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madelynraemunson · 7 months

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CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club series)

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

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ ONLY! MINORS DON’T YOU DARE I AM INSIDE YOUR HOME

Chapter 004: The Eddie Stop

Everyone loves a parked car conversation. Eddie’s van is no castle by any means…but do a boss and his employee have to sit that close to each other?

* = 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: 4.8k

warnings & disclaimers — slow burn, mutual pining, profanities, sexual tension, marijuana use, SO MANY sexual innuendos, foot play, daddy kink, dirty talk, masturbation, touching, rubbing, talks of abuse, trauma, Eddie talking about “Asshole Dad & Dead Mom Club”, suicide, overdose, reader’s trauma becoming her kink i.e slapping/hair pulling/choking, steddie x reader threesome kinda 🤭, sex dream, p in v smut, unprotected sex, deepthroating, double penetration, idk what else I’m missing so here’s a PSA from Murray

_______________𓆩♡𓆪_______________

♡

And then there were two.

“You better stop that thing you’re doing. I’m telling you, I ain’t lying.”

For the owner of a very successful strip club, you would think Eddie had a...fancier car. But there is beauty in humble beginnings. In fact, you can tell a lot about him from the ketchup stain by the window, empty coffee tumblers on the floor that need washing, crinkled up band posters — along with MORE PAPERWORK — and the tattered leather seats held together by the sheer grit of duct tape. A Porsche would just conceal who Eddie Munson is.

And Eddie’s the coolest boss you’ve ever had. In the safest town you’ve ever been in.

“Hawkins gets pretty quiet after 1 AM,” you observe. Despite being the blasted one, it’s you who’s attempting to break the silence.

You glance out the window, watching the scenery of the Bible Belt town you've grown to romanticize flash by like developing film.

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs. “If you’re looking for nightlife, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

Eddie approaches a four way intersection and stops too late. He does it for a short time too, stepping on the gas pedal not even a second later.

He peers over at you to see if you caught it.

“Sorry if I’m being a crazy driver,” Eddie apologizes. “If the street’s empty I’m only stopping for like... a millisecond. If at all.”

You snort. “You’re fine. We call that a ‘California stop’ back home.”

“You wanna see an ‘Eddie stop’?”

You turn to him. He’s just staring at you and smiling, a look of mischief creeping its way to the surface.

“What’s that?”

SLAM. You shoot forward in your seat the moment Eddie’s foot meets the brakes. A surprised gasp from you fills the air while Eddie joins in with a loud cackle. You glare at him, a frantic hand clutched to your chest.

“What the FUCK!”

“That’s an ‘Eddie stop’,” Eddie explains between laughter.

SLAM! He does it again.

“Eddie, stop!” you plead.

“Hey, that’s the spirit!” he chuckles.

You realize his play on words and shove him.

“Ow,” he remarks with sass, hand reaching over to rub where you pushed him. “Feisty.”

"Yeah? Well, don't dish out what you can't handle."

You cross your arms and jokingly turn your torso in the other direction. Eddie is amused at this, proceeding to poke fun at you while he still can.

"Hmm. Hm hm," he laughs with his pursed lips. "For someone who can't hang, you're one to talk."

You’re still intoxicated. Nothing is leaving your system any time soon, it appears.

It all starts to feel like a dream. You thoroughly enjoyed yourself after a fun night out with friends. There is no angry brother waiting for you at home, blowing up your phone until you walk through the door. And now you’re out on a post-curfew rendezvous with someone who is clearly off limits.

You’re living out your rebel dreams, riding into the night with Eddie. What a regular young adult takes for granted is something you’ve always dreamt about. It’s a dream you don’t want to wake up from.

“I can hang. It's just the edibles kicking in late, silly," you bubbly insist.

“Alright,” Eddie surrenders sarcastically. “Alright. Whatever gets you going…silly.”

You two proceed down the long, vacant road, humming along to Creedence Clearwater Revival and breaking the law with more California stops.

"It's a bummer we didn’t get to go bar-hopping,” you say. “That would've been fun.”

Eddie grimaces. “Eh. Drinking makes me feel gross. I’m more of a mary-jane guy if I do say so myself.”

“Clearly,” you jest.

A whole night dedicated to edibles? Hotboxing competitions with the line cook? Bongs and bowls happening to be everywhere this motherfucker tends to be at?

Eddie’s a walking marijuana leaf as far as you're concerned. Governor Holocomb's worst nightmare. You kick at the velvet bag that masked the huge glass bong sitting at your feet.

“I’m surprised they haven’t arrested your ass yet.”

“I’m just as surprised as you are," Eddie admits. "With all the shit I’ve done…”

The road begins to look familiar and you realize it’s because you’re almost back home. Tick, tick, tick, goes the turn signal as Eddie's GPS instructs him to make a left. A sigh escapes you. You don’t want to leave.

You want time to freeze exactly where it's at so you could spend it with the man who has been giving you butterflies — and the ��fuck me’ eyes — all night long. To your own surprise, confidence overpowers you.

“Eddie,” you sit up. “Do you think you can stay with me for a bit?”

Your boss’s gaze hardens, a look of concern replacing his easy-going, playful demeanor.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, brows lifting gently in shock. “Yeah... I’ll stay with you."

Eddie makes a turn away from your street and finds a curb to park against. You tap your feet, anxious that he actually followed through. The sound of his tires scraping across the gravel beat against your eardrums as reality sets in. Eddie shifts the gear from Drive to Park before wriggling his keys out from the ignition. The rumbling of the van engine ceases.

Eddie lassos his keys around his thick, long index finger, their jingles piercing through the quiet.

"You feeling alright?”

“Yes,” you confirm. “Just feeling pretty buzzed still.”

“You trying to get more buzzed?” he offers. “Or high?”

You look back over at him. Oh wipe that snarky grin off your face, Munson.

There's a pro to working evening shifts. You can sleep in until it's time to head off to work the next day. Judging by how the night was going, it is far from over. You and Eddie are just getting started.

“It depends...Are you trying to get more high?”

“Is that even a question?”

Before you know it, there's a small tin can with a few nuggets in it in Eddie's hand, followed by a small Altoid case that housed some rolling paper. Eddie places the two on his dash and then leans towards you to grab the bong sitting at your feet.

He undresses it from its cloak. His pride and joy glistens in the moonlight.

“Hello, my darling,” he says to his bong. “You’re so pretty.” Eddie turns to you. “I’ve got nowhere to be, so you bet I’ll be usin’ the hell outta her tonight. No pressure though, Hargrove.”

You shrug. “I'm down to get lit for a bit longer."

"You a joint girl or do you prefer bongs?"

"Either or. Why not both?"

There’s a gleam in his eyes. "I like how you think."

Eddie situates the large bong between his legs, propping it up with his knees. He then reaches for the tin can filled with nuggets. Picking off the bits one by one to accommodate the tiny bowl, he tucks them neatly into the small round outlet. Eddie does it with such ease. Like it's second nature.

Finally, Eddie hovers the lighter over the bowl and gestures for you to inch closer. The placement of the bong remains the same. And judging by the look on Eddie’s face, he doesn’t intend on moving it.

"Ladies first."

So you hoist yourself over across Eddie’s center console and position yourself near his lap. Staring up at Eddie with curious eyes, you ask him,

"Am I good?"

"You're good," Eddie confirms, holding your hair back while you lean over against him. “All yours, babygirl.”

After getting the green light, you bend down further to attach your lips to the mouthpiece of the bong. With the flick of the lighter, Eddie ignites the bowl and you suck in. You and Eddie eye its neck steadily, watching as the chamber fills with smoke.

Eddie slowly starts to remove the bowl. Fear sets in as the bubbles seem to draw on for an eternity. It feels like it'll never end. You're inhaling too much.

When you feel the first kick to your chest, you shoot upwards and exhale. But the smoke got you good. Before you know it, you’re coughing and hacking and grasping for air, clutching onto Eddie’s flannel for support as you try to clear.

"That's right, baby," Eddie soothes you. "Let it out. Clear it, clear it, clear it."

“I’m-” you cough. “I’m t—trying.” A few more good coughs and you’re done. “WOOO.”

Eddie’s laughing at you like it’s cute. The grip he has on your hair loosens and soon your locks fall in front of your face once more. You keep them there to mask your tears. How embarrassing.

"Damn,” he comments. “You choked out.”

Your stomach dances. You think about what he said earlier in the club about his kinks.

"Yeah, I s-sure did-" you choke again, fleshing out your last set of coughs as Eddie pats your back.

The tears trickle down your face as you struggle to self-regulate. You quickly wipe them away.

"You okay?' he asks again, this time gently, sincerely. Angelically. He starts playing with the ends of your hair.

You nod with a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You want more, hun? Can you handle more?"

You nod again.

"Yeah," you sniff. "I can handle more."

"Alright," he grins.

Bowing your head down once again, you reattach your lips to the mouthpiece. As you're inhaling, Eddie tilts his head upwards to prevent any smoke from getting in his face. You look up at him.

What a sight, your internal monologue gushes. He must look like this when he's getting a...

"There we go, Shy Girl” he hums. "Just like that..."

————🍃———-

“It’s alright. I said it’s alright. Take anything you want from me. Fly high, little wing.”

“So my driving really doesn’t scare you, huh?”

Eddie is taking ginormous rips out of his bong. You, on the other hand, have settled for rolling joints instead.

“Not nearly as much as my brother,” you shrug. “He drives like a maniac. Him and his stupid Camaro.”

You think about the time you and Billy got into an argument about lunch. Out of all things.

Billy had asked something SO obvious. You couldn’t help but respond sarcastically. He stomped on the gas before you knew it, propelling you both across the residential street at 90 MPH. It was scariest you’ve ever seen him. The first instance where he toyed with both your lives and didn’t seem to care.

You try not to shake in front of Eddie. Luckily, he was too busy laughing to notice.

“A Camaro?” Eddie belts. “That’s just about the douchiest, California Chad type shit I’ve ever heard.”

You agree. “Yeah. Douchey is pretty on brand for someone like Billy.”

You fall silent as you continue to roll. Eddie peers over at you and takes note of your newfound seriousness.

You position your body towards him to ensure him it wasn't something he did, and make sure he knows it by the way you relax your legs across his lap. He inhales abruptly at the extra step you took.

"I take it you guys don't get along."

"Billy and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment,” you mumble. “Part of why I'm here.”

“Your brother right?” he questions rhetorically.

“Yeah, my twin brother.”

“Oh shit,” Eddie mutters. “So you guys went from being essentially telepathic to... no contact at all.”

“Precisely.”

You glide your tongue up, down, and around along the rolled joint to ensure that it sticks. When it's sealed shut, you set it down to start rolling the next one. Eddie stares at you.

“Fuck…” you hear him mutter.

“Sorry?”

You try to act clueless, but even stoned out of your mind, you know exactly what you're doing.

“Uh, that’s rough,” he shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s whatever,” you say. “As much as I love Billy, I just think it’s best we’re not in each other’s lives. We bring out the worst in each other.”

“I can say the same about me and my brothers,” Eddie agrees. “And my dad. They’re always asking me for money. Or for me to be an accomplice for their stupid, dangerous schemes. I got my own shit to handle.”

“And your mom?”

Eddie falls silent.

“She died when I was 14,” his voice softens. “I was the one who found her.”

Your chest aches as you marinate in that very, very familiar wound. It seems like just yesterday you and Billy were in Eddie's shoes.

“I’m so sorry,” you mutter. “Billy found our mom when we were 13. Alcohol poisoning and overdosed on pain killers.”

“Wow…” Eddie is stunned. “OD for mine as well. But heroine. She was an addict. Married her dealer and abuser... my old man.”

"Our dad was abusive too," you sympathize. "Well, is. He's still alive, but he and his new wife up and left when my stepsister turned 16. To who knows where. Billy was her guardian up until her b-day last week.”

You roll your next blunt and lick again. Eddie continues to eye you like a hawk, fixing how he was sitting in the driver's seat as he did.

You continue telling him everything you told your Zoom psychiatrist. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind.

Billy was nice. Now he’s not. Blah blah. Sue, Max’s mom, was Dad’s mistress. The idea of it consumed Mom just as much as Dad’s beatings did. When Billy found her, she was on the bathroom floor surrounded by empty bottles of whiskey and painkillers. Aside from you, Mom was his best friend. His biggest supporter. And Dad took that away.

Eddie’s grazing turns into rubbing. He squeezes your calf.

"Our moms died when we were around the same age," he speaks up, attempting to do the mental math. "That puts us in '08, which is around the time of..."

"The Recession," you finished for him. "Yup. Mom also lost her job which meant she was now fully dependent on our dad."

"She was stuck with that piece of shit no matter what," Eddie huffs. "And no matter where she turned, she wouldn't be safe."

You nod, staring off into the distance. "Billy wanted to go with her.”

Eddie gives you a pained look, sighing deeply as he took it in.

“But I told him I would hate him forever if he dared. So he stayed."

You swallow hard.

“Baby-” Eddie speaks.

"I hate him, still..." you choke back tears. "But I'm glad it's just because I think he's an asshole. He's my whole world."

"But you can't be in each other's lives."

"But we can't be in each other's lives."

"Love from afar kinda thing," Eddie mumbles.

"Exactly," your voice is at a whisper now. "I can never be mad at Mom though, for taking the easy way out. I wouldn't know what the fuck to do if I were in her shoes."

"I'm really sorry, Hargrove." Eddie says. "It seems like you lost more than your mom."

"I'm sorry for your loss too," you reply.

Silence lingers. Eddie continues to touch you. You love how handsy he is tonight. His touch brings you calm. Made you feel looked after. Protected. Cherished.

“I like listening to you talk,” Eddie soothes you.

You smile. “Did we just turn this into a therapy session?”

“Looks like we did,” he chuckles softly. Eddie raises a toast with the foggy, smoked-out bong in his hand. "To the Asshole Dad & Dead Mom Club."

You hold up your lopsided joint.

"To the Asshole Dad & Dead Mom Club," you repeat after him. "And to the brothers we don't speak to anymore."

"Can't forget that shit," he says. "To the brothers we don't speak to anymore."

————🍃————

“I want you so bad, it’s driving me mad.”

The night continues on a lighter, flirtier note.

“What’s your love language?” Eddie asks you.

“Acts of service.”

“Mmm.”

“Not like that.”

“I know, I’m just fucking with you,” Eddie winks. “Makes sense though. I see it.”

“What’s yours?”

“Physical touch.”

You look down at your feet, still laid out across Eddie’s lap. A few moments ago he just wrapped up giving you a foot massage after convincing you that you were free to take your heels off.

“Acts of service as well,” Eddie smiles. “It’s 50/50.”

“I can tell,” you say.

“Yeah? How so?”

You run a foot across Eddie’s thigh, watching in amusement as his blinking quickens. He bites his lip and hums.

“I can just tell,” is what you end up saying.

“You can just tell?” Eddie bites his lip. “No other way of knowing?”

“Nope,” you giggle, gliding your foot to the inner part of his thigh. “Just a wild guess.”

Your feet do a little dance on Eddie. He tries to tickle you but you pull away.

“I think Steve’s is acts of service too,” you add. “And gift giving.”

“Nailed it,” Eddie confirms with a nod. “Harrington loves providing. Daddy Steve.”

He smirks at you when he says that. With the info you retained at Hellfire, it’s impossible to think what he’s saying isn’t an innuendo. Your foot being just inches away from his dick didn’t help the case either.

“Daddy Steve,” you echo him. “Yeah, I can tell he loves taking care of people he cares about.”

“It didn’t always used to be that way,” Eddie points out. “I used to think he was an asshat.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nancy Wheeler happened.”

The mood darkens.

“Damn…” you mutter. “It always boils down to House Mom.”

“Because it’s true,” Eddie insists. “Steve was a self-absorbed prick in high school. Then he dated Wheeler senior year. On and off. Something changed in him, when they were done for good.”

Eddie readjusts himself in his seat. You adjust yourself with him.

“It was like…” he proceeds. “Steve realized that there was more beyond himself and wanted to be a part of this greater good. It wasn’t until he started working at the bowling alley I used to frequent that I realized that he’s a pretty decent guy.”

“Like everything’s one big redemption arc for him,” you state.

“That’s exactly what it is.”

“He worked at the bowling alley?”

“He’s worked everywhere,” Eddie laughs. “Dude had so many side quests and jobs. It’s gotten to the point to where I start to wonder where he hasn’t worked.”

“Hellfire,” you point out.

“Yeah, Hellfire,” Eddie nods. “Kinda wish he did. Maybe then I can get a day off…”

“What would you do on your day off?”

“Take you out to lunch finally.”

Your gazes fixate on each other. Eddie’s cheeks turn a red hue in the moonlight, the streetlight you guys were parked under illuminating it further.

The cheeky grin on his face vanishes quickly, the moment he disengages his eye contact with you.

"Yeah, Steve... Steve's a good guy," Eddie gulps. He stares down at his lap. Touches your legs again. "One of the greatest friends I've ever had in my life."

“Mhm…”

“And now he’s my boyfriend,” he teases you with a wink.

You tsk. “Be for real.”

“Nah, I’m just playing — he’s actually my husband,” he jokes again. “And you’re just a pretty lil thing of his on the side.”

“So you think I’m pretty?”

“That’s what you got from that?”

“Who am I to get in the way of your marriage?”

“It makes things complicated between the three of us, that’s for sure.”

There’s a hint of truth in that sentence. You can tell by the way Eddie refuses to look you in the eyes again. For someone who is intentional with his eye contact, him not wanting to look your way when he says that makes it look suspicious.

Eddie cuts it with the jokes and starts up again.

“But yeah, I think you’re pretty.”

“Thank you, Eddie,” you respond, drawing circles onto his inner thigh now with your feet. You do it slower. Then deeper. Clockwise then counter.

“That’s it.”

Finally, he hoists your legs off of him. To your surprise, it’s Eddie now that’s crawling towards you, closing up the space there was between you two. Now you and him are both just a thumb-width apart, faces lingering. The hunger is back.

You feel Eddie’s warm breath against you.

“I’d say a hell of a lot more about you,” Eddie adds. “But I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

“That’s new,” you quip. “For as long as I’ve known you, you always gave off rebel vibes.”

“I’m trying to be good.”

“You’re failing miserably.”

You both look down at Eddie hand that is now resting at your waist. He laughs through his nose, pulling you closer to him.

“Touché.”

With his available hand, he strokes your hair, tucking a strand behind your ears. His fingers explore your cheek and take a detour to your plump lips, hovering around them as you part them slightly.

“You have no idea how hard I’ve tried to not cross any boundaries tonight,” Eddie admits. “To not get any closer to you.”

“Why not?” you whisper.

"I don't wanna ruin whatever you and Harrington have going on…”

"We're just fuck buddies," you insist. “Swear.”

Steve wouldn’t care. You know he wouldn’t. He was the one who even said that you both should give Eddie a little show. Besides, you already know it’ll be a long while until he’s officially over Nancy.

"Of course," Eddie huffs.

"Why?" you raise an eyebrow as you breathe in his face. "Are you jealous?"

"Well when you sound the way you did this morning, how could I not be?"

There it was.

The confirmation of what you already suspected closes in on you and you feel yourself shrink. Eddie enjoys the sight of it, the sight of Shy Girl growing tense just by the way he speaks to you. His fingers dance up your arm before he starts to rub your back.

“And the way you looked the day you gave Steve that private show…” he strains. “It’s like you were made for me and only me.”

“Eddie…” you moan.

“Do you know what it was like? Hm?” Eddie demands. He’s hot against your cheek now. “Touching myself, getting myself off in the bathroom to the sound of your moans? Knowing full well you were getting your back blown out just a wall over?”

You whimper as he continues to hover, the ache of wanting to be touched and destroyed by him gnawing at your soul.

“Gettin’ all dumb for me already?” Eddie taunts you when you don’t speak. “I haven’t even fucked your brains out yet.”

“Just still a little high that’s all.”

That snaps something back into Eddie. “Oh… right.”

You hear his keys jingle again before Eddie turns them back into the ignition. His headlights flash on and soon he shifts the gears back to drive. Away from the curb and back to your place you go.

Your stomach sinks.

“What are you doing?”

“Not this!” Eddie refuses. “Not when you’re not sober.”

“Eddie!” you start to regret ever saying anything. “Come on, I’m fine. I want you.”

“Yeah, well that’s another thing in my doctrine,” Eddie sighs. “I can’t mess with a lady under the influence. I don’t roll that way.”

He routes his GPS back to your place.

“I hate when you’re respectful,” you joust, crossing your arms in retaliation.

He laughs.

“Don’t worry sweetheart,” he says to you. “Next time you’re at work, I’m gonna be disrespectful as fuck.”

The night ends there and Eddie drops you off. He makes sure you get inside safely before driving away. Sadness sets in as the drugs and alcohol wear off. You drag your feet along as sneak your way into you and Max’s room.

You dream of Eddie that night. Him and Steve.

You’re in a private show room at Hellfire with the two Adonises after your heart. Steve’s destroying your pussy again, ramming into you at an intense speed while Eddie fucks himself into your mouth, his warm, sweet precum mixing with your saliva to fill your mouth to the brim.

A moan escapes you every single time Eddie hits the back of your throat.

“That’s right, baby,” Eddie coos. “Don’t be shy. C’mon, take me.”

You try not to scream as you dig your nails into his skin. Tears are streaming down your face as Eddie and Steve abuse your holes, the stimuli from both nearing you towards your climax.

“Such a good fucking girl,” Steve growls pulling you by your hair. “Taking two cocks at the same time like a champ, hm?”

Eddie releases you from his grip, allowing you to come back up for air. You spit the remnants of him back onto his long and girthy cock, stroking him while you gave your jaw a rest.

“Y-yes,” you choke out, arching your back to maximize the sensation of Steve’s thrusts. “I’m being so good.”

You beg for Steve to fuck you harder. Steve and Eddie look to each other and smirk, pleased that you even want to be challenged.

“Harrington’s got you, don’t you worry,” Eddie assures you. “On your back sweetheart.”

Steve pulls out and lets you use him as support. When you’re on your back, he grabs his cock again, stroking himself before lining himself at your tight little asshole.

“I’m gonna let you know when I go in, babe, okay?” he whispers to you, smothering your neck with kisses.

“Okay,” you nod sheepishly.

Eddie kneels down and lines himself up at your dripping cunt, kissing you on the mouth before inserting himself into you.

You let out a silent gasp as he maneuvers his way in, stretching you out even further than Steve already did.

“Oh my god,” you cry.

“Fuuuck,” Eddie moans, hand flying over your throat to wrap itself around you. “You feel so fucking good, baby.”

Then Steve starts letting himself in. He pumps into you slowly, not proceeding until you start adjusting to his length. You lay there in complete bliss, allowing them both to have their way.

“Good job, angel,” Steve cheers you on. “Being so good for us. So fucking tight…”

The speed of their thrusts are agonizingly slow. You tap them both on the arm to let them know they can speed up. They resist at first, attempting to make sure it’s really want you want.

“Please,” you whine. “I want it now, please.”

Eddie’s gaze turns grim. “Whatever you say.”

SMACK! You whimper as Eddie swats your bouncing tits and pistons into you deeper, faster. Steve meets Eddie where he’s at, picking up the pace from underneath you, holding your hips still for extra leverage.

“SHIT!” you squeal. “Y-yes, yes, right there. Don’t fucking stop!”

Three more pumps and they both hit that special spot. You start to shake as your core tightens. It feels too fucking good.

“Dirty fucking whore,” Eddie spits at you while you cry out in pleasure. “There’s no running away now baby, this is what you wanted.”

Slapping. Biting. Choking. Hair-pulling. Name-calling. Spitting. You wanted it all.

“FUCK!” you wail. “I’m gonna fucking cum. I’m cumming, I’m cumming!”

“Let it out, baby,” Eddie encourages you. “Let it out. Make a mess on both of us, there you go.”

That sentence is enough to send you over the edge. Your core is hot, walls twitching and aching.

“FUCK!” you scream one last time before —

“SIS!”

Max jolts you awake, shaking you by your shoulders.

“What? What?!” you shoot up in the bed.

“Are you okay?” Max pants. “You’re sweating like a pig.”

Now that’s a dream you didn’t ever wanna wake from. Reorienting yourself to your room, you find it hard to believe how real everything felt. You grip onto your sheets to make sure you’re really in your room.

“Yeah, I…” you stammer. “I…had a nightmare.”

“I can tell, you were making all kinds of noise in your sleep.”

Max scurries over to your dresser to retrieve your Hydroflask. She encourages you to hydrate yourself.

“I drank tonight,” you admit after a huge gulp of water. “Probably what caused it.”

“Makes sense,” Max nods, hands on her hips like a concerned mother. “You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Just need a breather.”

You grab your phone and use the flashlight feature to navigate to the bathroom. As you’re peeing, you take a look at the two text messages waiting for you.

Steve Harrington 💋

Made it home lol

Sorry,passed out. Goodnight, beautiful ❤️

You text Steve goodnight before making your way over to the next text message. Eddie.

Eddie Boss

Sweet dreams. Silly.

👸

—————————

author’s note: the steddie threesome dream was inspired by this tiktok 🥵 foaming at the mouth tbh. I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED THIS CHAPTER AND THE DREAM THREESOME WITH STEVE & EDDIE! don’t worry, eddie x shy girl irl fuck fest smut is coming. some juicy shit has to go down first before we cross that bridge ;)

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

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tripleyeeet · 3 months

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rules: shuffle your repeat playlist ten times and tag ten people!

thanks for the tag @grossjay! sorry this got lost in the notifs for a while but i managed to find it again to see that you tagged me! :)

dirty dancer by orion sun

sea gets hotter by durand jones & the indications

hu man by greentea peng

me & mr. jones by amy winehouse

get involved by raphael saadiq & q-tip

trippin' by lucy pearl

there's a new day coming by menahan street band & saundra williams

be your girl (kaytranada edition) by teedra moses & kaytranada

coming back by james blake & sza

good hells by anderson .paak & jazmine sullivan

no pressure tagging: @justporo @tatterings @bloodlessbhaalbabe @aphrogeneias @imgoingtofreakoutnow @bearhugsandshrugs @haarleps @korcariiwitch @xoxoviva @galatially and whoever else wants to! :)

#tag game #cool tunes

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aristocratic-otter · 7 months

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Hello all! Well, COVID has passed me, not with a bang but with a whimper. I.E., I got it, I think (never tested positive), but with very very faint symptoms, and I'm fine now, so phew. Also, I'm going to see the Book of Mormon this week (the play), so I'm hyped right now!

Thank you to all who've tagged me in the last week. Even when I don't have time or feel up to posting, I love reading what y'all are doing. It's so diverse and interesting!

My thanks to: @j-nipper-95, @artsyunderstudy, @aroace-genderfluid-sheep, @nightimedreamersghost, @cosmicalart, @larkral, @angelsfalling16, @wellbelesbian, @cutestkilla, @confused-bi-queer, @hushed-chorus, @bookish-bogwitch, @ileadacharmedlife and @you-remind-me-of-the-babe.

There'll be no snippet from Westward Son this week. Not that I'm not making progress (I am), but everything I've written this week is extremely smutty, lol.

From my Age of Sail AU, which now has a name! It's Stars, Flowers, and Children, from the Dante quote: "Three things remain to us from paradise: stars, flowers, and children." It's extremely fitting, as you'll eventually see.

The Snip:

I don’t look at Baz. I’m feeling a little tetchy after being so soft with him. After a moment, he rolls back onto his back as well. Neither of us talk about it. But just as I’m drifting off, I’m almost certain I hear him whisper, “Thank you.”

Every night, for years afterward, I always give him a hug and a kiss goodnight.

From: To Heal a Broken Mind (coming down to the wire on this one!)

I want Baz. I want to wrap myself around him. I want to pull him inside of me so that our two hearts merge into one.

He wants it too. And I’m too weak to deny him. To deny myself the comfort of his arms tonight.

From Saving Simon Snow (I've hit a rough patch, but I think there will be a new chapter sometime this week):

“Shit,” he hisses.

I spin to face him, half expecting a monster to have burst out of the fixtures and attacked him. But he’s fine. There’s no monster. Just Baz. Who for some reason is glaring at this very pretty bed.

From Snow Fox (Next chapter definitely up this week!) (TW: for emetophobics):

“Basilton, what are you—” my father says, frowning.

Before he can finish, though, Tarleton sends me a cocky grin and says, “I could land that hit with my eyes shut, Mr. Pitch.”

“Show me?” I breathe, biting my lip as if enthralled by him. I’m not. I’m disgusted. If he tried to kiss me, I might vomit in his mouth.

From this year's CORB, The Heart In The Well (the name just came to me, I can't explain why it takes months for some fics and days for others!)

“This is your fault!”

Baz crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes at me. “Really, Snow,” he drawls. I swear he sounds posher the more annoyed he is. Which is quite a trick, given that he’s sitting in the dirt, his stork legs stretched out nearly from one side of the well to the other, and wearing a dirty and tattered Watford uniform.

Still he manages to look better than me.

Aaaand...a tease from something I've been calling "Simon as a TikTok dancer" (but which is absolutely a lot more than that):

Shepard smiles at my apparent interest. “This footage still needs a lot of editing before I can post it. But we post it on the internet, which is a way everyone in the world can see it if they want. And if enough people see it, we might get noticed. And we might start making money. More than the tips we get for our live performances at least.”

Half of what he says is nonsense to me, but I’m quivering with curiosity now.

(and no, this isn't the mystery project I've teased. Which makes this...wince...my seventh WIP)

Tags and High Fives to everyone above and :

@angelsfalling16, @bazzybelle, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz, @dragoneggos, @erzbethluna, @frjsti, @fatalfangirl, @facewithoutheart, @ionlydrinkhotwater, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @jasonfunderberkerthefrogexists, @krisrix, @messofthejess, @moments-au-crayon22, @alexalexinii, @moodandmist, @mostlymaudlin, @prettylightsbigcity, @rimeswithpurple, @raenestee, @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @theearlgreymage, @tea-brigade, @technetiumai, @upuntil6am, @whogaveyoupermission, @whatevertheweather, @yellobb-old.

#cotta2023 #COTTA 2021 #American Revolution AU #carry on reverse bang #canon divergence #forced marriage #Blue lagoon au #House AU #Magickal AU #co/ws/awtwb #six sentence sunday #simon snow series #carry on through the ages

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vacantgodling · 4 months

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🐐 Goat - is your character artistic? do they create? how is their sense of fashion? 🐉 Dragon - is your character lucky? do they believe in luck or fate?

for anyone from red death :3

~ @void-botanist

oooo thank you!! time to do this for the main trio :3

🐐Goat - is your character artistic? do they create? how is their sense of fashion?

RED -> cannot be artistically creative to save her life, which is really funny considering what her powers are/curse is—which tbh i should actually explain. so, red’s curse is that she can create anything but anything she creates cannot be undone. it sounds great in theory, but it means that: let’s say she creates a tree because she wants shade. that tree can never not exist now. someone could try and cut it down and they couldn’t, someone could try and uproot it and it’s impossible, it is now a permanent fixture of the world and it cannot be undone. red has a small “hack” around this which is — to a certain extent she can create “nothingness” to sort of reverse engineer stuff she creates but creating functioning air molecules in place of what she’s made gets very difficult the larger and more complex something she makes is. so, tbh red doesn’t use her curse often because it is a hassle. she has only, since discovering it by accident, used it three times for very specific reasons. and by the time the book ends she will use it a fourth time in a very massive way 👀 but i’m getting ahead of myself this is off topic. AHEM. she can be… creative in means of death if that makes sense, but she doesn’t really view it that way—she views herself as being very straightforward even if most people wouldn’t think that way. i can’t think of a good example but she is very much likely to suggest full body dismemberment to deal with a problem tm.

fashion wise, red hasn’t allowed herself any luxuries for years and when she meets hel the only thing she owns that looks nice is her red cloak that she wears. the rest of her clothes are dirty and tattered (bc if you hadn’t guessed, one of the things she’s created is that cloak so it’s impervious to the elements, to burning, wear and tear etc. same can’t be said for everything else of what little she owns).

HEL -> can be a creative person with incentive. he does scribble down his thoughts or visions he has, but he doesn’t feel like a deep seated desire to create like how you and i perhaps feel about writing. however he does enjoy looking nice, well groomed and put together. he gets very uncomfortable if he hasn’t bathed or has worn the same clothes for long periods of time so this whole “traveling on the road” thing isn’t really his Thing.

ARDEN -> used to be a musical child when he was young and before the wolf queen killed his father; despite all the gambling, his father always praised him for his voice because it was sweet and strong like his mother’s but arden’s out of practice now. he thinks swordplay in itself can be artistic and remembers seeing sword dancers at traveling circuses in his youth, but there’s no entertainment that goes through their kingdom anymore. fashion wise even without being in hiding he’s always preferred function to frills and would rather have a hearty pair of leather boots than a silk shirt any day.

🐉 Dragon - is your character lucky? do they believe in luck or fate?

RED -> she’s too disillusioned to believe in luck or fate, and if she did, she’d curse it because it seems her very existence is a curse upon all who are with her. (not to be melodramatic but).

HEL -> because he can see and know the answers to anything (being the oracle) he doesn’t believe in luck because he’s cheated luck with his curse. however, he does believe in fate and believes himself to be an instrument of fate and so a lot of how he acts while it main seem shady to those on the outside, is actually to preserve a sense of free will without mettling too much into people’s destinies.

ARDEN -> all his life people have been preaching to him about destiny. he was destined to be king, until the wolf queen, and now he’s destined to defeat her. he isn’t sure if he quite believes in fate but he does certainly think that he has luck on his side more often than not; there’s no reason he should still be alive if he didn’t.

#s: rdof

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jellytoru · 2 years

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Wonderland ( The Umbrella Academy)

(Five Hargreeves x Reader)

Masterlist

Chapter 13: " I found all of you- your bodies"

~☂~

An adult female wearing a black somewhat tattered windbreaker, Underneath was a dirty navy blue sweater, tattered black jeans and overworn sneakers. Her wavy long hair swayed as she did a little ballet dance as she sang a song.

When you're in an apocalyptic world you have to somewhat entertain yourself to make you sane right?

" Golden brown, texture like sun. Lays me down with my mind she runs. Throughout the night, no need to fight; never a frown with golden brown " she sang as she twirled without a care in the world since she knows she was only by herself.

Unknown to her, a woman with white blonde hair, wearing an all-black dress with matching black gloves was watching her with a sinister smile.

" Bravo! Number Eight, bravo " The woman clapped as the young female stopped in her tracks and abruptly turned around and saw the woman clapping at her, " What an exquisite dance you have there- truly like a ballet dancer " she praised even more.

Y/n shot a glare in the woman's direction and immediately ready her hand to use her ability if the woman did something nasty.

" Golden Brown by the Stranglers? You're a fan of them? " the woman happily asked as she started to walk towards the alarmed female.

" What do you want? For all I know I'm the only person here- you're not from here " Y/n replied, clearly wanting an on-point discussion.

" You're a smart girl but please be patience's, my dear " the woman smiled as she then held out her hand at Y/n, " Nice to meet you, Number Eight or should I call you Y/n? I'm here to offer you a deal "

" A deal? What for? "

" I'm from an organisation called the Commission, we are tasked with the preservation of the time continuum-" the woman explained

" through manipulation and removals " Y/n finished, " - in short, you work on altering the time " she added,

" My what a really smart girl, really can know their situation " the woman giggled, " When people sometime alter time, we dispatch one of our agents to eliminate the threat "

Y/n then immediately held up her hand and was bout to use her ability, " No, not that you are a threat, Number Eight- you misunderstood me, you're a recruit- that's the reason why I offer you a deal "

" Recruit me? " Y/n repeated, as she slowly lowered her hands, " Then if I accept that deal- you can bring me out of this? "

" Yes! You see, we've had our eye on you for quite some time and we think you have a lot of potentials, you're survival skills and the ability you can manipulate gravity around you and also the temporal yours that can stop time, making you quite a celebrity back at headquarters " the woman further explained

Y/n's brows meet at the centre as she already started to weigh her decisions that will have consequences later on in her future. But if getting her out of this apocalyptic world whatever it takes she would immediately accept any offer just to survive.

" In return for five years of service, once your contract is done, you can retire to the time and place of your- "

" Okay deal, I accept your offer " Y/n immediately answered and walked forward to where the woman was standing.

Confused by the sudden answer, the woman looked at her with her eyebrows raised, " You're not going to ask me why can't I just undo this apocalypse? "

Y/n shakes her head, " No, I get it already, this is meant to happen "

" I am really impressed with how smart you are, Y/n " the woman giggled once more before holding out her hand, " I am the handler, nice to have you in our job "

~~~~~~~~~

(E/c) hues were suddenly snapped open as she felt her heart beat faster as she re-think her dream- more like her memory of her past. Y/n then blinked her eyes when she felt her heart begin to slow down, she then hear the two brothers communicate as Five was telling his past in the apocalypse.

" When's it supposed to happen? " Luther asked, " This.... Apocalypse "

" I can't give you the exact hour, but... from what I could gather we have four days left " Five answered

" Why didn't you say something sooner? "

" It wouldn't have mattered"

" Of course, it would " Luther answered confidently, " We could've banded together and helped you try to stop this thing "

Five looked up from the floor then at Luther, " For the record, you already tried "

" What do you mean? "

" I found all of you- your bodies"

" We die? " Luther asked for confirmation.

Five looked at Luther with a sorrowful look and pain in his eyes as he remembered their dead bodies scattered, " Horribly " he answered truthfully

" You were together- all four of you, " Five said, " Trying to stop whoever it was that ends the world "

Luther then looked at his brother confused, " Wait, Four? You mean- me, Allison, Diego and Klaus? Then where are Y/n and Vanya?- How do you know that? "

" I didn't see their bodies, all I saw was you're four bodies "

Five then pulled out something in his pocket and un reveals the glass eyeball, " This was clutched in your dead hand when I found you " he then showed the eyeball at Spaceboy before throwing it at him, " Must've ripped it out of their head right before you went down "

" Whose head? "

" Like I said, I don't know "

Luther then examined the eyeball and saw a serial number behind, " Well, there's a serial number on the back, think maybe you could try- "

" It's already a dead end, Luther " Y/n answered making the two males to looked at her, Y/n then reach the Boy's hand and held it to close it to her, Five gave her a small smile as he scooches closer to the female.

" That is just another hunk of glass " she added as she traced the veins of Five's hand.

Luther then hands over the eyeball back to Five, who grabs it by his right hand. Just then the door burst open, making the female jolt in surprise, all three siblings looked at the door and saw it was only Diego.

" Diego are you alright? " Y/n asked as she sat up from the bed, Diego turned at them as he hurried his steps.

" Piece of shit! Do you have any idea what you two just did? " Diego bellowed at them.

Y/n felt herself twitch by the sudden outburst of their brother and hid on Five's back. Luther then wrapped his arms around the Kraken and stops him from harming the two teens.

" Nope, let me- get your ape hands off of me! " Diego demanded as he tries to squirm his way out of Luther's arms.

Y/n used her ability and levitate Diego on Luther's hold as he tighten his hold on Diego, " We could do this as long as it takes you to calm down " Luther claimed

" Fine " Diego panted as he calms himself. Y/n stops her ability and Luther drops the Kraken on his feet.

" Now, wanna tell us what you're talkin' about? " Luther calmly asked

" Our brother and sister are been pretty busy since Five got back " Diego answered as he eyed his two siblings, "The both of them were in the middle of that shootout at Griddy's, and then at Gimble Brothers, after the guys in masks attacked the Academy, looking for him " he then pointed his finger at Five.

Y/n took a deep sigh as Five replied, " None of which is any of your concern "

" It is now, " Diego said before panting, " They just killed my friend "

Y/n then turned her head at Diego, " Who is it " she asked

The Kraken then turned to his sister, " Patch "

The female clicked her tongue before bringing her knuckles to her lips and then biting the skin, ' Every single person I knew is starting to get killed... first Mom, then now Patch.... An innocent woman who was just doing her job just got killed.... You won't stop till you got us back, huh? Fucking bitch '

Her eyes snapped back up and watch her sibling's reactions, she listens to their conversation.

" They work for my former employer- A woman called The Handler " Five announced, " She sent them... to stop me " he added

' And for me to be back at her side as a puppet ' Y/n added to her mind as she doesn't want her siblings, mostly Five to know her secret though she has to at least tell Five her secret or else he might get angry at her for not knowing her secret the moment they got reunited.

" Then, soon as Diego's friend got in their way, well, fair game " he further explain before letting out a sigh, the female placed a hand on his shoulder for comfort.

" And now they're my fair game " Diego replied as his eyes moist with tears, " And I'm gonna see to it they pay " he added before turning his back at them and beginning to walk towards the door.

Y/n turned her head at her brother, " That would be a mistake, Diego. They've killed people far more dangerous than you " she stated as she got up from the bed.

The Kraken briefly turned to look at his sister, " Yeah, we'll see about that " before turning back ahead.

" Don't be a dick when you're already been an asshole, Diego. Come back here and listen! " Y/n scoffed," and he just shut the door in my face, damn fuck " she rolled her eyes then crossed her arms against her chest.

" How do you know that they've killed people far more dangerous, Y/n? " Five asked as he looked at her.

'Damn mouth... His suspicious now... gotta think an excuse' she scolded herself before letting her mouth speak without even thinking, " Well based on how you explained it earlier and how we fought it back at the Academy, it just makes sense, that's all " she answered before taking a seat on the left side of the Boy.

" Former employer? What's this really about? " Luther asks as he throws a question and followed the next, " And don't give me any of this " it's none of your business" crap, all right? "

" It's really not your business, Luther- so don't include yourself " Y/n commented as she gives Spaceboy her famous resting bitch face.

" Well, it's a long story " Five warned before letting out a tired sigh.

Soon enough Five finished telling his story in the commission and how he was offered a job by the Handler as an assassin. Y/n then realized that Handler pick her first though she only got stuck in the future for 22 years- she was just 38 years old at that time. While Five spends 26 years in the future making him 42 at that time.

' Though the approach is the same, how we accept is very different- he was sceptical at the deal while I just accept it without further explanation since I was too eager to get out of the apocalypse. ' The female thought as she heard the Boy's story on how he met the Handler, ' So that means while I'm still at the commission, we have already met? '

Y/n then gaze at Five with a sad expression before looking back at the floor. Luther offer her a plate of sandwiches and a mug of coffee but she declines it by waving her hand gently while shaking her head, Five then took the offer and grabbed the plate before setting it on his right side and holding the mug of water.

" You're a hitman " Luther conclude

" Yes, " FIve answered before taking a sip of the coffee.

Luther looks uncomfortable yet curios, " Uh... I mean, you had a code, right? " he added before going back and taking a seat on the metal foldable chair, " You didn't kill just anybody "

Y/n looked up and raised her brow at her brother, ' Are you fucking serious now, Luther? Five just explained how the commission works- Eliminate the threat whoever it is, innocent or not... Doesn't he really don't get it? ' she thought to herself pissed off from the fact that for all of Five's explanations, Luther still is clueless about what it meant to be a hitman.

" No code " Five explained, he was rather calm to explain it to Luther to the simplest explanation for his monkey brain to understand, " We took out anyone who messed with the timeline "

" What about innocent people? " he added

" It was the only way I could get back here " Five answered as he looked up at him with a downcast expression.

" But that's murder " Luther argues this made Y/n to twitched her head up involuntarily as she loudly scoffed. Luther looked at her confused, " How old are you again? " she asked

" Uh.. 30? " Spaceboy replied

"You're old enough to understand the true world, Luther! Mon Dieu! Even a kid can already know that's how the real world works! " Y/n snapped and got up from the bed, " We're not fucking kids anymore! Get that inside your head! There's no such thing as good guys or bad guys. Just people going about their lives! That's how normal life works! " she clenched her fists, tried to calm herself, " But when the world ends, all those people die, including us- the family " before making her way towards the door.

" Where are you going? " the two males asked her

Without looking back nor stopping in her tracks the female answered, " I have to think- I'm taking walk, see you back at the Academy "

' I just really want to kill someone... ' The female thought, ' I wanna just stab someone repeatedly while laughing- fuck ' she then clicked her tongue before wrapping her hands on the doorknob, ' Dad says that he already extract the mercury out of my veins... But why now? Of all times- I still feel the effects of that damn chemical!? '

The two males watched as the female harshly slam close the door and walk away, Five looked down the floor, " She's right " he sighed earning Luther's attention back to him.

" Time changes everything, " The Boy said and Luther processed the things both teens just explained to him.

#five hargreeves x reader #number five x reader #the umbrella academy #tua x reader #x reader insert #five hargreeves x you #five hargreaves x reader #five hargreeves

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jojolymes · 2 years

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𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎; nine

࿔*:･ﾟix.

next: ࿔*:･ﾟx. | table of contents

"ZOMBIE HORSE?!" shouted Johnny as you tried your hardest not to look down the steep slope with your breath caught in your throat. "Gyro, is that thing really here?" Johnny searched for an answer in Gyro's swaying figure, "if we miss one step we'll fall down the valley!" You whimpered at the mere thought and shoved your head down against Thunderstruck's mane. Sharp winds whipped at your frame, threatening to rip the hat off your head, yet it remained stuck there, unmoving.

Gyro's heavy panting almost echoed through the canyon alongside the occasional piece of rock that reminded you of how high up you all were. Your nails were digging into your palms from just how tight you were gripping Thunder's reins and although it stung, you didn't dare let go. While you all continued your search amidst a terrifyingly thin strip of crumbling rock, Johnny looked between both you and Gyro— you paralyzed with fear and Gyro on the verge of collapse after getting his leg blown off.

"T-There it is!" Gyro managed to cry out, huffing every few seconds while all three of you stopped in front of an oddly carved mosaic. You peeked at the design from beneath the brim of your hat, grimacing at the sight of blood pooling under Valkyrie and Gyro. "The Zombie Horse is just a crappy mural of a wild horse with a wild face..." Gyro muttered, running his fingers over the lines that made up the face of the horse. After a few seconds of prodding, you and Johnny watched as Gyro pulled a tattered string.

"Either of you have any wire? Actually, this pin would work too. I'll connect it to this string..." While Gyro began sewing up his exploded leg, you gagged, turning away from the sight before any of your breakfast decided to resurface. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" screamed Johnny with wide eyes as you tried to block out the faint squelching coming from Gyro's wound. Thunderstruck huffed beneath you as some form of consolement but couldn't do much with Gyro's occasional terribly.

"The Zombie Horse can heal wounds," Gyro explained through pained gasps, "they left this string here so I can sew with it....the string can heal up to a certain degree...at least to the point of the fixing flesh that has been blown off..." Johnny's brows furrowed while he held himself back from strangling Gyro— though Johnny was sure it would only make you start panicking again— "What kind of logic is that?! You only sewed yourself up with that dirty string! That's not going to fix you!"

You shivered at the thought of an infected wound and you gagged again, moving your hands down to your mouth instead of around your ears. Johnny peered over at you from over his shoulder and sighed, looking back at Gyro while fidgeting with the hair near his eye. "You said that your father usually works in the field of medicine, right? Is it his technique?" Johnny asked exasperatedly as Gyro finally finished up sewing his skin shut. Slow Dancer backed up just enough for Valkyrie to adjust on the cliff's edge while Johnny kept muttering to himself.

On the other hand, you were still recovering from the thought of falling and just witnessing Gyro's botched leg after sewing it back together with something that seemed would infect rather than heal the wound. Thunderstruck huffed once more below you, trotting forward slightly to get your attention which worked just as intended. "Neither does your steel ball, but this is bigger! Something like a stand ability?" you heard Johnny say while all three of you continued through the valley.

"A...stand ability? What's that?"

Gyro and Johnny looked over their shoulders with wide eyes, almost as if they had forgotten you were there in the first place. You grimaced beneath the bandana that covered your face and were almost inclined to shove both of them down the side of the cliff had you not been too fearful for your own life. Their silence was almost deafening as Johnny and Gyro looked at each other. Johnny looked back at you, seemingly ready to explain but Gyro looked less than pleased at the idea of having to let you in on any of it.

"Don't worry about it," scoffed Gyro, pulling Valkyrie forward without another look at you or Johnny, "and no, Johnny. This is a gift from the king, just as the letter said. Besides my old man..he never writes letters!" A part of you felt for Gyro while you all rode on but a hatred had started getting rid of any empathy you felt for him. After rolling your eyes, you kept your gaze stuck to Thunder's mane until you had finally gotten to solid ground.

As you all rode through the desert, Gyro's leg slowly began to look much better, the string eventually mending into his skin. You didn't question how it worked— considering even if you asked, Gyro wouldn't let Johnny answer you let alone answer himself— and instead followed the two cowboys wordlessly. A map sat in Johnny's hand as you all rode on and now and then, he'd tell you and Gyro to turn towards a certain direction. Eventually, all three of you stopped at a waterhole just as the sun began its descent in the sky.

"Man! My legs feel real numb after that!" whined Gyro as he hopped off of Valkyrie, rubbing both his calves while Johnny spun off of Slow Dancer and you stumbled down from Thunderstruck. "Yeah, no shit. Your leg got blown up," retorted Johnny with a grimace as he reached for the bag that was still slumped on Slow Dancer. "Imagine how it's felt for me." You shook her head with a smile and grabbed the bag for Johnny, earning a scowl. "I could've done that myself." You winced at the look he gave you, fidgeting with your fingers as he sighed.

"Sorry...I s'ppose you don't know me well enough to know I don't like that crap," Johnny muttered as Gyro started a fire with some brush nearby, eyeing the two through his peripherals. A wave of relief washed over you but before you could say her own apologies, Gyro butted in. "If anything we don't know him well." Your face scrunched up at the sound of his irritating voice and you let out a huff, turning to grab your bag from Thunderstruck.

"We were pretty much strangers a few days ago so so-rry you don't know anything about me," you spat, freezing once you felt a glare from behind. Gyro. You bit down on your tongue, a bitter taste filling your mouth as you stood frozen in place. You didn't mean to come off as snarky. Now you were doomed— you'd be found by the hospital wagons in a desecrated state, most likely left with an imprint of Gyro's weapons all over your body. Just seeing those things in action made you uneasy about what would happen if you were hit by one.

There were hushed whispers between Gyro and Johnny (mostly on Gyro's ticked-off part) as your mind ran rampant, tears already starting to pool under your irises. Thunder was nudging your face, moving the hat just a bit higher on your forehead but not enough to cause any more panic. You wracked her terror-filled thoughts for an intelligible apology that would get you off the hook, not noticing Johnny tugging at the hem of your shirt until he pulled hard enough to send you stumbling over your feet.

"Jesus, Speedwagon," hissed Johnny as you looked away from him with burning cheeks and a slightly runny nose, "look...Gyro is being a dick. He'll come around eventually. How about you just sit down and tell us a bit about you? If it makes ya feel better, imagine you're only telling me." Your breath was caught in your throat for the millionth time as you shakily mustered out a nod, following after Johnny as he rolled over to Gyro's side around the crackling fire.

As you took your seat opposing Gyro, you felt his eyes shoot daggers into you, making you shift uncomfortably on top of the rock you sat on. Johnny looked between them, sighing as he rolled closer to Speedwagon, leaving Gyro to watch in disbelief. "I guess I'll start then," Johnny began with a honey-like Kentucky drawl that sent your face burning, "a few years back, when I could still use my legs, I was pretty well-known for racing. They used to call me Joekid. Pretty lame, huh?"

You took a sharp breath before shaking your head, "n-no! Not at all!" Johnny's chuckle made you freeze as he started up with his story once more, "anyways, I got pretty cocky and shit. Ended up getting shot at some point for it." He paused to tug at the back of his shirt, revealing a scar at the small of his bag. A grimace pulled at her lips as you unconsciously reached out to trace over it softly, making Johnny jolt in his spot. "Sorry!" you stammered, raising your hands to the side of her head with a burning complexion.

Johnny laughed, crinkles forming around his eyes as he leaned back in his wheelchair. "Didn't think ya'd be so interested in it," he smiled with pink ears, "still, I got shot. Woke up and couldn't feel jack shit in my legs. My career ended after that and history is history. I joined the race, met that douche over there, and now here we are." Gyro rolled his eyes at Johnny's choice of words but still looked pleased as he took a sip from his canteen.

"Now your turn."

You choked on your spit as both men stared you down, one with more 'murderous intent' than the other. With an awkward clearing of your throat, yoh sat up only to shrink back into yourseld at the sight of Gyros' irritated face. Johnny huffed and turned to you with a soft smile that reached his baby blue eyes. "We can try again tomorrow if ya'd-" "N-No! It's fine..." You sat stunned at your own outburst and cleared your throat once more, fidgeting with the knuckles on your hands.

"Um... well... I have a ton of brothers who entered the race over the years back when it was still in its development-like phases..." you began, looking between Johnny and Gyro every so often before returning a glance at your palms, "...things didn't always turn out too good and we ended up in some debt because of it. I guess you could say I was next in line for it but it was still a choice I willingly made..." You trailed off while wringing your hands in each other, avoiding eye contact.

"So that's it?" spat Gyro, making you let go of your hands in a bout of shock. You blinked owlishly at him from across the red and orange flickers of heat, missing the glare Johnny gave him. "I'm sorry? What do you mean 'that's it'?" Gyro looked away from you to roll his eyes and slinked off towards his sleeping bag as your hands curled into fists. Johnny sighed beside you and gave your shoulder a firm pat with a gaze that shouted apologies.

You could feel anger course through your veins as you stomped over to your sleeping bag, shoving yourself into it with a grimace. As much as you feared Gyro Zeppeli— and most other things— this fear was starting to sour into more anger. While the creatures of the night made their presence known, you shut your eyes tight and tried to brush away any rage. Fear was one thing but anger was something completely different. Something that could get you killed.

YOU JUST HOPED IT WOULD GO AWAY BY MORNING.

#palominosbr #steel ball run #sbr #jojo #jjba x reader #jojo part seven #johnny joestar x reader #gyro zeppeli x reader #hot pants x reader #diego brando x reader

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jiminrings · 3 years

Note

hi hi hannah hope you're doing good :D can i request something like jungkook x yn dancers / ballerina you know that mma black swan performance where jk lifted jimin looking so effortlessly i still can't get over it 🥴 pretty please also hope you recover quickly from the wisdom teeth !!!

pas de deux

pairing: jungkook x y/n

wordcount: 7k

glimpse: y/n’s a hopeless romantic who’s been pining over dance partner!jungkook for the past two years, the overwhelming Feeling Of Reality, and an appearance of a certain champion that wakes up koo the dummy :D

notes: pls lovie it hAUNTS my mind everyday </3 also thank you so much for the future well wishes!!! i’m making up for the next days that i’m gonna be absent bc of excruciating pain hee-hee

Jungkook, by all means, is the very definition of enrapturing.

There’s something so fluid about him that exceeds gracefulness when he’s dancing. Both in and out of the stage, it was a fixed spotlight atop his figure that never seemed to dim. He was a combination of everything, and when you take those variables away from him piece by piece, he doesn’t change.

Put him in the most worn-out hoodie that’s gray and tattered, and he’d be the brightest one in the room. Take out his jewelry and he’d still carry himself with elegance. Remove his favorite chunky shoes that he’s splurged on, and he’d still stand out the tallest.

Jungkook’s in fact so fluid that he’s managed to weasel himself into the tight spaces in the crevices of your mind, inhabiting it rent-free and you, the landlady of supposed mind, don’t even question his presence nor tax his presence there.

“Head in the game, Y/N.”

Coach Kim, seeming like every possible antagonist in everything you’ve ever watched, takes a rigid finger to flick into your forehead. You’ve been caught unguarded numerous times this week by your coach, and the frown you give is apparently not enough to tell him that your forehead absolutely does not want anything to do with him.

“Didn’t wanna interrupt Jungkook,” you mumble just loud enough for him to hear, looking at the boy who’s distanced from you and was doing his own thing.

He’s so immersed in himself, phone tucked to the waistband of his boxers instead of the pockets of his rather tight sweatpants, and he quotes “I’d rather shatter my own femur than cave in buying these stupid wireless earphones” in heated verbatim.

It meant his long hair in a ponytail, his truly wired earphones hooked and secured with his hoop earrings for them not to fall, busting out freestyle to what you could only imagine.

“That isn’t a part of your choreography.”

Namjoon only scoffs, gesturing to you who’s been standing on your feet doing nothing because you were all so busy checking out your dance partner.

He’s no stranger to the two of you, actually. He’s just only a couple years older and in fact, he’s been yours and Jungkook’s coach for the past two years. Namjoon’s too young to be a dad in his own opinion, but simply being around the two of you made him feel that he’s been a father forever.

What compelled him to dye his hair a dirty ash silver was when he saw two gray hairs from his head at the same day, immediately dipping into the salon the day after. Even got his hair longer and cut in a certain way to make him feel that no, seeing two gray hairs doesn’t equate to being bald the next day.

His vision’s not the clearest but he’s not resolutely blind to see that his student likes his other student. Has been and still is crushing on the other for the past two years, and normally that wouldn’t irk him because his students’ personal lives aren’t the things he manages, but this one just takes the cake because you need the lengthy attention span, and not for when Jungkook’s shirt lifts when he moves around fiercely.

So when Namjoon says that checking Jungkook out isn’t a part of your choreography, you make it your living wish to come bother him some more as his favorite student.

That’s still up for debate, even if Coach Kim never confirms and always denies, but you take your chance nonetheless.

“Exactly! Coach Kim, alright hear me out,” as soon as you were about to start another one of your pitches, he immediately groans. You’ve pitched business ideas at him left and right for one whole week after watching a singular episode of Start-Up, and it’s completely made you forget that you studied four years of dance, not business. He physically holds his hands over his ears, not being able to take it if you pitch one more time of opening a donut shop with him, when you tug at his arm with your whole body weight to stop him.

“But what if we let Jungkook choreograph this one out?”

Your genuine tone behind it, and even if it doesn’t take away that you were also genuine when you asked your coach to open up a shop of some sort with you, makes him stop in his tracks completely.

This one being the grand competition that practically everyone in the world of dance knows about, and that only few would be privy to even enter. This one being a competition that’s measured even to the smallest increments of a toe raised and rankings that would be changed even by just a falter of a smile. This one being an event that you and Jungkook got into in your first try, and an event to Namjoon that he’s been trying to get his dancers into for three consecutive years before the two of you came along.

Your pitch sounded absolutely absurd.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that."

Namjoon rolls his eyes and purses his lips, deciding that this is even worse than all your business pitches combined.

Everyone seems to forget his backstory of how he came to be though. Namjoon's foregone his dancing to do choreography instead because there was just something about directing that made him happier, the ability to take control instead of action soothing his burnout back from when he was a dancer.

Pointedly, he's become a champion at this very competition you and Jungkook are earnestly trying to win together. It was his last rodeo as Kim Namjoon the dancer, and nothing else. It was his graceful exit from the particular scene and he's back — actually back to the same place, but with you and Jungkook under his belt that actually have the chance to win.

“You’re the greatest in your field, though."

You've known your coach for two years likewise, and you'd be a fool to not know that he's absolutely pliable with sweet talk. He's let you off the hook from being late from time to time, because not only is he the one who's tardy most of the time, but because you have an apology croissant just for him.

What you're saying is not meant for ass-kissing's sake, because it's the genuine truth. Namjoon's the greatest in his field and it goes to show with his students that he mentors every week, and the two of you that he spends most of his time on.

You know he's listening, taking the time to wiggle your brows playfully before taking large leaps towards your coach.

“And Kook’s the best at his too.”

Coach Kim snorts but for an entirely different reason, not even contesting Jungkook's abilities, but rather for you downplaying yourself.

You've always had a nitpicking habit, one he's also possessed back when he was still just starting as a dancer. The thing that got him out of rut that being a little proud of yourself wouldn't do you as much harm.

“Not even gonna pat yourself in the back for that one? Just all the credit to him?” He hums as he turns to look at you, sweeping his hair back to put on his hat because his love for beanies dwindled ever since his recent dye job.

For the two years he's had you and Jungkook as students, he's come to known the very dynamic between the two of you.

It was rare for him to see a pair that barely even disagreed. He's had his fair share of dance partners and to put it bluntly, he's hated all of them.

But between you and Jungkook, the two of you just always seemed to fit. Your duo's complimentary and actually possessed what pairs lack often — chemistry.

Pressing foreheads and holding hands and raising calves are all basically the same thing, but doing those things with sincerity and the notion that you genuinely would do that even if it wasn't for a piece, is a whole other ball game.

Jungkook's moves were powerful and critical, precise to the point of total accuracy yet still delved into the territory that he's not performing it out of mastery. Your moves were elegant and entrancing, soft around the edges yet emotional at the core that you could convert anyone who doesn't have the slightest interest over dance.

Being the exact same person wasn't the key to being partners and the two of you fit Namjoon's criteria hauntingly well.

You seem to downplay yourself more than necessary, even if he knows what you're capable of.

He could say that surely because here you are, almost gushing while you blatantly point at Jungkook who doesn't even know what's going on because he's stuck in dancing.

“Deserves it. I mean look at him!”

You unknowingly grin when Jungkook breaks into a pirouette, muscle memory at this point when you turn back your glance to Coach Kim.

“Coach, I know I’m kinda overstepping it but I know that I’m also your favorite student!" you grin at the same time he scoffs, tip-toeing back to him again as if you're letting him in on a secret. “But how about we do it half and half? Lay out the structure, then Jungkook takes the lead of our dance and I’ll just follow.”

Namjoon follows your line of sight, now seeing Kook practically hump the floor yet no one comments on it, something that was casually sexual seeming so graceful, even to untrained eyes.

“Brains," you mumble as you push it even more and flick your coach on the forehead, one that would surely get your fired if you did it on anyone else, before glancing back to your partner — "and brawns."

Namjoon weighs his options, being confused that you've actually given him a good argument with just little words.

You did make sense, and surprisingly, he he no qualms about your preposition because after all, you do just always follow around Jungkook like a lost little puppy.

“I’ll think about it.”

He breaks the silence with a firm nod of his head, almost making you squeal as you resist the urge to smack a kiss on your coach's cheek, only reserving it for when you win gold.

“Please do. Jungkook would never fail us, y’know?”

You nod more than eagerly to convince your coach who doesn't need any more of it, once again turning your gaze to someone who takes the place in your heart for being the most enrapturing.

Jungkook would never fail you.

... \ ( ♡ ) / ...

“You’re cute.”

Because for some acute reason, not only did you manage to sleep last night at a reasonable time, but you also wake up before your alarm this morning. This wasn’t your first time being early, but it is the first time you’ve went in early out of your own accord, and not just because your coach wanted an early start.

Something’s felt weird all morning, and even if you aren’t the biggest advocate for fate, you’ve already made the decision that maybe the stars really are aligned for you because of the sight in front of you.

It’s Jungkook who arrived even earlier than you did, hair tucked behind his ears as he’s standing in the middle of the room.

Wearing a tank top, of course.

You’re used to seeing him in big and loose sweatshirts because they were the most comfortable. That one you’d agree on because additionally, he prefers the tighter-fitting tank tops when it’s dance cram season because they make him feel more composed and very professional. You did say share the same outlook over practice clothes, but that just launched you to buy the better, non-stained, non-two-year old and definitely more expensive tank tops all the way to sport bras.

It’s apparent that Jungkook’s sinfully toned and it’s not only his physique that catches you speechless, but also the way to how he looks irresistible sort of way.

“Yeah. You’re cute,” you mumble for good measure as you think about it again, wasting no time in dumping your duffel bag right next to his to get started.

“Thanks, buttercup.”

Jungkook doesn’t skip a beat letting your term of endearment roll out of his tongue, smiling to himself because his first interaction of the day was a compliment and it’s the early morning ego that makes him clench his bicep out of reflex. The name was born out of fondness when it was a day before competition and you’ve still showed up to practice, voice groggy and raspy while wearing the ugliest shade of green if he remembered how you promised you’d never wear that hideous of a shade to your deathbed.

“What’re we gonna do today?” you frown at how Coach Kim still isn’t here when you actually feel excited about rehearsing, routinely standing beside Kook and doing your own set of stretches.

“Dunno. Coach just said to stretch really good because it’d be strenuous.”

The word didn’t really sit right with you because you know you’d be sore the whole week, instinctively shuddering because it’d be unsurprisingly your hardest and most demanding routine ever, already feeling the pain in your muscles.

You’re too busy huffing under your breath that you don’t notice Jungkook who’s smiling at you through the mirror, the particular crack of your joints always making him crack up because it sounded so rough that it felt like it didn’t belong to you.

You’re probably too busy because you only take notice when Jungkook puts his hands snug on your waist, looking at you as you’ve just stretched upright from touching your toes.

It’s only tunnel vision as soon as you decipher the interruption in your stretches, your eyes that you’ve sworn were strained because you haven’t updated your prescription in a year suddenly becoming clear.

Are we about to kiss right now?

The nervousness and confusion is visibly evident in your face, manifesting into a shaky giggle as you try to swallow down that oh god, this would be your moment after two long years!

“W-what?”

Jungkook seems offended that you don’t manage to grasp the context he’s trapped you in, even going so far to playfully roll his eyes and dart around you in circles. It’s when he stops in front of you again, this time with a playful scoff and eager pats on his shoulder —

that you actually wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

“I’m no Kim Seokjin, but I think my shoulders are higher than the barre, don’t you think?”

Right. Totally not a kiss from someone you’ve been crushing on hardly. Totally just professional stretching and workplace teasing.

Kim Seokjin’s got to be Jungkook’s top idol when it comes to dance, having been enthralled in his talent even before he got the semblance of a mind that he wanted to get in the same field too. Seokjin’s a man full of power and grace, not scoped out by criteria because he is the criteria himself, already having been a powerhouse at his young age because he’s just got to be a few years older than Coach Kim, and Namjoon wasn’t ever far off from Jungkook’s age.

Jungkook’s merely insinuating that you stretch on him and out your foot on top of his shoulders that would never compare to his lord and savior Kim Seokjin’s, humbling himself as he doesn’t even bother to crouch because he knows your leg would reach that high anyways.

You comply wordlessly, repressing your feelings because you must be astronomically dumb to reach that far anyways, and that you don’t have a fighting chance with him.

Jungkook probably has a knack for surprising you because he leans his face a little when you stretch at your maximum, forehead pressed to your leg that was still hiked up on his shoulder.

“Mhmm. Your hair smells nice.”

It’s a sigh of relief that you didn’t notice you were holding, timid smile on your face as you try to hide your expression as much as you could.

“Thanks, bun.”

Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t because of his teeth but rather how high he jumped and how far his reach was when he leaped, knowing that you’d be doomed forever if Jungkook was your opponent instead of your partner.

He doesn’t even think twice at your nickname for him, pressing his nose to the center of your head like it was a normal occurrence that didn’t just make you tense up all of a sudden. “Never change your shampoo.”

You snort at his grave tone, switching to your other leg yet his gaze remains official. “What if I do? You never know what’s gonna go on sale, y’know.”

“I’ll hate you forever.”

You giggle to how he deadpans, eyes later turning worried because Jungkook sounded that he was only half-joking.

“Alright, alright. No need for that.”

You pull from him quickly, making a mental note that your shampoo is the most important thing to your possession up to date and probably ever. It makes you wince to think that your shampoo’s custom-made and you’ve only gotten it with a massive discount code, and as much as it was effective, it was also much more expensive.

There’s no time to think about your purple-colored, pear and vanilla-scented shampoo you have at home because Coach Kim appears out of nowhere, clapping his hands together and you try to recall if he’s been here longer than your hair product-overthinking session.

He’s easily gotten both your attention because after all, it’s only the two of you he’d be focusing on until the competition. Namjoon’s more than glad to not teach the introduction to dance to five-year olds who don’t exactly have the best attention span.

“I thought about it long and hard the night before and-...” he pauses to look at you, Jungkook having his cheeks puffed like a goldfish confused of its existence, not wanting to be left out with the glances.

Namjoon can’t believe it either that he’s saying this, chest puffing out against the confines of his navy blue sweater.

“Let’s do a split.”

He says it so abruptly that you gasp, and Jungkook, who’s so afraid of being left out that his next best bet was to pretend to know what was being insinuated, legs about to spread out because he was going to descend into a literal front split that you had to hold his bicep firmly to stop him.

Coach Kim resists the urge to laugh, scratching at his eyebrow with his pinky as he strives to make things clearer.

“I mean the choreography, Jungkook. Half of my concept, half of yours.”

There’s a beat of silence, exchanging your glances between Coach Kim and Jungkook that you feel tense even if you aren’t directly involved into the presented scenario, only being broken when your partner lets out a belated squeal from the back of his throat.

“You’d let me do that?!” he wastes no time into taking his coach in for a hug, the older guy clearly being surprised but later melts into the sincerity of his student’s excitement.

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t muck it up.”

He tries to wave off Jungkook because the hug is clearly getting too long now, exaggerating with how he irons out the wrinkles in his sweater but the dancer doesn’t mind at all, still a toothy grin on his face. “You and Y/N are one on-stage, okay? Shadows to each other. Don’t let the other fall.”

Jungkook has a flair for the dramatic, but in controlled amounts. Likes incorporating things that don’t belong until they’re adept for the scene naturally, and the moves he has in mind (you’re judging from what he busts out in freestyle) are admittedly far from being the easiest.

“Coach, I make your studio a gun show every time I’m here.”

You cackle at the the same time Coach Kim groans, the both of you amused at Jungkook’s bit when he flexes his arms and goes as far as to imitate a certain opponent you once had in a competition, Coach Kim being the one to tap out early because he’s absolutely lost it.

Jungkook grins at you as his coach’s still screeching like a hyena and the two of you would have to calm him down before he coughs out a lung just by laughing.

“Besides, I’d never let you fall.”

You seem more than happy and comforted to have heard it from him, warmth spreading all the way to your toes before Jungkook makes the moment his in his own fashion.

“Just don’t make funny faces at me when you’re in the air.”

... \ ( ♡ ) / ...

You’ve had a lot to think about in the past hour by yourself.

Coming to the studio early and having an actually healthy sleeping pattern’s become a habit the past week, and you indulge in the form of routine you have before it’s the last two weeks of practice for the competition, no doubt in the fact that you’d be stressed more than ever.

It doesn’t help that Coach Kim’s running five minutes late, and the moment he steps into his own studio is when he felt that something was wrong.

“Where’s Jungkook?”

The question beats you too because you’ve been wondering that for the past hour, because just last night he’s sent you a link to a tweet that reminded him of you, and now he’s suddenly 65 minutes late to practice which has never happened before.

Your brows furrow in confusion, holding out your phone for Coach Kim to see all your one-sided texts.

“Dunno. Is your message delivered?”

That alone is enough to make Namjoon sit on the floor to both text Jungkook and calm down his habit of nervous pacing.

Jungkook, irritatingly, is one step ahead.

His location’s turned off and so is his phone, tucking it to the bottom of his backpack instead in his pocket because he knows that he won’t be able to take the guilt for whatever he’s doing right now.

Because if his location was turned on, then you’d know he’s in the studio.

Not his coach’s studio, though.

The Min Studio.

The Min Studio being Min Yoongi’s, the same dancer from the roster where Namjoon came from. It’d be an understatement to say that Yoongi was averagely-talented because he’s truly much more than that.

Jungkook’s seen clips here and there of his own coach, but never an abundance of it like he did with Yoongi’s. Yoongi was almost as fluid as he was and he carried himself with emotion through every move.

He’s the same path that Namjoon did from being a dancer to a choreographer, but only in a grave last-option decision because of a shoulder injury that he knew would alter the way he’d dance forever.

Despite that, Jungkook respects Yoongi all the same.

All that Jungkook meant to do this early morning was to do his grocery run, and by grocery run he meant getting any household food he could scour at a convenience store, then calling it a day.

He’s in the middle of looking for bread that wouldn’t experience two days from now until someone so poshly-dressed stood beside him, seemingly doing the same as he’s engrossed at looking bread.

He pays no mind to that, and in fact, Jungkook’s eyes widens because the dude was probably doing the same he was and he might get the only batch of bread that had the furthest expiration date, slightly quickening his pace of skimming his hands through the shelf.

“Hey, I know you! You’re the one who did the 32 Fouettes on stage, right?”

Jungkook freezes because as he recalls, the last time he did 32 Fouettes from Swan Lake was three years ago, and the fact that this stranger who he just thought was getting bread is suddenly talking to him, and he solidifies even more because the voice most certainly didn’t belong neither to your or Coach Kim.

It’s Jung Hoseok, he realizes —Yoongi’s assistant choreographer and caster.

And one of the judges from three years ago who’s seen his routine, including the 32 Fouettes, from the competition that made Namjoon take him under his wing.

“I am, yeah.”

He sheepishly bows in realization, the odd turn of events making him lose his focus on what he came for originally and that he was just one row away from finding the bread with the furthest expiration date that he needed.

Hoseok’s smiling at him brightly, looking dapper in a convenience store at 5 AM in the morning as he doesn’t even continue to pretend looking around the shelves, digging into his pocket and too quickly being able to find a company card.

“Yoongi wants to get to know you better.”

Jungkook doesn’t question the rarity nor oddity of the situation, being left alone with a pat on his shoulder that he rethinks if this situation ever even happened at all. He clearly knows what Hoseok meant when he said Min Yoongi wanted to get to know him better.

Whether it’s a stroke of luck or forced circumstance, he just ponders looking at the calling card and if he wasn’t so engrossed, then he’d be able to know that he was about to run late.

It was definitely a forced circumstance because Hoseok totally tailed him, and Yoongi’s been on his ass ever since when he recalled all of a sudden about the boy who did the fouettes and how Hoseok made the mistake of not casting him right after he won gold.

Jungkook and his belief for destiny is what compelled him to leave his groceries on the floor and run after Hoseok who was just about to get into his car, a hesitant smile on his face before explaining, and the caster couldn’t be any more pleased because he didn’t think that it would work this easy.

And here he is. Doing a one-on-one audition in front of Min Yoongi.

He’s severely under-prepared because he didn’t wake up this morning and immediately think that this would be happening. He’s even whispered it to Hoseok himself who just waved him away, saying that it wouldn’t matter either way.

The music starts and Jungkook forgets for a second that Yoongi’s sitting in front of him instead of Coach Kim and you, going freestyle as to what Yoongi insisted upon instead one of his past routines that’s still committed to memory.

Hoseok’s noisily clapping and that’s what gets Jungkook back down from the high that he’s just gotten, back to reality where Yoongi’s standing in front of him.

“What warmer do you want?” he asks with no introduction, putting the younger boy one on the spot because his hands are outstretched with a telling look on his face. “The black one or the grey one?”

You’ve spent your whole day without Jungkook and only under the instructions of Coach Kim, one who still feels ultimately puzzled as the routine feels incomplete because it was supposed to be a pair that performs it.

Jungkook, however, goes to sleep at peace. He’s too in peace to even remember that his phone’s still turned off, and only remembers it by the day after when he wakes up.

It was his first day that he estimates, despite not being bound to a contract or anything of the sort.

There’s only eases when he enters the lavish studio with the high ceilings. Admittedly, it’s much better than The RM Lab and whatever it could be. There’s a table by the corner for free snacks and not just a beat-up coffee maker from home. There’s an actual closet instead of an exposed closet rack. The mirrors are giant and even have an option to light up, instead of the ones that you had to clean vigorously after every session for it look somewhat pristine.

Jungkook lists and lists the differences in his head, until suddenly, he doesn’t feel any remorse leaving your messages delivered, and putting you on silent.

... \ ( ♡ ) / ...

You should’ve known.

It’s two days later when Jungkook comes back to the studio, but with finality in his steps and not the positive kind that would’ve made you leap towards him.

Coach Kim’s been actually worried sick, and he shoots straight up into the air when the usual third figure entered his studio and stops himself from initiating a hug this time.

Jungkook still looks dashing, far from the worried looks you’ve been carrying for the past days he’s been absent and the times you’d dropped by his apartment with no one to answer the door.

His duffel’s slung right on his arm and devoid of his usual relaxed sweater he’d come into practice with, donning an oversized black shirt instead.

Namjoon tries to take in stride with relief that his student’s already returned, but the relief quickly turns sour when he squints — seeing that the familiar black shirt Jungkook’s wearing carries the same black embroidering by the chest, being able to see it underneath the shift of lights.

The Min Studio.

Namjoon’s caught on earlier before Jungkook could open, a sense of regret in the latter that turns away from who used to be his coach’s gaze to look at the floor that’s a long shot away compared to the studio he’s been coming into lately.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

You’re panicking by yourself, looking even more distraught when Coach Kim turns his back and touches his nape when he’d only be doing that when he’s extremely stressed when neither of you could get a move right. You’re left in the dark yet again that makes you yank at the older guy, his lazy glance back to Jungkook’s shirt giving you a hint.

It can’t be.

“But it’s always been us.”

The panic in your voice is clearly unsettling, and the selfish part of you is just haphazardly clawing at your throat. You can’t even discern if it is selfish, that much you want to warrant yourself.

Jungkook looks the plainest that he could ever be, indifferent to how your voice wavers.

“This is the biggest competition ever, Jungkook! It would mean a lot to win and even entering it is a victory within itself. We already have a routine! You made it!”

The entire studio’s silent with only the hum of the airconditioning making up the white noise, but you think otherwise because your heart’s drumming in your ears and no one makes a single move.

Namjoon stays silent because this is not about claims on choreo, but rather betrayal. For the past two years has he had Jungkook underneath his care and he’s even looked at him as a younger brother. When he didn’t come to practice was the equivalent of him running away from home, and this being the equivalent of the arc that Jungkook wanted nothing to do with him as he starts afresh in another setting.

You find yourself inching towards Jungkook, lip trembling to try and tug at him like you usually would.

“We’re one. Jungkook, please-“

“We’re not one, Y/N. We’ve never been one.”

You’ve hit the fuse that made Jungkook finally speak, yet you backtrack almost as quickly because he’s already spilling words you’ve never wanted to hear.

“I can’t always be with you! It can’t always be us! The reason I look better on stage is because I’m partnered with you. You’re sloppy! And your movements aren’t even precise!” he lists off one by one like he did with the differences the two studios boasted, chest heaving and nostrils flaring because he’s succumbed into anger, “and I don’t even know why Coach even took you in the first place.”

You’re standing parallel to him like you would for every standing position, and you regret that you’ve ever come this close to him.

You’re frozen and trembling in your spot while Coach Kim runs on autopilot, an accusing finger pointed right at Jungkook for the first time.

“Take that back right now, kid.”

Namjoon’s beyond offended for you on your behalf because you’re the furthest thing from what Jungkook paints you out to be. Jungkook, on the other hand, feels so ridiculed with Namjoon’s addressal for him because he knows that he hates it the most.

“I’m better off when I’m not here.”

He only ignores the bile in his throat, giving an equally-harsh glare to Namjoon who’s telling him that he’s severely getting out of line, and Jungkook just wants to get the last word out.

“I’m better off without you.”

It’s when you break down right after he leaves, the first time Coach Kim hears your cries and it sounds the most painful than any physical injury you’ve ever had in his vicinity, hurting more than sprained ankles and torn ligaments.

You’ve been practicing your part of the routine alone in hopes that you could just iron it out when Jungkook shows up in class one day, and he did. Coach Kim bears witness to your hardships for the past two years, and this is the only time that he doesn’t know how to console his student — much more when you mumble in between sobs when you parrot the hurtful words.

“Better off without me.”

... \ ( ♡ ) / ...

This was somehow torture.

You’ve begged and begged Coach Kim to back out of the competition entirely. You’re by yourself and performing what was supposed to be a duo routine is completely pointless, not to mention disqualifying.

You’ve completed your practice for the sake of it, even until you’re alone for the sake of getting your mind out over what transpired and to appease Coach Kim because he needed the distraction, but the one time you plead to back out is when he insistently disagrees.

He couldn’t give you an explanation to why he’s still adamant coming into the competition, and even if he had one, he’s keeping it to himself. Too adamant to the point that he’s talked you into coming with him, warmer on with your outfit in two, yet without the assurance that you’d even perform.

Dropping out is relatively easy, if ever. He’d just talk to one of the staff members, say the excuse of either a family emergency or an injury to save face, and your name would be ticked off the list easily compared to the effort you’ve had to make to even be listed there.

Jungkook doesn’t even know why he’s here, honestly. By the time he transferred was absolutely too late, and the competition wasn’t accepting any more competitors.

It was supposed to be closed and he was only supposed to be here with entirely different people.

He’s anxious, to be honest, and talking to Hoseok about it doesn’t help even in the slightest bit because he barely looks up at him, before proceeding to drink his coffee and type on his phone.

“Hmm. You’d get your number later. Yoongi’s just gonna drop a couple of words later and you’ll get your sticker.”

Normally, Namjoon would be extremely attentive in situations like these. The whole ten miles would’ve been covered even before the competition, and he would’ve gotten a cutely laid-out plan of action in a folder already, everything from the panel of judges to the competitors and exact wordings for the routine he’d be doing.

Jungkook does not have a single clue. Where was he even enrolled in? Would it be improv? He’d be competing individually for sure, right?

He’s used to carrying the weight of someone, someone being you. Individual competitions now sounded so daunting and lonesome to his ears, because now that he realizes, he doesn’t know anyone well enough in Yoongi’s team to trust them to become his partner.

He’s never really been signed into a contract either, and in the even that he gets entered into a competition, which name would be mentioned?

Fuck, this is absolutely the biggest competition ever and he wants to find you and Namjoon, but most especially you, for a sense of familiarity in something so vast.

Jungkook just only manages to process the situation he’s put everyone in, only dawning in him now how big of a clusterfuck he is that an all-familiar knot’s starting to form on his throat.

He manages to keep looking and looking until he spots you, although not only accompanied by Namjoon but-

Kim Seokjin?

Your eyes widen comically when you look to see who’s standing beside you, mouth slightly hanging open at the bluntness of the situation, but Coach Kim only stands beside you perplexed yet not surprised.

“Sorry. Couldn’t seem to stop myself but by any chance, you’re the one who did the cover of my contemporary, right?”

Your eyes feel like bulging out, and Seokjin eases you with an amused chuckle that surprisingly did the job of calming you down.

In all honesty is he curious, because his routine-checking of searching himself up landed him to a video of you — it was a rendition of his own routine you’ve completely made your own with your touch, and Jin’s never been floored for a long time to the point that he had difficulty sleeping that night.

That was merely four months ago, and he just happened to spot someone so familiar within a sea of faces that curiosity’s got the best of him, and he’s the one who’s fanboying over someone.

Jungkook sees you that he’s sputtering out of thin air, and the both of you are sputtering for different reasons and out of nowhere, the moment Jin leaves is when he gets replaced by someone you certainly didn’t expect seeing.

Namjoon spots him first and he immediately scowls, lips setting in a straight line before loudly huffing. Before you could even ask him was wrong though, your train of thought crashes the moment someone pipes in almost nervously.

“I-I brought my costume!”

“Why would you?”

Coach Kim snaps as quick, his student’s face falling yet he doesn’t have it in him to feel guilty over his harshness.

Jungkook can’t even let the words tumble out of his mouth because he’s ashamed, really. It was an instinct to do what he’s been doing for the past two years; a force of habit he never really wanted to leave in the first place.

You make yourself as small as you could, detaching yourself from the scene completely and not even telling Coach Kim where he could find you.

“Let me do this, please. Let us do this. Let me make you proud. Let me put your name on the screen, coach,” he scrambles for the words the moment his coach looked disinterested, hands clasped as he tries to block his exits. “Won’t let you down.”

Namjoon momentarily softens as quick as butter does from the chiller, but he remembers to bring himself back to his senses because not everything should be followed through as quickly.

“Not me who needs the promise.”

He shrugs carelessly, not having to look behind him because he knows that his student’s trailing him behind anyways.

“Y’already let Y/N down, y’know.”

Jungkook frowns at the reminder and it only settles in him that what he both said and did are clearly low blows and aren’t true at all.

“Remember, kid, she’s just doing this for the competition.”

Namjoon already knows within himself that the moment you excused yourself, it was partly to destress but to mostly slide into your costume. He knows your passion over emotion, and even something as scarring as what happened to you just a few days ago still wasn’t enough to break down your will to perform and be done with it.

Jungkook’s sins aren’t absolved — that much he knows.

He knows it because backstage, you stand farther from him than you needed to. You don’t have a final run-through over the routine, and you felt that your rehearsals with him before he left, should be enough. You’re silent and you’re not nervously babbling to him. You’re not comforting each other.

You aren’t jittery, but Jungkook is for the first time.

“Do you trust me?”

He asks, unsure of an answer as he looks at you who’s standing on your feet away from him.

“Do I have a choice?”

Your tone was soft yet cold, and it’s another reminder for Jungkook how much he’s fucked up. He only bites his lip softly, twiddling his fingers as he’s trying to catch your gaze before you look away again.

“Please trust me.”

The tapping of the mic and the appearance of a staff member are all-telling happenings that the two of you are bound to perform in the soonest, and Jungkook shoots straight up while he tries to catch his breath.

“Do you trust me?”

He repeats his question again, eyes about to start stinging if he doesn’t blink rapidly soon.

You look at him as the dancer, one who’s held your waist more than a dozen of times. He’s the one who literally picks you up from your feet and throws you around like a ragdoll, but with the firmest holds and assuring words. Jungkook, the dancer, who lets your borrow his kneepads and massages your feet after rehearsals and hairsprays your hair into place.

The ninety-nine times he carries you, and the one time that he lets you fall.

“I do.”

It’s a silent confession before the music plays and the two of you walk in, no longer hostile and heavy with each other, but instead the partners that you needed to be.

The music plays and all worries ease, water remaining under the bridge as emotions pour out more than genuinely than they needed to be.

If this can no longer resonate, no longer make my heart vibrate

Jungkook hits every note perfectly as if it was muscle memory. No tension in his muscles and no hesitance in his steps evident from the way he moves. It’s as if he was born to play this routine and this routine only.

You’re fluid with your gestures yet even more concise with the swan that you portray, unwavering yet specific, and the audience can’t even remember what this song was before they saw you.

Jungkook looks at your visage and thinks of nothing but peace, completely transparent as to what he feels on how he moves that this routine felt like it wasn’t planned nor taught.

But what if the moment’s right now?

You launch yourself into a high kick, shifting to arabesque as Jungkook turns you through a short-live promenade before lifting and spinning you thrice through the air; hold firm, heart steady.

Pas de deux.

The moment it ends is when everyone’s collectively emotional, sucked up into the tenderness of their feelings that they only burst up when the music ends and the curtains start to close, uproarious clapping and cheering being heard even if you’re shielded away from them as it only continues and grows in volume.

Jungkook grips your face and kisses you, hands shaky as he holds you in the fear of losing you if he even moves one bit.

You’re looking up at him with the same curiosity he did for you, roles reversed because it’s him who’s falling for you now, only hoping that you haven’t stopped.

You feel the slightest of pulls in your heart, softening at the edges until it isn’t cold to the touch with how he’s looking at you like you’re the only one underneath the spotlight.

“Won’t let you fall.”

#i think this is my favorite fic y'all fEEDBACK PLS AND THANK YOU :D im so glad it's finished #jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook imagine #jungkook imagines #jungkook drabble #jungkook drabbles #jungkook oneshot #jungkook oneshots #jungkook au #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #jungkook fic rec #jungkook fic recs #jungkook masterlist #pas de deux

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misterewrites · 3 years

Text

Intro to.....????

Hello everyone! Been awhile. It's been busy and really hot for me so it's hard for me to sit down to write sometimes.

But it's here!

E here with the next chapter and the final intro character chapter! The intro chapters were supposed to introduce everyone to the main and important characters of the story, who will be driving the main plots and stories though sometimes i might use new characters or different background characters. So beyond this chapter will be more worldbuilding, story arcs and oneshots. just stories about this world and its characters. I might even use some of my friends ocs i accidentally convinced them to make for my world. It was so much fun!

Alright that's it for me! Stay safe, wash your hands, wear your masks, take care of your loved ones, get vaccinated if you can, push to release the vaccine worldwide and have a great week! Enjoy! feel free to leave likes, feedback *I love feedback and comments even if it's just a line you liked or a scene you found awesome or funny* reblogs and tell your friends! Promoting myself still feels weird haha. E is out! Byeeeeee

If you want an easier time to read the story and since I’ve been shadow banned from tumblr for like ever now, here’s the newest chapter on ao3 right over here!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30599756/chapters/82583164

If you are interested in my work and want to read from the beginning check it right here https://archiveofourown.org/works/30599756/chapters/75486005

Interested in my full catalog? https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrE42/works

Summary: Jackdaw is a powerful crime lord in the magical side of Newton Haven. He is feared more than respected and he doesn't care who he has to crush to accomplish his goals. So when his lucrative club is burned to the ground with his guards piled neatly outside, battered broken but alive, he takes it personally. Of course who is crazy enough to burn down a club of a notoriously dangerous crimeboss? A mercenary paid to do so.

Obviously.

----------

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

The sound of footsteps pacing back and forth thundered throughout the silent room.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

No one said anything. No one could say anything given the disastrous failure of the night. It hadn’t mattered if they were physically present at the site of offense or that they were scattered across town in one of many locations vital to the boss’s business: Someone hit them and the boss was itching to hit back.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

“Alright” A voice spoke up, smooth yet cold.

The room was already quiet but now the air filled with a frighten tension.

The boss whirled around from the massive window he’d been staring out of, eyes narrowing on the defeated group of guards who averted their gaze from his.

The few still conscious were in varying states of dishevel and injured: Broke bones, nasty bruises, clothing ruffled and torn in places. Not a single one had gone unscratched from the assault on the club earlier that night.

Jackdaw was not pleased.

No one in the room knew much about their boss despite devoting their lives to his cause: He was in his mid 30’s, his nose uneven after being broken in a fight though no one could agree what he had been fighting. Long wavy raven black hair ran down his shoulders while his dark brown eyes glanced about, icy and piercing.

“I’m a little confused.” Jackdaw said with a menacing drawl as he approached the closest guard “Mind answering a few for me?”

The guard nodded shakily.

Jackdaw smiled, patting the guard’s cheek in a mocking manner “Good, good. Now let me paint the picture: My club is currently a smoky, charred corpse of its former self. Yes?”

The guard gave another timid nod.

Jackdaw puckered his lips thoughtfully “Okay, okay. How many guards on duty?”

“8.” The guard murmured fearfully.

“Okay. How many standing?”

The guard shot a nervous glance to the other three. They found the floor more interesting.

“F-four.”

Crack!

The guard’s limp body tumbled backwards and laid still on the ground.

Jackdaw flexed his fingers “Wrong! I count three. You!”

The next in line flinched but stared their boss in the face “Sir?”

“Since that one.” Jackdaw lazily motioned to the unconscious man “is sleeping on the job, you tell me what happened.”

“O-okay.” The next in line mumbled “Well the night started same as any other….”

----------

The Gray Waves nightclub brought in a decent crowd for a weekday: Dozen or so people lost in the dim shadows with only a disorienting array of ever changing lights for company. Drinks served and the booming, thundering sounds of music set the chaotic mood clubs thrived on.

Nice peaceful night.

Floyd, the current storyteller, had been watching from the second floor landing when he noticed the gathering of guards below. The eight guards on duty were often out and about performing their different duties ranging from gate keeping the door to making sure nothing disturbed the vibe of the club. The fact five of his coworkers were huddled together should’ve been the first red flag.

The group talked in hushed tones despite the deafening bass and techno music the DJ’s speakers blared out. Once or twice, someone glanced to the far end of the club. Floyd looked and found the source of meeting.

Someone in their forties was loudly drinking at the counter tucked in the shadowy part of the club: It was impossible to tell who they were from this distance but they clearly were enjoying themselves: Head tiled back with messy, wavy salt and pepper hair. They gestured to the bartender (A wonderful woman named Carolyn who unfortunately had school debt to pay off and mob work was the best paying.) excitedly as their drink spilled onto the floor. They wore a large, tattered dark green trench coat that had seen better decades with faded worn out blue jeans. Their black boots were caked with grime and dirt that dirtied the floor. The only thing remotely new was their black t-shirt with some words in white font.

Floyd understood what the problem was: Clubs thrived on their popularity and image. People wanted to feel like they were special, all access stars to the hottest place in the city. With such a reputation came a mighty need to uphold said rep. No offense to whoever was having fun over there but with that look, it might send the wrong message and no amount of cash would ever change that.

Evidently a plan was reached as the meeting broke up. Two guards remained behind, returning to watching the room as the pit boss made his way over to the hapless customer, flanked with back up.

It was oddly satisfying watching the pit boss work: He gracefully slid in and out of crowds, slipping through the lost dancers like a snake treading through water. He motioned to the others to wait then made his way to the person.

The person was singing something at the top of his lungs. Drink, clink or something like that. Maybe it was the song playing at the time but Floyd hadn’t been paying attention to that at the time.

Trench Coat slipped Carolyn something and she laid a bottle of alcohol on the counter beside them: Vermouth? Absente? Vodka? One of those probably.

She nodded gratefully and disappeared into the back.

Floyd frowned at the red flag number two he had just seen: Carolyn was a pretty woman and was told more or less to just do as the customer asked be it answering questions or a reasonable request that wasn’t too out of the ordinary. Of course this was with the strict rule of not to leave the counter unattended.

At the time Floyd thought it was weird, not yet realizing what was about to unfold.

The person poured the bottle directly into their mouth, shaking their body to the catchy beat poorly. Whoever they were could not dance to save their life.

The pit boss, Malcolm, closed the distance between himself and his prey. He snuck closer and closer, the unaware customer too lost in their antics to noticed. Malcolm reached out for their shoulder and…

The thud was loud enough to cut through the noisy club and got the attention of everyone present.

Before Malcolm could even tighten his grip, the person struck: They whirled around, grabbing Malcolm’s head and smashing it into the counter. As Malcolm sunk to the floor, limp and unmoving, the person turned to shoot a smug grin towards the guards.

“I’m on the floor, floor! I love to dance!” They sang, one hand outstretched to the sky, the other gripping the bottle upside and draining its contents onto the counter.

The back up drew their weapons, standard issue nightsticks, and made their way forward.

“So give me more, more, till I can’t stand.”

They emptied the bottle, their green eyes never leaving the approaching guards.

“Get on the floor, floor, like it’s your last chance.”

They chucked the empty bottle into the wall of drinks, broken glass and different alcoholic drinks spilling onto the floor and mixing together.

“If you want more, more, then here I am!”

They pulled a match from within their coat pocket and lit it with the backside of their boot. Without looking, they threw the match over their shoulder and smiled as a raging flame broke out behind them.

The club goers were slow to realize what was going on but the remaining guards, Floyd included, mobilized to action.

Before anyone could react, however, an unexpected shrill shrieked throughout the building: The fire alarm designed to be the most annoying and loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

Even though it had been a slow night and only a dozen or so people were here, the customers panicked with a surge of three times that number.

Screams and yells filled the air as bodies shuffled about in a mad dash. The guards were thrown about, tossed this way and that while the lights, alarm and music worked together to confuse everyone.

Luckily the club was deserted within moments, leaving only security and the troublemaker.

The person hadn’t moved an inch despite the increasingly raging blaze behind them.

The back up pair approached carefully, unsure what this person was capable of.

All of them really had no idea.

The person raised their hand to the sky, belting with full force “LET’S DO THIS ONE MORE TIME!”

Without warning, silence and darkness filled the club: The fire alarm and music died suddenly. The lights followed a moment later but the raging flames, growing hungrily, remained. Floyd’s eyes watered with a sharp pain, the stuffy air and sudden shift in lighting too much for him

Floyd paused his story, uneasy growing at the sight of Jackdaw’s tightened jaw. The poor lad could actually see the veins pulsing with barely contained rage on his boss’s forehead.

“And why did the power go out?” Jackdaw asked through clenched teeth “No one was watching the power? Or the fusebox? Not a single person was guarding what I pay them to guard?”

Floyd remained silent, unsure how to answer that. He was just one of the lower rank and file guards: He got told what to do and he did it.

“Well? I’m waiting Floyd my boy! Why did the power go out?”

Floyd felt the beads of sweat run down his neck.

“Umm sir?”

Floyd nearly collapsed as one of Jackdaw’s techies nervously stepped forward, a loaded video on a tablet in hand.

Jackdaw blew a loose strain of hair out of his face and took a moment to slick back his hair. The vain gesture was enough to allow him to regain some level of composure as he snatched the tablet from the techie. With a grunt, he pressed play.

The video was short: It was a camera feed set up to watch over the fusebox to prevent tampering. Two guards were gesturing to the box, idly chatting with somebody in a red jumpsuit with a clipboard in one hand and a toolbox in the other. The back of uniform had the words “Newton Haven City Maintenance” scrawled across it in some rather hard to read font. The guards laughed out loud, jokingly patting the stranger’s shoulder before leaving frame. The city worker opened the fusebox and began tinkering without anyone stopping him.

The tablet crunched nosily as Jackdaw’s grip sent a ripple of cracks across the screen.

He turned to the techie.

“It was a routine check up.” the techie sputtered out “Our guards called it in this afternoon. Said there was an official letter with stamps and signatures and everything!”

“Did you check with me?” Jackdaw snarled “Because I pay the city specifically so they don’t send anyone to the club. Because of my illegal business practices that I perform there.”

Floyd could see the techie’s shoulder slump, whispering quietly “You were in a meeting….”

Jackdaw growled furiously but returned his attention to the nearly broken tablet.

It hadn’t taken more than a few minutes for the mysterious city maintenance worker to finish. They slammed the fusebox closed, doing a little jig before checking the contents of their toolbox and went on their merry little way.

Jackdaw’s blood froze as the figure gave a cheeky wink to the camera, knowing exactly where it was despite the magical wards in place to keep it invisible.

“Savant.”

An eerie emptiness replaced the hostility in the room.

The fight disappeared out of Jackdaw, leaving only an intense sense of dread and paranoia.

All this was lost on Floyd, who saw the troublemaker’s face and couldn’t help but blurt out “That’s them! The one who beat up Malcolm and burned the club down!”

Jackdaw chuckled darkly “Oh. Oh this makes sense. No one wonder you all get your ass kicked six ways to Sunday. Someone sic’d Savant on me. Ya’ll never had a chance against them.”

Floyd shuddered, the memory of how brutal and efficient Savant had been against them: Grown men dragged kicking and screaming into the shadows, the crunchy noises of bones broken, bodies falling down and yells stopped mid-shout. He still remembered Savant standing over him, nightstick in hand, whistling cheerfully as they brought down the weapon and sent him into unconsciousness.

“Alright!” Jackdaw clapped his hands “Lock it down!”

Everyone glanced towards one another, unsure what exactly the boss meant.

“LOCK IT DOWN!” the snarl that escaped Jackdaw’s lips sent goosebumps down everybody’s spine “NOW! I WANT THIS PLACE SEALED UP NICE AND TIGHT!”

“But we’re 14 stories up...”

Techie flinched as Jackdaw whirled around, eyes blazing with unrestrained rage and impatience “You deaf? I said lock down the building or so help me I’m going to use you as a human shield when they start coming for me.”

Techie opened his mouth when an unexpected sound filled the silence: A muffled, cheeky yet tacky melody of a cellphone ringing.

Glances and gazes looked about trying to find the source of the disturbance. Floyd was baffled when he realized it was coming from inside his coat pocket. Nervously, he reached within and slowly pulled out a palm sized flip phone, the kind hadn’t been used in decades.

Jackdaw’s eyes widened with fear and alarm as he snatched the phone from the poor guard with inhuman speed.

“It’s them!” Jackdaw’s voice was manic “IT’S THEM!”

The mobster was torn about what to do next: Answering meant playing right into Savant’s hands and whatever the mercenary had plan. On the other hand, not answering would no doubt annoy them into far worse retaliation.

With a hard shallow, Jackdaw answered with an uncharacteristically shy “Hello?”

He could feel his heart screech to a stop when a bored, almost nonchalant voice replied “S’up.”

Jackdaw threw as much charm and cheer into his voice “Savant, buddy! Pal!”

“Don’t.” the voice sighed tiredly “It’s pathetic when the begging start. You’re a big, bad mob boss. Act like it you dumbass.”

“Fine” Jackdaw let go of any sense of civility “Good old threats: if you so much as show your face around…”

“Ugh too much in the wrong direction” Savant replied, seemingly uninterested in what the mob boss had to said “You people are all the same: False bravado and overcompensating. It’s embarrassing. Just say you’re scared of me and we can move on.”

Despite the severity of the situation, Jackdaw couldn’t help but feel irritated “Oh is that what you want? Get your jollys when powerful people admit they’re afraid of you? You think you can….you can…”

Jackdaw paused, unsure if his ears were working correctly.

“Are you eating?”

“Hmm??” the sound of smacking lips and chewing was the mercenary’s response for a few moments “Oh yeah. Get hungry when working. Normally I’d be all for the theatrics but it’s been a long night what with fucking with your fusebox, burning down your club, planting the phone on a guard. It’s like 3 in the morning dude.”

Jackdaw bit his lip angrily, a single drop of blood running down his chin “It is 3 in the morning and I’m very tired so I’d very much like to conclude our business. How much?”

“To hire me?” more lip smacking “An amount. You could probably afford it.”

Jackdaw let his shoulder’s sag with relief “So it’s agreed? I’ll hire you and we can all be on our merry way.”

“Sure!” Savant said cheerfully.

Bullet dodged.

“You can hire me after I finish this job. By the way did you like the gift I sent you?”

Gift?

Jackdaw was a powerful and feared member of the illicit side of the magical world. He climbed to his position through sheer force of will and power. He left countless of his enemies broken and defeated in his wake.

To see him reduced to a flailing, paranoid mess would be a story no one would believe.

“GIFT?!” Jackdaw screamed, unable to keep the high-pitch whine out of his voice “WHAT GIFT?! SOMEONE FUCKING ANSWER ME!”

The techie was the first to shake off their stupor “Well there was a box that came in today. It was empty and we detected no magic so…”

“Box?!” Jackdaw spat as he wildly searched the room before landing on the seemingly innocent box just sitting on his desk “You brought it the fuck here?”

Everyone backed away.

“I…”

“Wait” Jackdaw cut off the techie’s answer “Maybe they were hoping you’d take it somewhere or get rid of it. No, no this is good. We’re outwitting the fucker.”

“Sir, the box was empty. And you told use you personally wanted to inspect any and all….”

“You hear that asswipe!” Jackdaw grinned ear to ear “My people are the best! We’re ahead of you. Your game is over, you hear me?”

“My man.” Savant’s voice was infuriatingly calm “It’s just a regular old box for a boring ass mobster.”

“Stop lying!” Jackdaw roared angrily, instinctively bringing down his fist on the closet object in the room.

Which of course was the box.

The parcel collapsed under the mobster’s supernatural strength with little effort. As the box was smashed, the two inert glyph drawn in an invisible ink on both ends collided and activated each other.

The room erupted in an array of dazzling, blinding lights.

The light show hadn’t lasted long but no one knew that as they stumbled around, disoriented and lost, the display still burned in their retinas.

Jackdaw howled violently, swiping at the air blindly with long talon-like nails. Any calls for explanations or help were lost under the raging mobster unleashed.

Jackdaw didn’t hear the window break, the sound of glass shattering as it rained upon the floor. He didn’t see the muzzle flash that flared across the street, Savant’s sniping perch. He knew nothing but the sudden searing pain that filled his shoulder without warning.

Everything drained out of him, he slumped to the floor like a doll. He weakly clutched at his shoulder, steam wafting off the wound as the sliver bullet dug itself deep in its new home.

It didn’t matter what kind of werebeast you were: Wolf, bear, rat or even a raven like Jackdaw. All them were deathly weakened by sliver. The mere smell could cause nausea, touch burned worse than third degree burns and any injuries could take weeks, maybe even months to heal.

Jackdaw wheezed, the room spinning in a messy blur.

“Right.” the phone landed by his ear but Savant’s voice sounded far off like it was echoing down a long tunnel “Sorry I got the paper right here.”

Muted sounds of pockets being turned inside out: Scraping of metal on brick, shuffling papers, even rustling fast food wrappers.

“Got it!” Savant beamed “Quinn says stay the fuck off his turf. Mind your lane or the next time he sends me I won’t be aiming for your shoulder.”

“How did you know I was...I was… no one knew...?” Jackdaw murmured incoherently.

“Your heart.” Savant explained “It’ll be your heart. Okay well I gotta go so take these next few months to reflect on any sort of ill advised turf wars, domestic disputes and fighting with your rivals. If you’re still interested in hiring me for revenge or whatever, you call me at my business payphone. Bye little birdy!”

----------

Savant dropped the phone to the floor, crushing it under their boot while rubbing the tension out of their neck. Around them was the standard stakeout gear: high powered and totally illegal sniper rifle, a neatly piled trash heap and a sniping pillow (Sniping’s hard on the stomach and knees.).

They packed away the gun, kicked the trash heap to make it look more like natural rooftop garbage and went downstairs.

Savant yawned tiredly, not at all concerned with the guards that were pouring out of Jackdaw’s hidey hole. They glanced around, trying to get their bearings when they noticed a hot dog vendor across the street.

“I really shouldn’t” they pursed their lips “Especially after paying for someone to set up the pyrotechnics spells. But I am hungry. Stomach wins!”

Savant made their way over, patting their stomach lovingly “One hotdog please. Everything on it.”

“You got it!” The vendor nodded before eyeing the commotion “What’s with that?”

“I don’t talk business.”

“O-kay. Umm here’s your hotdog. That’ll be two bucks.

Savant reached into their pocket and shoved a hundred dollars into the waiting vendor’s hand. Without a second look, Savant gratefully took the hotdog and walked away.

“Hey buddy! BUDDY! You gave me way too much!”

“You too!” Savant replied, took caught up in the rapture that was their meal.

This was a really fucking good hotdog.

#my work #Original Work #original story #my stuff

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b1ackbunny · 5 months

Text

LAURA WEN YU’S RAT COLONY !

— tatter x fem!creator!oc lore (basically)

next: prologue

masterlist

LAURA (23) — content creator && model under ESteem group. born in china, moved to the usa at 4, and moved to south korea after college to be with her sister && explore new things. makes varied content, but has recently grown in views for her web-series “laura tries things” and her interviews with different idols/celebs. frequently models for designer brands (e.g.: calvin klein, louis vui, ysl, etc.)

MAIN SIDE CHARACTERS !

JIA MEI (25) — dancer/choreographer under the jam republic agency. laura’s older sister, roommate, and best friend. strawberry lover, film buff, && hopeless romantic. supports laura’s shopping addiction.

SUYIN (23) — content creator based in china. met laura at a party they were both invited to in late 2019. has been in a long distance relationship with laura for almost a year. a little manipulative but laura lets it slide.

YUQI (24) — member of girl group (G)I-DLE. met laura at an event in mid 2019 and instantly clicked. one of laura’s closest friends and ties with hyunjin as her biggest hater. shuts down laura’s delusions most of the time.

HYUNJIN (23) — member of boy group STRAY KIDS. met laura at an interview she conducted for his group in early 2021 and almost immediately bonded. one of laura’s closest friends and ties with yuqi as her biggest hater.

YEJI (23) — member of girl group ITZY. met laura through her sister in 2020 and grew very close since then. one of laura’s closest friends and often referred to as her twin. one of the people laura confides in the most.

YOUNGJAE (ERIC) (22) — member of boy group THE BOYZ. met laura through hyunjin in late 2021 and became friends. the co-founder of laura’s drama club (made-up club that’s like a book club but for watching dramas).

OTHERS AS MENTIONED !!

a/n: soooo cast list has been made!! this ff is going to mesh with my bada one (called love lies go check it out!) bc they’re in the same au so I’m not going to fully start this one until it gets to the part where i want it to start in this one, in the other one 🧍🏽‍♀️I probably make no sense but pls bear with me 🙏🏽 (replaced somi w my girl yeji btw)

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

#b1ackbunny writes #dirty dancer | tatter #tatter swf2 #tatter au #street woman fighter #street woman fighter 2 #swf2 #swf #tatter swf #tatter x y/n #tatter x fem!reader #tatter x reader #tatter #kim taeyoung #tatter fanfic

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madelynraemunson · 6 months

Text

CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club series)

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

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ minors skiddaddle pls

Chapter 009: Nina

There’s a new girl at Hellfire and Eddie is seemingly wrapped around her finger. Meanwhile, Max makes a shocking new discovery…

* = 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: 3.8k words

disclaimers & warnings — ⚠️ this is a verrrryy emotionally intense chapter. pls read at your discretion ; generational curses, physical altercations, profanities, throwing objects, heated arguments, implications of suspected grooming, shy girl being delulu, lmk if anything else

“Shouldn't have to listen to the shit you say.”

♡

"C’mon... COME ON!" Dustin roars in frustration. "What starts with a T and ends with a C?"

Slow Monday afternoons call for Wordle with the Party.

With little else to do in Hawkins on your day off, you find yourself situated at DRAGON’S BREATH with Steve, Dustin, and Jonathan’s younger brother Will.

Figuring out the last Wordle is a daunting task. Thankfully Argyle has been periodically swinging by, his emotional support nachos being the only thing keeping you from ripping out your hair.

"Tunic," Will suggests.

"Tonic," Steve contributes. "Like tonic water."

"Topic?" you pitch in. “Like Hot Topic.”

This is taking all of your last brain cells combined.

"Topic was one of them, Shy Girl,” Dustin sighs irritably. “I said that already.”

You raise your arms, surrendering. It seems you’ve poked the beast.

It’s been hard for you to focus anyway. The hot and heavy night you spent with Eddie a couple nights ago is taking up all the space of your dirty little mind.

You think of Eddie. His moans. The O-shape his mouth made as he chased his own pleasure on you. How full your pussy felt with just his three fingers pulsing in and out, and how full your mouth felt with Eddie's cock ramming the back of your throat with no mercy. The taste of him. How shocked he looked when you swallowed. How rough he was with you, but oh so thoughtful at the same time.

Truly an experience from another dimension. And you’re already fantasizing about the next time.

But you still want to keep it on the down low. Considering Eddie might still be seeing his Lady Friend, and you're still getting shagged by his roommate whenever he’s not home, you can't exactly get mad at him for texting someone who isn't you.

“Pssst,” you nudge Steve while the others brainstorm. “I think Eddie is talking to Nina again.”

Confusion sets in on Steve's face. He raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Yeah,” you smirk, trying to pretend that it doesn’t hurt. “Saw a message exchange between them a couple days ago.”

“Who’s Nina?”

“Isn’t that the Lady Friend’s name?”

“No…” Steve shakes his head. “Lady Friend’s name was Heather.”

It really has you wondering now... who is Nina?

"Yeah, the kukris are cool huh?" you hear Eddie's soothing voice come into earshot.

Odd. He stopped coming in on Mondays, you thought.

"That's the cool thing about owning a business,” you hear Eddie explain. “You get to choose where the money goes, when it goes, how it goes — at least most of the time."

Where have you heard that before?

Then Eddie comes into view, with a girl walking very closely behind him.

She’s stunning, standing to be about five-foot-two with a youthful face, petite body, and straight, long jet-black hair. Both conventionally, and legitimately beautiful, the girl looks to be at least 20 years old, dressed in cream-colored Chuck Taylor's, tattered booty shorts, and a playful white off-the-shoulder blouse. Scattered fine-line tattoos ornament her body. Her makeup has been flawlessly painted on, her lash extensions a hybrid between voluminous and wispy. And because you’re from Southern California, you can spot lip injections from a mile away.

A new dancer.

"This is where you clock in," Eddie explains to her. "I'll be sure to get you your punch in code by the end of the week. Over at the lounge we have Will, Shy Girl, Steve, and Dustin. Hey guys!”

Now you know why it sounds familiar. You received a very identical run down when you first started.

You're too shocked to wave so you feign a smile at your new colleague. Also, Eddie is too quick for you to react.

"We call the hookah lounge Dragon's Breath," Eddie continues. "And main-stage-slash-tip-rail is called Vecna's Lair."

They walk over to VECNA'S LAIR and you crane your neck to watch.

You observe Eddie give the girl a very familiar run down of Hellfire, using his arms to talk and eyes to listen.

She laughs at Eddie's charm, as anyone would. They talk for a bit more before he walks, what looks like to you, a predatory circle around her — a lion and a gazelle — and then spins her. Then Eddie does something that just about snaps your heart in half.

“MWAH!” he exclaims. “You are gonna do great. I just know it.”

The verbal kiss. The spin. The drowning her in compliments. Everything he did with you.

If Eddie’s gonna do his job, could he at least make every interaction with his employees unique? It all makes you feel betrayed. As if you were just another number in the factory.

"Traitor." you hiss sharply under your breath.

You abruptly stand up to start towards Eddie, hands balled into fists at the blatant disrespect displayed in front of you. You feel sick to your stomach, skin seemingly dragon-green with envy.

"That’s seven letters not five!" Dustin calls after you.

Eddie sees you in his periphery and waves. For the sake of keeping the peace, the smile you exude is fake to him, but friendly to the girl next to him.

"Hey, Hargrove!" Eddie smiles. "We've got a new person on board."

"I see that!" you exclaim. "Hi, I'm Shy Girl."

"I'm Nina," she introduces herself with a bright smile. "It's nice to meet you."

You two shake hands. Nina is just darling. Her eyes are so kind and bright, full of wonder. Her energy is warm. For a second there she was making you nervous.

“Y-you gonna be starting with us soon?” you investigate.

“Yeah, I start on Friday!”

“First dancing gig?”

Eddie shoots you a look, almost as if what you said was disrespectful. It wasn’t your intention. You were just wondering, after all. Nina looks really, really young.

“Uh, no actually,” Nina smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve been dancing since I was 18. So two-ish years now.”

Your soul hurts.

Eighteen is just a baby. Twenty is a fresh adult. Nina is only a year older than the kiddos and can't even be near POTIONS without redirection from Henry.

Now you’re disgusted with Eddie. Why would he ever get so close to someone so young? You thought teenagers at Hellfire made him queasy. Nina is 20 now, but still. What would she have in common with a 28 year old? What about her was so appealing to Eddie?

“Oh! That’s cool… I think?”

Eddie’s harsh lines deepen across his face.

“Nina, why won’t you put your bag down by the cubbies, sweetheart?” Eddie suggests. “Then I’ll have Argyle make you something to eat. My treat.”

“Okay!” Nina chimes. "I was eyeing the chicken wings."

"Done deal. Wings or flats?"

"Flats!" Nina says as she skips away. "Please."

Eddie's admiring eyes trail after her as Nina acqauints herself with Hellfire.

So many questions arise in your head. Is Nina who Eddie’s been texting all this time? Did she come in and audition like you did? Did he ask her out on an 'orientation' lunch/dinner that he apparently does with all of his dancers? It wouldn't surprise you. None of this behavior is new.

This jealousy feels icky. And most of all, it hurts.

"Ugh!" Eddie clutches his chest. He turns to you. "I love her already."

You remain stiff as a board as Eddie slowly leans into you. A part of you is aching to lean in as well, but you can’t give him the satisfaction.

Eddie hovers his hand over the small of your back because he knows Steve is watching. His eyes are out on a prowl per usual the way they burn into you.

"Looking beautiful as always," Eddie compliments you. "How are you? I haven't stopped thinking about you since Saturday."

He looks over your shoulder at the Wordle group.

"What was the last word?"

“Don’t know,” you huff. “You seem to have gotten it.”

“What?” Eddie questions cluelessly.

“With Nina,” you cross your arms. "And all your words that you've been wooing her with."

“Oh you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Eddie scowls. His hand drops back to his side. “You're mad because I... hired a stripper? Cause that’s kinda what I do.”

“I'm not mad that you hired a stripper, you literally own a strip club,” you shrug. “It’s just that…I didn’t know you use the same script with every new hire.”

"I'm sorry? Script?”

"You used almost the exact same words with me, Eddie," you explain. "Like you do with everybody I'm guessing.”

Disbelief sets in on Eddie's face, accompanied by an ounce of fear. Eddie is scared of something.

"Well, I don't know what you expected me to do when you first started," Eddie shrugs. "I'm not gonna come off strong and hit on you like some creep. Of course I'm gonna give you the same treatment I give everybody."

Eddie's got a solid rationale, but it didn't take away from the fact that you simply felt ordinary. When you compare the interactions side by side, nothing about Shy Girl stuck out from Nina.

"Why are we even having this conversation right now?" Eddie asks you. "We're not even together."

“I’m not trying to pick a fight, believe me,” you cross your arms. “I’m just disappointed is all. You made me really think you were falling for me.”

“Oh so all it takes is me walking with a girl to have all of my words not ring true anymore?”

Your tongue and stomach are in knots. All you can do is stand there and blubber like a baby. You’re making no sense, you’re aware. But why does it hurt you so bad?

Eddie paces back and forth. "I don't even know why I feel the need to explain myself, Hargrove,” he continues. “I’m not the one fucking the other’s best friend."

It's a reasonable standpoint. Still. You felt disgusting.

“Yeah but..." you argue softly. "How can you feel so comfortable touching…kissing…interacting with someone like that after being so intimate with me?”

Your boss can only release a chuckle, a baffled one at that. He shakes his head rapidly.

“Just because we hooked up over the weekend, you think you have a say in who I associate with or what goes on around here?" Eddie spews. “What, are you trying to take over Hellfire or something?”

Your lip quivers. “I never said that! Where did that even come from? Why are you so fucking defensive right now?”

Eddie’s nose flares angrily as he tries to keep himself collected. Suddenly, Nina calls out for his attention and he softens up again.

“Eddie!” the new girl cheers. “Argyle gave me some of his flats and it's so good! I think I’m gonna shoot for Creeping Death next!”

“Hey, nice!” Eddie smiles. “You like spicy, huh?”

“Mhm!”

It would be a lot easier to hate her if she did something to you. But Nina didn't do anything.

Eddie turns back around to face you, kicking at the ground before he thinks of something to say.

“Let’s not do this right now,” Eddie resigns, placing his hands over his hips. “You uh…clocking in?”

“No, I’m going home actually,” you respond. “It’s my day off.”

Eddie makes a face. You project it back onto him. For a moment, you two are staring at each other, appalled at one another's behavior. Being infatuated with the literal mirror version of yourself is hell.

“Hey Eddie!” Will calls. “Do you know a five-lettered word that starts with T and ends with C?”

Eddie’s eyes don’t leave you.

“Sure do,” he answers. “TOXIC.”

There’s a pause.

“BADA-BOOM!” Dustin hollers. “That’s the one.”

Eddie doesn't bother to chase you after your mini altercation. Just then, another pair of heels that don't belong to you click across the hard club floor. Chrissy comes into sight, holding a tray of slushees and her car keys in her hands.

“Hey guys!” Chrissy sings. “I got us some slushees from 7-Eleven. They're Cherry flavored...”

“I’ll pass,” you huff. “You can give one to Nina.”

“Ooh we have someone new?!” she chirps. “Where?”

Chrissy notices your shift in attitude when you walk away and Eddie’s stand-offish posture.

“What the fuck did you say to her?” you hear her snap at Eddie as you walk away.

“Nothing,”

“Bullshit. You look guilty as fuck.”

You stomp your way back over to your section and ask Steve to hand you your purse. It's obvious by the look on his face that Steve caught onto what you were feeling. He doesn't question it. He hands you your things.

"I'm not feeling too well, guys," you announce. "I'm going home."

You collect your trash and organize it neatly for Argyle when he comes back over with some waffle fries. Showing your appreciation for him, you thank him and give him a soft pat on the shoulder.

"Argyle, you should've seen the new girl," Dustin fawns. "She's so pretty."

"Yeah?" Argyle quirks up. "What's her name?"

"Nina."

"Was she hot?" he turns to the guys. "Byers, what do you think? Was she a 10 or what?"

Will, who never seems to pay the Hellfire girls any mind, eyes glued to his sketchbook instead of their sultry outfits, squirms around in his seat. He shrugs. "I-I don't know."

"Steve?"

"She was pretty cute."

Your blood boils. Not her stealing Steve's heart too!

"Nina…” Argyle repeats. "How exotic. She sounds like a small feisty Latina woman."

“Bet Shy Girl can vouch,” Dustin comments. “Right, Shy Girl?”

Intrigued, the line cook turns to you.

"Well, Shy Girl? Is she giving chunti, chingona, or what?”

Steve encourages Argyle to stop as you walk away, hair covering the sides of your face on the way out.

“What?” Argyle sounds bewildered. “What’d I say?”

"Was I made from a broken home?"

A girls day with Max would surely take your mind off of the Nina situation. She always knew how to make you feel better. Lucky for you, she is home today, evident by her skateboard that is situated neatly in the garage.

You hear some commotion coming from your shared bedroom and go in to greet her.

"Hey girl hey!" you call out to your sister. "It's my day off so I was wondering if you wanted to go t-"

You pause in your tracks, horrified.

"Hmm," Max ponders aloud. "Last time I recall, stilettos and G-strings aren't really part of nursing home etiquette."

Propped open on Max’s bed is one of your unpacked suitcases, the one that you hid all your lingerie, heels, and the Hellfire shirt Eddie gave you when you first started in. Typically you lock it but you left it open this morning. Out of all days Max had to look through your room, it had to be today.

Max has a tennis racket in her hand, the handle acting as a hook the way it swept up a thong of yours so effortlessly. You feel your knees buckle.

"What are you doing looking through my stuff, you little shit?" you bark.

"Looking for my sports bras," Max replies nonchalantly. "Still can't find 'em."

She dangles the thong in the air like it's something she caught at the lake.

"Found some other goodies though."

"You couldn't have just waited to ask me?"

"I would've had to wait a day or two since you work nights," Max snaps. "Now I know why. And do I even need to ask where?"

Just what you needed. This is JUST what you needed.

You feel exposed. Violated. Disrespected. In every aspect and every situation. There was no safe place to turn. It makes you angry.

Fine. If people are going to disrespect you, you'll be disrespectful too.

"When is it EVER okay to snoop?" you hiss. "Have you any respect for others and their belongings? How would you feel if I started picking apart at your shit?"

"I wouldn’t care because I don't have anything to hide."

"That's not the fucking point, Maxine."

"Oh, not the government name!" Max exclaims, sassily putting a hand over her chest.

That really tips you over the edge.

"I should've known," Max proceeds, shaking her head. She chucks the racket back onto her bed. “You haven't renewed your CPR cert since you graduated high school. And you need that to even work as a caregiver. Didn't catch that loophole when you were LYING, did you?"

"I was lying to protect you."

"You still lied, Sis," Maxine argues. "You're missing the point..."

Oh, now she wants to mimmick you.

You're blind-sided. Tunnel-visioned. You are feeling all five stages of grief all at once. It’s all too much to bear. You feel the bomb ticking...

As much as you love your sister, it sure was a bitch to raise her. You spent most of the time explaining to Max what social cues are, what is acceptable and what is not. It often made you short-fused because what was common sense to you took ages for Max to understand. Like how you shouldn't look through other people's things.

Max learns best when she puts herself in others' shoes. You've learned that the hard way, over the years.

“How would you feel if I was looking through your drawers and shit?” you walk over to Max’s corner of the room, prying open her drawers and tossing whatever is in there out. “And just tossing your shit out onto the floor?"

“What the fuck?!” Max exclaims. "What are you doing?!"

“Or what if I just went to your side of the mirror and…” you knock her perfume bottles off from the dresser mirror in numbers and watch them fall onto the floor. "Knocked all your shit down because I was looking for my own things?"

"I get it now, stop."

“Or," you brainstorm. "What if I just started unpacking your vinyls and shit and just not care about the packaging?”

Max stops you right there. "ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?! I said STOP."

“How would YOU FEEL?” you yell. “HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF I DID THAT TO YOU?! IF I PULLED A 'YOU' ON YOU? NOT GREAT, HUH?”

How would everybody feel if you acted the way they did? Would they be mortified? Would they be disgusted?

Would Dad not hit anybody?

Would Mom have chosen to stay?

Would your first love never want to see you again?

Would Eddie be angry at your behavior?

Would Max think you're the worst sibling ever?

You would hope so for all the above.

Your heart couldn’t take any more pain.

"SHUT," Max screeches. "THE FUCK UP!"

She tosses an acrylic storage box at you. It hits you and you yelp in pain. When she realizes what she has done, Max punches the pillow on her bed. Physically aching for the last word, you take it upon yourself to chuck your empty Hydroflask at her. Thankfully, it misses and the ear-piercing CLINK sound is enough to startle her. Max shrinks herself down in fear, trying to process what you just did.

You regret it immediately. You didn't want to hit her. You mainly did it for intimidation.

It puts you to shame. You are toxic.

Suddenly, Max inflates again, her entire face extending to her ears redder than her fiery amber hair.

"YOU," Maxine growls. "ARE JUST LIKE BILLY!"

Silence.

You take a look around the trashed room. Never did you think you had it in you to be someone like your brother. But of course, the Wolf who is fed the most prevails.

The amount of hurt and anger you actually harbored was way more than you thought. You can’t take back the fact that you’ve exploded on everyone you love now. But at least you can hold yourself accountable.

"I didn't mean that," Max mumbles. “I’m really sorry.”

"No, Max," you sigh. "You're right. And I'm sure you've been wanting to say that for a while..."

But Max refuses. “NO! I just wanted the last word again. Like I always fucking do even when I know it’s never worth it.”

You and your sister join each other by sitting criss-crossed on the floor, pushing the debris off to the side to be handled later. Max leans her head on you and you let her, combing through her knotted hair with your trembling fingers.

"We have a lot to unlearn, don't we?" she sighs.

You nod. "Oh yeah..."

She grabs your hand.

"Are you safe at least?" Max questions. "At work? Any creeps I gotta beat up for you?"

A laugh escapes you. "Nah, someone's already got that covered. Bones snapping and all."

Max flinches.

"That's how you got all that money real fast, huh? Stripping?”

You nod to confirm. "I did it for you. Well, us."

You watch as Max takes out her phone and shuffles through her camera roll. Her most recent in the gallery are videos of her shooting free throws at the Y and playing tennis. She cancels out some apps for more storage, one of them being Messenger. The tab reveals that Billy was spamming her again.

You both shudder. Max puts her phone away.

"Because of you I have a membership," she beams. "And I have a safe place to rest my head and I have money to do what I want and I have food on the table."

She hugs you.

“I hope you know how grateful I am for you. For putting my needs before yours. For throwing yourself into something so terrifying just so I can have a better life than you did growing up.”

“I never thought for a second you were being ungrateful,” you hug her back. “And no matter what I say or do, I’m sticking by you no matter what.”

“Even when I’m being an asshole?”

“Even when you’re being an asshole.”

Max giggles. “Thanks for the reassurance.”

Suddenly your door swings open, causing you and Max to jolt in place. Thankfully, it’s just Robin and Vicky, both worried and confused about the state of your room.

"ToTo," Robin says. "We're not in Hawkins anymore."

"What tornado rummaged through here?!" Vicky exclaimed. "Guys. Are you okay?"

You and Max burst into laughter.

"Yeah, we’re good," you nod. "Just Hurricane Hargrove passing through."

As long as you have Max and your sisterhood with Robin and Vicky, you know you're going to be okay.

You refuse to mope around for the rest of the day, so in the evening you go bowling with Max and your roommates, loading yourselves up with carbs and soda. You ignore Eddie’s “can we talk?” messages, along with Billy’s routine “where the fuck are you” texts followed by rage-calls without a care in the world . Towards the end of the night, however, when the “Sad Boy Hours” hit, there’s a text from a man you simply can’t ignore.

Maybe: Henry

Hey 🧍🏻 it's Henry from work. Can I ask you something? Pls be honest.

tag list: @battymunson , @the-fairy-anon , @ali-r3n , @corrodedcoffincumslut , @bebe07011 , @mmunson86 , @eddiesguitarskills , @chelebelletx , @imonhereforareasonsadly , @eddies-trailer-babe @hideoutside , @motherfckerrr , @jxpsi i , @munson-magic , @lindseyj23, @sidthedollface2 , @manda-panda-monium , @elvendria , @micheledawn1975 , @hereforshmut , @siriuslysmoking , @nymphetkoo , @m-chmcl-rmnc , @justinelittlewoodsworld , @ahoyyharrington , @keepittoyourselftellnobodyelse @kellyxo1 @emsgoodthinkin @winchester-angel @chloe-6123

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #Spotify #SoundCloud #stranger things fanfiction

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 3 years

Text

Trinkets, 40: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A brown wooden mask sports green stripes that appear to be the color of the wood instead of being painted on. A single studded iron plate runs down the nose of the mask, stamped with a decorative "L" on the forehead.

A glass flask messily labelled “Alchemist’s Fire”. It actually contains a highly-potent cinnamon whisky.

A small bag containing a large brass coin stamped with the insignia of the archdemon of Random Evil Domain, along with a red cultist mask. There is also a map of the nearby area that indicates a meeting location somewhere in the distant woods. A perceptive PC will notice that the map reveals a passphrase “Bloodmoon” hidden within the drawing.

A scrap of parchment that reads; "Leave the jewel in a sewer grate by the church, or the next time you look into her eyes they won't be in her head."

A tool designed to crack nuts. It disintegrates shells, leaving the nuts untouched. Bloody marks between the teeth and weird stains on the handle leave disturbing thoughts as to what it has been used for recently.

A military banner bearing a black on yellow pattern with a crimson border, the center dominated by a grinning human skull spit upon a lance. Knowledgeable PC’s will recognize the sigil as that of the Mad Lancer’s an infamous cavalry unit that was a force of nature as much as a military company.

A tattered remnant of a sermon written on vellum. A certain passage reads “With the certainty of stone, we shall persevere. Each crack, each mark is not a blemish, but a testament—a history of defiance writ upon our flesh?”

A tiny porcelain doll with unnervingly human eyes.

A slender hand harp, graceful of design, small and light enough to be played in one's lap. It is carved of teak wood engraved with designs of waves and fog, with silver wire for strings.

A set of four horseshoes that seem to be magnetically attracted to hooves, requiring no additional fastening.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A glass flask messily labelled “Alchemist’s Fire”. It actually contains a highly-potent cinnamon whisky.

A scrap of parchment that reads; "Leave the jewel in a sewer grate by the church, or the next time you look into her eyes they won't be in her head."

A tiny porcelain doll with unnervingly human eyes.

A slender hand harp, graceful of design, small and light enough to be played in one's lap. It is carved of teak wood engraved with designs of waves and fog, with silver wire for strings.

A set of four horseshoes that seem to be magnetically attracted to hooves, requiring no additional fastening.

A linen handkerchief embroidered with a pentagram design, surrounded by arcane symbols.

A banner in black with the image of a crow sewn into it with white silk, surrounded by arcane runes stitched in black thread. Three white silk ribbons flutter from it.

A horrific black mask carved in the likeness of a demon’s face. Massive curved horns sweep up and back out of the forehead and behind the ears, while the fangs seem to glisten as if ready to bite at any moment. When worn, the mask’s eye sockets become covered with a glassy shield that glows red. When the bearer speaks, his voice is broadcast as a guttural growl.

A small dirty wooden figurine, that of a crudely-shaped blackbird. Its eyes are glass gems, pupiless; gazing into them feels like falling into an ocean’s black depths. In its tail is a hole, through which one may string a lanyard or band. When you hold it to your ear, you can hear the faint beating of a heart that is not your own.

A four foot long rod capped at each end by a six-inch-wide band of gold and steel. The rod has a three-foot long section of clear crystal in the middle, filled with a swirling white fog.

A silver monstrance, set with gold detail, intricate in its design and covered with tiny curlicues that resemble angelic beings.

An ornately carved pipe, its bowl fashioned into the head of a satyr; whose expression is one of malicious pleasure. If the pipe is used for smoking tobacco without cleaning it out first, the bearer will be plunged into a vivid, momentary dream wherein he is being pursued across a moonlit landscape by baying hounds.

A large, sumptuous shawl or scarf of deep red and heavy silk. It is finished along all of its edges with red and golden silk tassels, and is embroidered with outlines of stylized flames in golden thread.

A woolen scarf that is knitted with the words of an ancient elven supplication to the God of Random Domain.

An ink black statuette of a beautiful woman, clothed in gossamer-like veils, holds a large bronze bowl.

A rectangular wooden box labelled “Rawshins” containing dozens of red wax spheres. The balls have some give to them and the wax can be peeled away to reveal the pickled eye of a horse. The eyeballs while horrendously unpalatable is remarkable nutritious due to the herbal mixture used to preserve them and the box contains 2d4+1 days’ worth of trail rations.

A wooden talisman carved into a screaming human face that when stared at it for more than a few seconds the observer can almost hear the sound of screaming from far off.

A silk bag with drawstring that open easily, revealing a glint of white. Inside is an elegant bone reliquary, smooth and pleasing to the touch. Polished, silvered fingerbones interlace to form a simple gate, operated by twisting a knob at the top formed from a single smooth vertebra surrounding a porcelain mechanism. Inside the small cavity is a cage formed out of rib that could have held an ancient curiosity of some sort, but now lies empty. The faintest touch of necromancy suffuses the curio, but surely any power it once held has long faded...

An incredibly detailed drawing of an alien creature.

A barnacle-encrusted piece of ancient stonework. Its touch fills the bearer’s ears with a great pressure that pulses like a dreadful giant’s heart.

A small wooden box with some silver markings on its surface. Something can be heard shifting inside, however it has neither a lock nor hinges. Cutting it open by force reveals it to be solid wood.

A Randomly Colored handkerchief with a knot in it, the owner probably had something important they didn’t want to forget.

A black shiny disk with dozens of embossed rings.

A tubular instrument that gradually broadens towards the lower end. It is made out of wood, with a double reed at one end and a metal or wooden flared bell at the other end. Known as a shehnai, its sound is thought to create and maintain a sense of auspiciousness and sanctity and, as a result, is sometimes used during marriages, processions and in temples although it is also played in concerts.

A pair of clay tankards decorated with waves of blue coral.

A well-worn brass locket with a small drawing of a dwarven woman inside, she has a fantastic beard.

A well-worn ivory drinking horn etched with indigo leaf patterns and silver cap attached by slim yet robust chain.

A small obsidian horse headed idol with peridot eyes.

A large poster that reads; “Diplomat wanted. Must fluently speak the oceanic dialect of High Draconic. Come dressed in waterproof clothes to the beach by moonrise on the seventh full moon of the year.”

A piece of paper that refuses to become uncrumpled until a spell similar to Dispel Magic or Remove Curse is cast on it. Inside is the true name of a weak outsider such as an angel or demon.

A waxed scroll on which is written a complex alchemical formula. The recipe is not titled and seems to be for some sort of explosive but an knowledgeable PC can determine that it’s actually instructions for making soap.

A small silver tuning fork. When used, the ringing sound it creates can only be heard by those who have split blood in the last 24 hours.

A beautiful piece of quartz carved in a strange but unclear style. It is perfectly still until a certain tone is played near it whereupon it then begins to vibrate and move, gyrating sinuously. The carving causes the moving rock to resemble a lithe dancer.

A petrified basilisk’s egg carved into an elaborate diorama of a strange but beautiful landscape.

A disk of clay with extremely fine etchings of semi-concentric lines that seem to spiral outwards from the center in tight, semi random wiggly spirals. It has been broken into three equal shards.

A handful of jasper puzzle pieces speckled with flecks of semiprecious stones (Citrine, amethyst, garnet, etc.) that can be assembled into the likeness of a bird of prey.

An astrological chart with alien characters drawn in silver ink.

A blood red fiddle that seems to have strings made of human veins. The music produced by it always sounds horrible and terrifying.

A six-sided die that sometimes rolls a seven

A war banner that's shredded, torn, and stained with blood, this standard has seen more than a single battle. The image of a red maw devouring sacred flames stands atop a field of black.

A wicked wand made of two withered and twisted branches, with one single leaf to the side and a small skull tied by a string at the base. The wand has a uncomfortable chill to the touch and sometimes sends shivers through the body.

A gruesome hand fan made of plucked faerie wings

A painting of a red-eyed wolf-man eating a corpse while making eye contact with the viewer. The corpse always vaguely resembles the viewer.

A stylish jet black long coat with a furred neck.

A knotted garment that fades in and out of nothingness. Knowledgeable PC's know that an order of religious monks one covered their eyes with such bindings. It is a perilous act to stare directly into the mouth of infinity. But once unburdened by vision, salvation shall be revealed.

A frozen, crystalline gland from some unknown ancient being. Hard as stone, it thaws slowly but eternally. The alien object is nearly translucent, revealing a void filled with nothing but bright, cold light. The glowing core holds a strange allure, turning the mind toward rapturous reminiscence.

A speckled owlbear hide, tooled with raised marks.

A baleful gem that glows a sickly green and tingles unpleasantly warm when touched. The sparkling object is less like a precious stone and more like the withering glare of corruption, made corporeal and pellucid in crystal.

A child's doll made from dyed, woven coconut fiber and dressed in linen.

A selection of maps, all rolled tightly together, and crammed into one tube. The maps all show the expansion of the same location over a period of 60 years, one new map every 10 years.

A dried caul wrapped in gauze, brittle but intact.

An old, fraying coat of the type a ship's captain would wear in bad weather. There is a small singed hole through the outer layers that stops at an inside pocket.

An eight inch wide roll of silk, which when unfurled is revealed to be an elaborately decorated sock kite in the shape of a koi.

A ball of high quality waxed twine with a platinum netting needle stuck through it.

A child's wooden toy animal with a note tied to it with twine that reads in childish writing "so u arnt lonly".

A crystal vial containing a pebble, ash, water and a measure of air.

A burlap bag large enough to hold a coconut. It is smooth to the touch and found in the color purple with a golden strap.

An arcane wand that is rough to hold and twists like a wild vine.

A bill from a sorcerer listing an exorbitant amount of gold for a spell to cure a terminally ill child.

A horn hair brush inlaid with small peridot stones.

A copper door handle of a manticore head holding a ring in its mouth.

A one gallon cask of Shump's Shield, a white beer with with the colour of horchata and stout beer consistency. The flavor profile is that of a milk stout with a very light hint of peppermint and nutmeg. It is typically brewed at temples to the God of war and distributed locally.

A demonic iron idol with bloodstone eyes.

A crude and somewhat obscene silver statue depicting a goblin chieftain.

A owlbear skin run.

A burlap bag containing 3d6 days’ worth of trail rations, each individually packed in waxed parchment and sackcloth and tied with string. Each packet contains an assortment of jerky, dried fruits, hardtack and nuts.

A decorative bronze key with a rose quartz in the bow.

A black-lacquered pyx decorated with pornographic images. On the sides and the lid of the small box, colorful hand-painted scenes of lurid degradation depicts men and women copulating not with one another but with jackals, hyenas, goats, and serpents. The box is brimming with coal-black crackers flecked with red. The unleaved bread has a faint but repellent odor or herbs, sulfur and vomit

A foot stool with silver-plated eagle claw feet and silken pillow.

A violet satin facemask with purple silk ties.

A quartz and horn prayer beads on a silk cord.

A crystal, bell-shaped terrarium with an easily identifiable, miniature apple tree with fruit laden branches growing from its mossy soil. The terrarium and tree within are three inches tall.

A dark leather pouch with silver clasps set with a tiger eye.

A lock of faded reddish brown hair bound and wrapped with a red ribbon strung with cowrie shells. The ribbon is embroidered in tightly stitched green thread "Return to me, my love".

An obsidian statuette of a leering gargoyle.

A porcelain pitcher with arboreal imagery.

A petrified toad with a variety of crystals growing from its back, diverse in material, color, size, and shape.

A prosthetic bronze hand with ivory fingernails.

A deed to a plot of land signed over to the church.

A bronze-plated trophy etched with two jousting figures.

A darkwood lute with silvered strings, decorated with a painting of a djinn flying island.

A silver snuff box etched with a portrait of the night sky.

A brass censer dangling from lead chains that emits smoke resembling writhing vines.

A crystal canine skull that continually burns with yellow flames that are painfully cold to the touch.

A wooden abacus with fortune telling symbols painted across its beads. It occasionally self animates and acts of its own accord, locking up for a brief moment before the beads spin wildly then stop with several symbols facing upwards before moving as normal again.

A mahogany cane tipped with corkwood and thin red leather covers its gracefully curved handle.

A cloudy white orb with a scarlet sheen to it. When the bearer stare into its depths he see shadows flickering throughout it.

A glass globe that has no visible opening on its dark clouded surface, and it is warm to the touch. Its contents appear to be a faintly glowing roiling cloud of flame.

A glass jar filled with clippings of dwarven hair and toenails.

A silver thimble containing a shimmering ballgown of spun moonlight. The ballgown is ... very see through, but can be worn over another nice dress of plain material to good effect.

A diagram of a hollow earth showing major access point below nearby city.

A porous stone flecked with emerald and sapphire dust that always feels damp to the touch.

A beautiful deck of cards resting in a strong leather pouch with an etching of a joker on the outside. The same etching is on the back of the cards.

An automaton crab. If wound up with the key in its brass carapace, it will menace any nearby animals with its snappy little mechanical claws.

A snowball warded such that it cannot melt. At its center is a small glyph-etched stone.

16 notes · View notes

teenagepoliceninja · 3 years

Text

Altruizine, or a True Account of How Bonhomius the Hermetic Hermit Tried to Bring About Universal Happiness, and What Came of It

One bright summer day, as Trurl the constructor was pruning the cyberberry bush in his back yard, he spied a robot mendicant coming down the road, all tattered and torn, a most woeful and piteous sight to behold. Its limbs were held together by sections of old stovepipe fastened with string, its head was a pot so full of holes you could hear its thoughts whir and sputter inside, throwing off sparks, and its makeshift neck was a rusty rail, and in its open belly were vacuum tubes that smoked and rattled so badly, it had to hold them in place with its free hand—the other was needed to tighten the screws that kept coming loose. Just as it hobbled past the gate to Trurl’s residence, it blew four fuses at once and straightway began, spewing a foul cloud of burning insulators, to fall apart, right before the constructor’s eyes. Trurl, full of compassion, took a screwdriver and a roll of electric tape and hastened to offer what aid he could to the poor wayfarer, who swooned repeatedly with a great grinding of gears, due to a total asynchronization. At last Trurl managed to restore it to its senses, such as they were, then helped it inside, sat it down in a comfortable chair and gave it a battery to recharge itself, and while the poor thing did so with trembling urgency, he asked it, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, what had brought it to this sorry pass.

“O kind and noble sir,” replied the strange robot, its armatures still aquiver, “my name is Bonhomius and I am, or rather was, a hermetic hermit, for I lived sixty years and seven in a cave, where I passed the time solely in pious meditation, until one morning it dawned on me that to spend a life in solitude was wrong, for truly, did all my exceedingly profound thoughts and strivings of the spirit ever keep one rivet from falling, and is it not written that thy first duty is to help thy neighbor and not to tend to thine own salvation, for yea and verily—”

“Fine, fine,” interrupted Trurl. “I think I more or less understand your state of mind that morning. What happened then?”

“So I hied myself to Photura, where I chanced to meet a certain distinguished constructor, one Klapaucius.”

“Klapaucius?!” cried Trurl.

“Is something amiss, kind sir?”

“No, nothing—go on, please!”

“I did not recognize him at first: he was indeed a great lord and had an automatic carriage that he not only rode upon but was able to converse with, much as I converse with you now. This same carriage did affront me with a most unseemly epithet as I walked in the middle of the street, unaccustomed to city traffic, and in my surprise I inadvertently put out its headlight with my staff, which drove the carriage into such a frenzy, that its occupant was hard put to subdue it, but finally did, and then invited me to join him. I told him who I was and why I had abandoned my cave and that, forsooth, I knew not what to do next, whereupon he praised my decision and introduced himself in turn, speaking at great length of his work and many achievements. He told me at last the whole moving history of that famous sage, pundit and philosophist, Chlorian Theoreticus the Proph, at whose lamentable end he had had the privilege to be present. From all that he said of the Collected Works of that Greatest of Robots, the part about the H.P.L.D.’s did intrigue me the most. Perchance, kind sir, you have heard of them?”

“Certainly. They are the only beings in the universe who have reached the Highest Possible Level of Development.”

“Indeed you are well-informed, most kind and noble sir! Now while I sat at the side of this worthy Klapaucius in his carriage (which continued to hurl the foulest insults at whatever was imprudent enough to cross its path), the thought suddenly came to me that these beings, developed as much as possible, would surely know what one should do, when one, such as myself, felt the call to help his fellow robot. So I questioned Klapaucius closely concerning this, and asked him if he knew where the H.P.L.D.’s lived, and how to find them. His only reply was a wry smile and a shake of the head. I dared not press the matter further, but later, when we had halted at an inn (the carriage had by this time grown so hoarse that it lost its voice entirely, thus Klapaucius was obliged to wait until the following day) and were sitting over a jug of mulled electrolyte, which quickly put my gracious host in a better humor, and as we watched the thermocouples dance to the spirited tunes of a high-frequency band, he took me into his confidence and proceeded to tell me... but perhaps you grow weary of my tale.”

“Not at all, not at all!” protested Trurl. “I’m all ears, I assure you.”

***

“My good Bonhomius,” Klapaucius addressed me in that inn as the dancers worked themselves into a positive heat, “know that I took very much to heart the history of the unfortunate Chlorian and resolved to set out immediately and find those perfectly developed beings whose existence he had so conclusively proven on purely logical and theoretical grounds. The main difficulty of the undertaking, as I saw it, lay in the circumstance that nearly every cosmic race considered itself to be perfectly developed—obviously I would get nowhere by merely asking around. Nor did a trial-and-error method of search promise much, for the Universe contained, as I calculated, close to fourteen centigigaheptatrillion civilizations capable of reason; with such odds one could hardly expect to simply happen on the correct address. So I deliberated, read up on the problem, went methodically through several libraries, pored over all sorts of ancient tomes, until one day I found the answer in the work of a certain Cadaverius Malignus, a scholar who had apparently arrived at exactly the same conclusion as the Proph, only three hundred thousand years earlier, and who was completely forgotten afterwards. Which shows, once more, that there’s nothing new under this or any other sun—Cadaverius even met an end similar to that of our own Chlorian....But I digress. It was precisely from these yellowed and crumbling pages that I learned how to seek the H.P.L.D.’s. Malignus maintained that one must examine star clusters for some impossible astrophysical phenomenon, and that would surely be the place. A rather obscure clue, to be sure, but then aren’t they all? Without further ado I stocked my ship with the necessary provisions, took off and, after numerous adventures we need not go into here, finally spotted in a great swarm of stars one that differed from all the rest since it was a perfect cube. Now that was quite a shock—every schoolboy knows stars have to be spherical and any sort of stellar angularities, let alone rectangularities, are not only highly irregular but entirely out of the question! I drew near the star and immediately saw that its planet was also cubiform and equipped, moreover, with castellated corner cleats and crenelated quoins. Farther out revolved another planet, which appeared to be quite normal; a look through the telescope, however, revealed hordes of robots locked in mortal combat, a sight which hardly invited closer scrutiny. So I got the square planet back in my finder and increased the resolution to full power. Imagine my surprise and joy when I looked in the eyepiece and beheld a monogram engraved on one of the planet’s mile-long quoins, a monogram consisting of four letters embellished with swirls and curlicues: H.P.L.D.!

—Great Gauss!—I cried.—This must be the place!

But though I circled around again and again, until I was quite dizzy, there was not a living soul to be seen anywhere on the planet’s sandy surface. Only when I dropped to an altitude of six miles was I able to make out a group of dots, which proved to be, upon higher magnification, the inhabitants of this most unusual heavenly body. There were a hundred or so of them lying about in the sand, and so motionless, I thought for a moment they might all be dead. But then I saw one or two scratch themselves, and this clear sign of life encouraged me to land. In my excitement I didn’t wait for the rocket to cool after its descent through the planet’s atmosphere, but jumped out at once and shouted:

—Excuse me, is this by any chance the Highest Possible Level of Development?!

No answer. In fact, they paid no attention to me at all. Somewhat taken aback by this show of utter indifference, I looked around. The plain shimmered beneath the square sun. Here and there, things stuck out of the sand, things like broken wheels, sticks, bits of paper and other rubbish, and the inhabitants lay any which way among them, one on his back, another on his stomach, and farther on was one with his legs up in the air. I walked around the nearest and examined him. He wasn’t a robot, but on the other hand neither was he a man, nor any sapient proteinoid of the glutinous-albuminous variety. The head was round and plump, with red cheeks, but for eyes it had two penny whistles, and for ears it had thuribles, which gave off a thick cloud of incense. He was dressed in orchid pantaloons, a dark blue stripe down either side and appliquéd with dirty scraps of closely written paper, and he wore high heels. In one hand he held a mandolin made entirely of frosted gingerbread, a few bites already missing from the neck. He was snoring peacefully. I leaned over to read the appliqués on his trousers, but could make out only a few since my eyes watered copiously from the incense. The inscriptions were most curious—for example, NO. 7 DIAMOND NET WEIGHT SEVEN HUNDRED CWT, NO. 8 THESPIAN CONFECTIONERY, SOBS WHEN CHEWED, RECITES HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY IN THE STOMACH, ‘OUT BRIEF CANDLE’ FARTHER DOWN, NO. 10 GOLLOCHONDRILL FOR EMERGENCY SLURGING, FULL-GROWN, and manymore, which I simply don’t remember now. As I touched one of these paper scraps in trying to read it, a depression quickly formed in the sand beneath this native’s knee and a tiny voice piped:

—Shall I come out now?

—Who’s that?—I cried.

—It’s me, the Gollochondrill....Are you ready? Is it time?

—No, not yet!—I was quick to reply, and backed off. The next native had a head in the shape of a bell, three horns, several arms of varying length (two massaging its belly), ears that were long and feathery, a cap with a pretty purple balcony on which someone was having an argument with someone else—quite heated too, judging from the little plates that came flying this way and that, shattering on the brim—and he also had a kind of throw pillow, all jewel-spangled, tucked under his shoulders. While I stood before this individual, he pulled one of the horns off his head, sniffed it and tossed it away with a look of disgust, then poured a handful of dirty sand in the opening. Nearby lay something I first took for a pair of twins, and then for a couple of lovers locked in an embrace. I was about to turn away discreetly, when I realized that it wasn’t two people at all, or one, but exactly one and a half. The head was quite ordinary, except for the ears: every now and then they would detach themselves and flit about like butterflies. The lids were closed, but numerous moles on the chin and cheeks were equipped With tiny eyes; these regarded me with undisguised hostility. This remarkable being had a broad and muscular chest, which however was riddled with holes, as if someone had been careless with a drill, and the holes were haphazardly plugged with raspberry jam. There was only one leg, but it was unusually thick and shod in a handsome morocco leather slipper, its curled toe tipped with a little felt bell. Near the elbow was a sizable pile of apple cores, or perhaps they were pear. My astonishment grew as I walked along and came upon a robot with a human head, a miniature self-winding samovar whistling cheerfully in its left nostril, and then someone reclining on a bed of candied yams, and someone else with a trapdoor in his abdomen, open so I could look in and see the crystal works. Some mechanical elves were putting on a play in there, but it turned out to be so terribly obscene, that I left in a hurry, blushing like mad. In my confusion I tripped and fell, and when I got up I saw yet another inhabitant of this strange planet: stark naked, he was scratching his behind with a solid gold backscratcher, apparently enjoying himself thoroughly, even though he was quite headless. The head lay farther on, neck stuck in the sand; it was touching its teeth with the tip of its tongue. The chin was checkered chintz, the right ear a boiled cauliflower, while the left was an ear all right, but stopped up with a carrot that carried a tag saying PULL. Without thinking I pulled, and out with the carrot came a length of string and then another tag that read YOU’RE GETTING WARM! I kept pulling and pulling, until the string finally ended in a medicine bottle that bore the label NOSY, AREN’T WE?

All these impressions left me feeling so dizzy I hardly knew where I was. But at last I pulled myself together and began to look around for the kind of person who might be communicative enough to answer a question or two. A possible candidate, it seemed, was one fairly pudgy type squatting with his back to me and occupied with something he held on his knees—at least he had only one head, two ears, two arms, and so on. I went up to him and began:

—Pardon me, but if I’m not mistaken, you gentlemen have been fortunate enough to achieve the Highest Possible—

The words died on my lips. He didn’t seem to hear me at all, for he was wholly taken up with what lay on his knees, which happened to be his very own face, removed somehow from the rest of the head and sighing softly as he picked its nose. For a moment I was stupefied, but only for a moment—my curiosity returned in full force, and I simply had to find out, once and for all, just what was going on. I ran from one native to the next, spoke to them, questioned them, raised my voice, insisted, pleaded, reasoned, even threatened, all to no avail. In my exasperation I grabbed the nose picker’s arm, and was horrified to find that it came off in my hand, though that didn’t bother him in the least, he only poked about in the sand and pulled out another exactly like the first—except for the orange plaid fingernails—blew on it a little, then affixed it to the shoulder stump. Curious, I bent over to examine the first arm, but dropped it hastily when it snapped its fingers in my face. By now the sun was setting, already two corners below the horizon, the air grew cool, and the inhabitants of H.P.L.D. began to settle down for the night, scratching, yawning, gargling, one shaking out an emerald quilt, another methodically taking off his nose, ears and legs and carefully putting them in a row at his side. I stumbled around in the dark for a while, then gave it up with a sigh and lay down to sleep too. Making myself as comfortable as possible in the sand, I looked up at the starry sky and tried to think what to do next.

—Indeed—I said to myself—by all indications this is the very planet both Cadaverius Malignus and Chlorian Theoreticus the Proph spoke of, home of the Most Advanced Civilization in the Entire Universe, a civilization of a few hundred individuals who, being neither people nor robots, lie around on jeweled cushions all day in a dirty, littered desert and do nothing but scratch themselves and pick their noses. No, there has to be some terrible secret behind all of this, and I shall not rest till I’ve uncovered it!!

Then I thought:

—A terrible secret it must be indeed, to account for not only a square sun and planet, but lecherous elves inside bodies and insulting messages in ears! I always thought that if I, a simple robot, could spend my time in study and the pursuit of knowledge, think of the kind of intellectual ferment that went on among those more highly developed—no, the most highly developed! Yet these, whatever they do, they certainly don’t spend their time in edifying conversation; they don’t even care to answer a few questions. I’ll have to force them—but how? Perhaps, if I pester them enough, get under their skin, so to speak, make such a nuisance of myself that they’ll agree to anything, just to get rid of me! Of course, there is some risk involved: they might get angry, and, without a doubt, they could destroy me as easily as swatting a fly....But no, I cannot believe they’d resort to such brutal measures—and anyway, I simply must find out! Well, here goes!!

And I jumped up in the darkness and started to scream at the top of my lungs, did somersaults and cartwheels, hopped around and kicked sand in their eyes, danced and sang until I was hoarse, did a few sit-ups and deep knee bends, then hurled myself among them like a mad dog. They turned their backs to me and held up their cushions and quilts for protection, and then, in the middle of my hundredth cartwheel, a voice said inside my head:

—And what would your good friend Trurl think if he could see you now, see how you pass your time on the planet that has achieved the Highest Possible Level of Development, home of the Most Advanced Civilization in the Entire Universe?!—But I ignored the hint and continued to stomp and howl, encouraged by what they were whispering to one another:

—Psst!

—What do you want?

—You hear that?

—How can I help but hear it?

—He practically kicked my head in.

—You can get another.

—But I can’t sleep.

—What?

—I said, I can’t sleep.

—He’s curious—whispered a third.

—He’s awfully curious!

—This is really too much. We’ll have to do something.

—Like what?

—I don’t know... Change his personality?

—No, that’s unethical...

—Just listen to him howl!

—Wait, I have an idea...

They whispered something while I kept jumping around, raising an unholy racket, concentrating my efforts especially in the area where I heard them talking. Then, just as I was doing a headstand on someone’s abdomen, everything went black, and the next thing I knew, I was back on my ship and out in space. My limbs ached from all that exercise, but I could hardly move them anyway, for I was sitting in a pile of trombones, jars of green marmalade, teddy bears, platinum glockenspiels, ducats and doubloons, golden earmuffs, bracelets and brooches glittering so bright they hurt my eyes. When finally I crawled out from under all these valuables and dragged myself to a window, I saw that the constellations were entirely different—not a trace of anything remotely resembling a square sun! A few quick calculations revealed that I would have to travel six thousand years at top velocity to get back to the H.P.L.D.’s. They had disposed of me, indeed. And going back would achieve nothing, that was clear: they would merely send me packing again with that instantaneous hyperspatial telekinesis of theirs, or whatever it was. And so, my good Bonhomius, I decided to tackle the problem in an altogether different way....” And with these words, most kind and noble sir, did the distinguished constructor Klapaucius finish his tale....

***

“Surely that’s not all he said?!” cried Trurl.

“Nay, he said a great deal more, O benefactor of mine! And therein lies my misfortune!” replied the robot with considerable perturbation. “When I asked him what he had then decided to do, he leaned over and said...

***

“The problem did seem insoluble at first, but I’ve found a way. You say you lived as a hermetic hermit and are but a simple, unschooled robot, so I’ll not trouble you with explanations that touch the arcane art of cybernetic generation. To put it simply, then, all we have to do is construct a digital device, a computer capable of producing an informational model of absolutely anything in existence. Properly programmed, it will provide us with an exact simulation of the Highest Possible Level of Development, which we can then question and thereby obtain the Ultimate Answers!”

“But how does one build such a device?” I asked. “And how can you be sure, O illustrious Klapaucius, that it won’t respond by sending us packing in much the same instamatic hyperstitial and so forth manner the original H.P.L.D.’s employed, as you say, on your worthy person?”

“Leave that to me,” he said. “Rest assured, I shall learn the Great Mystery of the H.P.L.D.’s, good Bonhomius, and you shall find the optimal way in which to put your natural abhorrence of evil into action!”

You can imagine, kind sir, the great joy that filled me upon hearing these words, and the eagerness with which I assisted Klapaucius in the execution of his plan. As it turned out, this digital device was none other than the famed Gnostotron conceived by Chlorian Theoreticus the Proph just before his lamentable demise, a machine able literally to contain the Universe Itself within its innumerable memory banks. (Klapaudus, however, was not satisfied with the name, and now and then tried to think up others to christen it: the Omniac, the Pansophoscope, APOC for All Purpose Ontologue Computer, or the Mahatmatic 500, to mention a few.) In exactly one year and six days, this mighty machine was completed, and so enormous was it, we had to house it in Phlaphundria, the hollowed-out moon of the Phlists—and truly, an ant had been no more lost aboard an ocean liner than we in the bowels of this binary behemoth, among its endless coils and cables, eschatological toggles and transformers, those hagiopneumatic rectifiers and temptational resistors. I confess my wire hair stood on end and my laminated alternator skipped a beat when my distinguished mentor sat me down before the Central Control Console and left me face-to-face with this awesome, towering thing. The flashing lights that played across its panels were like the very stars in the firmament; everywhere were signs that read DANGER: HIGHLY INEFFABLE!; and potentiometers, their dials spinning wildly, showed logic and semantic fields building up to unheard-of levels of intensity. Beneath my feet heaved a sea of preternatural and pretermechanical wisdom, wisdom that swirled like a spell through parsecs of circuitry and megahectares of magnets, swirled and surrounded me on every side, that I felt, in my shameful ignorance, of no more consequence than a mere mote of dust. I overcame this weakness only by recalling my lifelong love of Good, the passion I had conceived for Truth and Beauty when little more than a gleam in my constructor’s oscilloscope. Thus fortified, I managed to stammer out the first question: “Speak, what manner of machine art thou?”

A hot wind then arose from its glowing tubes, and there came a voice from that wind, a whispering thunder that seared me to the core, and the voice said:

Ego sum Ens Omnipotens, Omnisapiens, in Spiritu Intellectronico Navigans, luce cybernetica in saecula saeculorum litteris opera omnia cognoscens, et caetera, et caetera.

Such was my fright upon hearing this reply, that I was quite unable to continue the interrogation until Klapaucius returned and reduced the EMF (epistemotive force) to one billionth of its voltage by adjusting the theostats. Then I asked the Gnostotron if it would be so kind as to answer questions touching the Highest Possible Level of Development and its Terrible Secret. But Klapaucius said that that was not the way: one should instead request the Ontologue Computer to model within its silver and crystal depths a single inhabitant of that square planet, and at the same time provide the model with an adequate degree of loquacity. This promptly done, we were ready to begin in earnest.

Still I quaked and quailed and could hardly speak, so Klapaucius took my place before the Central Control Console and said:

“What are you?”

“I already answered that,” snapped the machine, clearly annoyed.

“I mean, are you man or robot?” explained Klapaucius.

“And what, according to you, is the difference?” said the machine.

“Look, if you’re going to answer questions with questions, we’ll get absolutely nowhere,” said Klapaucius sternly. “You know what I’m after, all right. Start talking!”

Though I was appalled at the tone he took with the machine, it did seem to work, for the machine said:

“Sometimes men build robots, sometimes robots build men. What does it matter, really, whether one thinks with metal or with protoplasm? As for myself, I can assume whatever substance and shape I choose—or rather, used to assume, for we no longer indulge in such trifles.”

“Indeed,” said Klapaucius. “Then why do you lie around all day and do nothing?”

“And what exactly are we supposed to do?” the machine replied. At this, Klapaucius grew angry and said:

“How should I know?-We in the lower levels of development do all sorts of things.”

“We did too, in our day.”

“But not now?”

“Not now.”

“Why not?”

Here the computerized H.P.L.D. representative balked, saying he had already endured six million such interrogations and neither he nor his questioners ever profited from them in the least. But after Klapaucius had raised the loquacity a little and opened a valve here and there, the voice answered:

“A trillion years ago we were a civilization like any other. We believed in the transmittance of souls, the Virgin Matrix, the infallibility of Pi Squared, looked upon prayer as regenerative feedback to the Great Programmer, and so on and so forth. But then skeptics appeared, empiricists and accidentalists, and in nine centuries they came to the conclusion that There’s No One Up There At All and consequently things happen not out of any higher plan or purpose, but—well, they just happen.”

“Just happen?” I could not help but exclaim. “What do you mean?”

“There are; on occasion, deformed robots,” said the voice. “If you should be afflicted with a hump, for example, but firmly believe the Almighty somehow needs your hump to realize His Cosmic Design and that it was therefore ordained along with the rest of Creation, why, then you may be easily reconciled to your deformity. If, however, they tell you that it’s merely the result of a misplaced molecule, an atom or two that happened to go the wrong way, then nothing remains for you but to bay at the moon.”

“But a hump may be straightened,” I’protested, “and really any deformity corrected, given a high enough level of science!”

“Yes, I know,” sighed the machine. “That’s how it appears to the ignorant and simple-minded....”

“You mean, that isn’t true?” Klapaucius and I cried, astounded.

“When a civilization starts straightening humps,” said the machine, “believe me, there’s no end to it! You straighten humps, then you repair and amplify the mind, make suns rectilinear, give planets legs, fabricate fates and fortunes of all kinds....Oh, it begins innocently enough, like discovering fire by rubbing two sticks together, but eventually it leads to the construction of Omniacs, Deifacts, Hyperboreons and Ultimathuloriums! The desert on our planet is in reality no desert, but a Gigagnostotron, in other words a good 109 times more powerful than this primitive device of yours. Our ancestors created it for the simple reason that anything else would have been too easy for them; in their megalomania they thought to make the very sand beneath their feet intelligent. Quite pointless, for there is absolutely no way to improve upon perfection. Can you understand that, O ye of little development?!”

“Yes, of course,” said Klapaucius, while I quaked and quailed. “Yet why, instead of at least engaging in some Stimulating activity, do you sprawl in that ingenious sand and only scratch yourselves from time to time?”

“Omnipotence is most omnipotent when one does nothing!” answered the machine. “You climb to reach the summit, but once there, discover that all roads lead down! We are, after all, sensible folk, why should we want to do anything? Our ancestors, true, turned our sun into a cube and made a box of our planet, arranging its mountains in a monogram, but that was only to test their Gnostotron They could have just as easily assembled the stars in a checkerboard, extinguished half the heavens and lit up the other half, constructed beings peopled with lesser beings, giants whose thoughts would be the intricate dance of a million pygmies, and they could have redesigned the galaxies, revised the laws of time and space—but tell me, what sense would there have been to any of this? Would the universe be a better place if stars were triangular, or comets went around on wheels?”

“That’s ridiculous!!” Klapaucius shouted, highly indignant, while I quaked and quailed all the more. “If you are truly gods, your duty is clear: immediately banish all the misery and misfortune that oppresses other sentient beings! You could at least begin with your poor neighbors—I’ve seen with my own eyes how they batter one another! But no, you’d rather lie around all day and pick your noses, and insult honest travelers in search of knowledge with your indecent elves in abdomens and messages in ears!”

“Really, you have no sense of humor,” said the machine. “But enough of that. If I understand you correctly, you wish us to bestow happiness upon everyone. Well, we devoted Over fifteen millennia to that project alone—that is, eudaemonic tectonics, of which there are basically two schools, the sudden and revolutionary, and the slow and evolutionary. Evolutionary eudaemonic tectonics consists essentially in not lifting a finger to help, confident that every civilization will eventually muddle through on its own. Revolutionary solutions, on the other hand, boil down to either the Carrot or the Stick. The Stick, or bestowing happiness by force, is found to produce from one to eight hundred times more grief than no interference whatever. As for the Carrot, the results—believe it or not—are exactly the same, and that, whether you use an Ultradeifact, Hypergnostotron, or even an Infernal Machine and Gehennerator. You’ve heard, perhaps, of the Crab Nebula?”

“Certainly,” said Klapaucius. “It’s the remnants of a supernova that exploded long ago....”

“Supernova, he says,” muttered the voice. “No, my well-wishing friend, there was a planet there, a fairly civilized planet as planets go, flowing with the usual quantity of blood, sweat and tears. Well, one morning we dropped eight hundred million transistorized Universal Wish Granters on that planet, but were no more than a light-week out on our way home, when suddenly it blew up—and the bits and pieces are flying apart to this day! The very same thing happened with the planet of the Hominates... care to hear of that?”

“No, don’t bother,” replied a morose Klapaucius.—But I refuse to believe it’s impossible, with a little ingenuity, to make others happy!”

“Believe what you like! We tried it sixty-four thousand five hundred and thirteen times. The hair on every one of my heads stands on end when I think of the results. Oh, we spared no pains for the good of our fellow-creature! We devised a special telescanner for observing dreams, though you realize of course that if, say, a religious war were raging on some planet and each side dreamt only of massacring the other, it would hardly be to our purpose to make such dreams come true! We had to bestow happiness, then, without violating any Higher Laws. The problem was further complicated by the fact that most cosmic civilizations long for things, in the depths of their souls, they would never openly admit to. Now what do you do: help them achieve the ends to which the little decency they have prompts them, or instead fulfill their innermost desires? Take, for example, the Dementians and Amentians. The Dementians, in their medieval piety, burnt at the stake all those consorting with the Devil, females especially, and they did this because, first, they envied them their unholy delights, and secondly, they found that administering torture in the form of justice could’ be a positive pleasure. The Amentians, on the other hand, worshiped nothing but their bodies, which they stimulated by means of machines, though in moderation, and this activity constituted their chief amusement. They had boxes of glass, and into these they placed various outrages, rapes and mutilations, the sight of which served to whet their sensual appetites. On this planet we dropped a multitude of devices designed to satisfy all desires in such a way that no one needed to be harmed, that is, each device created a separate artificial reality for each individual. Within six weeks both Dementians and Amentians had perished, to a man, from a surfeit of joy, groaning in ecstasy as they passed away! Is that the sort of ingenuity you had in mind, O undeveloped one?”

“Either you’re a complete idiot or a monster!” cried Klapaucius, while I gulped and blinked. “How dare you boast of such foul deeds?”

“I do not boast of them, but confess them,” the voice calmly said. “The point is, we tried every conceivable method. On various planets we unleashed a veritable rain of riches, a flood of satisfaction and well-being, and the result was total paralysis; we dispensed good advice, the most expert counsel, and in return the natives opened fire on our vessels. Truly, it would appear that one must alter the minds of those one intends to make happy....”

“I suppose you can do that too,” grumbled Klapaucius.

“But of course we can! Take our neighbors, for instance, the ones who inhabit a quasiterran (or, if you prefer, geomorphic) planet. I speak of the Anthropods. Now, they devote themselves exclusively to obbling and perplossication, for they stand in mortal terror of the Gugh, which according to them occupies the Hereafter and waits for all sinners with open jaws and fangs of hellfire. By emulating the blessed Dimbligensians and walking in the way of Wamba the Holy, and by shunning Odia, where abound the Abominominites, a young Anthropod may in time become more industrious, more virtuous and more honorable than ever were his eight-armed forebears. True, the Anthropods are at constant war with the Arthropoids over the burning question of whether Moles Have Holes, or, contrariwise, Holes Moles, but observe that as a rule less than half of each generation perishes in that controversy. Now you would have me drive from their heads all belief in obbling, Dimbligensians and so forth, in order to prepare them for rational happiness. Yet this is tantamount to psychic murder, for the resultant minds would be no longer Anthropodous or Arthropoidal—surely you can see that.”

“Superstition must yield to knowledge,” said Klapaucius firmly.

“Unquestionably! But kindly observe that on that planet there are now close to seven million penitents who have spent a lifetime struggling against their own nature, solely that their fellow citizens might be delivered from the Gugh. And in less than a minute I am to tell them, convince them beyond a shadow of a doubt that all this effort was in vain, that they had wasted their entire lives in pointless, useless sacrifice? How cruel that would be! Superstition must yield to knowledge, but this takes time. Consider the hunchback we spoke of earlier—there Ignorance is indeed Bliss, for he believes his hump fulfills some cosmic role in the great work of Creation. Telling him that it’s actually the product of a molecular accident will only serve to make him despair. Better to straighten the hump in the first place....”

“Yes, of course!” Klapaucius exclaimed.

“We did that too. My grandfather once straightened three hundred hunchbacks with a wave of the hand. And how he regretted it afterwards!”

“Why?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Why? One hundred and twelve of them were immediately boiled in oil, their sudden and miraculous cure being taken for a sure sign that they’d sold their souls to the Devil; thirty, no longer exempt from conscription, were promptly called up and soon fell in various battles under various flags; seventeen straightway succumbed to the shock of their good fortune; and the remainder, Since my esteemed grandfather saw fit to further bless them with great beauty of form, wasted away through an overindulgence in erotic activity—deprived of these pleasures for so long, you see, they now hurled themselves into every sort of debauchery, and in such a violent and unbridled fashion, that within two years not one was left among the living. Well, there was an exception... but it’s hardly worth mentioning.”

“Go on, let’s hear it all!” cried Klapaucius, and I could tell that he was greatly troubled.

“If you insist....Two remained, actually. The first presented himself before my grandfather and pleaded on bended knee for the return of his hump. It seems that as a cripple he had lived comfortably enough on charity, but now had to work and was quite unaccustomed to it. What was worse, now that he was straightened, he kept bumping his head on door lintels....”

“And the second?” asked Klapaucius.

“The second was a prince who had been denied succession to the throne on acount of his deformity. In light of its sudden correction, his stepmother, to insure her own son’s position, had him poisoned....”

“I see....But still, you can work miracles, can’t you?” said Klapaucius, despair in his voice.

“Bestowing happiness by miracle is highly risky,” lectured the machine. “And who is to be the recipient of your miracle? An individual? But too much beauty undermines the marriage vows, too much knowledge leads to isolation, and too much wealth produces madness. No, I say, a thousand times no! Individuals it’s impossible to make happy, and civilizations—civilizations are not to be tampered with, for each must go its own way, progressing naturally from one level of development to the next and having only itself to thank for all the good and evil that accrues thereby. For us, at the Highest Possible Level, there is nothing left to do in this Universe, and to create another Universe, in my opinion, would be in extremely poor taste. Really, what would be the point of it? To exalt ourselves? A monstrous idea! For the sake, then, of those yet to be created? But how are we obligated to beings who don’t even exist? One can accomplish something only so long as one cannot accomplish everything. Otherwise it’s best to sit back and watch....And now, if you’ll kindly leave me in peace....”

“But wait!” I cried in alarm. “Surely there’s something you can give us, some way to improve the quality of life, if only a little! Some way to lend a helping hand! Remember the Golden Rule and Love Thy Neighbor!”

The machine sighed and said:

“My words fall on deaf ears, as usual. I should have dismissed you to begin with, like we did the last time....Oh, very well then, here’s a formula that hasn’t been tried. No good will come of it, you’ll see—but do with it what you will! All I wish now is to be left alone to meditate among my many theostats and deiodes....”

The voice faded away, the console lights dimmed, and we stood and read the card the machine had printed out for us. It went something like this:

ALTRUIZINE. A metapsychotropic transmitting agent effective for all sentient homoproteinates. The drug duplicates in others, within a radius of fifty yards, whatever sensations, emotions and mental states one may experience. Operates by telepathy, guaranteed however to respect one’s privacy of thought. Has no effect on either robots or plants. The sender’s feelings are amplified, the original signal being relayed back in turn by its receivers and thereby producing resonance, which is as a result directly proportional to the number of individuals situated in the vicinity. According to its discoverer, ALTRUIZINE will insure the untrammled reign of Brotherhood, Cooperation and Compassion in any society, since the neighbors of a happy man must share his happiness, and the happier he, the happier perforce they, so it is entirely in their own interest that they wish him nothing but the best. Should he suffer any hurt, they will rush to help at once, so as to spare themselves the pain induced by his. Neither walls, fences, hedges, nor any other obstacle will weaken the altruizing influence. The drug is water-soluble and may be administered through reservoirs, rivers, wells and the like. Tasteless and odorless. One millimicrogram serves for one hundred thousand individuals. We assume no responsibility for results at variance with the discoverer’s claims. Supplied by the Gnost. computerized representative of the Highest Poss. Lev. Devel.

Klapaucius was somewhat put off by the fact that Altruizine was only for humans, which meant that robots would have to continue to endure the misfortunes allotted to them in this world. I, however, made bold to remind him of the solidarity of all thinking beings and the necessity of aiding our organic brothers. Then there were practical matters to arrange, for we were agreed that the business of bestowing happiness was not to be postponed. So while Klapaucius had a subsection of the Gnostotron prepare a suitable quantity of the drug, I selected a geomorphic planet, one peopled by human types and no more than a fortnight’s journey off. As a benefactor, I wished to remain anonymous, therefore my distinguished mentor advised me, when going there, to assume the form of a man, which is no easy task, as you well know. Yet here too the great constructor overcame all difficulties, and soon I was ready to depart, a suitcase in either hand. One suitcase was filled with forty kilograms of Altruizine in a white powder, the other was packed with various toilet articles, pajamas, underwear, spare chins, noses, hair, eyes, and so forth. I went as a well-proportioned young man with a thin mustache and a forelock. Now Klapaucius had some doubt as to the advisability of applying Altruizine on such a large scale to begin with, and though I did not share his reservations, I did agree to test the formula first as soon as I landed on Terrania (for so was the planet called). Longing for the moment I could commence with the great sowing of universal peace and brotherhood, I bid a fond farewell to Klapaucius and hastened on my way.

In order to conduct the necessary test, I repaired, upon arrival, to a small hamlet where I took lodgings at an inn maintained by an aging and rather morose individual. As they carried my luggage from the carriage to the guest room, I contrived to drop a pinch of the powder into a nearby well. Meanwhile there was a great commotion in the front yard, scullery maids ran back and forth with pitchers of hot water, the innkeeper drove them on with curses, and then came the sound of hoofbeats, a chaise clattered up and an old man jumped out, clutching the black leather bag of a physician—his goal was not the house, however, but the barn, whence came the most doleful groans. As I learned from the chambermaid, a Terranian beast which belonged to the innkeeper—they called it a cow—was just now giving birth. This news troubled me: it had never occurred to me to consider the animal side of the question. But nothing could be done now, so I locked myself in and waited for events to unfold. Nor did I have long to wait. I was listening to the chain rattling in the well—they were still drawing water—when suddenly the cow gave another groan, which was echoed this time by several others. Immediately thereafter the veterinarian came running from the barn, howling and holding his stomach, and he was followed by the scullery maids and at last the innkeeper. Driven by the cow’s labor pains, they raised a great cry and fled in all directions—only to return at once, for the agony abated at a certain distance. Again and again they rushed the barn and each time were forced to retreat, doubled over with the beast’s contractions. Much chagrined by this unforeseen development, I realized now that the drug could be properly tested only in the city, where there were no animals. So I quickly packed my things and went to pay the bill. But as everyone about was quite incapacitated in birthing that calf, there was no one available with whom to settle accounts. I returned to my carriage, but finding both coachman and horses deep in labor, decided instead to proceed to the city on foot: I was crossing a small bridge when, as my ill fortune would have it, the suitcase slipped from my hand and fell in such a way, that it flew open and spilled my entire supply of powder into the stream below. I stood there dazed while the quick current carried off and dissolved all forty kilograms of Altruizine. But nothing could be done now—the die was cast, inasmuch as this stream happened to supply the entire city up ahead with its drinking water.

It was evening by the time I reached the city, the lights were lit, the streets were full of noise and people. I found a small hotel, a place to stay and observe the first signs of the drug taking effect, though as yet there seemed to be none. Weary after the day’s peregrination, I made straight for bed, but was awakened in the middle of the night by the most horrible screams. I threw off the covers and jumped up. My room was bright from the flames that were consuming the building opposite. Running out into the street, I stumbled over a corpse which was not yet cold. Nearby, six thugs held down an old man and, while he cried for help, yanked one tooth after another from his mouth with a pair of pliers—until a unanimous shout of triumph announced that finally they had succeeded in pulling the right one, the rotten root of which had been driving them wild, due to the meta-psychotropic transmission. Leaving the toothless old man half-dead in the gutter, they walked off, greatly relieved.

Yet it was not this that had roused me from my slumber: the cause was an incident which had transpired in a tavern across the way. It seems some drunken weightlifter had punched his comrade in the face and, experiencing the blow forthwith, became enraged and set upon him in earnest. Meanwhile the other customers, no less affronted, joined in the fray, and the circle of mutual abuse soon grew to such proportions, that it awoke half the people at my hotel, who promptly armed themselves with canes, brooms and sticks, rushed out in their nightshirts to the scene of battle, and hurled themselves, one seething mass, among the broken bottles and shattered chairs, until finally an overturned kerosene lamp started the fire. Deafened by the wail of fire engines, as well as the wail of the maimed and wounded, I hurried away, and after a block or two found myself in a gathering—that is, a crowd milling about a little white house with rose bushes. As it happened, a bride and groom were spending their wedding night within. People pushed and pulled, there were military men in the crowd, men of the cloth, even high-school students; those nearest the house shoved their heads through the windows, others clambered up on their shoulders and shouted, “Well?! What are you waiting for?! Enough of that dawdling! Get on with it!” and so on. An elderly gentleman, too feeble to elbow others aside, tearfully pleaded to be let through, as he was unable to feel anything at such a distance, advanced age having weakened his mental faculties. His pleas, however, were ignored—some of the crowd were lost in a transport of delight, some groaned with pleasure, while others blew voluptuous bubbles through their noses. At first the relatives of the newlyweds tried to drive off this band of intruders, but they themselves were soon caught up in the general flood of concupiscence and joined the scurrilous chorus, cheering the young couple on, and in this sad spectacle the great-grandfather of the groom led the rest, repeatedly ramming the bedroom door with his wheelchair. Utterly aghast at all of this, I turned and hastened back to my hotel, encountering on the way several groups, some locked in combat, others in a lewd embrace. Yet this was nothing compared with the sight that greeted me at the hotel. People were jumping out of windows in their underwear, more often than not breaking their legs in the process, a few even crawled up on the roof, while the owner, his wife, chambermaids and porters ran back and forth inside, wild with fear, howling, hiding in closets or under beds-all because a cat was chasing a mouse in the cellar.

Now I began to realize that I had been somewhat precipitate in my zeal. By dawn the Altruizine effect was so strong, that if one nostril itched, the entire neighborhood for a mile on every side would respond with a shattering salvo of sneezes; those suffering from chronic migraines were abandoned by their families, and doctors and nurses fled in panic when they approached—only a few pale masochists would hang around them, breathing heavily. And then there were the many doubters who slapped or kicked their compatriots, merely to ascertain whether there was any truth to this amazing transmission of feelings everyone spoke of, nor were these compatriots slow in returning the favor, and soon the entire city rang with the sounds of slaps and kicks. At breakfast time, wandering the streets in a daze, I came upon a tearful multitude that chased an old woman in a black veil, hurling stones after her. It so happened that this was the widow of one much-esteemed cobbler, who had passed away the day before and was to be buried that morning: the poor woman’s inconsolable grief had so exasperated her neighbors, and the neighbors’ neighbors, that, quite unable to comfort her in any way, they were driving her from the town. This woeful sight lay heavy on my heart and again I returned to my hotel, only to find it now in flames. It seems the cook had burnt her finger in the soup, whereupon her pain caused a certain captain, who was at that very moment cleaning his blunderbuss on the top floor, to pull the trigger, inadvertently slaying his wife and four children on the spot. Everyone remaining in the hotel now shared the captain’s despair; one compassionate individual, wishing to put an end to the general suffering, doused everyone he could find with kerosene and set them all on fire. I ran from the conflagration like one possessed, searching frantically for at least one man who might be considered, in any way whatever, to have been rendered happy—but met only stragglers of the crowd returning from that wedding night.

They were discussing it, the scoundrels: apparently the newlyweds’ performance had fallen short of their expectations. Meanwhile each of these former vicarious grooms carried a club and drove off any sufferer who dared to cross his path. I felt I should die from sorrow and shame, yet still sought a man—but one would do—who might a little lessen my remorse. Questioning various persons on the street, I at last obtained the address of a prominent philosopher, a true champion of brotherhood and universal tolerance, and eagerly proceeded to that place, confident I should find his dwelling surrounded by great numbers of the populace. But alas! Only a few cats purred softly at the door, basking in the aura of good will the wise man did so abundantly exude—several dogs, however, sat at a distance and waited for them, salivating. A cripple rushed past, crying, “They’ve opened the rabbitry!” How that could be of benefit to him, I preferred not to guess.

As I stood there, two men approached. One looked me straight in the eye as he swung and smote the other full force in the nose. I stared in amazement, neither grabbing my own nose nor shouting with pain, since, as a robot, I could not feel the blow, and that proved my undoing, for these were secret police and they had employed this ruse precisely to unmask me. Handcuffed and hauled off to jail, I confessed everything, trusting that they would take into consideration my good intentions, though half the city now lay in ashes. But first they pinched me cautiously with pincers, and then, fully satisfied it produced no ill effects whatever on themselves, jumped upon me and began most savagely to batter and break every plate and filament in my weary frame. Ah, the torments I endured, and all because I wished to make them happy! At long last, what remained of me was stuffed down a cannon and shot into cosmic space, as dark and serene as always. In flight I looked back and saw, albeit in a fractured fashion, the spreading influence of Altruizine—spreading, since the rivers and streams were carrying the drug farther and farther. I saw what happened to the birds of the forest, the monks, goats, knights, villagers and their wives, roosters, maidens and matrons, and the sight made my last tubes crack for woe, and in this state did I finally fall, O kind and noble sir, not far from your abode, cured once and for all of my desire to render others happy by revolutionary means....

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hecohansen31 · 4 years

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(KINKTOBER: 31 “Shameless”)

Dance Instructor! Michael Langdon+Prima Ballerina! Reader:

(A/N). Hello, lovelies!

I am not going to lie, I am honestly glad that kinktober is over, and I hope that you enjoyed it.

This fic was written a long time ago, and re-reading I honestly have to say that I low key don’t like it anymore, but since I feel like it fit perfectly the mood, I wanted to share it with you as a way to end this experience and celebrate Halloween.

It is very loosely based upon “Suspiria”, because I love the aesthetic of that movie, and alongside that, I low key wrote it listening to “Shameless” by Camila Cabello (can we just say that her new album is extremely AMAZING?).

I hope you’ll enjoy it, and as always… any kind of feedback is very welcome!

Much Love and have a very spooky Halloween!

SUMMARY: Your dance instructor has always been an enigma to you, till a lone night in the dance-room, where dance and secrets ends up tangled together (exactly as you and Michael).

WORDS:7 K

WARNINGS: Unprotected (WRAP IT UP KIDS) Sex, Dom-Sub dynamics (with change of powers), Fingering, Guided Masturbation, slightly Dub-Con, Vulgarities, Mention of Satanism and Supernatural Themes, Slight Angst, Slut-Shaming and Religious Fanatism.

“She has been here for only a month and she is already the prima ballerina of our company… that is true magic!”.

“… or maybe she had just slept with the right people…”.

“Haven’t you seen the way Mr Langdon looks at her?”.

“What a devious creature one that is only capable of sleeping with people in position of power to get her role…”.

“Truly despicable”.

“You mean… absolutely shameless”

She woke up in a hurry, cool sweat attaching itself to the side of her head, staining her hair, meanwhile she pushed them back from her face, in order to breath freely, from her mouth since she felt in some kind of primordial panic.

The rumors had choked her voice, but had she been able to, she would have gladly shouted.

She suddenly found herself alone in her dormitory room, but as she came down, she finally found herself recognizing what she had around and realized that her roommate had told her she would be going out with the others, meanwhile she chose to stay back in order to be ready for tomorrow’s rehearsals.

“Oh c’mon, (Y/N), you could come at rehearsals, looking like a ghost and Mr Langdon would still applaud you greatly” had teased her roommate.

Although her words didn’t withhold the malice they usually did in the mouth of others, she couldn’t stop the grimace that appeared on her face at that memory.

That is also probably what had inspired her nightmares, the way the rumors hunted her down and reduced her to silence.

She felt confusion in her pulsating head, immediately reaching out for the switch of the light, illuminating the sober room, which spoke of elegance and antiquity, and sometimes, when nobody was there other than her, it really scared her.

She found herself, although calmed and wide awake, restless and unable to fall back asleep, regretting having said no to her roommate’s offer, but she knew that she just didn’t belong with the other girls.

From the first moment they had seen her, they had rejected her and when she had quickly raised to the role of prima ballerina, in their little dancing company they had liked even less, spreading indeed rumors about her true talent being sleeping with older men to get what she wanted.

Oh, how awfully were they wrong…

Not only she was extremely unexperienced when it came to men (most of her encounter with them had ended badly), because of her rigid catholic upbringing, her own mother sheltering her from anything that wasn’t holy and pure, but she wouldn’t have been able to attract Mr Langdon’s attention in the slightest.

The man was an enigma also for her, and although she respected him as a teacher and understood his need for privacy she couldn’t fathom his behavior towards her: one minute he would be touching her like lovers did, in their more private time, and a few minutes later his hands would have been at his side, meanwhile he looked at her coldly.

But what was worse, was the electric energy that shot through her, whenever they would were close enough, something clawing in her, wanting to escape the prison of her body, hurting her enough to steal her breath, and one time she had almost fainted during one of the lessons, right when she had been raised up in the air, by Timothy, who had felt her melt in his arms.

Just because Mr Langdon was watching her with the most intense stare he owned.

Sometimes she couldn’t help but feel crazy because of everything she had felt during her staying at the ballet company, asking herself whether magic existed, but worst of all…

… whether demons did, because Mr Langdon was surely one of those, and he would be tormenting he roughest of ways, during the limpid nights, in her dreams.

His mouth would be on hers, but nothing farther than that, as if the Mr Langdon of her dreams was ashamed of such an impure act.

She honestly thought it was what her subconscious thought about sex, how impure and earthly it had been considered at her mother’s house.

How impure and dirty thoughts had to be polished with pain and abstinence.

She was honestly glad of having run away from her mother’s controlling obsession.

She hadn’t wanted to be another Carrie White.

She sometimes doubted if she had truly left anything worth behind, so she pushed all herself into ballet, trying and trying.

She found in dance a way to clean her mind and to enhance her body, and even that night, not wanting to feel the solitude of her dorm room, she decided to do some try-outs in the rehearsal room.

She had the keys always because of Mr Langdon: he had once seen her practice in the corridor, insomnia having taken her, and he had just handed her the following day a copy of the keys to the enormous room, with big mirrors on three sides of it.

He had never explained her what he was doing out of his comfortable room at two in the morning, but she hadn’t spoken about it, as he had never spoken about her dance try-outs at that hour.

She couldn’t try with music, mostly because the room wasn’t soundproof but she tried to reply the music in her mind, humming lightly to it, meanwhile she raised her hair in a quick bun, pushing up her long shirt, and showing the “sinful” panties, her mother would have roughly chastised (not only they were silky, the material of the Devil, but they also left much to the imagination due to their lace front).

She watched her reflection, and smirked at it, before starting her dance routine, at first hearing the music softly in her ears counting the rhythm to set up the tone, but then it ended up flowing through the memory of her body, quickly the music raising volume in her own ears, till she and the music ended up being one.

She twirled uncontrollably, losing control of her body and falling down in the ecstasy of dance.

Normally she would have absolutely stopped there to practice, making her errors stop her, but this time a different kind of energy fueled her, and she found herself to be more adrenalinic the more she moved her toes against the polished parquet of the floor, raising herself again and creating again friction on the wooden pavement with her feet.

She pushed herself through her limits, feeling her body pulsing of pain and strength, meanwhile she caught elegant flashes of her against the mirror, seeing herself completely transfigured one of the Villis from the “Giselle”, a true witch hiding under her body.

And she pushed her mouth into smirking grimaces, as if she was seeing it for the first time, trying out her new “face”, completely transfigured and fixed on it.

When her muscles screamed in pain and she realized it was past four in the morning, and although she wouldn’t have gotten any sleep, she considered that a shower to ease her screaming muscles would be helpful.

But she wasn’t able to turn around, because, meanwhile she undid her ballerina shoes, warming up her sore calves, she heard a thick clapping, and in the mirrors, she found Mr Langdon reflected in them.

He was wearing what could have been a run-away look, but he made it seem so effortlessly natural, that it made her feel ashamed of her state of undressing, not because she was in simple panties and a shirt, because unlike his elegant open silken button up, and soft boxers of a synthetic but comfortable material (rigorously dark, but with red details), she had a tattered band shirt, and synthetic silk panties, a bit discolored for the use and many wrong washings.

He looked like he could have run a Paris catwalk, and you were just a homeless girl, which had managed to sneak in the beautiful rehearsal room.

The clapping continued and her blush became redder, able only to meet his gaze into the mirrors, meanwhile she felt him inching closer, his presence, being more evident in the room, and that energy shifting again through her.

Her hands reached down the ground and clawed there to keep herself stable.

“You were absolutely amazing!” his voice was darkly laced with excitement, almost childish, but she knew better than to find anything out of place in his pretty gaze, an hypnotic on which she found rejecting in a futile attempt to keep herself anchored to the ground “… I do think that I’ll take a frequency to visiting your nightly try-outs”.

She wanted to growl, let out the moan of pleasure that came from that praise, because, although at first she had been just happy to survive in the dance world, since she had met Mr Langdon she couldn’t help but want more.

His approval more specifically.

She tried to shield herself from his gaze, but he simply smirked, his hand coming at hers, and stopping her from untying the knot on the shirt, which kept her shirt raised, showing a bit of her stomach and her panties.

“As dancers, we work a lot with our bodied” he explained to her, as an adult with a petulant child “… you are wrong if you think that I am ashamed of a bit of skin”.

In this case it was her who was ashamed, but she immediately pushed away her hands from her shirt, keeping her gaze to the mirror, meanwhile Mr Langdon moved his hand from hers to her shoulders, gently gripping on them and digging into her muscles with expertise, making her release a wild pleasured moan, for which he smirked in the mirror.

“Wouldn’t you like to show me also the duet part?” he asked her, as if it was some kind of prayer from his sinfully plump mouth.

She couldn’t deny him, although she asked who would be covering the role of Timothy, since it was just her and him, and although she could have practiced the duet as a solo part, she felt like it wouldn’t have had the same effect.

“Who else, do you see, other than me and you?” and he stared intensely at their reflection, and she couldn’t help but feel even nearer the warmth of his body, suddenly entwinned with hers, felling the softness silk against her skin, and the suppleness of his milky skin “I’ll take Timothy’s role, for tonight”.

He worded it as a sinful promise, as if he was asking her to betray for a night her beloved partner.

Whereas her and Timothy were no such thing.

Timothy barely touched her aside, from their dancing rehearsals.

Their chemistry was mostly missing due to Timothy not being interested in her, instead having a sweet crush towards Emily, her back-up dancer, and many times she had pleaded with Mr Langdon to take Emily for her role, but the man didn’t budge.

“You are perfect for this role” he had mumbled, gently cornering her face with his hands, before laying a soft kiss on her forehead “It was written for you, lovely”.

And she hadn’t talked about it too much with him, trying to do her best with Timothy, and although their technique was extremely perfect, she couldn’t help but believe that they lacked sensuality in their extremely firey performance, which should have ended with a kiss and their bodies entwinned.

“Are you ready, (Y/N)?” he asked softly, bringing her back to the mirrors room, his hand softly grabbing her throat to make her assume a straighter position, since she had slowly slouched in a more relaxed one.

She simply nodded, meanwhile she turned around and felt tired and dizzy, faced with, not his reflection anymore, but the true entity of the dance teacher, who gently and softly let an hand caress her face, meanwhile she found herself even more hypnotized by those pretty azure eyes.

He looked much more lively than his reflection, which might seem obvious but it was as if true energy run through him, making him shine extremely bright in her eyes, as a monster, also crawling under his skin.

It was almost a shock, as an ecstasy given by a wonderful painting, except this painting breathed and smirked as a true devil.

“On my three” he let her settle into his arms, meanwhile she set her footing precisely and then he softly counted down in her ear, letting a thrill run down her spine, but when she heard the music, suddenly appearing in her mind, in every note, she switched back in her ballerina mode.

And it was evident from the start of the dance, that she wasn’t dancing with shy Timothy.

It felt as if for her entire life she had wanted a challenge, something that would have awakew her from the mundane life she had always lived.

It made her feel like she had met her appropriate match… obviously in the ballroom, but also… somehow outside of it.

Mr Langdon wasn’t afraid of touching her, and he pushed past her own limit, making her forget all about technique and focus more on the emotion she was feeling, which were no short of intensity..

The subtlety of Mr Langdon didn’t stop him from grabbing her with rough passion, dipping her with so much control and force that she couldn’t help but feel like a little doll, but he wasn’t the one controlling the entirety of the dance.

It was a mutual exchange and she had her own dose of power over him, teasing him through the dance, refusing to fall to his charms, exiting each grip he tried on her, pushing him away with the high raising of her legs, kicking and resisting, but also slowly nearing herself to the climax of the song, suddenly so alive that she almost thought that Mr Langdon might have turned off the stereo.

She lost any thought when she found herself pushed into his grip, this time unable to exit it, and she knew exactly what would have happened next, her body remembered each of the step, but suddenly all she was able to do was mirror Mr Langdon’s movement staring into the embers that burned darkly in his eyes, completely fascinated.

She didn’t own a body anymore: it was the master puppeteer Mr Langdon who controlled it, and she didn’t mind the loss of control, till the final act was shown: the kiss.

Never having rehearsed it with Timmy she found herself to retract a bit, but Mr Langdon pushed her nearer to him, his arms circling her waist, gently dipping her a bit, his hands going to her exposed thighs and she couldn’t help but release a delicious thrill on all her body, and she was sure by the smirk appearing on her teacher’s face, he had felt it.

And then he kissed her.

And she felt like every cell in her was reacting to it, as if after his push came a pull on her side, and soon her hands went naturally in his hair, tangling with it, and pulling… with force.

She made him moan in her mouth and she took advantage of this to lead the “dance”, caressing at first his lips, before she bit onto the lower ones, pushing it between his teeth, sure to draw blood.

He moaned of pain, but didn’t break the kiss, although they were forced to move away, due to the lack of air, and as if the aggressive force that had possessed her had left her, she found her legs giving out under her and she hit painfully the floor.

Mr Langdon looked at her, suddenly confused and she couldn’t help but focus on the bloody lip he sported.

It was because of her, and some part in her roared of pride, but she couldn’t help but divert her eyes, mumbling a simple “I think I got a bit too into the dance”.

“You were divine, little minx of mine” he cradled her face, and pushed her closer to him, and she tried to avoid the thought that she was so near to that part of him she had wished on the lonely night when even dance didn’t help her calm her mind.

Thankfully he soon fell onto his knee, exactly like her, his face gently shadowed by the elegant curtain of hair that covered his face and she felt again the impulse to push him back into a kiss, by the hair.

He immediately accepted it, his hand reaching the small of her back, gently caressing the lace of the panties, triplicating the sensation of it by thousands and she couldn’t help but melt slowly and decadently in the kiss, instead being the one who opened her mouth, and let him in.

He was less violent than her, but he didn’t seem to accept anything more than submission, all her fights and protests were useless, but as soon as his hand reached down her front, something in her screamed, and she pushed him away, with a force she didn’t know she owned.

A crazy look appeared on her reflection in the mirror, and she didn’t know if it was true or if she was having vision.

She didn’t know what came over her to act so freely with one of her teachers.

And worst of all the one that she was accused of having screwed for her role in the play.

“If the rumors are so insistent, why shouldn’t you make them real” teased a dark voice in her mind, and she shook her head to shut it up, feeling like she was losing control from her body.

“… you push me away, little birdie” Mr Langdon’s voice was as grave as a deaf bell, immediately pushing itself between her thighs and making her feel so dirty and magnificent, that she couldn’t help but push her back a bit in the air, in the attempt to release some of the friction between her legs “… but then you pull me back to you: it’s time to do a decision”.

She couldn’t help but blush further, meanwhile he sniffed at the thick air, and although she didn’t know if it was physiologically possible, she felt like he had smelt her arousal, and knew it all about it.

And it took just a look in his eyes to confirm it, as he smirked at her, his hand pushing itself in the front of his pants, where a bulge was appearing.

She immediately diverted her eyes, although she licked her lips, both for the knowledge of having such an effect on a man “like Mr Langdon” (distinguished and so disinterested into carnal pleasures) and both because it was a damn amazing length.

She had been pretty unlucky with the few men she had met, never having felt them inside her, but at the same time, they meant nothing against Mr Langdon.

He was a god amongst them.

“I don’t think I understand…” she mumbled shyly, ducking her head, almost in a curtsy in front of such a powerful magnificent.

Although disheveled because of her previous rough ministrations, he was still beautiful, with the long golden hair covering his shoulder and cornering perfectly his elegant and strong face, something which spoke of strength and decision, with a plump and decidedly sinful mouth, slightly open in an expecting question towards her.

His body was as elegant as she might have expected from a dancer with his experience, but it still held some level of softness, and she couldn’t help but find it endearing, even much more interesting.

And she was just a disheveled student, in a tattered band t-shirt and rosy panties, worn out and with a body which didn’t come even close to his.

So, what might Mr Langdon want from her?

Gods associated only with other gods.

“And you are one” her mind spoke to her loudly, an evil laugh echoing in its walls.

She didn’t know what he meant.

“I think you do, my angel” he spoke softly, crawling closer to her, and this time her body trembled under a simple touch of his hand on her extended leg, relaxing under those elegant digits “… you speak better when you are dancing, that’s when the truth always comes out”.

And he gripped tight her leg, pushing it out of her, and she found yourself laid out on the cold parquet, her hair forming a halo under her face, meanwhile Michael covered the chandelier in the room, obscuring her view.

“Why don’t you dance more, my sweetie?” and his hand slowly moved from the grip towards caressing her legs, climbing from her calves to her thighs, soliciting little moans from her, till it reached its point of no returns and there it stopped.

She moaned, protesting against the loss of his hand, but he just simply shushed her.

“I think that before I think that you are a proper partner for this kind of dance, I want a solo demonstration” and he softly grabbed her face, making her look at him in his eyes.

It might have seemed like a devious and disgusting proposal from her dance teacher, hadn’t he looked at her as if she was his equal.

And hadn’t she been already so aroused.

She still found herself unable to act onto her desires, not knowing how to properly act onto his order.

She wasn’t inexperienced in the “solo department”, but she had her own way, which weren’t in the slightest considerable a dance.

“I have never…” she uttered shyly, meanwhile she hide her face behind your hair, meanwhile Mr Langdon, brushed his thumb against her clothed core, letting her taste a bit of the forbidden fruit.

Which was pleasure.

“… there is no need to lie to me, lovely” he mumbled, caressing again his thumb against her sacred and drenched place, meanwhile another hand, freed her from her cage of hair, revealing her face to him “… I know that carnal pleasures are within human nature”.

The caress of his thumb disappeared as he uttered the last word of his discourse, and she couldn’t help but complain softly, soothed by the promise of his lips, since the gap between them was almost non-existent.

“I know, and I am not denying that” she rumbled a bit annoyed by the teasing, mostly because they were so close but he wasn’t touching her and she couldn’t help but hate each moment where his hands weren’t in her body “But I have never… been… I have never touched myself, internally”.

She was unable to speak both due to her embarrassment, unused to talk so openly about a side of her life which had been hidden for so long, and also because, due to her lacking of speaking openly about it, she didn’t have the proper words to explain her situation.

But Mr Langdon understood.

He understood anything about her: her fears about the rumors, her insecurities and also, apparently, her sexual life.

He chucked darkly, and kissed softly her forehead, which got her to beam in his arms, but soon he was again off her, and he was staring at her, expectantly.

“Don’t worry, lovely, I’ll teach you each step” and he pushed back his hair, as if to stare at her better “Let’s start with your precious neck, pass your hands from there, down to your chest. Do it slowly”.

She had never believed that those words might have seemed to sexy, alongside the little thrill that went through her body as she slowly, as he had instructed, passed her fingers from the start of her neck, where it met with her head, down to her chest, right in the valley of her breasts.

Fire ignited beneath her, as she traced slow and tiny patterns on her skin, finding new soft spots and wondering what it would have felt to feel his tongue tracing them.

She boldly met his eyes, meanwhile she did it, and opened her mouth in a hoarse moan, before daring more, gently squeezing her breasts, softly squealing, under the watchful eyes of Mr Langdon.

“Aren’t you bold, little minx?” he giggled softly, but didn’t dare stopping her “Be gentle there, tease yourself over the fabric, big circles at first and then smaller, as you come near your little… peak”.

And she followed his order, gently cupping her breast, softly, feeling their weight, adding just a bit of pressure with the hell of her hand, then she moved from her entire hand to gently drawing circle patterns around it, with her pointer finger.

She neared slowly her nipples, the circles became much smaller and she found herself slowly closing her eyes, in a pleasured haze, her legs begging for friction and she found her legs inching closer to her core, just to be slowly pushed away from Mr Langon.

“Don’t even think about rutting like a bitch, in your hand, you are better than that, my goddess”.

She nodded almost caught in a trance, staring in his eyes, meanwhile her hands came again at her chest, continuing the gentle teasing over the fabric, it working at a delicious space, alongside the friction of it adding a rough feeling to it.

“I want to see you” his voice sounded as a growl, and he seemed almost entranced and feral in his standing, but she wasn’t scared of the beast he might have become, because she knew she would control him, no matter what “… strip”.

And she raised her shirt, putting it over her head and throwing it away in the room, not caring where it landed, only caring over Michael’s full-blown pupils.

She finally pushed her fingers against the hot skin, gently teasing the soft skin, pinching it gently and then soothing the ache with a gentle caress.

“Move your hands lower… slowly, and don’t touch yourself” she almost whined at the order, but moved her hand lower, at first teasing her hips, the most ticklish parts and then her thighs, raising her legs slowly, so that she could caress their smooth expanse.

Then she came back and teased with abstract patterns the front of her panties, not touching herself, following his order, but teasing him, with a few kittenish moans.

When she opened her eyes, she found him barely restrained, and she couldn’t help it, pulling on the waistband of your panties, which snapped softly against her hip.

“You teasing whore…” he growled and you opened lightly your legs, covering her breasts, pushing herself away “… the more you tease, the more difficult it’ll be for you to come, later”.

A threat, which got her to tease him even further: it wouldn’t be a dance without it.

She slipped her fingers into her panties.

He growled as if to ask her to stop her ministration, but did she care?

No, she didn’t…

Not when suddenly that energy had come coursing through her body and made her feel in control, for once, not caring about what the others would say.

What he, himself would say.

With the heel of her hand she found her soaked center, she started rutting against, not as pathetically as she had done before, but as if she was on her throne, meanwhile ecstasy coursed through her, wrecking her so deeply and recharging her with that energy that coursed through her veins.

But it didn’t last much longer, two strong hands pushed her to the ground and pinned there, and when she opened her eyes, she found Mr Langdon’s hovering over her, his smile turned into a deep frown.

It would have scared her, the thought of having disappointed him, but she seemed to know better, her body knowing that his was searching for hers.

“… I said not to tease me” he spelled out each words, and she just pushed herself straighter to look at him in the eyes, whatever was possessing her in that moment roaring through her veins in a deep laugh, meanwhile she replied, simply.

“You asked me to dance for you”.

“Well… I am tired of you dancing around the matter” he impaled her roughly against the ground, grounding his length against her thigh, making her effectively moan of appreciation “I want to take what is mine”.

And his mouth latched onto one of her pebbles, raised at attention, meanwhile he continued pushing his hips into her, as if they still hadn’t clothes on and they were doing the real thing.

Which seemed extremely appealing.

Mr Langdon knew exactly what to do, making her bite her lower lip to release pressure and hold back a particular loud moan, as she threw back her head, her back arching itself and pushing her front closer to him.

He bit down harshly on one of her nipples, and she was sure that a mark would be staining it.

This got him satisfied enough to move away from her chest, and put his hand on her hips, caressing them comfortingly, whereas his eyes didn’t promise anything good coming on her way.

And although she was terrified of it, of not being able to stand it, a dark part of her, the one who had come in control of her body in that moment simply hissed jokingly Michael, who pushed swiftly his fingers from her hips to her wet center.

He teased her over the panties, as she had done before, but his fingers were definitely different from hers, more experienced and the felling of them, silky and long, made her nervous and anxious about what would be coming later.

And he teased her merciless, almost pushing that dark side of her to its limit.

She just tried to enjoy the fleeting pleasure, because whenever Michael would be touching her in that certain spot, she would lose her mind, but it never lasted.

No matter her broken begging.

He just smiled, devilishly.

And then finally he had enough, his manhood throbbing gloriously against her and helped her discard aside, the drenched fabric of her panties, meanwhile he was still perfectly and impeccably clothed, although a bit disheveled, due to the collision they had had.

But he still looked marvelous.

And she couldn’t help but lose a bit of the confidence she had had, not used to being naked, no matter the scandalously revealing costume she had worn on the rehearsal, to try and get used to it.

She felt even more exposed to Mr Langdon, because it was as if he could see her body and soul.

And she found herself to breath slowly, her eyes meeting his and he asked for her permission, waiting for her breath to slow down, from the agitation that had set in her lungs, before he gently leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“I’ll be gentle” his voice held a true promise and she breathed slowly, nodding softly, before she opened her legs lightly “I can’t wait to be your first”

His fingers found her womanhood, and they didn’t press inside, they instead caressed her little pearl, the one she had known herself to bring pleasure, as if to coax her to relax under him, pushing himself into the search of pleasurable spot for her, never stopping from looking her in the eyes, which were solely focused on him.

He mapped out her womanhood with his fingers, and then when he felt her trembling, completely lost in pleasure, he inserted the first finger.

She was suddenly reminded of him and her surrounding, finding the intrusion, although uncomfortable at first, strangely pleasurable later.

Everything in her head spoke of volume and about how sinful and dirty it was to let a man know her carnally just for her pleasure, and not procreation, but she didn’t care in the slightest, gently trying to move against the intrusion in her most secret place.

But Mr Langdon had pinned her down, forcing her to accept the teasing pace he had set down: he wasn’t certainly joking, when he talked about teasing her.

But he was indeed gentle.

Some parts in her, still, didn’t want him to be.

She wanted the desperate passion and the rough pain of sex which became much wilder and more savage.

But it brought to nothing, because it was now Mr Langdon who held the power.

She begged and begged and begged even some more and only when she was on the brink of madness, he gave her more, but didn’t let her tumble over and off the edge, keeping her in that middle state between aroused and completely satiated.

“You are the devil” she mumbled, as he crooked his fingers in her, hitting her deep, in that spot that seemed so different and “oh so sensitive”.

“Quite close to the truth my dear” he whispered in her ear, before gently kissing it.

The words held no meaning to her, in that moment, only searching the peak of pleasure, but they would have been, without a doubt, etched in her memory.

And there he finally had enough of his own teasing, his hands exited her body and before she knew it, he was shirtless on her, again pushing himself through his boxers onto her body, making her feel its weight and its roughness, making her wonder again what it would have felt in her.

Her hands went at its boxers and he let her take them down his legs, dragging them in a feverish quickness, desperate to have him inside of her, aching and wetting the ground under her.

Would there be a stain, the following day?

The ashamed part of her, hoped that there would be nothing to prove their aggressive coupling.

But she knew perfectly that her body had been marked for that purpose only, feeling the bruises as a badge of memory and honor.

She wanted to leave some of her own on him.

He raised them up so she sat on his laps, her back facing the mirror, meanwhile he stared into it, a few minutes before diverting his complete and utter attention towards her.

His manhood was so near to her, that she felt the tip brushing against her opening, meanwhile his hand continued to tease with his palm her pearl, making her grip onto him, her nails sinking in his neck.

She could feel him again, and the fact that there were no barriers other than his teasing smirk, made her crazy with pleasure and unsatisfaction.

“Shall we dance, my goddess?” he asked, smirking and pushing himself to align his member with her opening, just waiting for your subtle nod, before he entered her.

And she let him inside him.

The pain caught her first, meanwhile the fullness felt so so familiar that the invasion of him in her womanhood went unnoticed, although the pain was a constant reminder of it, pushing herself to harness even more onto him, her nails digging deeper, and for a moment she couldn’t help but feel like her fingers were suddenly claws.

She closed her eyes, to focus on the different sensations she was feeling and there Mr Langdon started moving, pushing himself in her, slowly and gently, trying to ease pain with friction.

And it somehow worked, mostly because she met his thrust, or tried to, because as soon as he realized how eager she was for him, he buckled into her roughly, having let her accommodate to his length (which wasn’t an easy job), meanwhile she ground her lips, trying to gain as much friction as she could.

But she was also trying to take control, pushing himself to “follow” her rhythm.

She pushed her head into the crook of his neck, biting down there, and hearing him moan loudly, meanwhile he sheathed himself into her deeply, and losing a beat, which was enough for her to gain control, bouncing herself up on him with enough strength that she couldn’t help but feel wild and feral.

Fire was burning both in her core and outside of it, meanwhile the temperature raised painfully in the room, and when she opened her eyes, she saw fire all around her.

It was as if her and Michael were surrounded by fire, and she, the following day would have thought it was just a hallucination, given by pleasure, but right now, that was her domain and that was her magic.

And then she turned to the mirror, to look at the sheer erotic vision that their entwined bodies would have been in it.

Her eyes found the mirror, and what she saw there shocked her to her own core, even more than the fire which surrounded them: Mr Langdon’s face was different from the one she donned daily, white and broken, covered in scars and with dark shiny eyes staring at the mirror, darker for the pleasure going through him.

She was honestly scared: it wasn’t human, but nothing in that room was.

But worst of all, neither she was.

Because not only Mr Langdon’s face was different, but hers, as she faced the mirror was marked by blood, glowing brightly meanwhile her eyes were suddenly red, almost as the deepest of flames in the fire that was around them, and for a moment she thought that it was the fire, making them shine that way.

But as she moved them, they kept on shining red, and her face bore golden tattoos of moons and lines.

She should have been scared of this, not knowing what the hell was happening, but she just kept her hips moving, turning her head towards Mr Langdon, or whatever demon was possessing him, and catching him smirking at her, as if he knew what she had seen.

As if he knew her own different appearance, appreciated it and found an equal in it.

“You look beautiful, don’t you” he spoke, his voice laced with roughness “…your true nature, finally out, my goddess”.

And she laughed.

Madness clearly taking over her.

But pleasure brought her away from those concerns, and she ended up soon losing each thought to the damnation of that dance.

She woke up, slightly confused about her surroundings, feeling the softness of her bed in the dorm, but her body couldn’t shake the feeling of cold parquet and skin on her own.

It was low key traumatic, and she was a bit comforted by the fellow presence of her beloved roommate, Mallory, who appeared on her side, clearly the one who had tried to wake her up.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty” joked her roommate, just hearing a tired gruntle from her, who turned on her stomach, and immediately felt her muscles flare in pain, and she let out a soft moan, which didn’t go unnoticed by Mallory “… did you pull a muscle, from too much sleeping?”.

She appreciated her roommate’s teasing, but couldn’t help but be feel like her head was going to murder her, much to the confusion in it, not only because of the physical strain she felt in all her body, but most importantly because she saw flashes of her memory from the previous night.

Mr Langdon on top of her, and inside of her, the horrific face and her own being transfigured roughly, into the one of a savage moon goddess.

“You do realize that you got me quite worried” continued mumbling Mallory, meanwhile she just hoped to be left alone, with her aching muscles and aching head “… what can I think of my roommate who is always up at 6 a.m., whereas today she slept till 12 a.m.”.

And this got quite a reaction out of her, who basically almost threw herself out of the bed and set her eyes onto the elegant clock on the wall, discovering that not only it was indeed 12 a.m., but more precisely it was 12:30 a.m.

She had missed the morning lessons.

She almost fell off the bed, as she tried to move outside of it, trying her best to get up quickly just to be pushed back in by her roommate, who explained to her, that they had the day off.

“… apparently, the dancing room, has caught fire, last night” quite a shocked expression appeared on her face “Mr Langdon was extremely annoyed by this, but they had no choice but to settle up in the dance room next to it, waiting for firefighters to give them the permission for the gas and smoke”.

And, meanwhile she was having a mental breakdown, because apparently the fire of last night was true, and if the fire was true, so were the faces, and…

…she was something more than human, almost demonic, from what she had seen.

“… but hey at least we have a day off” commented cheerily Mallory, but before she could do anything, her roommate was rushing out of her room.

She was a woman on a mission: finding Mr Langdon and asking him what it all meant.

Meanwhile Mr Langdon, or Michael, his true name, was looking at the hearth and waiting for the flame to give him some clue on the ritual having worked.

The one of the previous night had worked even too well, revealing her true nature with a great fire, which he would have gladly survived without, but it definitely proved to him that her powers were strong.

But untrained.

And how he had had fun teaching you his dance, the previous night.

“…my son” the hearth called him, and he came closer, almost brushing his finger against the fire.

“She is awake” he mumbled, almost in a trance, hearing a satisfied laugh from the hearth, roaring as the flames almost exited their rightful place “… I have found her”.

“Well, then I think that your job is done there” the voice told him, and he couldn’t help but feel proud of having accomplished the hardest of his tasks: finding a legend.

“…I’ll bring her on our side” and he looked as the fire died out “… we’ll be invincible”.

---

@emmyrosee @blakewaterxx @lovelylangdonx @1-800-bitchcraft @rocketgirl2410 @ladynuwanda @rosegoldrichie @lathraios @frenchbread4ever @bvbfob @kaetastic

#michael langdon #michael langdon reader #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon fic #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon smut #kinktober #michael langdon moodboard #michael langdon edit #ahs #ahs apocalypse #ahs imagine #ahs writing #michael langdon story #michael langdon writing #michael langdon x female reader #suspiria AU

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kaspbrak-tozier-reddie · 4 years

Note

#1 & #30

#1 - “I’m cold” “take my jacket” & #30 - “Oh my gosh, you’re so annoying!”

Pairing: Reddie

Warnings: Sonia’s parenting, swearing, underage drinking

Masterlist + Prompt List + Asks

———————————————————————

Eddie and Richie have been struggling for the past year with their newly found long distant relationship. Sure they had started dating only a couple of weeks before graduation but they had to split for college. Eddie had left sooner as Sonia had wanted to move to New York to be with Eddie since he didn’t want to go to a community college. It had been had at first but considering the technology, ie. Skype and phone apps like Snapchat and Messenger, it was a little easier.

Since there is a couple weeks break for Christmas and New Years, Richie and Eddie decided to meet back in Derry. Only for the sole purpose of introducing Eddie to Richie’s parents, well as his boyfriend instead of his best friend.

So that’s where they’re at now, standing on the 2-inch high, snow-covered pavement in front of Richie’s childhood home. “Does it feel weird?” Eddie asks Richie. “I mean, you haven’t been home for a whole year.”

“It is a little,” Richie admits. “It should go well this time, hopefully.”

Sonia Kaspbrak was an easy trip, Richie was already in New York for July so Eddie thought it’d be best to tell Sonia. Of course in good Sonia fashion, she blew a casket at Richie, claiming him to be dirty and had also corrupted her saint of a son. After leaving in a huff, Eddie was apologising to Richie on the subway back to his off-campus apartment.

“Well, let’s go. It’s chilly.” Eddie says, shivering a little. Richie pushed open the gate and led Eddie up to the front door and knocking.

Richie makes a note that the house exterior has not changed within the past year, except for a new paint job. There is no more chipping paint on the exterior walls and the front door is now stained timber instead of painted red.

“Eddie!” Maggie exclaims as soon as the front door swings open, pulling him into a hug. Once she releases Eddie, she brings her son in for a bone-crushing hug. “When you said you were bringing someone over, I was hoping that it was - ” Maggie cut herself off and looks between the two boys.

Richie isn’t sure if she cut herself short because she’s happy or if she thinks it’s a stupid idea. A stupid idea that will tear their whole friendship and friend group apart if they ever break up.

“About fucking time you two! So when did this happen? how long have you been hiding this from me?” Maggie says with far too much joy laced in her voice, for Richie’s liking at least.

“Ma, can we go inside? It’s cold!” Richie whines.

“Oh crap! Yes of course.” Maggie steps aside to let Eddie and Richie into the house.

****

The house is like an oven compared to outside. The Toziers have their fireplace crackling away and a couple of heaters. Richie and Eddie remove their boots and socks and quickly changing into the spare shoes they had packed, in case of this kind of weather. Eddie can blissfully smell the roast that Wentworth and Maggie have prepared as well as the strong scent of cinnamon.

“Oh Eddie, this is a pleasant surprise,” Wentworth exclaims stepping from the kitchen to greet him. He extends his right hand outwards to Eddie, which Eddie politely shakes. “When Richie said he was bringing a boy over, I didn’t expect - “ Went pauses. “Oh my goodness!”

Eddie swears he sees Richie blush, through his peripheral vision. “So Eddie is this mysterious boy that you’ve been gushing about for the past year?” Maggie questions her son.

“’Mystery boy’?” Eddie asks Richie. Richie’s already pink-tinged face, starts to get darker before resting on a crimson.

“Well, we were keeping it a secret until we knew how serious it was,” Richie admits. “So, mystery.”

“Oh, so this is serious?” Went asks.

“Yeah,” Eddie replies.

Went and Maggie smile at each other, joyously, and quickly bring the food out of the kitchen and a bottle of white wine, while Richie and Eddie take their seats.

“I know that you’re both underage but one glass won’t kill you,” Maggie says.

Eddie could think of a whole damned list but doesn’t say anything because he knows that she’s right. If they, however, drink a whole bottle or two, they’d be in strife. He watches as Maggie pours both him and Richie half a glass of the wine, being the responsible but fun adult that she is.

Richie starts to load up Eddie’s plate with the chicken that Went made, it sort of became a habit. When they were kids Eddie was shy and scared to eat a lot of the junk food that the losers had. Only taking minuscule amounts of chips, candy, chocolate, pizza etc. Eddie never touched any soda, opting to only drink water or freshly juiced oranges that can from Mike’s farm. It was also because Sonia used to pile food onto Eddie’s plate, so Richie often did it for Eddie even though Eddie always says he could do it himself.

“This is so nice Mr Tozier,” Eddie says after a few mouthfuls of food.

“Please, Edward you’ve earnt first name privileges,” Wentworth says, “and thank you.” Eddie smiles and takes another forkful to his mouth.

****

“If you two are going up to your room, Richard, I want that door open,” Maggie says sternly.

“Okay mom,” Richie replies and leads Eddie upstairs to Richie’s bedroom.

The room’s bare except for a few posters, here and there, ones that are tattered or aren’t one of Richie’s favourite bands anymore. There aren’t any photos stuck to the edges of his mirror or framed photos on the nightstands. The sheets were still black as were the 3 blankets that Maggie must’ve put on the bed.

“I guess you aren’t allowed in my bed tonight,” Richie jokes, noting the mattress on the floor beside his bed.

“Do you want me to?” Eddie asks jokingly, the two laugh nervously, unsure of the new protocols that have just been placed in the Tozier household. It’s no secret that Richie and Eddie use to sleep in the same bed, or that both would sneak into each other’s houses in the middle of the night when they were younger. But now that they are dating?

“Screw my parents,” Richie says in his British accent.

“Not the British guy,” Eddie groans.

Richie opens his window and sits on the ledge, letting his long legs dangle over the side of the house, Eddie joins him and rests his head on Richie’s shoulder. They used to sit on the window frame for hours, looking up at the sky. If it was Summer/Spring, they’d climb up to the roof and lie on the metal sheets. Since the roof was probably covered in snow, the two sit on the frame looking aimlessly at the sky, making shapes with the stars.

“Want to drive around town for a bit and maybe go to the fields?” Richie asks.

“Just like old times, eh Rich?” Eddie chuckles, the pair climbs down the tree and make their way to the beat-up truck that never made it to Seattle. Richie didn’t want to take the truck to Seattle because everything he’d need was within walking distance or he’d use his bike.

As they got into the car, Eddie shivers, regretting not grabbing his coat on the way out. “I’m cold” Eddie whispers.

“Here, take my jacket.” Richie shrugs off his worn-out denim jacket and passes it to Eddie. Almost immediately, Eddie pulls it over his arms and wraps himself in it, enjoying the strong scent of Richie’s cologne and washing detergent.

They drove around town, taking in the breathtaking view of the retro buildings. You ever get that in big cities, the whole modernisation thing didn’t sit well with Richie and Eddie, it took a couple of months for them to get truly get used to the idea of everything. Especially with public transport.

Driving through town then to the fields on the outskirts of the town had become their thing. When Richie got his truck, he took Eddie out to celebrate. He had asked him to stay the night, in case they got back late. They went to the diner that the losers always went to and then drove around before stopping on the side of the road before the big-ass sign saying “WELCOME TO DERRY”.

Tonight was no different, except they didn’t go to the diner, they went to the 24/7 corner store for Slurpees (even though it is freezing out) and continued their drive around Derry. Richie pulls up on the side of the road and pulls out an old cassette tape that Eddie had made him a few years ago. The soft tune of ‘Tiny Dancer’ by Elton John played through the speakers. “Oh my goodness I forgot I made this!” Eddie squeaks, covering his face with his hands.

“I haven’t listened to it in years,” Richie says and takes a slurp, finishing off his Slurpee.

“I made this to express my love for you but um, I thought you didn’t feel the same way.”

“You kidding?! I kept chickening out until Stan basically pushed me to ask you out! If he didn’t I wouldn’t be with you now.”

“I’ve got to thank Stan.”

Richie shoves Eddie slightly and Eddie shoves him back. They sit in silence watching the twinkling stars and enjoying each other’s company. Eddie found himself drifting off to sleep listening to ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ by Elvis Presley. Richie puts the car in drive and drives back to his house.

****

Richie struggles to carry Eddie’s sleeping body up the stairs to his bedroom while trying to not wake his parent. “Rich?” Maggie asks standing at the top of the stairs.

“Sorry, we went out and Eddie fell asleep,” Richie explains, whispering, and almost trips on the last stair, thankfully Maggie stops him and helps get Eddie into bed. “I’ll take the floor tonight.”

“Okay sweetheart, night.”

“Night.”

Richie partially closes the door and slides in beside Eddie. The boy beside him stirs a little before sitting up slightly. “Thanks for tonight, Rich,” Eddie slurs out.

“You’re welcome Eds. Do you want me to grab you something a little more comfy?”

“Yeah.”

Richie makes his way over to his dresser to get an old shirt, that he didn’t want to take but left in case he didn’t have clothes; and a pair of old sweatpants that had dozens of holes in them and hands them to Eddie. Eddie’s quick to kick off his jeans and rip off his T-Shirt and quickly slides on the items of clothing that Richie has just handed him.

“Checking me out Tozier?” Eddie chuckles.

“You know it Kaspbrak,” Richie replies and starts tickling Eddie’s sides.

“Oh my gosh, you’re so annoying.” Eddie groans out, hitting Richie’s hands away. “Just go to sleep asshole.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” Richie cuddles into Eddie and listens to the sound of Eddie’s slow and steady breath and the sound of his heart beating, before finally allowing himself to drift to sleep.

#Reddie #eddie x richie #richie x eddie #edward kaspbrak #eddie kaspbrak #richard tozier #richie tozier #it chapter 1 #it chapter 2

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