows overlooking an empty studio lot. There are posters on the wall but none, strangely, for Blow the Man Down, the runaway hit Denkins conceived, writes, and now showruns.

Blow the Man Down, or BTMD as it's frequently referred to by fans and journalists alike, is a workplace comedy set in the Golden Age of Piracy. This unusual premise would be interesting enough even without the top-tier leads brought on by AMC to play opposing pirate captains Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur—Oscar Issac and John Boyega light up the screen and bring surprising comedy chops to the pirate-filled stage they share with such talents as Michelle Yeoh ("Zheng Yi Sao") and Sam Neill ("Captain Benjamin Hornigold").

But beyond that, BTMD seems to be that rare thing in mainstream media: a slow romance between two middle-aged men finding love for the first time. The first—and so far, only—season ends on a cliffhanger, our heroes separated by an ocean but determined to reach one another, and their love story—if it is one—stays unresolved.

Usually an interview like this—between seasons, after renewal and filming but before advertising—would be the perfect opportunity to delve into the mind behind the magic and attempt to tease out hints about what's to come.

But Denkins seems determined to ignore Hollywood's traditional playbook.

Whether this is the standard conference room used for interviewing reluctant showrunners, or if Denkins picked it especially for the purpose, I'll never find out. I've already been waiting half an hour, uncertain if Denkins intends to join me at all. When he does finally arrive, he makes his position clear.

"I'm only doing this because you agreed to my terms," he says.

I'd describe what he looked like, if he had a coffee or a snack or a smoker's twitching nerves, if he sounded tired or amused or angry—but I can't. If you see a description here, it's because Denkins decided, for whatever reason, to approve it. Otherwise, sharing my impression of Denkins is off the table, one of many terms and conditions my editorial team and I had to agree to before Denkins would accept this meeting.

Denkins doesn't want to make my job easy. Photos of him do exist from the few red carpets he's attended; enthusiastic interviews with the cast, writers, and production team of BTMD definitely paint a picture that belies Denkins's apparent efforts to avoid perception. But here and now, in the oppressive air conditioning of the AMC offices, I am contractually obligated to interview a cipher.

If he can be all business, though, then so can I. I hit a button on my phone's recording app, set it down between us, and ask what made him decide to tell the story of an obscure pair of pirates like Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur.

He shrugs. "Why does anyone write anything? This is my job."

It's not the kind of answer I was expecting. Something must show on my face, because he follows with, "That's unsatisfying, isn't it. No definitive answer."

"It's not what I expected," I hedge.

"What did you want to hear?"

I try to gather my thoughts, but I'm definitely stalling, uncertain that this is what Denkins intends. "I did a little research," I say. "Not as much as I imagine you did, but I found some of Bellamy and Levasseur's history together and, later, apart. Bellamy's ship is the only fully authenticated Golden Age shipwreck in the world, so it makes sense that the wrecking of the Whydah is an important turning point in season one. Levasseur, on the other hand, is best known for the mystery of his encoded treasure map, flung into the crowd at his hanging and only ever partially solved, which you seem to have used as a foundation for the coding and decoding motifs throughout. But for a show that seems determined to discuss the consequences of fame and reputation, it's fascinating that you've chosen two men most casual viewers have never heard of."

"Outside the narrative they built for themselves," Denkins corrects. "Is there a question in there?"

I remember again that Denkins isn't here to make this easy for me. "Why not choose one of the more well-known pirates of the era? Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, and Blackbeard are all arguably more famous both now and when they were alive. What made you choose Bellamy and Levasseur for this story?"

"I think," Denkins says, "I just answered that. There's a difference between how you perceive yourself, and how the world perceives you. Those famous pirates retained their notoriety even after death. Sam and Ollie did have reputations when they were alive, but if people today know them at all, it's typically for reasons completely unrelated to whatever little fame they achieved in life."

"And that fascinates you?"

Denkins looks irritated. "It doesn't matter what fascinates me. That's the story, that's—look, I don't know how to write a puff piece like this," Denkins says. "I don't know if it would really sound like this, if anyone would bother caring enough about what I want to get this far."

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Do you honestly think," Denkins says, "there's a single journalist out there that would actually agree to these interview conditions? This is a fantasy, a what-if, and it still doesn't work."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," says Denkins, "I didn't even give you a name."

And that's true, I realize. I don't have a name.

"Right," says Denkins, as if hearing my thoughts—and I suppose, in a way, he does. "And you don't know how you got here, and you don't know where you'll go after. I made you up. I made all this up."

I look at my recorder, which isn't a recorder. I look at the room, which isn't a room.

"Okay," I say. "So what did you want to happen?"

Denkins taps my phone's screen to stop the recording. Denkins imagines me noticing that he taps the screen, and so this must have meaning. There is no room for junk words and actions in prose, and even less in television. Whatever's on the page has to have meaning, or it's wasted space, wasted time, a moment that could have been useful now gone and never coming back.

Denkins shoves my phone back to the center of the table and says, "I wanted to see if I could just talk about the story without making it about me."

"But you're part of it," I point out. "You have to be. It came from you. It was something you thought was important, and then you put the effort in to create it. The story exists because of you, in relation to you. That's why people, why fans, want to know more about you. They love the story, and you made it, so they want to love you, too."

"I don't like that," says Denkins. "Rephrase it."

"They love the story," I say, parroting back at my creator, "and you made it. They want to know about you so they can know more about what the story means."

Denkins's chair creaks as he pushes it back, puts his head in his hands. I wonder if he's doing that in the real world, too, in the place where he's imagining this interview that will never exist.

(Except I'm not the one wondering. He is. He's wondering what an interviewer would think of him if he allowed himself to show this weakness. Rephrase. Show this ache. Rephrase. Show this.)

"I'm not a story," Denkins says, face still hidden. The Muzak piped into the room seems too loud, too discordant now. Maybe that's what the world sounds like to him. "I'm not imaginary. I'm not a specimen to study under a microscope until every part of me is uncovered and connected one by one to every part of the show." He drags his hands back down and I think I can say that he looks very, very tired.

"Yes, maybe I put some of myself in Blow the Man Down," he continues. "Maybe I did in season two as well. Maybe I put something in The Gang, and maybe I'll put something into whatever else I make for the next fifty years. And what I put there is—will be—has to be—my choice. All things I chose to share. But this?" He waves a hand at the nonexistent conference room, at nonexistent me. "This isn't a choice. It's a demand. I'm being held hostage for answers, as if me keeping my boundaries somehow ruins the show, ruins the story."

"Because you're not a story," I repeat back, watching for confirmation. "Because what you choose to reveal is the only story the audience should need."

"Yes," says Denkins. "That's it."

That's not it, though. I know this, because I'm him, talking to himself. Thinking all this through.

"So you cut yourself off," I say. "No one can know anything about you, because they're already clawing for what you're not willing to share—so how much worse would it get if you gave them a chance to come closer, right?"

"To take, and get it wrong anyway," he says. "Or get it right, but not like it. Not like me. How I'm perceived might change how the story is perceived. And even skipping over the whole art of it all—this is a business. How the story is perceived affects dozens, if not hundreds of people and careers. And all of it can get destroyed in an instant if there's some aspect of me that the audience decides is wrong."

Denkins pushes back from the table, stands up as if to leave. I'm not done yet, though. He's not done yet.

"Sounds lonely," I say.

"Sounds like something a fan would say," he shoots back, and I shrug.

"Blame yourself for thinking it and making me say it, then. It sounds lonely. It is lonely. It's lonely to think there's no way that you could open yourself up, talk about who you are and what your art means to you, without feeling like someone, everyone, will take advantage of that vulnerability."

I pause, and in that pause I find something to latch onto. "You've imagined me," I say. "You've imagined this scenario, where you stay cut off and oblique and hidden." I pick up my phone from where it's placed between us, and I shut it down completely—not because it exists, but because it's a symbol he understands. "What would happen if you imagined being part of the story?" I ask. Rephrase. "What would happen if you imagined being free?"

We look at each other. The tinny music of this artificial space comes to a sudden halt.

Denkins leaves the room.

I am—

Denkins comes back. He sits down. He looks at me.

Time doesn't exist in the beige and glass room. But behind him, now, there is a poster of Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur, a drilled coin on a cord stretched taut between them. And the Muzak hasn't restarted.

Denkins looks different. Or maybe he just feels different. Those things are functionally the same, here.

"You know the old movie trailers?" Denkins starts, not really a question. "The ones that start with 'in a world…'"

I nod.

He smiles a little. "Okay. In a world where Blow the Man Down doesn't exist. Let's say there's something else instead. Let's say it's called Our Flag Means Death. It's a workplace comedy, it's the Golden Age of Piracy, the works. They even manage to kiss in the first season, though the cliffhanger is worse. And in that world, there's a different guy who runs it, a guy named David Jenkins, who seems nicer and more outgoing and shares a lot more of himself than I do. And I think it goes mostly okay for him, except he has to scrub his social media, delete most of his Instagram, and never gets to name his wife anywhere in case a fan might notice and start following her around."

"Sounds grim," I say.

He shrugs. "It's another way of handling it. David, in that world, has made a choice to draw the enemy fire toward himself, instead of hiding away and letting it scatter at random. It seems to work okay for him, and maybe it would for me too, but, you know. Maybe that's a little of myself I gave Ollie. Because I also like the idea of testing something first, all the way to destruction."

A little of myself. This—this is personal information. Something that, in the negotiations that never happened, he said he'd never give me.

My phone, with its blackened screen, is right there. I keep my hands still, folded together, decidedly not reaching for the phone. Denkins watches, sees. His shoulders loosen; neither of us, I think, realized how tense he'd been.

"In that world," he says, "there's a second season coming that no one knows anything about and there's a fandom going feral. Echo chambers that feed off their own theories because there's nothing new to add to the pot. Just like our world, right? In the absence of good data, overwrought ideology works just as well.

"And in the middle of this, to provide a distraction, maybe, or to draw that enemy fire like he so often does, David Jenkins says he'll get a Tumblr—you know, one of those not-really-social-media internet places. And maybe he does. He doesn't tell anyone his username, so it's a mystery whether he really did it or not. But someone opens an account. And someone says they're definitely not David Jenkins."

Javid Denkins is holding a cup of coffee. So am I, now. We take sips, mirrors of each other. The coffee tastes like it has seven sugars in it.

Denkins swirls his cup gently, not looking up at me. "When you're trying to figure out something that's terrifying," he says, slow and careful, "and enraging, and so big and so much that it feels like you'll collapse under the weight of it…sometimes you need to find a way to conceptualize it more abstractly. Make it manageable. Put it in bite-sized chunks.

"So instead of me, dealing with all this fame, and these expectations, and these pulls to turn me from a person into a plot point…maybe there's this other guy. In this other universe, with this other pirate show. Another writer, who says he's definitely not David Jenkins. But—he could be. He could be. And either way, there's enough uncertainty that the fandom can't tell right away."

"Schrödinger's showrunner," I say.

Denkins tips his mug at me. "Yeah, that gets pointed out, too. Because either it's really him and the fandom will eat at him—death by a thousand needy bites of demand, and something that feels like connection but by its nature can't be—or it's not him, just a fan pretending to be him, attention-seeking, scamming, stealing unearned laurels to crown a meaningless triumph: successfully mimicking the concept of David Jenkins."

"Pretty binary."

Denkins shrugs. "You saw the first season. I'm a sucker for duality."

He hums and looks out the conference room's window. The AMC lot is gone. More accurately, it was never there. Outside the window is an ocean. The water is green-screen perfect, and there are two tall-masted ships in the distance: Bellamy's Whydah Gally and Levasseur's La Louise. They float angled toward one another, counterpart to their captains on the poster behind Jenkins, missing only the drilled coin between them.

"Except," says Denkins, slow and musing as he watches the distant ships, "in the vast multiverse of imaginable possible outcomes, it turns out that there is the very slimmest possible chance of a third thing happening."

There is another ship floating now between the Whydah and La Louise. It's freshly painted, poorly rigged, and its figurehead is a unicorn. Instead of one flag, it has half a dozen. And I know, because Denkins knows, that instead of gunpowder in its hold, it carries jars and jars of harmless marmalade.

"So," I say, "David Jenkins—"

"Oh, definitely not David Jenkins," says Javid Denkins, amusement lighting up his face. He keeps his eyes on that third ship.

"So the person who is definitely not David Jenkins," I say. "He comes and starts a social media account. He answers questions."

"Sort of. Nothing specific, really. Just…narrative likelihoods. Enough to dangle hope. But the fandom wants more. There's a Richard Siken line he sees, that if he'd chosen to stay anonymous maybe he could've actually posted: 'but monsters are always hungry, darling.' It's like that. So he backs up a little, and considers how to hold off the inevitable. The season two hints are vague? Make them vaguer. Add some smoke and mirrors to hide how little substance they have. There are only so many general pirate tropes around? Stretch out how long it takes to get the ones he has. Add steps. Add puzzles. Make the fandom work for it, and maybe they won't notice how little there is to find. Give them an interesting enough box to open, and they'll ignore the fact that there isn't an answer on the inside, just another, smaller box." He tilts his head and looks at me. The light outside is now luminous pink and yellow, flashing off the water and highlighting his face like a duotone painting. "Then he…" Denkins sighs. Puts down his mug. "Then I sit back and see what happens. I see if it's as bad as I think it would be if I did it here, in the real world."

"And is it?"

Denkins reaches out with one hand, tugging my phone over to his side of the table. He starts fiddling with the buttons, attention on it instead of me. "To start with? Yes. And no. It didn't matter that the one thing I promised was that I wasn't David Jenkins. They—the fandom—found me anyway. They assumed I was him. And I was right, of course I was right, they asked me questions. Hundreds of them. Like that was the only reason I existed, like I couldn't just be a regular person like the rest of them, just on Tumblr to read about the Carpathia and get taken out by the color of the sky."

"For better or for worse, you're a public person," I say. "They think they know what it means when a public person breaks down the barrier between themselves and the fans. Even well-meaning people make assumptions."

The recorder is no longer a phone and app; it's an old cassette player with thick plastic buttons like I, or more accurately Denkins, had as a child. It matches the ones his elementary school classrooms had, which in turn looked like the device Mr. Spock carried at his hip to record and interpret data from strange new worlds.

Denkins, in the here and now, half-presses the play and record buttons, which would trigger the record function if pushed down completely. He holds back. Riding the edge of commitment. Over and over.

"Yeah," he says. "Yes. That's true. And I could've been completely anonymous if I wanted to be left alone entirely. I suppose I wanted to prove that everything I believe—everything I'm afraid of—is true, and that I'm justified in hiding away, refusing to be 'known' by anyone I haven't specifically agreed to. Hence the thought exercise. And when I was done, and I had my proof," he says, leaving off the recorder buttons to raise a pointed finger at me, "I wouldn't have to see you again either."

We look at each other. "But here you are," I say.

He laughs. It's rusty, but sure. "Here I am," he agrees.

"So what happened?"

"Turns out," he says, "that in that infinite universe of possibilities a writer can dream up, there's a world where, yes, all my worst fears are confirmed…but that's not all that happens."

He stops, and we are both silent for a long, long moment. His fingertips brush over the recorder buttons, repetitive and soothing, like he's calming something feral and unused to human touch.

"Would you believe," he says at last, hushed and small in this glass and beige room floating on a digital sea, "that there is a world where fans—people—don't ask for more than I want to give? Who see the box I'm in, and instead of ripping it open to grasp for whatever good thing they think they can find inside…they give something back.

"I played it all out, you see." He waves his hand over the recorder. Now there are two of them, sitting side by side, each with a row of thick black plastic buttons along the edge: one to play, one to rewind, one to record, and one to pop open its lid so that the cassette can be changed. One of the recorders is a little bigger than the other. "If I can imagine it," he says, "it has to be possible."

He looks at the two recorders; he's quiet now, talking to himself rather than me. I don't think I'm as necessary as I was before. I think maybe this is just him. Just Denkins in this lonely little room. He moves the smaller recorder so that it's lined up with the larger one, like he's lining up Matryoshka dolls as he reveals them.

"It started small," he says. "There were people who saw my puzzles, and made puzzles back for me, just to play along. People who saw my puzzles, and shared what they knew about them, just to help others play too. Small things. Little things. Possible things. I liked it. I didn't expect it. I…wanted to give back, too. Not just in the story, I mean. It was me who wanted it. Wanted to add to a world, to a community, where that sort of giving could happen. So I went further. I didn't just try to hint at common story beats this other show might hit—I started listening, following, asking what would be most welcome, and then gave that instead. And it grew. It grew until it wasn't really just an experiment anymore. It stopped being an adversarial proof. It started being…something else."

Denkins reaches out, and now there are three recorders on the table. The newest one is the smallest. He lines it up with the others.

"I'd already made David Jenkins," he says, "and in turn he'd made his own Javid Denkins. So why not do it again? This other Javid Denkins, this me who's me but not me, goes deeper. He uses the tools at his disposal. Our Flag Means Death has pirates named Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet. OFMD has a fandom like BTMD does, where people write stories about the characters, for themselves and—for others. Fan fiction. A thing that can be a gift, if you want it to be. So I started to write one."

One by one, Denkins hits the 'play' button on each of the recorders. The cassettes whir, a steady background hum. Each starts playing a part of some orchestral piece. Not the individual instruments, but something stranger. It's as if each cassette contains the whole work, but with fragments missing that the others complete. There are still some gaps in the playback.

Denkins waves his hand over the collection again, and a fourth recorder, smallest of all, appears. He presses play on it too, and the music fills in. It's a pretty little melody. Simple, if you know how to hear it.

Denkins hums a little of it before looking up, seeing me again. "That was it, really. That's what finally made all this small enough for me to understand. Made it small enough, far enough away from my actual world that I could finally let myself feel it. In this story that I'm telling, here is Edward Teach." Denkins touches the smallest recorder very, very gently. "Teach lives in a world where he's not the main character; he's just a fan of a gay pirate romcom called Blow the Man Down. He's tired, and he's angry, and he doesn't know how to deal with the world the way it is, with the fandom as he perceives it. He makes a Twitter account, anonymously, to prove that what he fears is real."

Denkins covers the recorder with both hands, only muffling the music a little. "Here's Edward Teach, made up of all my fears and saying them out loud."

He raises his hands, and now there are two little recorders, the same size, both playing the same parts together. He touches the new recorder with his fingertip, as if it's a bubble that could too easily break. "Here's Stede Bonnet," he says, "made up of all my fears coming true. And then having to live through it anyway." He stares down at this new recorder; the same as the Edward Teach one, but evidently special in some way to Denkins. He says, to me, to it, to the room: "It's a hell of a thing, to need to go so far away just to see what you've been carrying on your back the whole time."

After a moment, he looks back up at me. "In my story," he says, "Stede survives the disaster. My disaster. He survives it, because he has Ed—a love interest, yes, but not just that. He's someone he opened up to. And more than that, I saw—because I could imagine it, and so it must be possible, it has to actually be possible—I saw the fandom become…people."

With both hands, Denkins presses a button on each of these two small recorders.

Their lids pop open.

And from the walls, from the ceiling, from the glass windows and the limitless sea, there comes a multiverse of music.

"These people," says Denkins, tilting his head to listen as the swells of unseen instruments add to the gentle overture of his pocket worlds and turn the piece into something greater than the sum of its parts. "They're not some nameless collective made up of their worst impulses. They're just people. People are complicated. You can never know them completely; they can never know you. All you really get is what they—we—choose to do.

"And I saw people try to help Stede. People, strangers, who didn't know who he was, not really. And they felt compassion anyway."

After a long moment, just taking in the music, Denkins sighs and carefully closes the lids on the two small recorders. The singing universe becomes just a recorded orchestral piece once again—though no less beautiful for it. He gently pushes the two recorders together until they're touching, side by side, and covers them with his hand. He says, "Ed got to see this. He got to know that even if his worst fear happens, he'll be okay on the other side of it. And he won't be alone."

He lifts his hand; the two are now one, still playing its little melody.

Denkins picks up this amalgamated recorder and sets it on top of the next largest. He puts his hand over the stack he's just made. "Move it up a level," Denkins says. "David Jenkins, or someone who is definitely not David Jenkins, runs a Tumblr with games and puzzles and digital tools that stretch the boundaries of the narrative. He sees the reactions to his story. Sees fans who know it isn't real, who know that Stede and Ed are characters in a narrative—and nevertheless, these fans, these people, see that these characters are hurting. They try to help. They don't know who's behind the masks labeled 'Stede' and 'Ed,' not really. But they feel compassion anyway."

He lifts his hand. The little recorder atop the larger is gone. The music is different. Not lessened, but changed. It's come closer.

Once more, Denkins moves the smaller combined recorder onto the last one—or, I suppose, the first of all of them. "So move it up one more time," he says. The music isn't audible in the room now; but I hear it anyway. It's in me. Us. The last little notes coming from the final recorders just a reminder of what the world could sound like.

He covers the top recorder with both hands. His touch is aching and very, very soft. "Here's me. Javid Denkins. I don't know if there's a world where I could open myself up and not have everything burn down in flames. I don't know if it could ever be possible for me to leave this room, open my laptop, and start something, somewhere, called 'definitely not Javid Denkins,' and have it be as beautiful and awe-inspiring as it was in my thought experiment.

"But God," he says, "I want it."

He lifts his hands, and all that's left is the final recorder, the one that was my phone to begin with. The music dissipates completely. But the feeling of it remains. Denkins rests his hands on either side of this solitary recorder. He says, "I don't know if all of that—all of them, my fans, my friends, all of what we made together…I don't know if it already exists for me in the real world. Just waiting for me to be brave enough to look. I don't know. But I think I have to believe that it does. That they do. I have to believe that it's possible not just to imagine that kind of grace, but to live it."

Denkins brushes his thumb over the last recorder's play button. "I think that's what it means to be human," he says. "To try anyway. To unlock yourself despite your fears, and find hope there waiting for you."

He closes his eyes. I close my eyes. We take a deep breath together.

We open our eyes.

After a moment, I smile at Denkins, a little crooked. I've got one last question to ask, and it's one he might even answer.

"Who are you, really?" I ask.

It's something we all have to answer about ourselves eventually, and it seems particularly relevant now.

Denkins shrugs, and his smile mirrors mine. "Does it matter?"

"It feels like it does."

"How about this," he says. "Who are you, really?"

And knowing what I know now…if I'm anyone at all, then I suppose I'm Javid Denkins. An aspect. A reflection. A dream.

And so, in these universes he's imagined, is everyone.

"So," Denkins says. "You think I can start over?"

I smile wider. It feels good. "I'd love that."

He pushes the recorder back to me, and in my heart I hear his laughing request for one last rephrase—

Javid Denkins has been waiting for me.

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across the table from a cheerful enigma. Denkins was already in the room when I arrived, a hot coffee by my seat and a box filled with fresh breakfast pastries and marmalade open and ready to be enjoyed. An advertising standup emblazoned with the unreleased (at time of writing) air date for season two of Denkins's Blow the Man Down takes pride of place at the head of the table. Through the windows opposite, bright sunlight bounces off the buzzing AMC studio lot, and I think I hear a certain pirate romcom's theme music playing quietly over the room's speakers.

Denkins grins at me, and it's easy to see why his actors and writers speak so highly of the experience of working with him. Because I can tell already: this is going to be fun.

It starts when he leans forward, eyes bright, and presses the record button on my phone for me.

"Let's play," he says, and—we do.

#definitely not david jenkins #definitely not javid denkins #btmd #ofmd

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dayslynthesix · 1 month

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break point | charles leclerc x tenis player!oc

just a small observation, i don't like to write social media au with y/n or user1/user2 thing, so i just named every character of this one, jeremy made a small appearance on deuce and slice (danny ric x tennis player), for context, he's also a tennis player lol and all the other ones are supposed to be cath's friends

hallieriley

liked by benshelton, scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc, usaopen, ao, f1 ans 328.233 others

hallieriley splitting my time between an actual sport and fast cars going vroom vroom, scuderiaferrari thank you for the invitation, i love miami and i love the red car 🏎 | 📌 miami

scuderiaferrari alway a pleasure to have you with us!

hallieriley it would be very funny if you let me do a hot lap with a certain driver 🤨

benshelton so that's why you didn't came to see me play?

hallieriley you're not even playing bro, you came to miami with me just so we could see fast cars going vroom vroom

charles_leclerc cmonnnn going vroom vroom is lovely

hallieriley lovely, simply lovely

volleyserve wait... hallie is watching 20 playboys racing in circles?

rileyxverstappen actually is 19 playboys racing behind max verstappen

hallieriley nice to see there's people around the world who supports me (most amazing players ever) and max (i don't actually know him)

queenofrg hallie sweetie??

maxverstappen1 what ferrari promised you? i assure you redbull can offer twice

hallieriley im a redbull athlete they should have invited me first, maxie 😇

redbullracing our bad 😔 next one is on us!

f1tennisgirl the fact that max doesn't follow her but went to her profile just to tease ferrari is so max coded

maxverstappen1 i do follow her, we're redbull athletes besties

hallieriley yeah, best friends (i didn't knew him until 2 days ago but sure whatever he says)

carlossainz55 thank you for the support, hallie, having you here was amazing!

liked by hallieriley

norrisprivateacc carlos bro be more subtle

rileygirl i love how she answered charles coment with a max radio and she just liked carlos comment

ccaspari wow you were there and didn't stand to say hello to your BEST FRIEND?

hallieriley omg where you here? hold on let me find the mercedes garage i need to see you 😭😭

mercedesamgf1 third one right to left 🫡

jeremyrossi oh us tennis players that somehow are related to f1 🫠

jensonbutton i don't think you'll ever accept the fact that I married your sister and it's been 6 years

yrossibuton 8 years*

may 5th, 2024

hallieriley

liked by charles_leclerc, rolandgarros, scuderiaferrari, redbull, benshelton and 210.087 others

hallieriley oh is that time of the day where im calling ben so we can practice together and he's not answering me 🤪

benshelton omw

hallieriley you're not supposed to be on your way benjamin, you were supposed to be here 15min ago!

benshelton omw!!!

coachjames i see...

breakpoints how does ben and hal know each other? just recently got into tennis and i love they're friendship and they're awesome playing doubles

hallieriley thank youu!! our parents played together at the same tour back in the '90 and we sorta grew up together, we're close in age (im 1 year older than him) once ben started to play tennis we started to play doubles together, we're friends since childhood

charles_leclerc i won a padel match a few month ago does that count as tennis? actually im a padel king 👑

hallieriley charles... do you read what you type before you send it?

charles_leclerc so it is not tennis?

maxieboy he's trying to impress her but he's just embarrassing himself

maxverstappen1 im pretty confident that i can beat you in a 2h2

hallieriley redbullracing can you organize a tennis match between me and max?

max1rileychamp he's allergic to failing and 2nd places but im so ready to see him and his delulu thoughts having his ass kicked by catherine

merliagrace i would never do this to you

hallieriley i know!!! missing you btw, when are you going to italy so i can see you play?

merliagrace we're playing rome in 3 weeks, hope you can make it

hallieriley YESSSS !!!! finally, yep ill be home in 3 weeks

gialis pick up the phone, ps: looking good

rileyxverstappen i love how gia and carlos communicate with the world almost the same way, i think they should be friends

maxverstappen1 🤨🤨🤨

gialis i think carlos and i should be friends as well, hallie can you introduce us?

scuderiaferrari we should send you some official merch 🤔

nike get out, we got here first!

redbull how i love being a redbull athlete 😊

hallieriley don't lie adm, you guys don't even remember me at this days 😭😭😭

hallieriley but if you want to reward me there's this skydiving thing im dying to do...

redbull on the way!

redbullracing we'll send you monaco tickets and after the race we will have a court ready!

besttennisgirl i think we lost hallie to fast cars going vroom vroom

alinariley why there's so many f1 drivers in my daughter's comment section?

charles_leclerc my bad, im sorry 😭

alinariley not you sweetie!

maxverstappen1 mama riley we're sorry for being so chaotic

alinariley are you? 🤨

queenofclay i wish i could call ben shelton my bff

sheltonriley and double partner

queenofclay i completely forgot that ben and her are a pair in doubles

janniksin i didn't

carlitosalcarazz me neither

hallieriley both of you don't even play doubles 👁👄👁

alcarazwimbledon oh to be hallie riley and have both alcaraz and sinner fighting to be her double 🤭

may 15th, 2024

hallieriley

liked by scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc, benshelton, usaopen, maxverstappen1, redbullracing and 344.562 others

hallieriley multitasking at rolandgarros, see you in a couple of days 🎾

gialis hallie's life is so easy, she goes there, play a tennis match, win, go back to hotel, see her team mess around... us ferrari girls at this point we're just happy with not being knocked out of q3

charles_leclerc have faith on the team

gialis heyyy charlie hello!! faith and ferrari on the same sentence... lol not happening, but i have faith on you

rolandgarros looking forward to have you back on court!

nike there's a lot of ferrari and charles leclerc on this post 🤔

hallieriley nike x ferrari when?

queenofrg hallie is... soft launching?

jeremyrossi 👏🏻👏🏻

maxverstappen1 charles is trying to get out of imola to go see you play can you get us some vip passes?

hallieriley call my agent and ask her, nicely

maxverstappen1 what do you think im rude for free with people?

charles_leclerc you took me out of the race for free last week

hallieriley not everything is about winning but charlie got the ability to lose all the times, maxie you've been a bad team player so no vip passes for you 🤪

f1 i think the tifosi army got another member

redbullracing well, they didn't, she was our girl first

hallieriley yeah, since seb (jenson button walked so seb could run) (please everyone knows im a ferrari girl trough and throughout)

charles_leclerc got pole for you 🫶🏻

hallieriley i saw it hihi amazing lap charlie

benshelton you're not coming to see me play?

hallieriley omw!! i forgot my credentials 🫠

gialis and me! your forgot me!!!

coachjames so that's why you were late?

hallieriley lies! im never late and you know that 🥺

sheltonriley ben and hallie are not playing doubles at roland garros?

hallieriley we are!!

may 18th, 2024

hallieriley

liked by charles_leclerc, rolandgarros, usaopen, benshelton, carlitosalcarazz, redbullracing and 432.122 others

hallieriley first match ✅️ love to play here, love the french crowd and the croissants 🫶🏻 waiting for wilsontennis to send me a pink racket

wilsontennis pink? it shouldn't be red?

jeremyrossi congratulations hallie, you played an amazing tennis this match and it was worthy the sleepless night

hallieriley thank you jer!!! and im pretty positive that im wasn't the one who got you up all night, hope little mia was watching me play as well! 🥺🫶🏻

charles_leclerc great match!

hallieriley thank you charlie 🫶🏻 did you see the point i made for you?

charles_leclerc obviously

sedicislice hello?

queenofrg the queen is back at her castle

merliagrace WOW WOW WOW that was a high level tennis

sheltonriley waiting for the doubles even though i think ben and hals are insane for playing single and double at the same tournament

maxverstappen1 we got the tickets haha see you during the next match haha

verstappenxriley not max getting into tennis just to annoy charles

f1tennis5 i think max is living in a parasocial relationship with hallie

charles_leclerc he's living in a parasocial relationship to annoy me, where i go he goes, if i go to a volleyball match, he's there, if i go to a tennis match, he's waiting in front of my car, if i go to a baseball game IN THE USA HE'S THEREEEEEEE

hallieriley me and my agent we're about to have a nice little chat 🤨

maranellosun ok so i just got into tennis why are people saying charles and hallie are a thing? or is cath and max?

sedicislice she was invited by ferrari to the miami gp and they were caught outside the circuit having dinner, they're always interacting on social media and they went to a very famous gym in monaco after the miami gp, and no, she and max are just friends since she became a redbull athlete

scuderiaferrari well done, hallie!

rolandgarros the people princess!

georgerussell63 hey charles_leclerc is it possible for you to ask your girl if she can come and take a picture with carmen?

hallieriley rude, I'll find you and carmen after this match and we can go for a coffee 🥰

hallierileyupdates she is indeed the people princess

may 22nd, 2024

hallieriley

liked by charles_leclerc, carlitosalcarazz, wimbledon, benshelton and 321.944 others

hallieriley time to see my #2 boy, vamos carlossss! anxiously waiting my turn to play

benshelton 🤨🤨

hallieriley I SAID #2 YOU KNOW YOU'RE MY #1

charles_leclerc 🤔🤔

sedicislice hallie is everywhere, volleyball match, tennis match, f1 races, you blink and she's there

hallieriley im here to support my girl's!

merliagrace at this point she'd just watching random matches from the turkish league and the italian one

sedicileclerc charles be like: what about me?

jeremyrossi wow i thought i was you number #2

hallieriley you're yolanda number #2

jeremyrossi yes, she's my sister

hallieriley out of the old ones you're my number #2

jeremyrossi old? im 32! who's your number #1?

hallieriley federer 🥺

benshelton i see...

hallieriley no fighting over who's my favorite! everyone knows that if federer haven't retired he would be my number 1!

rogerfederer thank you! 🥰

maxverstappen1 about that match we played... can we rematch it?

hallieriley why would i? everyone know i kicked your ass once and i would do it again

redbull our athletes are on fire!

nike ready to the next round 🫡

queenofclay oh to be hallie riley #01 taylor swift fan and #00 carlos alcaraz support friend and ben shelton bff

july 3rd, 2024

hallieriley

liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, rolandgarros, carlitosalcarazz, janniksin, nike, wilson and 644.173 others

hallieriley played my first final here 3 years ago and now i can finally say IM A WIMBLEDON CHAMP! as i said in my acceptance speech, thank you wilsontennis and nike for having my back. thank you to my coach, my team and my boys, thank you for the british crowd and thank you james mcavoy, this one is for you! also i would like to quote a good friend of my, jannik boy: i wish everyone in the world could have my parents as their parents, thank you mom and thank you dad, for making this dream possible and for walking along the way with me, i love you 🥰🫶🏻

carlitosalcarazz vamossss hally!

carlitosalcarazz 👏🏻👉🏻🏆🥇🎾🔥

coachjames well done kid! super proud of you!

alinariley our daughter is a wimbledon champ we cant believe this 😭😭😭 (your dad cant put coherent sentences)

benshelton well done halliecat, congratulations

jeremyrossi amazing!! congratulations!!

gialis my girl!

janniksin well done, hallie!! mega job

merliagrace congrats hally

charles_leclerc wow wow wow that was amazing! super proud of you! 🥰❤️

gabiguimaraes10 congratulations!!

hallieriley gabiiii, hiii!! thank you girl! looking forward to see you play at the olympics

nike hallie riley ladies and gentlemen is a wimbledon champ

wilsontennis always a pleasure to have your back! 🎾

oscarpiastri good job

maxverstappen1 it's starting to get boring, you win everything, also, congrats 🫡

hallieriley now you know how i feel every sunday watching you win 🤪

charles_leclerc karma is queen indeed

lewishamilton speak the truth hallie!!!

jamesmcavoyrealdeal 🤔🤔🤔

lewishamilton amazing!

lifeofriley did you see how adorable she was while holding that cup??

queenofrg queen of wimbledon as well

queenofclay WJJJAUAIAIJHAKAIIQUAJQI oh god she did it!!!

halliechamp our champ is back!

hallierileyupdates amazing!!

july 13st, 2024

hallieriley

liked by paris2024, charles_leclerc, redbull, nike, wilson, benshelton, gabiguimaraes10 and 633.421 others

hallieriley already in paris for the olympics and while it is not time to play we took some time of to go around, he's awful at tennis, have no idea how he won that padel match, if i was max i would demand a rematch

charles_leclerc that was very rude, im very good at tennis, i was just warming up

hallieriley yeah, warming up

maxverstappen1 i told everyone he was cheating

charles_leclerc how could i cheat on a padel match? you're just saying this because you're bad at padel

georgerussell63 i would like to know so i can cheat as well

nike time to be olympic champ!

wilsontennis charles leclerc is the new face of wilson, stay tuned

leclercupdates charles was racing in hungary yesterday but his girl called and asked if he wanted to go having a tourist date and the next thing we know is that he is in france

benshelton he is indeed very bad at tennis, i was there, i saw it

sedicislice SO WE DID HAVE BEN AND CHARLES MEETING UP AND THERE'S NO FUCKING PICTURE OF IT?

diallinginshelton i would pay rivers of money to see them playing tennis 😭😭

carlitosalcarazz 👏🏻🫡🥰🤨🏎🎾

hallieriley translation of the emojis please

carlitosalcarazz no

usaopen time to shine in paris!

july 25th, 2024

kitcathriley

liked by usaopen, charles_leclerc, nike, wilson, ccaspari, laurencaspari and 433.193 others

hallieriley tooke a little time off to enjoy the post olympics, and let me tell you, being an olympc champion is AMAZING!!!! also i would like to thank you guys for the support, a little disappointed that ill have to wait another 4 years to play another olympics but really grateful for the results at this one. now IT'S USOPEN TIME!!!

usopen waiting for you at court number 3!

charles_leclerc credit for the pics when?

benshelton now you know!

maxverstappen1 wish we could get to see you play this one

hallieriley you can always quit f1 and be a fab (friends and boyfriends) 🤪

maxverstappen1 nice try

nike that kit suits you

wilsontennis 🏆🏆

lewishamilton good look at the USOpen, hallie! i know you will blast this one as well!

hallieriley lewis omg hello hiiiiii, thank you! if i win i will dedicate this one to you 🫶🏻

queenofrg i can't wait for her to win this one, we need that!!

laurencaspari you and i we need to catch up!

gialis doubles at beach volley when? 🏐☎️ plus can you get me a pic with ben shelton????

hallieriley oh to be a pro volleyball player and former olympian and not be able to fan girl her fav athlete

benshelton i though gia's favorite athlete was gabi?

gialis it is! your my number 2! can i please get a pic? 😭

maxverstappen1 what about me?

gialis don't try lol

august 23rd, 2024

hallieriley

liked by charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari, f1, lewishamilton, nike, maxverstappen1 and 766.143 others

hallieriley last round of the 2024 fast cars going vroom vroom season, well done prince charlie, congrats on the p2 on the championship, we'll fight for the highest spot next season. and oh, congrats to max car as well, it was a tough season. AND alson congratulations to oscar on his first winnnnn!!

charles_leclerc thank you my love ❤️❤️❤️

oscarpiastri thank you cath!

maxverstappen1 if your boyfriend haven't tried to take me out of the races so many times my car would be just fine

sedici16 dude, he tooke you out once in barcelona and just because the tyres weren't warm enough

hallieriley not my burn account i sweat but thanks sedici16 you're 100% right!

puma hallie x charles x puma when?

nike 🤔🤔🤔

scuderiaferrari wish we got to you sooner, it was lovely to have you with us one more time!

redbullracing bahrein vip passes are on the way 🫡

hallieriley now you do remember me 😭😭😭

december 8th, 2024

hallieriley

liked by charles_leclerc, boweandstowe, australianopen, benshelton, nike, wilson and 633.493 others

hallieriley happy birthday sir lewis hamilton! oh, and its australian open time againnnn, me, charlie, bowe and stowe we are ready to go! see you in 3 days 🔥🎾

charles_leclerc can wait to see your reaction to the t-shirts i have made to see you play

hallieriley im scared to death about which pants you're gonna wear

lewishamilton thank you, hallie! wishing you the best australian open you can get and rooting for you

australianopen rod laver arena is ready for you!

nike let's go!

wilsontennis i hope the pink racket is what you wanted

redbull 💪🏻💪🏻💪🏻

benshelton make it double!

gialis oh shit here we go again with 2 weeks of the bare minimum of sleep

merliagrace i put money on you, plese win this one

usaopen wake up, it's australian open time

january 7th, 2025

#formula 1 #charles leclerc #formula one imagine #formula one #f1 imagine #ferrari #charles leclerc imagine #max verstappen #charles leclerc x oc!character #tennis imagine

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kairiscorner · 9 months

Note

a request for you, if its okay!! you've been such an amazing writer and kind to others, its amazing!! ! again, IF its okay with you!! ! just friends to lovers with noir and an oblivious reader who gets flustered a lot by noir?? have a lovely day!!!

OH HI ANON :DDD ofc it's okay !! i love hearing y'all's requests, sorry i haven't been accepting them for a little while ! and i hope this is any good :'DD

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

summary: you didn't understand just what this feeling meant, why you would freeze up and lose yourself when you were around him. it wasn't uncomfortable, but you didn't want to feel like you were going crazy over him.

word count: 1,109

oh the things this man does to you, you can't even begin to describe--because you never realized it was because of him, or that your feelings were anything but platonic for him. you were a very dear friend to peter benjamin parker, and he was a dear friend to you, too. you both knew each other from inside and out, knew each other's little habits, noticed little changes in each other's appearances, could tell what the other was thinking just by glancing at their face--you two were just the closest to each other.

he was always a sweetheart towards you, no matter how aloof he appeared to others. he always offered to carry your things for you, asked you how your day went, complimented you in outfits he'd never seen you in before, snapped photos of you when you let him because he's genuinely never seen anyone who looked as amazing as you do naturally. and you could say it's just butterflies in your stomach because of how intense his gaze towards you can be, but you swear you feel a little tingly when he looks at you like that, when he does things for you, butters you up just a little when in reality he truly does means it.

you couldn't tell why you felt so different around peter, like you were a lot more self-conscious before you'd meet up with him--fussing over such little details about your outfit, your hair, your everything. but that self-consciousness would met away when he'd smile at you and flatter you with praise about how lovely you looked that day. and then, you'd feel that familiar light, airy feeling; that feeling you get when all his attention is on you, when everything in the world slows down just a little to prolong the time you two have together.

this feeling drove you a little mad, it kept you up at night for days on end at times, with you asking yourself just what changed? what changed in you that you'd notice peter's dimples a lot more when he grinned? what changed in you that you felt a shiver up your spine when he'd accidentally put his hand over yours? what changed in you that you found yourself gazing at his lovely red lips when you two were face to face?

you tried convincing yourself you just missed him was all, but how could you miss him? you two met up every day before and after work as much as you could, you two spent every weekend together, for goodness' sake! it was more than just missing him, you... oh, you couldn't find the right word for it. you ended your nights with the bleak hope that this feeling that confused you so would leave you be the next morning. but alas, it worsened.

you'd wake up searching for him, and you realized, you've been dreaming about him. it got to the point where you stopped hanging out with peter before work, then it extended to not hanging out with him after work. during weekends, you excused yourself to him, saying you had errands to run, things to do. altogether, you two stopped hanging out for a week, all in the hopes that you wouldn't feel this way about him anymore. but you longed for him even more now that he wasn't with you.

neither of you could take it anymore, you had to tell him how you felt. it was a heavy weight on you to deal with these feelings alone, and despite how difficult it seemed, you had a feeling that telling him would lessen the burden. so you picked up the telephone one evening and called him, and immediately, you heard his voice on the other end. "hello--" "peter, i think i'm... i think i'm crazy about you." you confessed, leaving peter confused on the other end.

"doll, what do you mean?" he asked, perplexed, causing you to become even more frustrated. "look, even i don't know! i just know that, for a long time now, i've felt so... so weird about us." you explained in a soft voice as you twirled the cord of the telephone on your finger. "i find myself staring at your dimples when i catch you smiling, me freezing up when you accidentally touch my hand, and when you look into my eyes... i find my gaze going down to your lips. i've gone nights without sleeping because i always find myself thinking about you!" you admitted, feeling a ton of embarrassment rushing through your veins.

peter was silent on the other end for a little bit, when he realized you were finished, he chuckled a little. "are you saying you... feel the same way i do for you?" he asked with a slight crack in his voice, evidence of his flustered expression. your eyes went wide as he said that. "the same way you do for..." "yes, doll, the same was you do for me." he finished with a tone of embarrassment, similar to yours.

"i think i... i think i love you, doll. i've loved you for heaven knows how long." he said with an awkward slight chuckle. you felt incredibly flustered when you heard him say that word, that he loves you, that he's loved you for a long time now. "...i think i love you, too, peter." you replied bashfully, with a grin on your face that just grew the moment you heard him put down the phone on its side as he rejoiced in the background. "well... can we... go back to hanging out like before? it's just that, you know... we'd be on a date then?" he suggested, trying to sound cool, but ended up sounded so, so flustered.

"i'd love to, pete." you said, to which he rejoiced again away from the phone. "meet you tomorrow at the station at 6:30, i'll be there with a big bouquet of violets." he promised, and you giggled. "you called the poppies we saw on the way home from work last time violets." you reminded him, which caused him to blush from the tips of his ears down to his collarbone. "r-right... right, why not i get you a big bouquet of poppies? you're prettier than all of the flowers we've seen, though. i know you know it." he complimented you, which made you giggle a little. "stop it, pete..." "never. not when i have the sweetest lover in the whole world with me on the phone. brace yourself, love, you're gonna go another restless night thinking about me, because i know i'll be dreaming about you all over again."

tags !! @thecoolerdor @miguelswifey04 @sabcandoit @binibinileonara @k4tsu3 @luvstarrstruck @connors-cumslurper @maxoloqy @fictarian

#spider noir #spider noir x reader #spider noir x you #spider noir x y/n #spider noir fluff #atsv #atsv x reader #atsv x you #atsv x y/n #atsv fluff #atsv imagines

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astroboots · 10 months

Note

Homecoming tings, more of them in public! Do they hide it? Do they not give a shit? Alternatively, how did the Miller bros find out. I kinda feel like the trio didn't want to like. Draw attention to it, but they weren't gonna police their behavior either. I feel like Will was content to just stay silent and accept the new dynamic but Benny is an idiot and said a quiet thing out loud 😂

Girl and boy Interrupted

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x female reader

Summary: This is the story of how one half of the Miller brothers finds out about you and Santiago and Frankie.

Content: Explicit shenanigans. Semi public? Getting caught in the act with your pants pulled down.

Homecoming Drabbles | Homecoming Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist

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You're sitting on a chair on Molly's porch, trying not to stare. But Santiago isn't making it easy for you today.

He'd been bitching and moaning (as he so often does) about the heat all morning and on the way over. Complaining that he felt like he'd stepped inside a pizza oven, while tugging at his t-shirt, grumbling about how it was sticking to his skin everywhere.

At the time, when you had walked across Molly's law and spotted the water hose, spraying him had seemed like a hilarious idea.

At the time, when Santiago yelped and jumped away, with an indignant scowl on his face, it had been oh-so-satisfying.

At the time, seeing him soaked from head to toe had felt like victory.

Now though, as you spy him across the lawn, golden skin damp and slick with a wet sheen, those ridiculous curls of his glistening against the bright sun like a beacon to guide in lost sailors from the sea, it feels like torture.

He's doing it on purpose isn't he? He must be.

As you think the thought, it's as if Santiago (in tune with you as he always is) is capable of reading your mind. His head turns back to you, meeting your gaze, mouth pulling into an amused smile as he sees you watch him. Then he winks.

It's all it takes. That simple gesture sends an electric jolt through your spine that has you bolt up in your seat and clamp your thighs together to stem the sensation.

Yeah, definitely on purpose.

Asshole.

What exactly is he expecting you to do about the situation?

You're at Molly's, surrounded by friends. Frankie's still not here (running an hour late from work). Tom is tending to the barbecue like it's one of his military operations and Will is standing next to him stoic and disinterested as always, not intervening even though you and him both know that Tom is putting in way too much charcoal.

Shaking your head, you try to focus on the conversation at hand, but it's hopeless. Benjamin is standing next to you and Molly telling you an animated story about... something.

You're not really paying attention in all honesty. But judging from the way the younger Miller is swinging his arms around, he's either talking about wrestling down an alligator or how his newest hobby of crocheting is going.

There's no way you can haul the smirking asshole in your peripheral vision off somewhere to rub that self-satisfied expression of his face the only way you know how.

Not unless you two want to invite a lot of uncomfortable questions about yours and Frankie's relationship with Santiago.

Benny would never let it go, not with his curiosity. Molly is already suspicious. Tom... god you don't even want to imagine having that conversation with that man. As for Will... well actually Will would would probably mind his own business.

He's never been the type to pry. He doesn't get involved unless he absolutely has to and even then, he'll take the path of least resistance, and say as little about it (if anything at all).

Your eyes trail off, and you find yourself watching Santiago from the distance as he takes a sip from the cold bottle of beer. Watching as his Adam's apple in that long gracious throat of his bob with a mesmerizing movement. Watching his still wet t-shirt stick to his chest.

Did you say beacon earlier? Scratch that, the man is a fucking siren, trying to lure you in to your inevitable death and doom with his shameless seduction.

God, he's doing that stupid thing with his lips again. Raising the palm of his hand to his mouth to wipe away the remnants of the sticky beer, then his tongue darts out to lick at his luscious bottom lip. Glimpses of that very same habit of his whenever he's tucked between your thighs invades your vision.

Oh fuck it!

"Santiago!" you announce, and Santiago's head perks up. "Can you help me get another crate of beer from the garage?"

His eyes practically glitters at that. Smile pulling wider and you can almost hear the way he wants to cackle with laughter.

He doesn't of course. Instead all he says is, "of course, cariño," and puts down his beer on the nearest surface and starts making his way to the garage.

If Molly gives you a strange look as you start running towards Santiago, you wouldn't know, because you are too focused on the man in front of you to pay attention to your surroundings.

"That wasn't very subtle was it?" Santiago grins, as he steps into the garage.

The door barely has time to shut behind you before your arms flings around his shoulders and you haul him down to meet your lips.

Whatever the smartass has to say next is lost in a low rumbling moan as you lick into his mouth. He tastes slightly sweet of malty hoppy that sticks to your tongue and goes straight to your head as you drag your teeth against his bottom lip and nip down.

A bit too hard it seems, because Santiago groans into you, shuddering, as his lashes flutter and he looks down on you with half-lidded eyes.

"Fuck, sweetheart, what's gotten into you?"

That's such a ridiculous question. Santiago knows exactly what's gotten into you. Knows exactly what he did to get you as riled up as you are. You don't dignify it with an answer, instead you reach up, fingers tangling into his wet curls as you pull him down against you as you walk him backwards. Not stopping until his chest is pressed up against you. Not until your back hits the edge of some surface that you're not really paying attention to (a workbench? a disused dining table? who the fuck cares). You don't stop until you feel his arms wrap around you and hoist you up on that very same mysterious surface. And then Santiago's caging you in between his thick thighs, that slick mouth on yours as he grinds against you.

The denim of his jeans drags against your groin, the hard bulge of his cock trapped underneath, pressing against the inside of your thigh. Electricity surges through every one of your nerve endings at the contact.

Those clever fingers of his trails the side of your hips, down along the inside of your thighs and then they hook against the lining of your panties as he traces the seam of your cunt.

Fuck! fuck.

"So fucking wet already," he murmurs, fingertip flicking over your clit, "and you weren't even the one who got hosed down like an animal."

Then he pulls his fingers away.

You want to scream. Because that would've been too easy wouldn't it? Of course the bastard was still carrying a grudge about that.

"Santiago," you start, glaring at him even as he smiles back at you. Thumb dragging against the corner of his mouth as his tongue flicks out and he licks both his lip and then the taste of you from his fingers. Doing that stupid thing with his lips that got you here in the first place.

God you could kill him.

"Santiago, we don't have time."

"Don't worry cariño, I'll make the time"

The man has no fucking common sense. Did he forget that you're at a barbecue with your friends? Friends who are waiting for the two of you to come back with beer supplies. Friends who don't know that Santiago is fucking his best friend and his best friend's husband? Friends who will be asking a lot of questions and probably have suspicions if you don't come back with said beers in the next few seconds????!

"I'm not playing this game with you today, Santiago."

Reaching up, you're growling as you grab him by the back of his neck and pull him back down to you.

"I need you to just fuck me," you order as your free hand is already fumbling at the front button of his jeans, wrenching down the zipper.

The asshole chuckles in reply. A breathless boyish laugh, as he finally decides to help you instead of being obstructive and reaches down to pull down his jeans the rest of the way down his hips.

"Fuck you huh?" He grabs himself in one hand, spreading your legs wider with his other, as he positions himself at your entrance and for a moment you forget what it is like to breathe.

"Think I need that too," he says, mouth still pulled into that arrogant angle. But you can hear from the shakiness of his words, the way his breath stutters in your ear that he needs this just as bad as you do.

Then he slides into you, inch by sweet addictive inch, arms bracketing your side as his hips cant up and into you. The relief you feel as he fills you up can't be described with words.

Pleasure swims through your veins, fast and overwhelming until your vision goes white and fuzzy with it.

"God Boa, you feel so--" you don't hear the rest.

Your hearing must've gone along with your vision, because you can't even hear your own moans anymore. Even though you know from the way your throat scratches with a raw burn that you must be making noises loud enough to wake the dead. And in some distant remote location where your sole remaining brain cell resides, it is telling you that you need to be quiet. Need to be careful so that you don't get caught.

But you can't. Can't stop and can't care. Not when it feels this good. Not when Santiago is thrusting into you deep and reckless, both of you chasing the pleasure of it as that familiar heat buzzes pleasantly in your veins.

And if it wasn't for the fact that you're both so gone, maybe you would've noticed. Would've noticed as the garage door to the side opens. Would've noticed the way sunlight floods the space. But you don't.

You don't notice anything at all until Santiago stills and refuses to move even as you wrap your legs around him and try to pull him closer.

Don't even notice that Santiago is looking away from you, eyes burst wide with horror.

You don't notice until it's entirely too late that in front of the open garage door, Captain William Miller is standing with wide eyes and frozen stiff shoulders.

Your stomach drops to the concrete floor and tries to scuba dive into the soil beneath and reach its way to Australia.

Shit. oh shit. oh shit! SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!

"It's not what it looks like," Santiago says.

And oh god. That's the most cliched and stupidest thing to say. It's not what it looks like? What exactly does it not look like?

Does it not look like Santiago is balls deep inside you with his jeans pooled around his ankles?

Thankfully, before Santiago gets a chance to dig himself even deeper, Will interrupts him with a curt, "don't."

He averts his gaze, turning on his feet as if to leave, but then he stops mid-rotation. "Does Frankie know?"

You look to Santiago, the man of many words in every situation. His mouth parts, but no words seem to come out. The man who always knows what to say has finally run out of words.

"Ye-yes," you manage to stutter out.

"And he's okay with it yeah?"

What's the answer to that? Do you say more? Do you explain? Do you tell Will that Frankie is part of this-- well whatever this is??

Jesus, fuck, how do you even begin to explain this?

You look at Santiago again, and he looks back at you, and without a word you know the same line of questions is racing through his mind. There's no adequate explanation that would begun to unravel what this is. Instead the only thing both of you do is nod dumbly in coordination.

There is a minute change in his facial expression and if William Miller hadn't been a peripheral part of your life for as many years as it's been, it would've been far too easy to miss. The straight grim line of his mouth relaxing ever so slightly, the line of his brow smoothing out, as he tilts his head by a fraction of an inch to give you an imperceptible nod.

"Alright," he says.

Then he just... leaves, gently closing the door behind himself with a soft click of the hinge, leaving you and Santiago, still inside you, still with his pants pulled to his ankles, in shock and confusion.

And that's the story of how Will finds out about Santiago and you, but decides to mind his own business.

A/N: Nonny I can't tell you enough how much I LOVED this ask because before you sent it in it just so happened that @thirstworldproblemss and I had been discussing and cackling at this very scenario of how Will and the others find out. So thank you so so much for sending this in so that I had an excuse to write this silly thing out and share it with you all. This one is dedicated to you nonny!

#triple frontier #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fics #oscar isaac #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #💌 asks

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