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headkiss · 10 months

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you’ll always know me (pt. 2)

part 1, part 2

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: eddie misses you too much when he’s away, so he comes home again and invites you to join him on tour. the two of you figure some things out, too.

word count: 12.2k

warnings: fluff, some angst (i’m sorry!), childhood friends to lovers, librarian!reader, still idiots in love, and a kiss!!!

a/n: hiii thank you guys so so much for all the love on part 1 of this one!!! i hope u love part 2 (the finale) just as much!!! i really really enjoyed writing these two and hopefully you enjoy it too!!! please let me know what you think <3

♫♩♪♬

It’s about a month later when Eddie has another break from tour.

Rather than hanging around wherever in the world he is for the short time like he normally would on the short breaks, he finds himself booking a flight to Hawkins. Sure, he’ll only be there for about 48 hours, maybe less, but he doesn’t mind.

He really, really wants to see you.

Considering how often he talks to you on the phone now, it’d be tough to surprise you this time, so he doesn’t. Last call, he’d told you he had a couple of days off, with a seed of hope in your chest, you’d asked him what he was going to do, and the happy cheer you made when Eddie told you he was coming home is something he’d never forget.

“Is Wayne picking you up?” You’d asked, knowing Eddie would rather not take a driver if it’s possible.

“He’s gotta work.”

“Why don’t I come get you, then?”

And, well, how could Eddie ever say no to that?

That brings him here, walking along the familiar floor of the Indianapolis International Airport, a beanie tucked on his head despite the weather, a pair of sunglasses over his eyes despite being inside.

He’s lucky that it’s not a busy time at the airport, that people don’t really pay him any attention whenever he’s closer to home. One day, that might change, but he’s glad for now, for the sort of peace it brings.

His suitcase is tugged along behind him, wheels spinning against the tiled floors, his legs are stiff from the flight, his neck has an ache in it from his nap, but the discomfort sort of melts away when he sees you.

Eddie suddenly feels more aware of himself than he ever has around you, the pickup in his heart rate louder than ever. He assumes that’s got something to do with those feelings he’s got for you. Feelings he’s had and only just recognized.

You're standing by your car right outside the doors with the ‘pick up’ sign hanging over them, sweater sleeves long enough to cover your palms and a sign (a flimsy piece of paper, really) with the word ‘loser’ scrawled in sharpie.

“You’re still my loser,” he remembers you saying, that night in his van. That night he kissed you and you kissed him and everything felt exactly right for just a minute.

A soft chuckle leaves his chest as he walks through the doors, and even with his poor disguise on, you know it’s him right away. A pair of black jeans, ripped in the knees, a faded band tee, and messy curls. So clearly Eddie.

You want to say his name as soon as you see him, shout it excitedly and sort of embarrassingly. Instead, you let go of your paper with one hand and wave, bouncing on your feet just a little.

Your best friend, the best boy you’ve ever known, back sooner than you ever could’ve hoped.

A smile splits your cheeks, and a mirrored expression spreads on Eddie’s face, his eyes crinkling behind his sunglasses with the force of it.

When he’s close enough, he drops his suitcase handle and rushes to you, his arms going around your waist and crumpling your piece of paper between your bodies. His hug knocks the air out of you in the best way possible, the smell of his soap and cologne hitting your nose; pine and sandalwood and smoke and something sweet like vanilla.

His hair tickles your nose and you wouldn’t want it any other way. Your arms go around his neck, face tucked against his shoulder.

“Hey, trouble,” he breathes. There’s something like relief there.

“Hi, Eddie,” you say, and it’s quiet enough that he’s the only one that could hear you. He squeezes you even tighter, his hug so crushing you’re standing on your tiptoes to stay in it.

“Thanks for coming.”

You’d go to a lot of places for him, almost anywhere. The Indianapolis International Airport isn’t all that special.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, then remember that you’re still in public, that he’s Eddie Munson, and that you’ve been hugging for a long time for something friendly. Clearing your throat, you pull away and tear the edges of your paper between your fingers.

“Yeah, yeah. Get in the car.”

He does, a smile still on his face, though it’s softer now, a little shy. As soon as you pull away from the airport, Eddie tugs off his beanie and sunglasses. He’s often the one driving when you’re together (or, he was when he was always in Hawkins), so he takes this chance to lean his head against the seat and watch you drive.

There’s a small squint in your eyes when you look at some signs, and then he’s thinking about how you’d look in glasses, morning eyes bleary behind the frames. Pretty, he thinks. You hum along to the radio and he’s joining in.

“You’re one-upping me,” you say when he does. “It’s kinda unfair, mister famous singer.”

It’s sort of crazy, how you can say something so simple, so out-of-mind, and it’s enough to wash away any ounce of worry Eddie had that things would be weird now. He guesses you two are too far in now for something like a kiss—the best kiss of his life, probably—to change anything.

Too far into your friendship, of course.

“Stop, we used to sing together all the time,” he says.

“That was before you got a record deal! Now it’s unbalanced!”

“This is the best part of the song, trouble,” Eddie reaches over and twists the volume knob, turning it up, “sing along.”

You’re shaking your head and you’re smiling and just like that you and Eddie are harmonizing on the bridge. It’s pitchy (on your part) and easy (on his) and it’s pretty perfect.

The sun sits lower in the sky by the time you’re in Hawkins, pulling into the trailer park. There’s an orange hue in the sky, fading into pinks and blues.

Wayne’s car still isn’t back from work, and gravel crunches beneath your tires as you park in front of Eddie’s trailer. You look over at him, the time spent in the car talking and singing and soaking in his presence like a plant in sunlight doesn’t feel like enough and it feels like everything at the same time.

“Welcome home, Eddie.”

He glances over at you like he has time and time again on the way, eyes flicking over your features even as you turn to look towards the sunset out the window.

“It’s good to be home.” His eyes are still on you.

Eddie tried to wait up for Wayne that night, but he seemed to be working way later than he should’ve been (some things never change) and Eddie was more tired than he thought.

He showered, laid down, and he was out.

He wakes up with hair even messier than usual, his arm stiff from where he’d been using it as a pillow, and indents from the blankets on his bare chest. Telltale signs of a good sleep.

Walking out into the kitchen, that smell of crappy coffee and the sight of his uncle has him smiling, “morning, Wayne.”

“My boy,” his uncle sets down his newspaper to greet him, pushing back and standing up to give him a proper hug, hand slapping his back affectionately. “Back so soon. You missed me that much?”

“Sure,” he says, pulling back and grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “I wanted to say ‘hi’ when you got back yesterday, but I was out.”

“I know,” Wayne chuckles a little, “I checked on ya and found you snoring.”

“I don’t snore!”

“You snore, kid.”

“You have no proof,” Eddie says, sitting across from his uncle the way he has forever. “What kept you out so late, anyway? Car giving you trouble?”

Sinking into his seat a little, Wayne fights a smile, “no, not a car.”

“Wayne Munson! Were you on a date?”

The thought has Eddie grinning. His uncle deserves someone, he deserves to be loved in that way and to be less lonely.

“I’m the parent here,” he says, though it’s clear in the out-of-character shyness that Eddie’s right, “I’m the one who gets to ask questions.”

“I’m happy for you,” Eddie says.

“Shut up and go to the library, I know that’s why you came back.”

Eddie never really stopped to think of the exact thing that pulled him back here so soon. Obviously he wants to see you, he always does, but that hasn’t always been enough to get him home, as awful as that sounds. This time, it’s like he was searching for an opening, any sliver of time so that he could see your face and hear your voice at the same time.

So, yeah, maybe that is ultimately why he came back. And maybe he abandons his coffee mug in favor of getting dressed and driving his van over to the library.

You’re going through your system and finding overdue books, calling people and having to stay sweet even when they’re cold with you. It’s your least favorite task of the job, probably.

Then, the door’s opening and when you glance up to see who it is, it’s exactly who you’re looking for. Eddie, spinning his car keys around his finger, humming softly.

“So, where can I find a book on rock ‘n’ roll?”

“Dork.”

It was only yesterday that he saw you, and still, you’re a total breath of fresh air.

“What, you’re not happy to see me?”

“Of course I am. What are you doing here?”

“Um, hanging out with my best friend. Put me to work, trouble.”

Best friend, best friend, best friend. The words tug at your heart in two ways. One: even though he’s met so many new people, he still considers you his best. Two: you’re only friends.

“Okay, here,” you pat the desk beside you where the phone sits, “you can call my overdue books for me.”

“Sounds good to me.”

He walks around the desk to go behind it with you, pulling over a chair from the closest table and sitting down.

For every phone call you ask him to make, Eddie puts on some sort of voice. A British accent for one, his terrible high pitched old lady voice for another. You’re hiding your giggles behind your hand and you’re definitely not thinking of what your boss might say to you if she found out.

It doesn’t matter, it’ll be worth it to feel this way. Like no time has passed at all, like you and Eddie are kids hiding out in his trailer with the phone book open making prank calls for hours until Wayne had to cut you off. It’s then and now mingling the way they do when you’ve known someone this long.

The door opens again right after Eddie hangs up the last call, right after you’ve looked at each other and burst out laughing because of the reaction he’d gotten on the other line.

“My stomach hurts, Eddie,” you lean back in your chair, and he wipes at his eyes, “stop making me laugh.”

“I can’t help it, I’m just so funny.”

You slap his arm lightly, shaking your head. “So humble, too.”

You sit up when whoever had walked in comes up to the desk, and you find a young boy and a woman who you assume is his mother.

“Go ahead,” she urges him.

Nervously, the boy steps forward, “are you Eddie Munson?” He asks, and it’s then you notice the small Corroded Coffin pin on the strap of his backpack.

Eddie doesn’t really get approached in Hawkins, usually. The people here didn’t really like him for a long time, for the most part, and then they just sort of seemed to accept it. He doesn’t mind one bit, though. He’s lucky above a lot of things.

“Sure am. What’s up, buddy?”

“Could I get an autograph?” The boy asks.

“Totally!” Eddie stands up, grabbing a sharpie and a piece of paper from your desk before walking around it to greet the boy properly.

He kneels down in front of him, gives him a fist bump and wears the kindest smile you’ve ever known. You’re basically a puddle, watching the interaction with fondness melting in your chest.

“Who do I make it out to?” Eddie asks.

The boy looks up at his mom, who nods at him, and he turns back to Eddie, “Frankie.”

“Nice to meet you, Frankie. Sick name.”

Eddie uses his leg to write on the page, scrawling a small message that you can’t make out from where you sit. When he’s done, he looks back at Frankie and hands him the paper.

“There you go, buddy.”

“Thank you!” His smile is so wide, his eyes disbelieving as he shares a look with his mom.

“Thank you,” the woman says. “Sorry to bother you, have a nice day.”

“It’s no bother, no worries,” Eddie tells her, waving at the pair as they leave, “have a good one!”

When he turns back around to face you, you’re smiling all soft and adoringly and he’d sign a million autographs if you’d always look at him that way afterwards.

“What?” He asks, like it wasn’t a big deal.

“That was so cute, Eddie. Did you see his face?”

“What can I say, the people love me.” Eddie shrugs, playing it off. “Think you have some competition for number one fan, trouble.”

Yeah, right. If only he knew about that damn shoebox you have.

“Not a chance, Munson. That spot’s mine.”

It feels like you’ve blinked and you’re already driving Eddie back to the airport. Even so, you’re happy knowing that he came home again. It’s like that distance that had painfully wedged itself between you has been growing smaller and smaller, despite him being away.

With every phone call, every laugh, every utterance of the word ‘trouble’ in Eddie’s voice, something welds itself back together, healing over where miles apart had wounded it. Mending like a bone, fractured but never broken.

Beside you, Eddie’s been fidgeting with his rings, twirling them around his fingers as you drive. You’re not sure why, and you haven’t asked, because if he wants to, he’ll tell you and you’ll listen. He’s nervous, that much you know.

Eddie’s been thinking about asking you something for a while, and with how his gut twists when he thinks about not seeing you for months at a time again, he figures it’s worth a shot.

He wants to have you around when he’s doing what he loves, when he feels like he’s on top of the world. He wants you there and he thinks it might feel better than ever that way.

You drive up to the drop-off spot, pulling over and parking the car. Eddie turns to look at you, and you do the same so that you’re facing each other. He’s got a beanie on again, black with a small pair of dice embroidered on the front. There are dark circles under his eyes, and somehow his tiredness makes them shine even more, like the morning sun reflects differently.

“So,” he starts, dragging out the word. “I have a question for you.”

“Okay, shoot.”

Well, he’s gotta do it now, no matter the nerves or the fear of rejection.

“Will you come on tour with me?”

“What?” Is what comes out of your mouth because you’re not sure that you heard him right. Sure, you’ve seen him live plenty of times, but not at this stage of his career, not alongside him that way.

“I want you to come on tour with us, with me. We’re gonna be in New York for a bit, and you should be there.”

“Wow, Eddie, I- what about the library? Or traveling? I can’t afford-”

“A week,” he cuts you off, hand finding yours on the center console, his fingers weaving their way between yours so easily, like magnets finding each other, like it’s meant to be that way. “Come for a week, and obviously it’s covered, honey.”

You want to say yes, you want to shout it and kiss him again, really. Instead you worry a little. The library would be fine, you’ve yet to take any vacation days, anyway, but what if he regrets bringing you? What if he’s asking you on a whim and he doesn’t mean it?

“You really want me there?” You ask, gaze flicking down to your hand in his. His rings are cool against your skin, but his palm is warm, and when he squeezes, it’s an unspoken reassurance.

“I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t, trouble. I promise.”

“You’re serious?”

You’re still looking at your hands, and that changes when Eddie ducks his head to catch your eye, his gaze is soft and serious all at once, his smile sticky sweet.

“I want you there. If that works for you, I want you there.” His thumb runs a pattern over your hand, back and forth again and again. “If you want to, you’re more than welcome, and I'll take care of it.”

You might not even let him leave if he keeps talking to you like that, delicate and kind with zero trace of doubt. None at all.

“Okay.”

“Okay, you'll come?” His hand is holding yours tighter, like hope spills from Eddie’s body and needs somewhere to go.

“Yeah, I’ll come. I’ll have to check with my boss, but-”

You’re cut off by Eddie’s arms pulling you into a hug. It’s uncomfortable, leaned across the center console, seat belt digging into your stomach, but you wouldn’t dream of pulling away.

“I’m so glad,” he says.

Your face is hidden in his hair, your smile hidden just the same. You’re glad, too.

“You’re gonna be late, Munson.”

He breathes you in again before pulling back, “trying to get rid of me?”

“Trying to make sure you don’t miss your flight.”

“I know. I’ll see you soon?”

He’s unbuckling his seat belt, pushing the door open, but he doesn’t move to get out until you respond.

“Yeah, you will. You’ll have to call me, though. I don’t know where you’ll be.”

“I’ll call you, honey.”

When he gets out and grabs his bags, when he turns to wave at you one more time before going inside, it doesn’t feel so bad this time. Your chest feels whole, your smile still on your face.

I’ll see you soon. It feels much better than a goodbye.

True to his word, Eddie covered everything. Your flight, booking the hotel, and more he probably hasn’t told you because he knows that you have a hard time accepting him paying for everything.

You’d even tried to argue it over the phone, and he’s said “too late, babe. It’s already done.”

Now, with a week ahead of you, you’re in New York City of all places, trailing your suitcase behind you as you exit the airport in search of the car Eddie said he’d send for you. Black, tinted windows, guy in a suit standing by it. It’s easy enough to spot when most people around are wearing sweats.

“Hi, you’re here for me, I think?” You say to the man by the car, telling him your name and getting a nod in affirmation.

“I’m Hank, nice to meet you.”

Hank takes your bag for you, even when you assure him you could do it. So, with nothing else to do, you open the back door and slide into the car, door swinging shut behind you. You’d fully expected to be by yourself, and okay with it, too, but you aren’t.

Right there in the backseat with you is Eddie.

You practically tackle him in the seat, surging forward to hug him, leaning across the leather to get to him. You’re not sure what carried you to do it. Maybe it’s the fact that he paid for everything, that he wants you to be here enough to do that. That he wants you here at all.

The wind is sort of knocked out of Eddie when your arms wrap around his neck, your hug crushing in his favorite way. He’s not complaining one bit. He’s so excited to have you here to see this world of his, for you to be able to see something you helped him achieve, whether you know it or not.

So, with a huff pushed from his chest, his arms curl around you, too. Smooth and easy.

“Happy to see me, trouble?”

“I thought you’d be busy,” you say, because his question is already answered with the tiniest squeeze of your grip around him. “And you jerk, you got me first class?”

You draw back into your seat when Hank gets back into the car, unsure of how much he knows or how much he’ll say. Not that you’re ashamed for hugging Eddie, but you’re afraid that he might read things the wrong way and you’ll have to (painfully, achingly) correct him the way you did with Argyle a while ago.

You distract yourself by tugging your seatbelt over and clicking it into place.

“‘Course I did. Had to get the best for you.”

“You didn’t have to,” you say, and looking at Eddie’s face you don’t feel so worried about Hank anymore. You practically forget he’s there. “But thank you.”

“Goin’ soft on me?”

His voice is teasing. He deflects because he can’t exactly tell you that he chose first class, that he covered everything, that he flew you out to him because he’s burying his feelings for you into it all, that it’s easier to do these things without you realizing what it means than it would be to come right out and say it.

He needs more time for that. Time to get brave, to see if you might feel the same. If you might let him kiss you again.

“Maybe I’m just tired. Getting delirious.” You’re really not, but just to be safe you add on a small jest of, “loser.”

Still, your tone betrays you, affection woven into the word.

You share a smile with him, eyes sparkling the way they seem to do when you’re with each other. The glow that only appears when you’re in the presence of someone you like this much, someone you know this well. It says enough.

Turning your head, you look out the window, skyscrapers surrounding you, the skyline flying by as you go. Your mouth drops open a little in awe, the busy streets and towering buildings a far cry from the small town you’re so used to.

While you peer outside, Eddie looks at your face in the reflection of the window, accomplishment blooming in his chest at the widening of your eyes and the look on your face.

Shit, he’s so happy to have you here.

It’s not long until you reach the hotel, the sight of the city enough to occupy you for the drive. Even from the outside, it looks expensive, and you’re about to tell Eddie you can’t let him pay for this again when he stops you, “I already paid for your room, so don’t say anything. Just enjoy it, okay?”

“You’re insane, Munson. Wow.”

He knows you mean it as a compliment; he can pick out the intentions from your voice with ease by now, he thinks.

“Wait until you try out the bed.” Eddie pulls on a beanie he’d had in his pocket, then the sunglasses that had been hanging from the neck of his shirt. “Ready to go in?”

“Hell yes. Need to wash the airport off of me.”

“‘Kay.” Eddie then turns towards your driver, “thanks Hank. And don’t worry about the bag, I’ve got it.”

“Of course, Mr. Munson.”

He opens his door and you follow suit, stepping out of the car and watching as Eddie gets your suitcase from the trunk.

“I can take that,” you offer, reaching for the handle as he walks you towards the entrance.

“Kindly, fuck off, trouble. I got it.”

You hold your hands up in surrender, a little too happy with the way his hand flexes around the handle of your bag, too happy with his insistence to do this simple thing for you.

Even though he doesn’t need to, he stands with you during your check-in process, and he carries your bag over to the elevators and down your hallway, too.

“This is you,” he says, stopping at your room even though you’re the one holding the key.

“How’d you know that?”

“‘Cause I’m right next door,” he says, grinning at you, “I booked it, trouble. We’re neighbors!”

“You’re such a dork.” You’re grinning right back.

The crowd’s cheers are piercing. Chants of the band’s name covering every other sound in the venue.

You’re backstage, watching them all warm up in their own ways. Gareth tapping his drumsticks together, Jeff shaking out his hands, Eddie bouncing on his feet. It’s a complete whirlwind of crew setting up, of commanding voices left and right and it’s sort of unbelievable to be standing in the midst of it all.

You move out of the way with an apology when a stagehand moves by you with a guitar. Eddie’s guitar, red and black and the same one he’s been using since he could afford the instrument. The familiarity of it has you smiling.

The memories that guitar must hold, you wonder, the places it’s seen.

With his guitar now over his neck, Eddie turns to you, energy practically rolling off of him, like every shout from the crowd charges him up further.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, stepping close enough to talk into your ear, over the screaming and the bustle of the crew. “So fucking glad.”

“30 seconds until you’re on, guys!” A woman wearing a headset shouts.

Eddie pulls back enough to look at your face, but he stays close, his nose inches from yours, his excitement somehow spilling from him and into you. It’s the sort of infectious feeling you get when it’s obvious someone’s doing what they love, when their passion is palpable.

“Break a leg, Munson.”

“Five seconds!”

“See you on the other side, honey.”

Eddie reaches for your hand, gives it a firm squeeze, and then he’s off, jetting onto the stage behind his bandmates. The crowd roars even lowder, enough to leave your ears ringing but you don’t care. You take it in.

It’s one thing to read about it, to see pictures, to see footage on TV, even. But seeing it for yourself is a whole new kind of crazy.

The size of the audience is a far cry from the shows they used to play at the Hideout, the words to the songs being known and sung just the way Eddie had always dreamed. The pride that swells in your chest is huge, a balloon expanding and expanding only you don’t think it’ll ever pop. There’s always more room to be proud of someone you love.

You stand side stage, exactly where Eddie had told you to. Just far enough that the audience can’t see you, hidden by shadows, but close enough that he can see you.

Eddie hasn’t felt this way at a show for a long time. Not to say he doesn’t love every show, because he does, but sometimes the energy will feel different, better, higher. The crowd is a great one, and even more importantly, you’re here.

You’re here and Eddie flicks his eyes over to you constantly during the show because he just can’t help it. The wide smile on your face makes him want to work harder to keep it there, the way you bop along and mouth the words to his music is something he’ll never forget.

You know the words. Of course, you’d known them to the early songs, when his only performances were in Hawkins and you were at every single one. But even now, albums later, you know the words.

And to top it all off, you’re wearing Corroded Coffin merch, a baggy t-shirt tucked into your jeans. God, he can’t stop fucking looking at you.

Between songs, he goes over to Gareth, and then Jeff, speaking into their ears without a mic so you don’t know what he’s saying. But by the gleam in his eyes, you know he must be up to something.

He walks over to the side of the stage where you stand, trading off his current guitar for his acoustic one, even older and worn than the last. The painted letters reading ‘this machine slays dragons’ scratched and faded by now.

You’d been there when he painted them on, giggling at the lopsided way they turned out, pouting when Eddie smeared paint on your bare arm in retaliation.

He’s gone from playing it in his bedroom in the trailer to playing it for thousands of people.

“Alright guys,” he starts, back at his mic. “We’re gonna slow it down for this next one, that sound okay?”

The response he gets is a wave of cheers.

“Alright, alright. Cool.” He starts strumming, chords you recognize right away. “We’ve got a cover for you tonight. I want to dedicate this song to my best friend. This one’s for you, trouble.”

Your eyes are misty with unshed tears. He’s playing your favorite song, the only one you’d ever learned on guitar because you forced him to teach it to you. Your hands go to your cheeks, warmth bursting through you at his gesture.

And he’d called you ‘trouble.’ Hadn’t used your name because this is something that’s just for you and him. Yours.

Eddie flicks his eyes over to you (again) as he sings, his hands moving with ease on his guitar because he’s known how to play this song for ages. Longer than his own songs, even.

His heart sort of melts at the expression on your face, dripping down his ribs in oozing, pink waves.

Even from where he is, even with the lights beaming down on him, he can see the tears in your eyes, the way your hands hold your face the way they do when you’re overwhelmed. He hopes it’s in a good way, and with the way the words of the song are broken up by a smile on your face, he thinks it is.

After the song, with a quick ‘thank you’ into the mic, Eddie walks offstage, towards you again, to switch his guitar back. Before he puts the other one over his neck, though, he rushes to you.

The arm that isn’t holding his guitar tugs you around your neck into a hug. He’s sweaty and breathing hard, his chest rising and falling where it’s pressed to yours, but you don’t care. You hug him around the waist and squeeze.

“Thank you,” you say, loud enough for only him to hear.

“Thank you, trouble.”

A kiss to the top of your head, and he’s off again.

Eddie’s back at the mic quickly, his guitar in place again. “Alright everyone, back to our regularly scheduled programming.”

After the show, Eddie brought you back to the green room with the rest of the band, his fingers wrapping around your wrist as soon as he ran off stage to tug you along with him. Insistent but kind in the way he did it, sure not to pull too tight, turning his head to check on you behind him along the way.

Even when you’re worlds away from his, from the fame and the constant travel and the fans, Eddie makes you feel like you’re a part of it. Like you belong here.

There’s a couch pressed to one of the walls in the green room, chairs set up around it for more seating, a table of snacks and water bottles set up near the door.

Conversations happen all around you, crew members, photographers, big paper writers, but yours is seperate.

After the well-deserved congratulations on a great show, you, Eddie, Gareth, and Jeff found your places on the couch, heads turned towards each other. You’re on the edge, Eddie next to you, his thigh, arm, shoulder, all squished against yours.

It’s nice. The warmth of his skin against yours, the post-show adrenaline that has all three of the boys in a great mood.

After all, Gareth and Jeff were your friends, too. Not in the way Eddie’s your friend, of course. You don’t think anyone could ever come close. Being with all of them reminds you of when you’d watch them practice in Jeff’s garage in high school, sitting sideways in a chair they’d left in there for you, legs kicked up on the armrest.

“What a show,” Gareth says. Eddie’s told you before that a good crowd makes a huge difference, and it’s clear in the way the three of them talk about it, the way they smile and shake their heads at what they’ve accomplished.

“I mean, someone flashed me their tits, so it’s definitely a good night,” Jeff, on the opposite end of the couch from you, sighs happily.

You scrunch your nose.

“Gross, dude.” Eddie leans over Gareth to shove Jeff’s shoulder. “There’s a lady present.”

“Come on! She hung out with us in high school. Peak outcast status.” Jeff defends himself. “She’s hardly a lady to me. No offense.”

“None taken, Jeff.” You lean forward to address him, smiling kindly.

“See? None taken, asshole.” Jeff shoves Eddie back.

By doing so, he’s pushed even closer to you, his weight against you further. Eddie stabilizes himself with a hand on your leg, his palm warm through the fabric of your jeans. He leaves it there even when he sits normally.

“So,” Gareth grabs your attention with your name, “how’s Hawkins? Missing us horribly?”

“Let’s just say, the Hideout is pretty boring now.”

“Good riddance.” Gareth teases, giving Jeff a high five.

You know it’s mostly a joke, but it also isn’t, really. These boys weren’t treated right there. Ridiculed for having passions and hobbies that weren’t so conventional. They’re right to be glad to be away, to be glad to be loved now.

Still, there’s a dull ache at the thought that Eddie feels the same. That Hawkins is too small, too awful for him. That you’re not enough for him, having your life there.

Then, you’re reminded of his hand on your leg, and you shake off your thoughts, covering them with a smile.

“You know,” Jeff, the most lacking of a filter of the group, says, “this guy’s a whole lot happier now that you guys are talking a bunch.” Eddie, he means. You know by the way he ruffles his hair.

Eddie shifts in his seat. He wants to tell Jeff to shut up, to stop because he could say too much, could give away too much. He knows he loves you, and he will tell you, he will. But not like this.

He settles for a glare in Jeff’s direction.

“Oh, I’m not-” you start, flustered at the idea of being any kind of reason for Eddie’s happiness, especially being one that causes a noticeable shift.

“No!” Gareth jumps in, “it’s true. He used to grump around the hotel room and yell at us for having the TV on too loud-”

“I did not yell.”

“-and now he doesn’t care ‘cause he’s on the phone with you, anyways.”

“Right!” Jeff again. “First thing he does when we get to a new hotel is lock himself in his room and call you. It’s soooo cute.” He pitches his voice up for the last bit, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, a faux-innocent smirk on his face.

Eddie thinks he might punch Jeff right now. He thinks that often but he’s actually, really considering it (he’s not really, but still). He sounds like an absolute dork, the way Jeff puts it, even though he’s right. Relying on your voice through the phone to make his nights, counting down the minutes until the next time he can call.

He’s so pathetic over you. So pathetic and so in love he doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before.

He musters an: “okay. Shut up.”

That’s when you look at Eddie, who’s spinning the ring around his thumb on the hand that isn’t on your leg, looking down at his lap all sheepish. There’s a tinge of pink spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears that you can see with the way he’s wearing his hair, a messy bun at the back of his head.

It’s fucking cute. You want to kiss him so bad for it. Instead, you hold the hand that’s on your leg, nudging your shoulder into his.

The next day comes and goes. You have the day to yourself to explore New York, wearing in your platform mary janes and doing enough walking to wake up a little sore tomorrow, but it’s great.

You eat brunch by yourself in a quiet cafe, your current read open on the table in front of you. The rest of the day is spent being a full-on tourist, which you’re a little embarrassed about, but it’s a big city, and you definitely aren’t the only tourist around.

Well, the rest of the day minus dinner.

Eddie couldn’t join you because of some press stuff, feature pictures for a magazine, a couple of interviews, a small writing session. Of course, he’d invited you along, but you didn’t want to get in the way, and there were things you wanted to see. It worked out.

Nonetheless, Eddie made sure to meet you for dinner, because there was no way he wasn’t going to do anything with you at all. He’s got about 4 days left, he isn’t going to waste a second.

He’s there before you are, signaling you over before the hostess can offer to seat you, and you send her a smile as you make your way over to Eddie’s table. He’s gotten you both a booth in the far corner, an echo of the table you’ve claimed as yours at Benny’s back in Hawkins.

Eddie trusts this place, it’s private and small enough to have no sign or awning outside. A good place to hide in plane sight.

Despite the reminder, the place is much different than Benny’s. Fancy enough to have you kicking Eddie’s leg under the table at the prices, which he tells you not to look at, tells he’s buying and you don’t have to worry. You still stick to the cheaper side of the menu.

So no, it’s not Benny’s, but Eddie still steals food from your plate, still smudges whipped cream on your nose after convincing you to split some dessert with him.

Over bites of cake he tells you about the song they were working on today—leaving out that he’d written a lot of lyrics about you—and how far they’d gotten.

“It’s not done, but it’s getting there.”

“Does that mean you’ll play it for me?” You ask.

“Mmm, I don’t know.” Eddie taps his chin like he’s contemplating. “You did kick me earlier.”

“Hey! I’ve kicked you before without consequence.”

“You know you’re really not helping your case here, trouble.”

“I’ll hear that song, Munson.”

And it’s left at that, because you will. Eddie can't really say no to you (has he ever been able to?) and he misses playing his songs for you before anyone else. Minus those involved in making it, obviously.

With the bill paid by Eddie, after much stubbornness, the two of you slip out the front doors with twin smiles on your faces, so saccharine it’s insane that the two of you are mostly oblivious to the other’s feelings.

Your smiles fade quickly when a wave of camera flashes go off on either side of the doors, surrounding the entrance to the small restaurant.

There’s a rock in Eddie’s stomach, sinking in dread that you’re with him as this is happening. It’s not what you signed up for and it’s not something you deserve.

“Eddie, over here!”

“Who’s the girl?”

“Is that your girlfriend?”

The shouts come all at once, overwhelming and intimidating and you have no idea what to do. Your hands shake a little, your heartbeat a rapid thumping in your chest.

Eddie’s instincts kick in quickly, though, having been through this many times before. This time, it’s worse. This time, there’s you.

He tosses an arm over your shoulder and rests his hand on the back of your head, gently urging you to look down so that they don’t get your face, his other hand grabbing your arm lightly to take you to the car where Hank waits.

Eddie opens the back door and urges you in first, shielding the entrance to the car as you shuffle across the seat to give him room. He slams the door as soon as his feet are inside, telling Hank to head back to the hotel.

Your chests are rising and falling in tandem, a matching rhythm. Scared, overwhelmed, anxious, and all for different reasons. You, from the completely foreign situation. Eddie, from how badly it could’ve fucked things up.

“Shit.” He breathes, and then his hands are on your face, cupping your cheeks to turn you towards him. “Shit, honey. I’m so sorry. I had no idea they’d- are you okay?”

His touch is grounding, his immediate concern being you and your feelings casting a warmth over your nerves, the sun breaking through the clouds of your mind.

“I’m okay. It just startled me.” You grab his wrists in hopes that your touch can help him, too. “But I’m okay. Don’t be sorry, Eddie. It’s not like you called them there. This isn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t think anyone knew me there.”

“People know you a lot of places, mister rockstar.” You’re trying to ease the atmosphere, but the worried furrow in his brows stays put. “Eddie, I’m okay. I swear.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop with that.” Then, another attempt at brightening things, you try to joke, or maybe you’re thinking out loud. “What if they call us a couple?”

Your voice has a teasing lilt to it, but there’s more underneath it. For once, Eddie can't exactly read what it is.

His thumbs stroke over your cheeks mindlessly, his eyes flicking all over your face. So fucking pretty, he thinks. And so his reply isn’t what you expect, but he can’t help it when you look the way you do and when you’re fighting off his concerns with only a few words.

“Would that be so bad?” He says it more than asks it.

It’s your turn to study him, the endearing blush to his cheeks, the way his bangs fall over his forehead, the way his eyes flick between your own.

“No, I guess not.”

For a split second after you speak, you think he might kiss you again, his face barely inching towards yours, his fingertips easing into your hairline.

And then Hank coughs and Eddie’s hands are gone and yours fall away from him, too.

Eddie clears his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Be normal, he urges himself. So, he offers, “how ‘bout I play you that song?”

And when you get back to the hotel, that’s exactly what he does.

It’s hours later and you’re still in Eddie’s room. There was the song—the fucking song, played acoustically since that’s all he has in the room, his voice and his guitar and his lyrics—and then a movie paused halfway through so that you could change into pajamas in your room, and then the rest of the movie.

Now, it’s idle chatter, the paparazzi speed bump gone from your minds by now, replaced by a debate on whether or not the movie you just watched was good.

“It was so bad, Eddie. Are you joking?”

“You just don’t have the sophisticated movie knowledge to know good cinema when you see it.”

He’s totally lying. The movie was awful, but Eddie likes to argue with you. He likes the way you scrunch your nose or eyebrows at his stupid jabs, likes the way you’ll smile the entire time because you’re never actually arguing.

“‘Sophisticated movie knowledge,’ he says. Like you haven’t just rewatched the same twelve movies your whole life.”

“And those twelve movies are all amazing!”

“I think to consider yourself sophisticated you’ve gotta watch twenty-five movies. At least.”

“Since when are there rules? Knowledge is knowledge, babe.”

“There are rules since now. We can’t go around letting just anyone say they know movies.”

“Who’s we?”

“Um…”

“Hm?” Eddie urges, a smile growing on his face because he hasn’t had this much fun, hasn’t felt this light, in a long time.

“I don’t know.” You give up, shrugging your shoulders. When a puff of breath leaves Eddie’s mouth, the failed holding back of a laugh, you lean over and shove his shoulder. “Shut up.”

You’re sitting cross-legged in the middle of Eddie’s hotel bed. It’s huge, a king size with like ten pillows and crisp, white blankets. It’s a mess now, the blankets shifted and wrinkled, some pillows tossed on the floor, one on your lap.

“I totally just won that.” Eddie says.

“You did not! That movie fucking sucked, Munson.”

He’s sitting near the end of the bed, half facing you, half facing the TV. After you speak, though, he fully twists towards you, shifting so that he’s leaning on his hands in front of you.

“You wanna say that again?”

“That movie sucked.”

“Okay. That’s it.”

And then he’s on you, his fingers pushing into the soft of your tummy to tickle you because he knows that’s where you’re the most ticklish. This is how he used to win all of the arguments.

“Jerk!” You try to push at his shoulders, words broken by giggles, but he’s relentless. “Get off me!”

“Admit you lost.”

“No.”

“Well, then. Your fault.”

Eddie keeps going until you’re breathless from laughing and attempting to overpower him. As a last resort, you bring your knee up and hit him in the thigh. Being the dramatic he is, Eddie clutches his leg and falls onto the bed like he’s been shot.

“Ow, fuck. How am I gonna perform in these conditions?”

“Oh, stop.” You’re laying beside each other now, your face turned towards Eddie, his up at the ceiling in his fake pain. “I just won, by the way.”

His act falls away after you say it, and you think he’s gonna strike again, tickle you or make another silly counterpoint. Instead, he turns towards you, too, your noses a whisper apart, breath hitting each other's faces.

“I fucking missed you, trouble.”

“Yeah.” Your chest is rising and falling steadily, still recovering from Eddie’s tickles, maybe from his words, too. “Me too.”

Your hair has fanned across your cheek from the movement, and Eddie reaches out to push it away, behind your ear. His fingertips are gentle, featherlight, but they have your face nudging into the touch anyways. Like you couldn’t help it, like it’s an instinct.

And then, in a moment, a simple blink, Eddie’s pushing himself closer, putting his lips on yours. Eddie’s kissing you again.

His hand settles itself fully on your cheek, fingers splayed over your skin, sure to leave behind streaks of gold. Or, at least, you’d think they would. The feeling sparkling in shimmers across your cheek.

Your brain takes a second to catch up, but when it does, you’re already kissing him back, your fingers tucked into his guitar pick necklace to tug him closer. It’s easy, you think, to kiss him. Easy to want this, to move your mouth in rhythm with his.

You’ve only kissed once before, but it’s like you’ve been doing it a lifetime with how right it feels.

Eddie hadn’t even realized he was going to kiss you until he was doing it. His thoughts were all you you you and then his eyes were on your mouth and then he was there, kissing you.

He nudges his knee between your legs, shuffling himself even closer to you without breaking it because he’s afraid that if he pulls away, it’ll be the end and he doesn’t want that. He could kiss you forever, could kiss you until he’s completely sick, until there’s no oxygen left in his lungs because all he can breathe in is you.

Your other hand holds his arm, fingertips just under the sleeve of his t-shirt, his warmth seemingly seeping into you through your hand, spreading down your arm and into your stomach and everywhere.

You really like kissing him. You like it so much.

Eddie’s wondering how he’ll ever let you go home after this, how he’ll be able to say goodbye to you at the airport and go back to touring with his bed empty and nobody to give him shit over a movie. Luckily, he doesn’t have to deal with that now.

No, now it feels like he’s dreaming. Because he’s kissing you and it’s even better than he remembered from last time and he wants to be allowed to do this always.

He leaves it at kissing, this thing too delicate to risk, too long spent building up to this and he wants to enjoy every moment. He’d be content if all he could do is kiss you, because it’s the best thing he’s ever had. You’re the best thing he’s ever had.

It’s long before either of you pull away, a push and pull of your mouths, breaking apart for less than a second before jumping back in. When you do pull away, it’s mutual, both of your breathing coming out in pants, both of your mouths slightly agape, eyes locked on each other’s.

Eddie moves first, pulling you over so that your head is tucked beneath his chin, nose pressed against the neckline of his shirt. He’s got a hand tossed over your waist, palm flat on your back, the other holding the back of your head to him.

You fall into place easily, just like you had when he kissed you. One of your hands is wedged under his neck, the other still on his arm. It’s like you’re a set, two pieces meant to fit together just like this.

“I think I won, trouble.”

“Shut up.”

In the morning, you wake up in a similar position, having fallen asleep with the TV humming in the background and the haze of your kiss still heavy over you both.

Now, however, you’ve shifted a little bit. Eddie’s on his back, but he’d brought you along with him in his sleep. Or, you’d followed. Either way, your head’s rested on his chest, your arm tossed over his stomach where his t-shirt rides up to reveal a patch of skin.

You’re struck with the thought that you’ve shared a bed before, countless times, but never this close. You’ve cuddled before, too, but it’s never felt like this. Intimate, affectionate, more.

You close your eyes and go back to sleep, not quite ready to give this up.

When you’d woken up the second time that morning, Eddie was already up, the door to his ensuite shut with light slipping under the doorway. And when he’d walked out with a “good morning, sleepyhead,” it was like everything was normal.

You’d fallen into your routine with him, and now, after not nearly enough time, you’re at the airport again. The last couple of days a blur, your parting ways this morning even more so.

Hank had driven you again, and Eddie made sure to be in the car with you, to squeeze out every second of time left. You’d hugged each other in the back seat, whispered ‘I’ll miss you’s and ‘thank you’s for the week you had.

The ache slipped into you again, the uncertainty of when you’ll see him next, the feeling of missing him that lingers and lingers.

Still, you’d twisted around and waved to the tinted windows of the car with a smile before going inside, knowing he’d be behind them, really hoping he’d be looking.

Of course Eddie was looking. He peered into the glass doors of the airport until your figure was completely out of sight, until Hank had to ask him if he was good to go. He should have kissed you goodbye, he thinks. Should have kissed you and told you how he felt but he has no idea how. Next time, he’ll say it. He has to.

The trek through the airport is boring, and you’re still early by the time you get to your gate. Hoping to pass time, you head into one of the duty-free shops.

That’s when you see it.

There’s a wall of magazines and newspapers, a whole shelf taken up by a picture of Eddie. A picture of you and Eddie. It’s from that night at the restaurant, and you’re lucky that your face can’t be seen, ducked down and covered by shadows and Eddie’s hand.

Surprisingly enough, the picture isn’t what gets to you, it’s what’s written about it. You drift over and flip to the page indicated on the cover to see the ‘full story.’ It feels like a punch to the gut.

‘Metal Heartthrob Eddie Munson was seen leaving a restaurant in New York City with an unknown woman. How could she get his attention, I’m sure you’re wondering. We’d love to know, too. Is Munson the type to settle for a normie? Or is she only a fling? The second option would make the most sense, we think. Keep reading to learn why she doesn’t fit.’

You slam the paper shut, setting it back on the shelf and standing there like an idiot, your hands shaking a little, your heart in your throat.

“Can you believe it?” A woman says to you, pointing at the damn picture. “He could do way better. I’m just saying.”

“Oh. Yeah,” you offer weakly, walking away and finding a seat at your gate.

It stings when you know you shouldn’t let it get to you, but it’s like every insecurity you’ve had has been splashed onto a page for everyone to see. You don’t belong in his world anymore, you aren’t enough to be in it, he doesn’t want you that way.

It’s a disgusting spiral that eats at you as you sit and wait, as you board your flight, even as you find your seat next to a man who’s already asleep. You can't believe the things people feel okay saying about someone else, and even worse, you can’t believe how they wedge themselves under your skin.

You wrap your arms around yourself, peering out the window and trying to convince yourself that whoever wrote it is wrong, that the woman in the store was wrong. But all your mind can conjure is reasons why they’re right.

You aren’t a model, or an actress, or anything of the sort like the other women Eddie’s dated since becoming the star he is. You never will be.

Worst of all, these last few days you really thought he could feel the way you do, even a fraction of it. You thought that he buried feelings he couldn’t say into that kiss, that maybe, maybe he could be in love with you, even just a little bit.

Now, you feel like an idiot for ever letting yourself think that could be true, your eyes blurring with tears of frustration and a hurt that shouldn’t even be there, but cuts deep.

You’re just friends, it’s always been that way. It’s your own damn fault, really, for falling in love with him. Falling in love with the best boy you’ve ever known, with your best friend, with the only person who makes you feel the way he does.

It’s your fault that you let a tear slip down the slope of your cheek as your plane takes off. You wipe it away quickly.

Eddie feels strange as he lays back onto his hotel bed after dropping you off. There’s a cold present in his room now. The evident and devastating lack of your presence, like the chill that washes over a summer day when the sun is swallowed by a gray cloud.

He already wants to call you, but you’re miles in the air by now.

He really should’ve kissed you goodbye.

Eddie ends up calling two days after you get home. He wanted to do it sooner, but the whirlwind got to him, and after a week in one place, it was back on the road. He got caught up, but he has the time now, and he’s been eager to use it.

Your number is practically muscle memory by now, dialed without a second thought. He listens to the ringing, fingers pulling at the threads in the rip of his jeans as he waits sitting on his bed. He counts the seconds until you pick up.

Back in Hawkins, it was hard to believe that only a couple of days ago you were in New York City with Eddie, watching him play, having dinner with him, kissing him. Being home, it feels like the whole trip had been a dream.

You fell into your life here quickly, a full day shift at the library, a visit there from Dustin with a stack of overdue books and questions of how Eddie’s doing.

It’s impossible not to think about him, still. So of course you’d pick up the phone on the chance it’d be his voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

Eddie’s head thumps back against the headboard when he hears your voice, “hey, trouble.”

“Eddie.” You were hoping it was him, yet you’re still a little surprised. You shouldn’t be, he’s been calling often for a while now, but you’ve been feeling nervous ever since reading that stupid article. Insecure, stupid, a whole bunch of negatives that won’t leave you alone. But he’s calling, so you try not to think of that. “How are you?”

“Good! I’m good.” He shuts his eyes, tries to picture what you might look like right now. He doesn’t think his mind could ever do you enough justice. “Jeff totally ate shit during soundcheck today, you would’ve loved it. You’re good?”

“It’s kind of weird being back here.” You say, your honesty spilling the way it does over the phone. You’re braver this way. “But I saw Dustin today. He asked about you.”

“Yeah?” The grin on Eddie’s face is immediate, your voice soft and somehow exactly what he needed. “Did you tell him I’m still the coolest guy ever?”

“Sure,” you drag out the word.

“Whatever. I totally am.” There’s a lull for a second, the sound of sheets ruffling on his end as he shifts on the bed. “You said it was weird being back?”

It’s hard to read his tone through a phone, but he sounds sincere as ever, his voice softer when he says it. You shift a little, too.

“A little. Just getting back into things, you know?” You’re on your back now, eyes fixed on a spot on your ceiling. “New York is a lot different than Hawkins.”

Eddie’s not sure what makes him think it—your voice going quiet, the way it takes you a little longer to answer—but he can tell that something’s off. You sound sad, and there’s a twinge in his chest at the thought of you upset. You’re undeserving of it, and he’s got the urge to break the rules of the universe and jump through the phone to be there for you.

“Yeah, it is. You okay, honey?”

The question strikes you. You hadn’t known that you’d been acting any differently, but you suppose that’s how it goes. You can only hide so much, and those words splashed on a page about you have weighed heavy on your mind since you’d seen them.

But you can’t bring yourself to tell Eddie any of it. What if he hasn’t seen it? Worse, what if he has and he doesn’t want to bring it up because he agrees?

So, you come up with a lazy excuse, “oh. I’m okay, Eddie. Just a long shift today.”

“You sure?” Even though he can’t see you right now, there’s something in him telling him you aren’t being honest. It’s like he’s got a sense for these things when it comes to you, embedded in his heart the way you are.

“I’m sure. I’m just tired.”

He knows that there’s something else to it, but he won’t pry. All he wants to do is help, so he lets himself say what he’s been thinking since you’ve left. “Is it pathetic that I already miss you?”

A smile flickers on your face.

“If it is, I’m pathetic, too.”

“At least we’re in it together, then.”

After you eventually hang up, Eddie can’t fight off the feeling that something's happened. He’s gotta figure it out, he wants to fix it, to pull away any pain you might be feeling. He’d take it for himself if he could.

So, although he’ll get endless shit for it, he finds Gareth and Jeff watching TV in the living room of their suite and figures he might as well ask them.

“Hey,” he starts, standing in front of the TV despite their groans to make sure they’ll listen. “Did either of you say something to her? About… um, you know.”

The way that he doesn’t even have to speak your name for them to know who he’s talking about says enough about the ‘you know.’ He’s slightly worried that they’d told you how he felt about you and it scared you off. He really, really hopes that isn’t it.

“About you being grossly in love with her?” Gareth checks, though he surely didn’t need to.

“Yes, asshole.”

“Nope. I didn’t. Jeff?”

“No, man.” Jeff huffs, “and you’re blocking the TV.”

“I know! I need you guys to help me out.” Eddie starts pacing in front of the TV. He explains your phone call, how he felt like something was wrong, that you were upset. They both listen, though Jeff occasionally tries to lean around to see the screen. “So? What do you think?”

“Maybe it has to do with that article,” Gareth says.

“What article?”

“You know, the one with that picture of you two leaving that restaurant.”

“There’s a fucking article about that?” Eddie twists his ring around his thumb. Shit.

“Oh, yeah,” Jeff points towards the small table near the entryway of the room, “it’s over there. Kinda brutal.”

“You idiots didn’t think to tell me?”

“Um, it’s pretty popular, actually.” Gareth shrugs. “Thought you would’ve seen it by now.”

“How are we idiots for helping you?” Jeff asks.

Eddie flips him off over his shoulder as he goes into his room, shutting the door behind him. He’s still pacing, flipping the pages to find the right one. His stomach sinks when he lands on it and skims the words written.

‘Is Munson the type to settle for a normie?’

He makes an actual sound when he reads it. Something of disbelief and shock. He knew that having the life he does comes with these things, and he’s learned to deal with them when it comes to comments about himself. But you? No fucking way.

If he was ever lucky enough to have you, he wouldn’t be settling, he’d be the happiest he could ever be, probably. Maybe it’s time he finds out.

If you’d read any of this, if you believed it, he can’t help but feel at fault. Sure, he didn’t write it, he didn’t publish it, but he brought you to that restaurant and he’s the reason that paparazzi was there. If there’s anything he can do to fix this, he will.

So, he makes a plan. He calls his manager and gets himself a spot on the next flight out to Indianapolis. He can miss a studio session or an interview, it doesn’t matter.

This is far more important. You’re more important.

Eddie doesn’t pack anything for the flight. He doesn’t have the time nor the concern to do it. He’s got the beanie on his head, sunglasses over his eyes, and a hoodie pulled over it all.

He doesn’t take the time to get a driver, so he takes a cab back to Hawkins once he lands in Indianapolis. It’s already dark out, probably way too late to head straight to your place but he does it anyway. No time to waste.

Slamming the cab door, he tells the driver your address and tells him to drive quickly. He gets a thumbs up in return and that’s it. Eddie’s forced to sit there, his leg bouncing anxiously as he waits impatiently to get to you.

He should be tired, should be fighting heavy eyelids and yawns, but he isn’t. Eddie’s determined and nervous, eager to get to you and agonizing over whether or not this is the right move.

But, he’s made his choice. He’ll stand by it. There’s no denying the way he feels, and he’d do anything to make you feel okay.

Eddie spends the drive trying to figure out what he’ll say to you. His thoughts are a mess of speeches and phrases that just don’t sound right. He doesn’t think there’s a way with words that really conveys the extent of his affections, but he’s going to try. He figures a four letter word is a good place to start.

His palms are sweaty as the cab pulls up to your place, your apartment in a building that’s been converted from its original use. Eddie grabs cash from his wallet and hands it to his driver, telling him to keep the change.

He stands there and stares for a minute, taking off his hat and sunglasses now that he’s on a quiet, deserted street. He’s got no idea what time it is, no idea whether he’ll be waking you up or not, but he huffs and heads to your door, lucky that he can access it from outside.

With his fist raised, Eddie takes as big a breath as he can muster, and knocks on the door.

You were having a hard time sleeping, tossing around uncomfortably until you gave up and grabbed the book from your nightstand. You’d been mid-chapter when you heard the knocking, almost convinced you’d imagined the sound.

And then it comes again, four quick taps on your door. You don’t have a single guess for who it could be, but you set your book face down and kick your blankets off, turning on your light on your way to the door and squinting at the brightness.

You’re not sure what exactly you were expecting to find on the other side of the door, but it wasn’t this. Wasn’t him.

“Eddie? What the hell are you doing here?”

He takes a second to look you over, his hands stuffed in his hoodie’s pocket. You’re wearing a pair of floral pajama shorts, ruffled at the hem, and your fucking Corroded Coffin t-shirt. Yeah, he made the right choice coming here.

He avoids your question. “Can I come in?”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry.” You open the door further and step aside, closing it after he steps inside. “Aren’t you supposed to be on tour?”

“I needed to see you.”

Needed to. Like it’s bigger than a want.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, leaning against your door. Eddie’s not far, only a step away from you.

“That article was bullshit.”

“What?”

He takes the step, his feet toe to toe with yours now. You’re forced to tilt your head up due to his proximity, his eyes unwavering and still, the way they always are, soft. You fiddle with your hands behind your back.

“That article about us, it was total bullshit.”

“I don’t-”

“I know you saw it, and it was wrong. You aren’t a fling to me, you aren’t a fucking normie. You’re my favorite person in the entire world.”

Eddie’s found, now that he’s started, he can’t stop pouring things out. He pushes your hair from your face, trails his hand lightly down your arm until he’s tugging yours from behind your back, weaving his fingers between yours.

“My favorite, okay?” He continues, his stare flicking between your eyes, like he’s making sure you believe him. “Whoever wrote that is a shithead and I don’t believe any of it. None, honey. I’m sorry that I put you in that position, you didn’t deserve it. But it’s bullshit.”

You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your chest, your fingers squeezing around Eddie’s as he speaks like you’re making sure he’s real. That he’s here and he’s saying these things and he’s looking at you the way he did before he kissed you.

“You-” you clear your throat, voice weak at first from his words. “You came all the way here to tell me that?”

His free hand tugs at the neckline of his hoodie, his gaze flicking down to your hands and then back to your face. “Yes.” There’s the lightest blush to his cheeks, “among other things.”

“Other things?”

You don’t want to guess, shouldn’t let yourself get your hopes up and up and up. But your mind does it on its own accord. What if he-

“I love you,” he rushes it out in a breath, but you hear it all the same. “I’m in love with you, trouble.”

“You are?”

Your eyes are wide, your hand tight around his, and Eddie smiles because he can’t help it. He made the right choice.

“I’m in love with you,” he says again. “I have been for a long time, I think. I only figured it out a bit ago, but it doesn’t feel new.”

“Me too, Eddie.” You barely register your own words, your grin spreading wide or the way you laugh in disbelief. Finally. “I love you, too. For a long time. But I knew it.”

His heart squeezes. He wonders how long, how hard it must’ve been for you to keep it inside while he took forever like an idiot to register his own feelings. But he’s got you now, and that’s more than enough.

“Well, you’ve always been smarter than me.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

And then his free hand is cupping your jaw, his nose nudging yours. “Shut up.”

He kisses you then, broken by your smiles but the best one yet. Because it’s out there: you love each other. It isn’t a question of whether or not, it’s a certainty. You’re in love and you can have this. You have this.

Your hand that isn’t clasped in his holds the back of his neck lightly, your fingers tangled in his curls, keeping him close.

Eddie doesn’t go far when he pulls away, his forehead tilted against yours, his hand still on your face. The corners of his eyes crinkle from his smile, and you can’t help but kiss him again. A peck, another, and another.

“I’ve got like 36 hours. Think I could stay?”

You nod, your smile mirroring his. Lovesick, totally stupidly happy.

“Yeah?” Eddie swings your joined hands lightly. You nod again. “Good. I would’ve had to walk back to the trailer if not. I probably would’ve died.”

“Always dramatic, Munson.”

“But you love me anyways.”

“Guess I do.” Your fingers gently tug at tangles in his hair. “You’re sure about this? Even with the distance?”

Eddie lifts his forehead from yours to make sure you can see his face fully. His thumb smoothes over your cheekbone.

“I’ve never been more sure. Ever.” And he hasn’t, not even when he knew he wanted to do music forever. Because he’d give it up for you if he had to, though he knows you’d never ask him to. “I’ll call you so much you’ll get sick of me. And you can come with me when you have time, and I’ll come home when I have time. I want this so much, okay? So much.”

“I do, too.” You look at your hands, thinking about how you’d always thought they were meant to be holding one another. “You’re okay with dating a normie?”

“Fuck that.” His hand on your face tilts it just a little, urging your sight onto his. “You’re my trouble. Nothing else matters.”

My trouble.

“And you’d really come back to Hawkins more for me?”

“I’m going to.” Eddie understands why you’re asking. In the past, he’s gone quiet, he’s gotten caught up, but after tonight? He’s never gonna hear the end of it from the band, that’s for sure. “You’ll totally get sick of me, you’ll see.”

“Don’t think that’s possible.” You look at his face, the eyes you could never forget, the dusting of stubble across his jawline. A face that’s been on TV and countless magazines, albums and posters. “I always thought you outgrew this town.”

“I never outgrew you.”

You know there’s more to figure out, more worries to be had, but you’re in love and you can say it. That’s what’s important now, that’s what you’ll enjoy.

The shoebox that sits in your closet has served you well, but you won’t need to pick at the scraps anymore. Won’t need to hold onto this boy through magazines and newspapers.

My trouble.

When you kiss again, you’re sure that you’ll never want to be anything else.

♫♩♪♬

hi!! thanks so so much for reading these two <3 i’ve had so much fun with rockstar!eddie and i hope u guys did too!!! if you did, a reblog would mean so much <3

i don’t usually do tag lists, and i probably won’t again after this, but the demand was high for this one (like, crazy! thank u so much!) so here’s the rockstar!eddie tag list

@5sosjay @paleidiot @emma77645 @onceuponathreetwoone @copycatkillerfics @munsonmecrazy @r-a-d-i-0-n-0-w-h-e-r-e @lbhmoon @icant-hangout-imdrumming @freakymunson @blackcatwoman @l3xiluve @littlestarfighter03 @yujyujj @totally-bogus-timelady @kimmi-kat @spitefulscreenwriter @amira0303 @mylovelycrazyworld @esme-viridian @pippipsquirtsquirt @brassreign @madneedshelp @emilyslutface @alana4610 @crystalr @kirisuteg0men @hesvoid34 @cutiecusp @nerium21 @angel-ann-pops

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wroteclassicaly · 4 months

Note

maybe I'm late to kink hour but cmon Gator has a spit kink

Oooh, he probably has so many kinks he’s never been able to try, tbh. But we’ll focus on this one for now ;)

Warnings: Spit, spit kink, & language. Kinda smutty, but no actual smut?

It starts off with normal banter and moves quicker than anticipated. You’ve been annoying Gator in the office all day, even following him outside to bitch. No one else got involved with helping him at home, not really. So you’d rode in the patrol car to his place, pissed and bitching about the cold and the snow (despite being used to it), and why he can’t get someone else who will tolerate him.

“People are busy, s’ why they aren’t around. You know that.”

“Probably one of the reasons, is because of that nasty fucking thing.” You sneer, criticizing with a gloved hand towards his gross flavored vape.

His accentuated jawline tightens, freckles bouncing with the movement of his skin as it stretches across the bone. A cloud of vapor expands into winter’s frost, polluting the air with an acidic fruit scent. You make a gagging noise, egging him on when you see how pissed he’s getting. You don’t realize, that in the midst of enjoying his unease, he loses his temper and reacts. With a quick movement of hair gel gleaming under the winter sun - his calculated movements catch when your mouth opens next to mimic him.

His lips part and he leans, spitting a wad directly into your mouth. You’re appalled at first, shocked, literally choking on - not your own saliva, but his. And it tastes exactly like the item he inhales one more hit off of, before blowing it into your face.

Are your eyes watering? Ears ringing? Blood rushing? Yes, but not because of sadness, anxiety, or anger. No, it’s a buried emotion of what you’ve gambled on since you’ve known him, and among the bodily exchange - a realization. You liked it. You feel claimed, rather than mocked.

“That taste good, babydoll? You’re lucky I wasn’t chewin’.” His boots crunch in the snow as he attempts to walk away, but you reach out and grab his leather clad arm, squeezing.

You aren’t sure what you attempted to accomplish? A half assed remark, a berating lashing? As Gator turns and receives your physical message, he raises a brow, bordering on amused, annoyed, and ready to fight. But what he sees isn’t what he’d expect in a million years. You don’t spit, you swallow - straight down, your pupils expanding rapidly, eyes darting towards his mouth, still wet with projectile.

He’s got power. All the power here in this moment, but more importantly — you accepted what he gave and then you imprinted on him, the mold of keys to open previously locked doors between the two of you. His fingers reach out and dig the class ring (similar to his own, that he keeps put away) from beneath your blouse, that’s visible through your partially zipped coat. He tugs you closer, his frame smelling of cologne, copious amounts of hair product, and that damn vape. It’s overwhelming and you can’t focus, not even to answer him.

“You really liked that, didn’t you?”

You avoid his gaze.

“Come on now, darlin’. You afraid to look at me again? Because I don’t know if you were there with me a minute ago, but you were eyein’ my mouth like it was a sugar coated carnival prize.”

Still nothing. He wants more. He needs more.

That crafted nose nuzzles its way behind your ear, hot air on your neck that travels straight to your nipples and curls your toes as they sit in your boots. His voice is a low whisper, a damned rasp.

“You know what else I could spit on?”

// Eat me paragraph //

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natsukiji · 7 months

Text

Hands On Your Knees, I’m Angelina Jolie

It's already past midnight, you pace around your shared home with your husband, Nanami Kento. He said he'll be there a few hours ago, actually, three hours ago. You know his job is always holding him back — despite his hatred for overtimes, he can't help but be a responsible man when it comes to people's lives at stake. As you sat in the couch, clutching on the necklace you wore, you heard your husband's car parking outside your house before hearing the jumbling of keys and fumbling to open the door. You stood from your seat to welcome your husband, and there he was — exhausted, his eyes looked dull, but he has a bouquet of flowers in his hands to give to you. You rushed into his arms out of worry and he drops the flowers on the floor. “Honey! I was so worried about you...” You sniffled, tears threatening to fall from your eyes as you held him tight. He taps your ass twice before mumbling ‘jump’ and as you did, you wrapped your legs around his waist while he carries you in his arms, leading you to the couch.

He sits down with a groan, removing his glasses and placing them to the coffee table before he puts his whole attention to you. “I’m sorry for being extremely late, sweetheart. You know about my work.” He sighed while his kisses travel from your forehead down to your lips, and into your neck and collarbones. You softly moan under his touch, feeling embarassed due to already feeling so wet even with this ministrations. But it wasn't only you who felt the heat that's been bubbling in the room as you feel his hardness poke in your thighs. He pulls away from kissing your chest before looking up at you. “Seems like I'm not the only one that missed you.” He joked and you slap his arm, giggling at his silly comment. You unbutton his blue shirt, running your hands down his chest and into his toned stomach. You trace your kisses from his bellybutton, following down his happy trail until your lips were above his hard cock. You lick his length through his pants before unbuckling his belt and pulling it down along with his underwear and his cock bounces on his stomach, standing hard and proud infront of your face.

You started working on his base, giving it small licks before working up to his tip and placing it inside your mouth. The saltiness of his precum hitting your tongue made you moan around his length which made him thrust upwards due to the vibration of your mouth making you choke on his cock as it hits the back of your throat. You keep on working on his length, doing your best to swallow him whole. Your untied hair kept getting in the way and Kento notices that. The gentleman that he is, he held your hair in a ponytail, brushing away the strands across your face and keeping it up, slowly braiding it as you worked on his cock. His hands were shaky as he was reaching his orgasm but he felt proud with the work he did on your hair as you milked the fuck out of him. He bit his bottom lip as he became close to orgasming, he wanted to focus on your hair as much as you focused on pleasuring his cock, but he couldn't take it any more. He stood up and grabbed the sides of your head and began thrusting, using your throat as a fleshlight until he came inside your mouth. He tapped your cheeks before he spoke, “Don’t swallow it yet.” He pulled his cock out of your mouth before reaching for his jeans to grab his mouth.

“Stick out your tongue.” He ordered, and you did so. Sticking your tongue that's been dripping with his cum while he puts your hair to the side as he smiles to himself because of this masterpiece he created. He snapped a picture of you before he taps on your cheeks again. “Now swallow.” And you did. He helped you get into your foot as your knees hurt from what happened a little while ago and enjoyed your late night dinner with Kento, but he's far from being full as he told you to get ready for dessert before carrying you into your shared bedroom.

#nanami kento #nanami x reader #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami #nanami smut #nanami fluff #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sorcerer #kento nanami #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut

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spenzitz · 11 months

Note

could i request gojo, dazai and levi with the prompt you get injured? congrats on 500 followers!! hardwork paid off ⁉️

tysm!! and this is probably one of my favorite tropes so uh..

YOU GET INJURED ft. dazai, gojo, levi

dazai, gojo, levi, x gn!reader, blood, vauge injury,

a/n ~ not sure how i feel about these... words ~ 1.7k

☆500 EVENT☆

DAZAI

the problem with being the one who pulls the strings is you don’t get to play the game. while dazai is off planning god knows what, you end up getting injured when the enemy ambushes your small group. dazai doesn’t even find out you’re hurt until after yosano has treated you.

dazai rushes through the office towards the infirmary. he’s not running, he’s been told you’re stable and just need time to recover. he’s walking fast enough to get there and comfort you(him) but slow enough to compose himself.

when he sees you all bloodied and battered, he almost loses it. yosano reiterates to him that you’re stable and just need a few days to recover until you can go home, before leaving you two alone.

dazai nods to yosano as she closes the door, scared he’ll break down if he opens his mouth. once she leaves, it’s quiet with only light chatter from the office that can barely be heard over the light hum of the ac. dazai is sitting down next to you, refusing to make eye contact no matter how long you stare at him.

“it’s alright, dazai.” you say with a small, weak smile. dazai huffs out a breath and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. he’s scanning over your body, finding new bandages and bloody gauze every time he looks. “you are not all-right.” he exaggerates his words as he motions towards your figure, laying there, broken.

you take the opportunity to grab his right hand with yours. “i’m still here aren’t i?” you say, pleading with him to just look at you, to see you’re ok. “dazai.” you bring yourself to sit up, wincing through the pain. you reach up and turn his head towards you, but it’s still not enough. he watches your chest shakily rise and fall and the dried blood smudged on your neck, but never at you.

“i’m right here, love.” you run your thumb back and forth on his face, as he slowly closes his eyes. after a moment, a tear forms at this waterline and gently rolls down his cheek.

despite the immense aches, you readjust yourself again to face him. you don’t say anything as you bring his head to the crook of your neck. it doesn’t take long for his tears to soak through your shirt.

“i’m not gonna leave you here…” you mumble into his hair. he starts shaking as he wraps his arms around you, holding you tight. you stay there for awhile and let him be.

GOJO

“now, what do we have here?” gojo walks into shoko’s office, peeking through his blindfold to get a good look at you with his own eyes. as he makes his way over to you, you shoot a nasty look toward itadori, who takes it as his queue to leave.

about an hour ago, itadori spotted ijichi helping you out of a car. being the ever kind and caring boy he is, he told ijichi that he could help you to shoko’s office. what he didn’t mention was that he sent your fiancé a text vaguely explaining that you had been injured.

thankfully, your injury wasn’t that bad. it only took a bit of shoko’s reverse cursed technique and a few stitches for your leg to be significantly better. by the time gojo shows up, you were just resting before heading home for the day.

“hey! don’t be mean to him, he did the right thing.” gojo sits next to the bed you’re occupying, blindfold wrapped in his fingers as he examines your wound. you scoff as he plays out the exact reason you wanted to be the one to tell him. “so making you come over here and get all hyper over nothing was the right thing to do?”

he lets you take his blindfold from his hands and lay it on your opposite side, replacing it with your hand, now cradling his. his hand is stiff, tense, the poor thing. he’s the strongest man in the world, and yet he still can’t keep you from getting hurt. he thinks he should be upset, but honestly, he’s just glad you're ok now, all taken care of. his body doesn’t seem to get the memo.

“satoru? i’m fine now, there’s no point in getting upset.” he looks up at you, half-smiling with a hint of something mischievous. he pulls his hand away from yours as he stands. “don’t flatter yourself hun, just checking the damage.” gojo pats your thigh before reaching his hand out to help you stand up.

you should be offended that he says he’s “checking the damage” like someone backed into his car rather than his fiancé getting injured on a job. but you just smiled and took his hand, still tensed up. you don’t think he even realizes himself that he was worried, scared of how bad it could have been.

using gojo as a crutch was more of a burden than actual help, but you played along and kisses him on the cheek as a thank you once you reached your car, making him feel much better.

LEVI

levi paces back and forth in erwin’s office, his whole front side is damp with half-dried blood. his cravat is long gone, being the first to go when he started applying pressure to your wound.

hange had to convince levi to let the medical team take care of you, peeling him away from you. now, hange approaches him slowly, handing him a change of clothes. “no, they’ll be done any moment now.” he says, turning away from hange to face the window. “exactly!” they walk around to be in front of him, trying to give him the change of clothes again. “i don’t think they’d like to see you all covered in blood when they wake up.”

hange gives him a pleading look, knowing that he hates being this filthy. “go get cleaned up, i’ll let you know if anything changes.” levi succumbs to his inner clean freak with a huff as he takes the clothes and leaves, heading to his room.

he thought he would- should, rush through cleaning up, but he ended up taking his time. he’d probably come to terms with the fact that even when they’re done working on you, it will be a while before you wake up. how stupid could he be? you were nothing to him, just another captain who’s lasted longer than the rest. a person who just so happened to see right through him. someone who saw who he really was and stayed anyway. he would never consider you a friend. just someone he talked to more than anyone else.

he carefully took off his uniform, god forbid he gets blood everywhere. he took a long shower, being sure to get the dried blood out from under his fingernails. once he’s dressed and his hair is dried, he makes his way to the medical team, calmly asking for an update. they tell him he can see you, but you’d probably still be out for a while.

he only gives a nod as he walks past them, into your room to see you. he knows if he opened his mouth, he’d probably end up lashing out at them, and they didn’t deserve that. what will you think if the first person you see after waking up is levi? surely you’d find it odd that an acquaintance of yours, no matter how friendly, was there. he has no right to worry so much for you, but he does.

levi’s been waiting in your room for a few hours now, sitting in an armchair facing your bed as he looks out the window. as sunlight slowly drained from the night sky, more people would peek their heads in to see how you were doing. a few subordinates of yours, one of your commanding officers, and even some friends from other regiments. levi didn’t know a single one of them, not that he should, why would he care? why does he care? you’ve never mentioned having friends outside of the scouts, but why would you tell him that? why does it take you being gravely injured for him to think about this? levi ponders it all, glancing at you more frequently as the night goes on.

it’s just past eight when you start to stir. you groan as the pain in your abdomen starts to register. in a moment, levi stands up and bolts for the door, but not before you call out to him.

“w-wait, please” you croak out. levi stops in his tracks, contemplating what to do. he was hoping you wouldn’t see him, or just assume he was checking in on you. he looks over his shoulder at you, not daring to meet your half-lidded eyes. “i should let the doctor know you’re awake” he says in a low and quiet voice. you can tell he’s trying to convince himself.

“just-” you attempt to sit up, cursing from the pain and lying back down. “please don’t go yet, give me a minute.” all you can do is stare at the ceiling as you try to catch your breath. you can’t stop him from leaving, even if you were fine, you could never overpower him physically. and yet, somehow, in your weakened state, he finds himself unable to move. he’s so pathetic, levi thinks as he turns around and pulls up a chair to sit next to the bed.

“thanks for patching me up.” you manage to whisper out. you can’t even manage to keep your eyes open. the blanket they put over you shifted from your attempt to sit up. he can now see where they bandaged you up, some dried blood they missed, probably just in a hurry to stop the bleeding.

levi closes his eyes and puts a hand on your shoulder. you peek up at him, and he squeezes just slightly, seemingly grounding himself. was he that worried about you? suddenly, he stands up, moving the chair back to its spot. this time, you don’t seem to protest.

“they should be changing your bandages soon, i can see some blood coming through.” he says softly, letting out another sigh afterward. before he steps out the door you say, “come back afterwards ok?” it’s more of a demand than a question, and he knows that. “ok” he says, nodding at you before walking out, finally relieved.

☆500 EVENT☆

masterlist

#dazai x reader #gojo x reader #levi x reader #osamu dazai x reader #satoru gojo x reader #levi ackerman x reader #bsd x reader #jjk x reader #aot x reader

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theblue6ook · 2 months

Text

The Young Years PT 3

Summary: This is a prequel to "Shit Interview" in the "Out of My League" series. Read about Bruce and Y/N in their troubled teens. What about their past makes them work so well together? You'll find out. (Hint: they've both been through major struggles.)

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader

a/n: Death and blood. Also, Bruce is all the drama. [Eventual slow burn with Bruce]

Caught [B(19) Y/N(17)]

First, it was selling illegal car parts. Then, it was modifying cars illegally. Then, it was racing. Y/N didn't have to worry about money anymore, but she still kept appearances up at Dorthie’s Flowers with Carrie; she didn’t want to look suspicious. The house was paid off, the utilities were paid, and she started saving money for her brothers' school funds. She was set, and even better, she was a winner.

Ronnie taught her how to properly drive at 13. The lot for the mechanic shop was pretty big, and honestly, there were barely any cops in this part of town. The only rule was don’t go past the narrows. Once she hit 14, she was starting to get good. After modifying cars, she’d head out and watch the races, watch the different moves people made with their cars, recreate them on cars they were working on, and if they got fucked up, she’d fix them before anyone knew.

By 15, she was in races. By 16, she was coming in second. By 17, she was dominating. The money she had saved was insane, but there was one problem. The races were moving out of the narrows, and the cops were cracking down, particularly Don Colley and his partner Jim Gordon. All she had to do was keep her head down. She should have stopped. She had money saved, but the rush was so addicting, and the money was so rewarding. In her eyes, as long as no one knew who she was, what was the damage?

Getting caught. Getting caught was the damage.

The last race she was in was over by Gotham Harbor. She was in first, per usual, when the police swarmed. She was on her way out, swearing and huffing, when one of the drivers, trying to make a break for it, spun out and crashed. She didn’t even think. She stopped the car and ran out to help, but it was too late. It was a horrid scene. The airbags didn’t go off, and his car had smashed him into the steering wheel. His chest was caved in, and there was so much blood everywhere. It smelled like gasoline and death. There was no mistaking it, the driver that passed was David Colley, the Comminsioner’s son, and oh did he blame Y/N. She was caught on the scene and the only one he had to blame. Boy, did he fight hard when she went to court, lucky for her, Jim Gordan saw right through it, and so did the judge…

“You were a part of the Martha Wayne Foundation?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“You say you were doing this to provide a good home for your brothers after your mother left? Help your father pay the bills?”

“Yes, your honor.” Y/N felt the sweat on her temple, and her heart was beating so quickly. She felt fucked. She felt like she ruined her life, but the judge only hummed and thought quietly. There was a pregnant pause before he spoke, and the entire courtroom was on the edge of their seats.

“Despite having the wrong motivation, I think you have a good head on your shoulders. You’re young,” he continued, “I don’t want you to throw your life away in jail. So, here’s what I’m going to do. Not only will you return the money won to the court, but you will also complete six months of community service. Pay two fines, each $1000. One for the drag racing conviction and the other for the illegal gambling. Is that clear?”

It didn’t go over well with Don Colley. He ended up stepping down from the position of commissioner as Jim Gordon stepped up…it didn’t go well with her father either.

“What are you doing with your life?!” he covered his face with his hands. “You know what, it might have been easier if you were in jail and not wasting my money, my time-”

“Your money?!” Y/N interrupted. “Who’s been running your business? Who’s been providing? You haven’t even stepped out of the house in years!”

“Will you shut up! Do you not understand you are ruining your life-”

“Oh, so now you want to be a parent?” Y/N was up in arms. After years of picking up after him, providing, and putting food on the table, this is what she gets?

"You know what, go fuck yourself. You don't want me as your parent? You can get the FUCK out of my house!"

“The house I paid for? The house I clean and cook in and drag your ass into when it’s snowing. That house!?” she shouted until her throat hurt. Maybe she shouldn't have, she knew she fucked up, but she was so tired. So tired of taking care of other people. Every sentence she punctuated with a step closer to him until she was up in his face.

"You're unstable. You're not good for me. You’re not good for the boys. You need to leave," he looked into her eyes.

"I may be unstable, but you've always been a shit father." That seemed to be the last straw.

“GET OUT!” he grabbed her by the hair and shoved her out the screen door. He had never in her 17 years ever put his hands on her. He had always been silently grateful. Silently watching as she keeps the house running. He had never shoved her the way he did now.

“What the fuck-” she said, stumbling down to the ground.

“You don’t live here anymore. Tell Carrie to pick up your things.” He went to step inside but paused, looking over his shoulder. "You can't live here until you get your act together, and I can't live with you until I get my act together."

Her father stepped inside. She heard her brothers through the door asking what was happening and where she was. Y/N sat out on the concrete steps and said nothing. Was there anything to say? Slowly, she stood and made her way down the block.

Bruce wasn’t sure what to consider his position here. Was he a prisoner? Would they let him leave when the time came? At least they were training him. They’ve been training him for the past two years.

It wasn’t hard for him to leave Gotham. When he was fifteen, he received his diploma. He had skipped enough grades to get it and had enough credits through online courses. That was the deal with Alfred. You can go and travel, but you’re going to be officially educated. He traveled with Alfred for some time. Moving to different places, training with different people, learning different languages. Then, things went sideways. He was recognized. He was robbed. He could defend himself at this point, but not from twenty people. That’s ridiculous. In the end, he ended up in a Bhutanese Prison. This is where he met Ras Al Ghul. A strange man who had broken him out of prison and asked him what his plans were. Bruce didn’t really have a choice, so he told him. Now he was here, but honestly, where was he? He had no clue.

He had learned so much. He would continue to learn so much. He would solve his parents' murder, and he would solve Gotham. That was the plan. If he can survive here, he can survive anywhere.

He looked up at the ceiling of his bunk. He was bunked with many other soldiers and assassins; he wasn’t sure who they were. He had thought about Alfred. What he might be doing? What he did do after Bruce had been taken? The door to his bunk had opened, and there was the strange man who had found him.

“It is time,” he said. Bruce stood and followed him out to the training grounds. He sparred with different soldiers, at some points, several at a time. Another trainee was sparring as well. Eventually, they were tasked with sparring with each other. Bruce moved flawlessly, and his master smiled. He fought easily and used his opponent's faults against him until he had him on the ground.

“That’s good,” he grinned. “Now kill him.”

Bruce’s blood went cold. He looked over at the man, startled. “I can’t - I can’t kill him. He did nothing wrong. We were just training.”

“Training is to prepare you for real-life situations. You may have to kill someone, so it’s best to do it now. Kill him.”

Bruce held his breath, and his sword rose to strike. Training. That’s what it was. If I want to clean up Gotham, there has to be sacrifice. I have to do this-

You really think this is what your father would have wanted? You going to prison for the rest of your life? To kill someone?

The sword came down hard and swiftly, puncturing the ground. His master turned toward him, angry. He grabbed Bruce by the shoulder, shoving him to the ground as he dug his own sword into the struggling trainee on the ground. “Is this what you’re so afraid of? Death. These are the necessary sacrifices we must make for the good of the world.”

Red stained the snow around them, and the smell of blood lingered in the air.

“Well, that’s not the way I’m going to do it,” he stood stubbornly.

“How do you expect order? How do you expect to deal with the chaos?”

“Fear.”

#bruce wayne x reader #batfam #batfamily #batmom #batman #young!bruce #bruce wayne

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itiswormtimebaby · 9 months

Text

Time

You're beginning to question why Bucky won't sleep with you, but you ask the wrong person

Pairing: Biker!Bucky and Bug (+Brother’s best friend Bucky, Plus sized fem reader) (Steve is reader’s adopted brother) CW: Friend’s calling each other “bitch”, references to sexual acts

“I don’t know if I should call you a stupid bitch, a dirty bitch, or a lucky bitch.” Cilla, the platonic love of your life, stares at you from the passenger seat of your car. “Straight out the gate and he’s already hitting it raw, I guess I’ll go with all three you stupid, dirty, lucky, beautiful” she tacks on the end to soften the blow, “Bitch.” Stupid was probably fair, dirty was a compliment, and lucky was factual so you let the comment ride without protest. There was one thing that was bothering you about her statement though, “I don’t think it’s fair to say he hi-”

“Bitch,” She cuts you off, “be so fucking for real.”

“He turned you into his own twinkie- cream filled.” The voice comes from the backseat where McKenna, the third member of your friendship trio is devouring a nerds filled grape slush. Cilla groans in disgust at the bad joke while you pull a face in the rearview mirror, refusing to break eye contact with the man until he cracks first, slowly lowering his plastic spoon back into the sticky purple treat; “I, uh, I really regret saying that.” “Good! That was fucking weird, and now we all have to live with it. Sit in your shame.” Despite your admonishing tone there’s no real upset behind you words as you carry on;

“But as I was SAYING, it was just the tip so I don’t- like it doesn’t feel like that counts. Don’t get me wrong, it was amazing, I just…” The silence sits heavy in your ears but you can’t find it in yourself to continue, suddenly embarrassed despite being in the presence of the two people you’ve trusted with damn near every dirty little secret you possess; why hadn’t it progressed past that?

“Fuck it! Who wants to lose their virginity on a Monday, anyway?” McKenna’s outburst breaks the silence and blessedly removes the spotlight from you, “Yeah,” you acquiescent with a half-hearted chuckle, “you’re probably right.” The conversation moves on quickly enough, though the thought is persistent in your mind- why hadn’t it progressed past that?

Hours later, McKenna returned home to his husband, sun dropped beyond the horizon, you pull to a stop outside of Cilla’s house, the dark-haired woman making no move to exit the vehicle; “How are you actually feeling about it?” There’s clearly only one situation she could be referencing but in truth you’re not sure how to answer. She was the first call you’d made after coming down from your chocolate-brownie-hell-high, after Bucky finally showed back up in the aftermath, after dates one through four, and especially after five, she’d heard details even McKenna hadn’t, every salacious little tidbit. But you hesitate now, a bond forged in college deadlines, all nighters, stress induced coffee comas, movie marathons and evening walks had blossomed into a beautiful friendship with two main tenets; you burn I burn, and no bullshit. You knew she would listen and take it all in without judgment, but part of you hesitated, worried that her honest take, because she would be incredibly honest, wasn’t something you were ready to hear.

“I’m confused,” You finally settle on. She doesn’t offer acknowledgement besides a small hum, no pushing, no rushing. “Everything has felt so good.” At that Cilla does let out a little snort, raising her eyebrows suggestively, though makes no other move to interrupt; “I wasn’t actually talking about that, though he does make me feel amazing. I just mean…Bucky’s been in my life since I was pre-pubescent, he may actually be what jump started puberty for me,” Cilla’s eyes roll at your joke as you pause again to gather your thoughts. “He was this larger-than-life presence, cocksure, the muscle to Steve’s mouth and I just- oh my god I was so in love with him. I’m sure there’s still notebooks floating around where I waxed poetic about his eyes, wrote Mrs. James Buchanan Barnes over and over again in the margins…”

You peter off before taking a steadying breath, suddenly thirteen again and trailing along behind Steve and Bucky, the latter of which was the epicenter of every girlish daydream you had. “He had this girlfriend when we were in High School, Dot? I was so fucking jealous of her, she had everything I wanted because she had him. I know Bucky cared about me, in some way, but it wasn’t the same as he cared about her and it broke my heart.” You can still picture her; pretty red curls, shy smile, hand wrapped in Bucky’s anytime he was within arms reach.

“Once he enlisted, once there was some space between us, I realized there was a lot of naivety I needed to tear through-” You hesitate, fearing the explanation will be muddy but push on anyway, “like, the love I felt was real- but I also built it up a lot in my head? In a way I think it was probably unfair to him, projections from a kid who was newly navigating the difference between romantic and platonic love, but everything just felt so big and all encompassing.”

“He was your first love.”

“He was,” You nod in agreement, picturing Bucky at fifteen, knuckles bloody, Steve behind him with a bruised eye and busted lip, the body of your latest would-be-bully crumpled on the floor, “but that’s not- that’s not how he felt about me.The romantic love, or infatuation, or whatever- it was one sided, very obviously so. I used to wish it was different, dream of a day where he’d drop Dot’s hand and reach for mine but then I realized-” You squeeze your eyes shut, thankful for Cilla allowing you to set the pace of the conversation as you ruminate over the relationship, “I realized after he’d left how shitty that was, just because he wasn’t in love with me didn’t mean he didn’t care, what we did have wasn’t a consolation prize.”

Your friend rests her hand gently on your forearm, nodding her understanding; “Life went on, he and Steve were deployed, I was in school, they came home, they joined the club, he dated other girls, I dated…But I never really got over that feeling of first love, it just- deepened?” You nodded your head at that, happy enough with the explanation, “It sprouted new roots, more substantial ones, I fell in love with him all over again, a different version of him in a way.”

You were getting to the part you didn’t want to say, the part that worried you most, “Like I said what we had wasn’t a consolation prize, Bucky’s always been one of the best people in my life, even when I probably annoyed the hell out of him. I’d made peace with knowing that how we felt about each other didn’t line up and then, well…”

“Then he showed up on your doorstep with flowers begging for a date?”

“He showed up with flowers after I accosted him with my feelings.”

“Don’t forget the FINALLY.” She prods you pointedly at that, having been driven half mad over your analytical obsession with the word, when I FINALLY fuck you, “he clearly had thought about it, and he even said that’s not all he wanted, don’t go where I think you’re about to go.”

“Where am I about to go?” You ask her.

“Questioning his intentions, whether he really likes you, wants to be with you…HE asked YOU out, that means something. Just because y'all aren’t having sex doesn’t take away from everything else.”

Everything else. Cilla was right of course, it’s not like Bucky was running around acting disinterested; he brought you flowers, took you on dates, kept you fed, ran errands with you just for some extra time together, gave you mind blowing orgasms, made you laugh. But then why…

“But then why won’t he sleep with me? He clearly cares about me, thinks about me, but why not- his body count is high, why not one more?” You deliver the last line like a joke, but no part of it feels funny. “I know he cares about me, truly I do. But I guess I just worry- like he’s cared about me since we were kids, so maybe he doesn’t want to sleep with me because he’s figuring out that romance isn’t what he really wants between us and that’d be harder to walk back having-”

“Don’t,” Cilla cuts you off, “do that.” You look at her a bit helplessly as she pushes on, “Has he actually given you any indication he doesn’t want to date you? Aside from not sticking it in?”

It was crude but she had a point, and you knew Bucky, knew he wasn’t one to string people along.

“No.”

“Exactly, it’s just dick, don’t let it ruin something special.”

“I just- I’m all in, so why is he holding back?”

“It’s still a new relationship-”

“I’ve known him forever-”

“But not like this. This is new. He may not be exactly where you’re at but clearly he has feelings for you. My advice would be to hop out of your head and just enjoy things as they progress.”

You nod once in acknowledgement, still not quite ready to move on from the topic; “Should I just ask him why?”

Cilla mulls it over for a minute, “I… wouldn’t, not yet. Give it some time.”

Time, right.

But you couldn't help the worry that persisted, what would Bucky be figuring out in that time?

All things Bucky and Bug found here: to be loved Main masterlist: here

#bucky and bug #biker!bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #plus sized reader

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jasonsmirrorball · 2 months

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the road not taken looks real good now [669]

gn!reader, exes to ?, hopeful ending, light angst, a tribute to the piece i wrote in 2022 inspired by tis the damn season and hometown loves

He doesn’t ask you to stay, no matter how badly you wish he would. And no matter how bad the words linger on the tip of your tongue, you don’t ask him to wait.

The thought of him like that, wrapped up and in love with someone that isn’t you, makes your stomach turn cruelly, but still you say nothing. Bit by bit, you pack up the life you’ve always known – how do you manage to fit years into a single suitcase, you wonder bitterly. It seems like a condemnation – a sign that you were always meant for something else, something not Gotham and her grey, or the tourmaline eyed man who watches over her.

Jason sees you off – puts you on the train like it’s one of those old war movies and stays on the platform until you can no longer see him, the carriage pulling suddenly into the dark tunnel that’s meant to carry you to your great destiny. It sits in your stomach, bitter and mournful.

He doesn’t kiss you goodbye. You don’t ask. Neither of you say a thing, but the seconds count down, closer and closer to your departure. The station is busy, thrumming with a restless energy that isn’t entirely your own. You watch over his shoulder as a woman rushes, laden with bags and clutching a small child’s hand, into the open doors of the same train you need to get on. Another man shoulders past a group of teenagers, a phone clattering to the ground and a chorus of yells going up.

Somewhere in the chaos, his hand finds yours. It’s a pitiful replacement for all the words that go unsaid, and you can feel – not for the first time since you’d decided to leave – your heart cleave painfully, another fragment falling to the greying tiles at your feet and shattering. At this rate, you’re unsure how much of it will be left by the time you get to where you’re going.

The seconds flip closer, closer. A squeeze, and then your hand is falling away. Come home. I love you. I miss you already. Don’t go.

He says nothing, and you wish he would.

Jason watches you go.

You stay away for a year. A year turns into two and somehow, despite it all, the years continue to pass. You’re twenty six the next time you set foot in Gotham, bundling into the back of your dad’s car when he picks you up outside the airport.

It feels strange, driving down these roads. The cold bites, even through the rolled up windows and blanket that’s been in the backseat since you were five. You clutch it closer, eyes gazing out. You think if you stare hard enough, you’ll see the ghosts of your youth.

At street corners, under awnings and under lamp posts flickering to life – they’re everywhere. You don’t dare to breathe old names, but you’re suddenly eighteen once more, tired old heart beating once more for the one that haunts every memory. In dreams, in constellations and first kisses – there he remains.

And then, when you walk into that damn dive bar, address flashing on your phone and confirming that yes, this is where your friends had wanted to meet –

All roads inevitably lead back to him. This is a truth he must have known, you think, when you lock eyes with the ones that have haunted you for more than half a decade and they crease at the corners in pleasure.

Jason rounds the counter.

“You’re back,” he says. You, dazed, dizzy, anguished and lovesick, can only nod. Blue-green threatens to swallow you whole – to keep you, forever. Fingers you’ve not touched in an age tangle with your own and warmth blooms through your fingertips.

“Will you stay,” he asks, adding, belatedly, “for a drink?”

You squeeze his hand. The ache in your chest mellows – real, it whispers. Real, and here, and – yours?

“I’ll stay,” you murmur and his mouth curls into a shadowed smile, quietly pleased.

it always leads to you in my hometown is one of those fics i think about a lot for no damn reason. i don't particularly consider it one of my best works but it's so dear to me and i think the reunification of love, the return home and the bitterness of parting is just so….it does my head in (in the best way)

i got to see the song that inspired this fic (and others that provided the soundtrack to SO MANY of my fics) live a few weeks ago and it was such an incredible experience. i don't know, folklore and evermore are just so precious and dear to my heart. i love the stories in those albums and it made me so inexplicably happy being able to see the songs that inspired these fics live and thinking about jason and the memories i've made writing these silly little fics.

anyway i hope you enjoyed this little piece, i hope you're doing well and eating well. i love you

#jay my heart #jasonsmirrorball #divider by saradika #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #x reader #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fic

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be-my-ally · 4 months

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Crash Landing

(aka Big Bunny 4)

Wheeew, only 6 months later than I intended! it's 4am and somehow, despite spending forever on this, I fear the grammar may be janky - so apologies for that. This follows directly from The Lisa-Marie, and the masterlist for the series is linked here!

This is the last of the planned ‘main’ chapters, but there are some time jumps in this and the last chapter, so if anyone has any requests for any bunny/elvis one shots pop them into my inbox and I’ll see what I can do. I have a few little plans to fill out some of the gaps, but no promises on when they might appear.

warnings: 18+, some mild sexism, p in v, oral (v receiving), afab!reader, skiing, allusions to poor health, Elvis is swearing like… a lot in this chapter. Make of that what you will. References to drug use. THIS ENDS IN JULY 1977 - AUGUST IS IMPLIED. wc: 14k I don’t know what to say - there was meant to be a brief skiing interlude and then all of a sudden I’m 10k in and they’re still in Colorado.

Early 1977

Linda is gone for good, finally some of the guys would say, and you couldn’t totally say that you disagreed. It had been stressful - the ups and downs of their relationship, being caught in the crossfires. You had enough experience to know it wasn’t really specific to her but nonetheless it had still been somewhat difficult to witness. It had been hard to face her on the jet, knowing what Elvis was saying behind her back; how adamant he was for them to be over. On the way between stops in the October tour he’d sat on the couch on the plane, glistening with the sweat from the show and still dressed in his white jumpsuit with red flames jumping up his chest, he’d tugged you over, uncaring of the others in the room. Telling you that you were the only girl he could trust to have his back, that he didn’t even know why he kept her around. He didn’t seem to remember, and you didn’t care to remind him that he’d told you the same thing back in June too. Every time she’d suddenly reappear - his desperation to be looked after superseding any desire he may have had to say goodbye to her. Why you couldn’t be enough for him you didn’t know.

Then, almost immediately after Linda’s gone - and, admittedly, briefly before she was too - you’re meeting this new girl, Ginger, albeit rarely. Elvis for some reason putting her on the Jetstar with her family more than with him. In some ways it helps - the fact that she’s not there all the time, in others it makes you feel awful — his rush fiancee and her family seemingly not even willing or wanting to travel with him. It’s mostly a slow season over the winter though and for some reason Georgia is getting more hours than you and so, you’re forced to say goodbye to your examination of the inner workings of his private life until after the New Year break. It ends up being early February before you get a call to come in for one of his vacation whims.

It feels like it’s been an age since you last saw Elvis even though it had barely been a six weeks, and you felt guilty that it had felt so nice to relax a little. It was hard when you spoke to your friends, and all their careers or mothering sounded so stressful all the time, they were all jealous of your ‘easy’ job, the extra benefits sounding all too impressive. Where else would you get a new wardrobe paid for? A shiny new car sat outside for you, or an apartment rented? But it was hard to explain without giving away too much, how it was impossible for you to ever really turn off; how you thought about him all the time, worried about him all the time, even when you were at home.

He hadn’t been difficult to manage the last couple of months of the year, at least, not as bad as the middle and start of the year, but his moods had turned almost overwhelmingly blue, and it had been tricky to level your tone and actions to appropriately comfort him. You’d started feeling on edge every flight, worried and insecure. So, the break had been nice. It had given you a chance to re-evaluate, take a breather and consider what was best for you to do.

Elvis himself called to wish you a Merry Christmas, he’d been sweet and kind and promised you a gift even as he made small talk that you knew he disliked, even if he was good at it in that southern way, and it had made you hate him just a little. Your chest aching with the feel that he was treating you like a total stranger. It hadn’t improved when you’d returned to your Memphis apartment from your parent’s house and discovered a card had been delivered in your absence. “Season's Greetings, Elvis and the Colonel and Friends.” You’d allowed yourself the briefest of cries staring at yourself in the mirror while the blotchiness crawled up your neck. You were still an ugly crier despite your best efforts. It’s the final straw, you thought to yourself as you stared at your wild eyes and messy hair where you’d tugged your hands through it. You’ll see it through the summer. Then you’re done. That’ll be just enough time to work out what to do next - maybe you’d go back to school. You dried your eyes, patting yourself on the cheeks. That’s it. Decision made. You refused to give it any more thought. Especially, about why you didn’t just quit immediately if you were planning on it later anyway, not willing to admit to yourself you wanted to give him another chance more than anything else. It was just altogether too much, being the girl on the side of the girl on the side, having to balance being his friend, employee and lover. But you’d had your moment, and you were using your trusty technique of just not. thinking. about. it. anymore.

You were nervous as you tied your little necktie and pulled at your hem from where you were sure your dress had shrunk over the past month, preparing to greet the men loading onto the plane. It was informal, as it normally was, and you looked back somewhat fondly to your days on Big Bunny, where everything was written and handbooked out with the proper procedure for every situation. Now it was just up to you to decide what to do for every eventuality. In this situation you made the brave decision to hide. So, you tuck yourself away in the galley on the other side of the little half wall, waiting until enough of them have boarded that you’ll be forced to peek out and say hello. There were more people loading on than during the last tour, and despite the extra numbers you knew you were handling this mostly alone - Georgia had been unable to come in under such short notice; something about a grandmother. So not only were your nerves shot worrying about when you should tell Elvis you were quitting and how it felt like you were harbouring some awful secret, you were also having to steel yourself to be overworked and run down by the time you were able to get off the plane. When you peek out around the partition you get the first glance of him and you’re a little embarrassed at how you can feel a flush start to rise just from that look.

He looks not dissimilar to how he did that first day on Big Bunny - open collared shirt and jogging jacket on - this time a navy blue with a baby blue stripe down the shoulder and arm. He looks good - like you could just burrow into him, and you’re relieved that the sudden demand for your appearance isn’t for something panic-inducing from the way he’s smiling and chatting - laughing with Charlie and Joe. You’d been a little concerned that the rapidity of the request was hiding a more sinister origin after a similar call had preceded a rush to the hospital last summer. But he was looking good, really good actually. Somehow his face had lost some of its puffiness it’d been holding onto and he was a far better colour than you’d gotten used to - perhaps a high from the success of his New Year’s concert as he’d been pleased with the reaction and reviews or maybe even just high off the excitement of his, apparently, serious relationship with Ginger. Although, evidently not altogether that serious since she wasn’t joining them; you’d already decided you’d keep your thoughts about that to yourself. You shyly watch him from across the plane where he’s already sat himself down, comfortable in his own space and leaning against the back - his legs spread wide, retelling some story you’ve already heard once before. You take a deep breath before heading around the little partition, fully intending on acting as if you had an important job to do by the door. You managed to keep the ruse up long enough to shut the door and let Ron know you were all set to go, long enough to hand out drinks and cigars and let them all settle in, but you couldn’t pass directly by him again without him noticing you, and his arm shoots out, grabbing your wrist as you go to walk past. You barely have a chance to notice his hold on you before he’s pulling you in, forcing you to bend over in order to accept a kiss on the cheek in greeting. You can’t explain why you’re so nervous, but you find your tummy flipping at the close proximity to him. With anxiety or excitement, you can’t quite tell. In some ways it’s slightly more forward than you’d expected from him for having not seen him in a month, but perhaps you had just gotten used to him ignoring you in the months prior.

“Good evening, Elvis.” It’s a fine line between polite and aloof, and you can already tell you’ll be reliving this interaction all night. His eyes are bright with amusement at your formality when he gazes back at you, his thumb still gently stroking over your wrist.

“Well, it is now.” He grins as you visibly cringe at his cheesiness, “Good evening to you too, honey.” He looks you over as he lets go of your hand, allowing you to stand back up, and eyeing your hemline, “‘re you ready for the cold?”

“Hopefully it’s not gonna be too cold on the plane,” You stumble over your words in nerves, “but I can always turn the heat up a little - “Elvis shakes his head,

“Nah, I’ll keep you toasty, hon, snug as a, as a bug.” You struggle to regain your composure as your mind flickers with images of just how he could be keeping you warm.

“Hmm, I suppose you’ll have to since someone makes me wear this. But I’m pretty well covered anyway.” You grin in response to his smirk when you gesture down at your stockinged legs.

“Well, that’s real good doll,” He runs a hand through his thick hair, letting a hint of the grey around his temples show as he pushes it back, and you find yourself missing the steadying warmth of his grip, “but you know - we’re stopping in Vail.”

You pause, unsure how to put it politely, “Mmhmm, that’s what Elwood tells me.” He frowns, leaning back and settling even further into the seat, arm spreading across the back rest and he shifts so his thighs are encasing you.

“Alright then miss know-it-all, tell me what I was gonna say next.” He stares at you, and it makes your insides twist even as you can feel heat pooling in your stomach.

“Uhhh,” You struggle, to try and think of what to say that will maintain the teasing playful tone, feeling like you’ve been called on daydreaming in the middle of class with everyone’s eyes on you and simultaneously totally distracted by the feel of his legs against yours. He smirks as you flounder, “Well, perhaps, that you uh,”

“You can say you don’t know.” He sing-songs it, “Silly little girl like you can’t know everything, huh?” He raises an eyebrow, and you can feel the frustration rise at his teasing,

“No. I suppose not.” He smiles crookedly, pleased he gets to tell you the next part, even as he explains it like you’re a little slow.

“I was goin’ to say that I hope you’ve got a coat somewhere…” He pauses for dramatic effect, “since you’re comin’ with us.” Your brain goes blank.

“Me?”

“Why not?” He straightens a leg, it, perhaps inadvertently, knocks against yours and you immediately feel your gaze pulled to it, the heat of his thigh against your knee making your head go fuzzy. “Been a while since we’ve been off this plane together.” He’s looking at you hopefully, eyes wide behind his shades and you can feel your insides fizzing with excitement - even as you feel the need to protest,

“Oh well that’s very kind but -”

“C’mooon, honey - it’ll be fun! Hot cocoa, and, and skis, and playin’ in the snow.” His leg moves again, the soft cotton blend of his jogging suit catching on your nylons, “Dashin’ through the snow…” Your mouth opens, about to make a Paul Anka joke but one look at his encouraging smile puts you off,

“Oh, well, like I said, that’s very kind - but I don’t, I don’t have any clothes or coats or boots or -” He cuts you off with a tut, rolling his eyes and shaking his head like you were being particularly stupid.

“I was only kidding before.” He sounds a little petulant at the suggestion, “You don’t needta worry ‘bout that - we’ll get you sorted out.” He nods, as if you’d already given him your agreement.

“That’s very generous Elvis, but I don’t know how to ski.”

“Don’t worry I’ll teach ya!” He seems overwhelmingly confident considering you and he both know he doesn’t know how to ski, “You can just be - hey!” He sits himself back upright in his excitement, knocking against you enough that you shift on your feet, “You can just be my little snow bunny, can’t ya?” He laughs as he says it, and his laughter is infectious - you find yourself giggling along with him,

“I suppose that would be fitting.”

“ ‘Sides what else were you gonna do while we were out?”

“Well…what I normally do - fly home or stay in whatever hotel I’ve had booked for me.” He looks curious for a second, “Sometimes I visit people if we’re close to someone I know.”

“Do I book ‘em?”

“Uh. Well. I think maybe your daddy does? Or, whoever’s organising everyone on your behalf yeah, sure.”

“Oh…” He looks contemplative, before with a frown, “Are they nice?”

“They’re fine El - it’s normally the same place the band is.” It’s sometimes a shithole but you’re not about to tell Elvis that.

“Would you - why… did you not wanna come with me?” He half-whispers it and your brain stutters to a halt,

“What? That’s not, that wasn’t ever an option Elvis.”

“Well. It is today. Come with us.” He holds out a hand, serious for the first time in the conversation and with his eyes looking at you like that even if you’d wanted to refuse you couldn’t. You nod in agreement, acquiescing to his demand.

“C’mere then.” He tugs you down against him and you wriggle into place on his lap, the fabric of his trousers catching on your nylons as you settle against his sturdy thighs. He rubs gently at your calf, his thumb and forefinger encircling your ankle and you feel yourself relax out of your self-consciousness to enjoy the closeness.

You laugh at a terrible joke at Joe’s expense and Elvis’ legs shake underneath you as you collapse against him in a fit of giggles. Your giggles taper off as you feel him twitch against your thigh. You school your face but can’t stop yourself turning to look at him in surprise, and more than a little excitement. His expression is unchanged, and you wiggle almost imperceptibly, come out, come out and play. It twitches again, and Elvis shifts as if in discomfort, you glance around but no one else seems to be paying you any attention - already distracted by something or someone else so you feel comfortable you’re not about to get caught as you try to wriggle your hand down to him. He immediately clamps an arm around your waist, holding you tight in place - your arm caught between you both. He looks down at you amused and you bite your lip - a pretty pitiful attempt at seduction,

“Shh.”

You indicate to the bedroom, more than a little disappointed when he shakes his head. “Later baby.”

He keeps you trapped on his lap, making it impossible for you to go and do anything, making the boys make their own drinks even when they try and ask you. Even when you try to whisper that you need to get up, he holds you there, gently soothing you back into compliance with a press of his lips, a whispered promise, a stroke of his fingers.

“Elvis I really hafta get up - we’ll be comin’ down soon and I’ve gotta make sure - “

“It’ll be fine baby, don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Well, we can’t just sit here forever - at the very least I’ll have to go and open the doors.”

“Shit baby, Ron or Jim or God, I’m sure even fucking Elwood can manage that. No offense doll but I think they might even be more qualified at it than you. Besides I ain’t payin you to open doors.”

You push off his chest, turning to face him and interjecting before he can even continue that thought,

“You sure as hell aren’t paying me to keep you ‘company’ either.” He rolls his eyes,

“We’ve been through this, I don’t give a fuck about the plane or anything else. Your job is to care for me.” His eyes burn behind his shades, and the intensity of his frown takes you a little by surprise. You stroke the wrinkle on his brow,

“‘m sorry but look - I have a couple of things I have to do and anyway you’re gonna have to put a seatbelt on in a second, because it’ll get bumpy - and if you hit your head, I’m not being responsible for it.” You wag one of the heavy gold seatbelts at him and he sighs,

“Well, fine, but you’re mine soon as we land. No excuses then.” His hand strokes your thigh, and your tummy flips,

“No excuses. I’ll be yours as long as you want me.” There’s a hum, and you both suddenly realise Larry has come a lot closer than before, “Your hostess I mean.”

———————————

Ron patted your arm as you disembarked with the others. “Remember we’ll be there soon too,” He looks at you, “We’re staying at Betty’s aunt’s place, but I’m sure we’ll be invited round.” You nod, reading between the lines and you smile,

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“You do that. Have fun.” He winks, disappearing back into the cockpit and you take a breath before rejoining the group dispersing into a collection of cars.

“What’s she doin’?” The whisper travels as you climb into the car, Larry and Joe start to reply but Elvis jumps in before either could get their words out too.

“Goddamnit,” He kicks the seat in front although it certainly wasn’t Joe who had piped up, “She’s coming too - so shut yer fuckin’ mouth before I shut it for you.” He shouts out the open door and slamming it shut. He slides across the bench seat to be pressed close against you, his hand curling over your thigh.

You smile shyly, pleased when Shirley turns around to smile at you, you weren’t her biggest fan - she’d never been overly friendly, but at least she was now acknowledging you.

A whirlwind shopping excursion ensued while Elvis sent the other car to scout out where he wanted to stay. You were a little taken aback, but not altogether surprised, that he’d demanded the trip on such a whim that he hadn’t even secured proper accommodation, but he did a fairly good job of explaining himself while you were being sent back and forth from different stores for the appropriate clothing.

“The thing is …” You kind of zone out while he talks, the story leading from one to another, before returning to the actual point he was trying to get to, but you appreciate the rumble of his voice and the gossipy tone that makes you feel a part of his exclusive little group. You manage to capture the gist though; that he was pretty sure they could stay at the same lodge as last time, because it was a friends but he hadn’t actually asked - since the decision to go away hadn’t been made until yesterday, and that he couldn’t see any reason why not - but if they had problem with it there was surely other, bigger better lodges to stay that would be overjoyed to host him.

You were tired by the time he decreed that you finally had a suitable wardrobe and he looked over the collection of bags with satisfaction, although - despite the three other coats he bought you, he still felt the need to lament that it was a;

“Damn near trav’sty, none of these backwater stores have white fur. Can’t be a proper little snow bunny,” He sighs, “Joe - make sure we order her one for next time.”

Your chest glows at the nonchalant way he says it - like he just expects you to be there again. Like it’s no big deal. The other car returns with good news, and they all filter up to the same lodge as the year before.

“I reckon Ron and Bob’ll regret being such fucking, well, they’ll regret it anyhow now - once they see this and know they could’ve been here too.” You don’t know what to say, so you stick with saying nothing and Elvis tuts and shakes his head, shifting to stare out of the window, although he doesn’t pull his hand away from where you’re making little circles on his palm.

It’s dark and late outside, and yet Elvis demands everyone get suited up to go and play in the snow, and everyone is in high enough spirits not to protest. You’ve not yet had a lesson though, and as you pull on your brand-new ski suit you playfully refuse to even entertain the prospect of heading anywhere on actual skis - Elvis doesn’t seem to be disappointed, grinning at you under his mask and gesturing for you to clamber onto the back of his snowmobile.

Despite his promises on the plane, things never did, that first night, progress past heavy petting in the bedroom - but it was something just to have his thick weight next to you in the bed, laughing and joking as he pressed kisses down your face and throat. His little huffs of laughter as you returned the favour tickling his chest made you feel the same pleasurable contentment as if he’d decided to fuck you for hours.

It was rare, recently, for him to be in such high spirits and still lucid - and you couldn’t help but wonder whether Dr Nick had managed to work out the exact right combination of drugs to keep him perfectly stable, or if he was contributing more placebos. Either way, you weren’t privy to their intimate conversations, nor allowed to witness his daily dosing. The most you saw was the little pills he put into his palm, twice as many as he tipped into yours, before bed and in the morning alongside the occasional couple that he nonchalantly explained them away simply as “Jus’ a little painkiller.” Shrugging his shoulders. But either he was being a lot sneakier - and you weren’t sure you should be viewing that as a good thing - or he was finally listening to concern and easing himself off a little.

It felt like it had in those first few weeks after you’d met him - carefree and fun. And somehow you felt yourself relaxing from the tense feeling you’d had since the start of last year. The worries falling off of your shoulders. You spent the first two days joined at the hip - not even really partaking in the snow sports on offer; snuggling up on the snowmobile and then taking yourselves off to curl up in the lodge instead.

The third day, or really night - since as always with Elvis you soon found your days and nights flipped around - he was ecstatic about the fresh, perfect snow and clear weather and you’d all been sent out to play.

It felt like a long night by the time Elvis was happy to let everyone return to the house. He hadn’t even joined you on the slopes properly, instead choosing to order everyone about from the comfort of his snowmobile.

“C’mon fellas - get into a line! Go on! I’ll chase ya!”

“For god’s sake Billy, move it along! You nearly made me take your whole damn leg off!” A pause, before raucous laughter ensued, “Again!”

Still, you hadn’t minded this turn of events since it meant you hadn’t had to try and remember your rushed and hurried lesson on the nursery slopes that afternoon. Instead, you’d given it one go accompanied by his shouts of laughter at your falling,

“How’d a dancer get to be so goddamn clumsy?”

“I wasn’t a dancer!” You’d protested from your position flat on your back in the snow.

“You danced real pretty for me though doll.” You rolled your eyes, scrambling back to your feet, trying not to pout as you brushed yourself off, he shook his head laughing once more before shouting back at you.

“Aw now darlin’, that ain’t a pretty sight. C’mon, better hop onto the back of here, it’ll be a bit safer for you.” He’d said it through giggles, and you felt the determination to get down by yourself rise up again,

“That won’t be necessary!” You attempted to take off again, and just as you were attempting to straighten your skis, about 12 feet from where you had last fallen, you were on your side again in the snow. Elvis didn’t give you a choice this time, angrily killing the engine completely and storming over as best he could through the thick snow, yanking you up by your arm and dusting you off himself.

“‘S not the time to be stubborn, C’mon now.” You can’t see his facial expression, obscured by his layers and the dark but you can hear that his annoyed words would be accompanied by tightly knitted eyebrows and a frown.

“I can do it.” You angrily pulled your arm out of his grasp, the momentum immediately making you start to lose your balance again, and Elvis catches you before you could fall for a third time.

“For heaven’s sake,” You can practically hear his eyes roll, accompanied by a sigh as he tries to change tact, “I’m sure you can, but it’s dark, and you’ve already tripped twice.” You frown, and he placates, a soothing hand rubbing down your arm, “I just, I just worry about you baby, c’mon, let me look after you - you’re liable to break - no no no, don’t look at me like that,” His hand comes up to cup your face, “I just care about you s’all, don’t want you to get hurt.” He says it so honestly and affectionately that you find yourself nodding in agreement, and truthfully, despite your obstinance, you couldn’t have agreed more - you probably would break a leg if he’d let you go on. He grins at you, “There we are, you know it makes sense, don’t you - there’s my good little bunny. C’mon then, hop to it,” He pats your ass encouragingly, although the padding makes the action redundant, and you slowly make your way over to the snowmobile.

You climbed onto the back slightly awkwardly, almost reluctant to be too close in front of all the guys, despite your cuddling the days before - they’d always been a little more distracted by their own activities to spend much time assessing yours. But Elvis yanked your arm around at the first possible chance, patting your hand where it lay against his padded stomach and tugging you to press yourself against him. You were getting a little bored, and nervous, of all the commotion so you found yourself totally content to curl against his body for warmth and tuck your chin into his shoulder. Despite your brand-new base layers, and soft down ski suit, there had still been enough of a chill in the night air, and from laying in the cold snow, that you were eager to be as close as possible. Elvis’ figure was more padded than you were used to feeling him, his coat also puffy and filled with down. You took immense pleasure in squeezing him tightly enough that you felt the padding compress, eager hands trying to find his body underneath. You found yourself considering, as one hand came to play with the little hairs escaping his mask and goggles at the base of his neck, that it was a damn shame you were both so covered up, since you couldn’t smell him. If you’d been less love-drunk on him you’d have been amazed at yourself; at thinking it was a damn shame, you were unable to smell an undoubtedly sweaty man.

You have no idea how long you spent on the back of the snowmobile, hands roving all over him; only that you quickly lost all sense of self-consciousness and instead felt a rising feeling of possession. A dangerous feeling if ever there was one, but enough that you felt your manicured hands staking their claim, rubbing over his arms and back. Elvis seemed to be enjoying it, shifting to be closer to you whenever you moved away, and patting at your arm.

When he finally, at speeds far too reckless for the early morning night sky, drove you back to the lodge he barely said a word to the rest of the group grabbing your hand and pulling you straight to the master bedroom. It was exciting and, whilst you were almost reluctant to get your hopes up too high, your thighs had been clenching of their own accord for the past hour and you could feel the dampness of your underwear against your warm delicate skin - it was impossible not to; you’d been on edge for hours.

He’s sweaty from his layers, his red face revealed when he pulls his ski mask and goggles off, there’s a hint of stubble coming through and his face looks alive, cheeks plump with his grin. You were happy to be back in the comfort of the wood-panelled bedroom, although its cozy feel belied the chill that seemed to remain in the air of the wintry cabin. Elvis doesn’t say anything as he concentrates on taking off layer after layer until he’s mostly down to his bare, pinkened skin. You smile when it’s revealed he hadn’t backed down from his childlike refusal to wear proper base layers, silk shirt coming into view but at least you can tell from the sweat patches and his damp skin that he’d certainly been warm enough. You feel like you’re melting from the inside out from the sheer fondness overtaking you until he tugs it over his head, an unusual lack of care shown to it. You meet his eyes in pleased surprise, and you’re further taken aback at how he manages to make his eyes twinkle so much, playfully glittering in the low light of the room. You can see his smirk growing as your eyes travel down his bare chest, an involuntary noise spilling out of your mouth. It’s been so long since you had the chance to stare at him like this. Elvis gestures at you, disrupting your intense focus, and you suddenly realise you’ve been standing still staring at him for almost too long, so you rapidly start to unboot yourself. You don’t get any further than kicking your shoes off before Elvis is suddenly in front of you. He brushes your hands off of yourself, fingering at your zipper himself. He twirls it between his fingers, ever so gently with one hand - the other coming to distract you from the anticipation by cupping your face, drawing you around to look into your eyes.

Elvis’ hair has always been long enough for you to run your fingers through, but it seems to have grown almost thicker, and you inch even closer to stroke his cheeks, pushing back his hair - frizzy from its woollen containment. Despite Larry’s accompaniment on the trip when you brush back the hair at his temples you can see the same hint of grey starting to show through as before, and you can’t resist stroking the strands there.

He smiles at you, pulling you into him to kiss you, making you breathless. As soon as you were distracted, he was unzipping the jacket of your snowsuit, shoving it off your shoulders and down to your waist. It falls to your feet by itself and you immediately pull off your under layers. It simultaneously feels frenzied but also slower than before; like both of you couldn’t wait even though you knew you had the chance to take your time. You lean back so he can tug your undershirt over your head, barely breaking contact with his lips. He pulls back, grinning, after fiddling with your bra clasp, the straps falling from your shoulders. Soon you’re practically nude, your naked chest pressed against his.

He feels solid against you; it’s been a long time since you both had the opportunity to take your time like this, and his body feels slightly different than before. He still had that uniquely Elvis feel but he was sturdier, and though you doubted it could possibly be true, it felt as if his soft carpet of chest and stomach hair had grown larger, trailing down into the swell of his stomach like a tantalising arrow. He’s surer of himself than he was the last time you found yourself naked with him, reminding you of how he was back on Big Bunny, his broad yet slender hands firmly spanning your sides. You couldn’t help but wonder if you were finding him so attractive because it had been a while, or if it really was just that he always looks good. Any thought was swept from your mind though when he recaptures your mouth, his lips soft and firm against yours, and his tongue insistently presses past yours in a way that could only be described as eager.

The movement of your chests against each other is enough for you to gasp against him - desperately moving to be closer, trying to practically become one with him. You can feel him smile at your desperate noises, before he moves a little. One of his hands slide down to rest at your waist, the other encircling your wrist. He holds it at your side, your other arm is trapped between you, and you whine at him between gasping breaths that it’s not fair, “C’mon El, that’s unfair, let me touch you,” He grins against your cheek, his spare hand moving to palm up at you.

Elvis presses a kiss against the side of your mouth, and as you start to voice your protests at his movement he mutters, “I just need - let me light the fire, hon.” against your skin, the vibration of his voice causing you to shiver. He pulls away with a final tug to your bottom lip, and you find yourself pouting at the loss of his heat. You fold your arms across your chest, a little self-conscious now he’s moved away and besides it was slightly chilly, but you couldn’t bear to let him leave you - besides weren’t you about to warm each other up? Although, maybe you were more ready than he was; as he was soft still, and the thought of him tending to the fire - the domesticity of the combination made your stomach clench perhaps more than if he’d been hard and ready to go. But still, you were reluctant to allow him to move away.

“I’m sure I’m hot enough,” He shakes his head, kissing your hand as he lets go of you entirely, “Honestly - we-we’ll be under the covers in a moment anyway, and I’m, I’m already burning babe.” But he’s already wandered over to the fireplace; thankfully it had been left pretty well set-up, and all that really has to be done is the physical lighting of the kindling already in place and you console yourself with the knowledge that it should only take a few seconds.

“Not gonna let my bitty baby bunny get cold, hims gotta take care of herses.” He mutters seemingly mostly to himself although he was more than loud enough for you to hear. It does the job he intended it to, and you can feel yourself start to melt in response. He glances back at you as he crouches by the fireplace.

“Hadta do this in the army baby,” You start to laugh at his tangent, “Yeah I did!” He ardently refutes your chuckle, “- with none of these fancy tools,” He’s holding up a box of firelighters, “No siree, just two sticks and a rock and I could light anything up.” You giggle, finding the situation all the more amusing when you notice he seems to be struggling to light it now. He keeps trying with the book of matches from the side, but for some reason they just won’t seem to take and he huffs, swearing, standing himself back up from his kneeling position to storm over to his jacket, fumbling in his pocket for one of his lighters. Your jaw drops as you watch him reach inside the fire to hold one of the crumbling firelighters in his hand, and he lights it to the accompaniments of your shrieks and admonishments;

“Elvis! Oh god put that down! You’ll set your - oh lord, you’ll set your chest on fire doing that!” He turns to grin at you, before swearing as the fire licks his fingers, throwing the flaming chunk into the fire, and finally - finally watching as the kindling starts to flicker.

“Told you, honey, no problem at all.” He shrugs his shoulders, but your heart rate hasn’t yet levelled back out and you can’t help but continue to scold him.

“Jesus, what would I have told everyone! I swear -” He stands up, away from the fire now crackling to life, holding his hands out placatingly,

“No, no, no,” He grins, “No sweat, baby, I knew what I was doin’.” He’s got that boyish glint in his eyes, happy as only a man who has achieved a stupidly primal action like lighting a fire or setting off a firework can be, and when you continue to scold him he suddenly rushes at you, knocking you off your feet and sending you tumbling together onto the bed. His broad arms come around you, holding you like a movie starlet swooning in his arms.

“Shhhh…. honey, bunny, I knew what I was doin’ ok? You see, I was just foolin’ around, pretendin’ I couldn’t light it - you know, just messin’ with you a little, just - just for fun.” You snort in disbelief, although you’re quickly distracted as he kisses the crook of your neck, following an invisible line down to your shoulder and back up to your neck, one of his hands coming to hold the back of your neck while the other traces circle on your stomach. You gasp, and you can feel his grin against you.

“El—vis, oh - god, you can, let me get these off - please,” and you wriggle out of your panties, shoving them to your knees and kicking them off, when you manage to flick them off of your ankle your legs return to the bed, slightly more parted than before, desperately inviting Elvis to do more.

“You believe me don’t you honey?” His fingertips dance over you,

“Wha-” He repeats the question,

“You believe me, right, bunny? Y’know I could’ve lit it in seconds?” his fingers trace below your belly button.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, of course - who needs firelighters! Not Elvis!” He grins at you, and the sight of it makes you tease further, “Boy, you could, you could,” You giggle breathlessly, “You could make it a part of your show, you know - what can’t Elvis set on fire?!” You do a jazz hands gesture for emphasis. Elvis throws his head back in laughter, his head hitting the pillows and you wriggle in pleased amusement next to him for a moment before he sits back up,

“Oh ho - you take that back, little girl,” His fingers prod into you, tickling your sides and you scrunch up as you giggle more,

“I take it - oh! I take it back! You did, you did an excellent job.” He nods in self-satisfaction,

“Now,” his hands soothe the pinkened skin from where he’d jabbed into you, “Let me make you feel good, baby.” Elvis leans up and over you, cupping your face to pull you into another, deep, kiss while his hand finally travels down past your navel, brushing over your inner thighs. Your hips jerk up, as if offering yourself up to him. You can feel his arousal growing against your thigh, twitching like the little bunny nose he claimed you had.

“Lord, bunny, you’re so soft, can barely feel ya, s’like silk down here I swear to god.” Your eyes slip closed, your back arching at the feel of his soft pads sliding through the silky wetness of your folds, and your legs opening a little wider of their own accord in invitation, begging him to go lower or higher or something. When all of a sudden you feel a chill at the loss of his presence as he moves away. Your eyes flutter back open to see him, bare ass on show, bent over and poking at the fire - adding an additional log that immediately crackles and spits, onto the top.

“El-Elvis.” The situation catches you by surprise; to be abandoned in favour of fiddling with a fire could be seen as a little offensive in some ways, but it tickles you and the giggles overcome you before you can ask what exactly he was playing at.

“Ah, sorry honey, I didn’t mean to leave you hanging’ there but it was in danger of goin’ out.” He runs his hand through his hair as he stands back up, his hands falling to just below his hips for a second while he surveys the fire - making doubly sure he’d gotten it set up. He stretches, and you admire the muscles in his back as they move with his arms for a moment. He turns and stalks back over to the bed - immediately jumping beside you, bouncing you up before he gathers you back into his arms. His hand reaching across you to cling you to him, arm over your waist, finger barely brushing a nipple.

“You should worry about me going out at this rate -” He laughs at you, rubbing his thick fingers down your sides.

“Ohh-ho, but baby, bunny, I thought you were burnin’ for me? “He does his famous lip movement, somewhat self-deprecatingly, “just a...” He moves his hips next to you, “burnin’ love. Uh-huh? Bunny love?” You bite your lip at him - it was funny, but more than anything you can feel the arousal growing again in the pit of your stomach. He smiles at you, not expecting a response before he shakes his head, leaning over to press a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth before flopping back to stretch out on his back. You roll with him, lazily kissing his chest. It’s the most relaxed you’ve felt with him in months, maybe even in the past year.

He slides his hand back down, one of his long, thicker but still fundamentally slender, fingers preceding the others. You’re more than ready for him, and while your hips move in response to him pressing it past your entrance it’s not enough for the desire burning inside you.

“’S no good - can I - are you, are you ready for me?” He looks at you a little surprised,

“Yeah, sure, just - how d’you want the pillows.” He makes as if to get up and move himself off of his back, but you stop him with a hand to his chest. Your fingertips tweak his nipple, just the tiniest bit and you take pleasure in his open-mouthed reaction; perhaps a little surprised at your initiative and he looks wide-eyed when you tell him,

“Well, maybe I could…uhh..y’know,” You gesture vaguely towards his cock, he blinks at you, “Climb on?” His mouth stays open for a moment before he seems to remember himself, remember that such an offer shouldn’t seem a surprise to him. If you had the brain power to think you would consider it a little sad; the confidence he’d had on Big Bunny in comparison to now. He shakes his head, even as he settles back against the headboard, seeming to recollect himself, smirking.

“Sure thing, honey, I just thought women didn’t like doin’ any of the work.” You roll your eyes, not bothering to mention that this wasn’t even the first time you’d ridden him, but still, you swing your leg over him and with a helping hand from him to position himself you settle down, your thighs straining over the breadth of his lap. You immediately regret your decision to face him when you realise it means he’s watching your face almost too closely, and you say a silent prayer of thanks that you had had enough experience with him that you weren’t overly intimidated. He holds himself steady, letting you sink yourself down onto the sturdy length of him. His own face screws up, falling back onto the pillow behind him at the feel of the warmth of your wet heat pressing down onto him. You struggle for balance for a second, before your hands find their way onto his shoulders for a moment while you adjust to him. It’s been a while, a fact Elvis points out as he gasps at you that,

“Oh - lord, Jesus, honey, you been waitin’ for me? Ain’t - God, takin’ me so goddamn perfectly; feels just right for little Elvie, such a good little bunny, all for me.” Your hands scramble down his chest to his, admittedly thicker and softer middle, to push back and hold yourself up.

“Elvis - you feel, oh, I, I’ve missed this,” You shudder around him,

“Can tell,” He huffs as you start to lift up on your knees, “Can tell you’ve been so good for me, huh baby,” He grips your hipbones, “just a itty bitty baby bun bein’ good for me, holdin’ on jus for me.” You moan at the feel of the different angle he hits inside of you from this position, and as you find your momentum rising up and rocking yourself back down you feel your confidence growing.

“Oh, uh-huuh, good girl, oh lord that’s sexy…” You moan in response as you lean backwards a little, encouraging him to come up to play with your breasts. It amuses you how he still tweaks and pulls like a teen in the back of his daddy’s car, yet somehow, he manages to get the pressure just right, grinning at you knowingly as he licks his fingertips before bringing them back to your nipples twisting them just enough that the combination sends a rush of wetness. It’s a distraction for a second, but mere moments later and your thighs are screaming at you. Unlike on Big Bunny though this time you’re determined to see it through, and you blink through half-closed eyes at him, his own sweaty face staring back at you, mouth-open. Your hands paw at his chest, struggling to find something to grip to get the leverage you need, fingertips scratching at his chest hair, and Elvis eventually puts his hands back to your waist, his own hips moving to help you bounce on him.

You can no longer bring yourself to care about how you look - entirely lost in the sensations - groaning a little in annoyance as your hair falls over your face and into your eyes. You struggle to try and brush it away while still keeping your balance and momentum but quickly you feel Elvis’ hands move from your waist, one large sweaty paw coming up to push your hair off your face, his thumb stroking down your cheek after it’s tucked back. You let him slip it past your mouth as you rock onto him, moaning against his soft skin. His mouth stays open watching you with heated eyes,

“C’mon now, mama, finish the job.” You nod rapidly, his thumb tumbling out of your mouth, and he trails the spit-soaked digit down to rub along your thigh, letting his hips jerk into you, rolling with the movement. His hand sinks down, and your hands come to his shoulders as he starts to roll his thumb against your clit, his hand resting on the joint of your thigh and his other coming to back down to clutch at your hipbone. You’re almost there when you feel his hand suddenly pause as his hips thrust up more aggressively than before - more like how he used to perform and you’re about to shriek in protest, tell him off for stopping you right at the precipice, until you see his face screwed up, perfect lips open.

“Oh - Oh, fuck, fu-fu-uck.” He stutters the word, relief palpable, as if releasing after an immeasurable time. His hand moves back to play with you, his thumb moving rapidly, rubbing exactly over the right spot and it’s almost too much, the overstimulation making you lose your words as he slips and slides it back and forth. You’re begging him for something, although you’re not sure what and he praises you as you grind against him.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Elvis is breathless still as he encourages you, “C’mon bunny, you can give it to me baby, c’mon baby, c’mon.” He’s growling in your ear and you fall forward, his softening cock rubbing wetly against your folds as you land against his chest. His voice is enough to tip you over the edge, and you find yourself rutting against him, gasping into his collarbone before going stiff, stomach muscles and thighs convulsing as you twitchingly hurtle through an orgasm. “Shit.” He swipes his thumb over you again and you flinch away, but he pulls it away himself, shushing you before he pats his other hand onto your back and you jolt at what amounted to a an unintentionally heavy thump, his thumb stroking and soothing you back to quiet. His lips press against your shoulder blade, I love you it feels like he whispers against your skin, and you shout it back to him in your mind.

The next day you think to get ahead of Elvis, sending him to go and play with the guys while you rush back into the house, claiming a headache and a desire for an early night. You’ve lit the fire by the time he gets in and while you’d debated waiting for him naked and ready, you’d grown too self-conscious in his absence, so you were tucked under the covers; supposedly reading his book he’d left on the nightstand although you’d done more listening out for their return than actual reading.

You can hear him shouting to the boys on his way through, no regard for the idea that you might be asleep. He comes bounding through the door, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of you. The door falling closed behind him with a clunk.

“You waitin’ up for me, bunny?” You swallow, trying your best at seduction, shoving the covers off to unveil your lingerie clad body,

“Uh-huh,” You nod, “Waiting and waiting just for you.” He grins, unzipping his jacket and starting to stalk towards you. The fire crackles and he pauses, his head turning to look at it.

“Oh. You lit it without me?” Your mind runs in circles as you try to work out his tone,

“Um, yeah - it was cold, so…” He frowns, looking back at you, huffing as he shoves off his jacket entirely, you come to the realisation that he’s actually a little annoyed, “I, I, just thought it would save you a job - you know, it would all be done, and you could just…” You gesture down yourself. He doesn’t respond, finishing stripping himself off and collecting up his pyjamas to take them into the bathroom with him.

“Elvis? You’re not, don’t be mad at me - I really was just trying to be helpful.” He shakes his head,

“I’m not mad, baby.” Elvis disappears into the bathroom leaving you to squirm on the bed, your tummy in knots. You’ve put his book back on his nightstand and have tucked yourself back under the sheets, feeling too exposed to stay as you were, by the time he comes back out clearly ready for bed himself. He throws back the sheets, climbing in,

“I-I like doin’ it honey, honest -” He opens up his arms for you to curl into, “I know the place has proper heat and all, but it just feels more, uh, atmospheric, doesn’t it?”

“I know El, that’s, that’s why I lit it?” He hums against the top of your head,

“I know sweetheart, uh, thank you, but I like taking care of you.” You nod in understanding, trying not to be too disappointed that your attempt at doing something nice seemed to have derailed your night. “So, what did you think?” He nods towards his book,

“Oh, I- I barely got a chapter in, I didn’t wanna lose your place,” You settle against his chest,

“Oh no, honey, I’ve - I’ve read it over and over, not got a place to lose - you go right ahead.” You mumble a thank you, but make no attempt to move, “Or I could read it to you?” His hand strokes your back, and you nod your head against his chest,

“That would be nice - yes, thank you.”

“Did you like it?”

“Mmhmm…. what, what do you like about it?” He never picks the book back up and you happily drift off to the sounds of his deep voice rumbling on about his spiritual conclusions from the text.

———————————

The next morning you find yourself waking up much earlier than everyone else, and you end up unable to fall back to sleep. You eye the bottle of pills on Elvis’ nightstand, but you would be too nervous to take something without waking him up and he looks so peaceful, gently snuffling beside you. Instead, you end up pottering about in the kitchen, making yourself a drink and curling up onto the couch in the living room with his book. An hour or so later Billy stumbles across you on his own hunt for a cup of coffee, and it’s almost awkwardly silent for a second as he stares at you from across the room. You’re just about to ask if there was something he wanted you to do when he breaks the silence first,

“You know…he’s really going for Ginger.” He looks you up and down, “But, you could - well, what I mean to say is that the boys like you.” You’re taken aback, unsure what he even means by that, and you stumble over your response,

“Oh, I don’t - I don’t wanna step on anyone’s toes or anything, you know I’m just - I’ve never been skiing so Elvis asked and -” He cuts you off mid-sentence,

“Look I’m not saying you’ve gotta go around acting like you’re off the streets, but just you know. If you wanted,” He gestures in the general direction of the hallway and Elvis’ bedroom. “I’m sure… well I know I wouldn’t protest.” You swallow hard as you try to consider the correct response.

“That’s very kind of you to say. I appreciate it.” You’re a little nervous this is a test and while part of you wants to bombard him with questions about what the issue is with Ginger - and does he really think you have a chance with Elvis? Like his girlfriend? You’re not sure how much will get back to Elvis and you’d rather be painted as cold than desperately vying for Ginger’s spot. Part of you cringes at the implication that all the guys were out discussing his relationships; that they all thought they knew best, on the other hand the little you’d seen of Ginger did little to change your perception from the same as theirs. She seemed nice enough, but Elvis certainly seemed a lot more hot and heavy than her. Even if there hadn’t been a lot of hot and heavy lately - except, apparently with you.

Later, when everyone but Elvis was up and despite everyone else’s protestations (and Billy’s attempts) you stayed firm in your resolve not to let them light the fire in even the main room. If Elvis wanted to do it and liked doing it, you were going to be damn sure it was there for him to do. It was storming quite heavily outside, and while you waited for Elvis to wake up, you’d all decided it was best to hang around inside.

You settled down on the floor by the coffee table to set up some cards, pretending to be nonchalant about where you’d placed yourself even as you hoped your position would put you exactly by his legs, and the perfect distance for optimum warmth from the, soon to be lit, fire. Elvis chooses that moment to walk in from the bedroom, in yet another strange silk shirt and tracksuit combination.

“Hi doll,” He bends over to press a kiss the top of your head, and you lean up into it. He rubs his hands together in an exaggerated motion as if for warmth when he stands back up.

“Shit. It’s fucking freezing in here.” He looks around, “Why’d no-one light the fire?” They all turn to glare at you, and you start to explain, stumbling over your words.

“Yesterday! Yesterday - you, you were offended, when I - I just thought you’d enjoy it!” You protest, and Elvis stares at you, eyes narrowing as if you were the white witch putting the cabin into permanent winter.

“Offended! Lord, the whole goddamn world will be fuckin’ offended when I can’t sing for shit b’cause I’ve caught pneu-neu-monia and my throat’s scratched to all hell!”

“Oh, I didn’t - I mean, the main heat is on - I didn’t think…” He ignores you to plop himself down opposite to where you were sitting, miles away from where you’d been planning and anticipating for him to sit. Elvis angrily gestures towards the fire and both Ed and Dick rush towards it, making sure it was lit quickly. You can feel the other girls look at you sympathetically, even as you desperately try to avoid everyone else’s eye, annoyed and upset at being publicly scolded. It’s bad enough for Elvis to be pissed off with you in public, you didn’t need their pity too. It felt like you were being judged for not knowing how to deal with him like this, you can feel some of them - Joe and Shirley for sure - rolling their eyes at you, but you didn’t know better; every time he’d been annoyed in the past you could escape with the excuse of needing to get something from the galley or you were alone in the bedroom together - and you could use other methods to soothe him. But to be in this situation in public was completely unchartered territory, and though you knew everyone there had to be aware of your relationship and situation, it still made you uncomfortable to be having an argument out in the open. At the first opportunity you have you excuse yourself, claiming another headache and shaking your head at Dr Nick’s offers of painkillers you head off to the bedroom.

Elvis comes barging in an hour or so later, and you flinch at the bang of the door against the wall, already bracing yourself to be accused of sulking or some other continuation of the argument but you remain where you lay in bed, on your side facing away from the doorway and try to concentrate on the words on the page of his book again. He sighs, and just as loudly as he’d opened it he slams the door closed. He makes his way over to you, sitting on the other side of the bed and looking over at you.

“My little bunny isn’t mad at me is she?” His tone is almost contrite, and you immediately roll yourself over to look at him. He’s got a boyish look on his face and you can feel yourself starting to melt, but you’re not entirely ready to forgive him yet.

“I’m not mad at you Elvis.” He frowns, titling his head like a confused golden retriever. He lets his head flop into his shoulder as he peers at you.

“Come on baby, you know I didn’t mean it.” You hum back at him, trying hard not to be swayed by his expressive blue eyes. He clambers up onto the bed, to cuddle into the side of you, running a finger down your arm, “Oh you can’t be mad at me, bunny can’t be mad at him - not when he yuvs her so so much,” He curls his arm around you to tug you closer to him, and you struggle not to smile as he continues baby-talking you, “not his bitty bunny,” He presses a kiss into your arm, shifting himself to place several leading up the back of your neck, and then leaning over to press them against your shoulder, he murmurs against your skin, “she wouldn’t ever be mad at him, his bitty, baby, bunny who he yuvs…” Your heart clenches. You know he’s manipulating you, and you’re still embarrassed, but he sounds so sincere. Even if he’s only saying it so he doesn’t have to outright apologise Elvis suggesting he loves you in any way is enough to make you forgive him.

“I’m not mad at you, I promise.” You roll around to look at him, staring into his eyes, “I swear Elvis - I’m not. I’m sorry for trying to control the situation.”

“Nah, nah you were just, you were just tryin’ to take care of me - I see that, let me, let me make it up to you baby,” His fingers glide over your stomach and sides, toying with the waistband of the corduroy trousers you were wearing. He looks deep into your eyes, searching for something, and he smiles a moment later, “C’mon bunny, lemme make you feel good. Let hims make it up to hers.” His fingers wriggle under the waistband while the other pops the buttons and you lift your hips to allow him to take them off.

He presses his lips to yours, ever so briefly, and you try to chase him even as he pulls away, his palm holding you down while he moves his mouth down your neck. He sucks a bruise onto your collarbone, and you shift in his grip, rubbing your thighs together as he laps at the little maroon mark. He sits up, settling himself between your legs but keeps his hand on your stomach, its wide span pinning you against the bed. No rings this time to dig into your skin, just the intimate feel of his fingers flexing against your abdomen. He brings his other to pat your legs apart. You flop onto your back, unable to stay in a crunch staring at him, the look on his face as he stares at your pussy too much to take.

You’ve been tense waiting for him, and though you feel yourself automatically relax into his thick hands you still worry momentarily that it’s going to be hard to get you to finish. You don’t want to disappoint him, and you open your mouth to tell him as much when his rough tongue laps at your soft folds, twirling around your clit. His tongue has lost none of its finesse, and he has no difficulty, with the help of two of his fingers to bring you to the brink within a few minutes. He laps against you, sideburns tickling your inner thighs, for what feels like forever and you’re struggling to keep your legs open and not wrap your thighs around his head, contenting yourself with tangling your fingers into his hair, holding him into place with the little strength you could muster. He’s not quiet when he does this - Elvis never is, uttering his own pleased little hums that seem to harmonise with your own, much louder moans and curses, the vibrations rebounding around your core. It’s not long before he sits up, mouth glistening - clearly ever so pleased with himself while you pant away the white spots behind your eyes.

“There’s a good girl now.” He pats at you, “C’mon back out now - ‘s no good sulking in here.” And though you never were sulking you find yourself tiredly nodding at his instruction, more than willing to do whatever he asks of you, boneless and biddable.

———————————

It’s strange when you get back home - It felt like you’d been away for months, wrapped up in your little Elvis vacation bubble, and yet it had scarcely been two weeks. It’s absurd that it’s such a struggle to adjust again. You’d let yourself get so close during the trip that it was painful to have to force yourself to watch and listen as he calls Ginger before you take off on the way home, or to be totally ignored as they all clamber out of the plane when you hit the ground in Tennessee. The trouble with Elvis, you thought to yourself as you finally sunk back into your own bed, was that he was everything. More than everything - everything revolved around him, like planets orbiting the sun and it felt near impossible to escape his gravitational pull. You knew your mother would say, “Baby, finish on a high; keep the memories.” The issue with that is that now you’ve had a little you want more. There’s no way in hell you can quit now. Not before you’ve had just a little taste more, just one more fumble, one more heated look from him, one more whispered I love you into your neck. But you have no idea if the desire is reciprocal; it’s hard not to read too much into it when your presence is conspicuously absent in March. You didn’t even know they were going to Hawaii, or that they had gone until Georgia told you about it while mentioning their rushed return home. Did he think you’d have a problem flying him and Ginger somewhere? Or did he think you wouldn’t be able to be discrete; a laughable idea since you’d been proving yourself in that department for the past three years. Elvis doesn’t mention it to you, so you keep quiet too, and almost immediately after regular service seems to resume.

You weren’t pleased for long, when it became clear that while he hadn’t looked much worse for wear after the apparent ordeal in Hawaii, and his voice sounded as good as before - none of this was to last. The monotony of the road, the easy habits of most of a decade immediately flooding back to him.

Despite having spent as much, if not more, time with him than a girlfriend would have done in the past three or four years, the long days and nights spent together you can feel him drifting. You had been there when other girls were there, there when they weren’t - watched over him awake and asleep. But you weren’t. You weren’t his girl, you were, at your core, essentially an addition to his jet. An amenity. So, when you get the call that a couple of tour dates were cancelled and that your services weren’t needed, before an almost immediate redaction and urgent request for your services, to get him ostensibly home, and in reality, quickly to the comfort of a hospital. You were at once concerned - you weren’t allowed to be worried, that was for family and friends - for Ginger and Vernon to pace back and forth in a waiting room. Your job was to remain calm. Professional and calm, even if you knew that had he been more conscious he’d have demanded your presence. He’d said as much after Linda had left - that you were his first choice. Maybe not just an amenity after all. That you would have been the one with his head in your lap, dabbing at his forehead - rather than Ginger’s hesitant pats to his arm. But it’s not you, and you have to simply take a deep breath, hoping that you’d at least get an update.

There were, by May, so many signs that things are going wrong, even to your untrained eye. Maybe because you saw him less and less, the flights short between tour stops, the requests to see you at the hotels suddenly lacking, that it doesn’t feel like a gradual change in the way the men describe it to be. The paranoia, the fear, and the sheer absurdity of his behaviour all seem to hit you all the more because you were able to directly compare to when he was doing alright, to how, mere weeks ago, you’d been having a grand time in Vail together.

The guns. The guns had become a symbol of his sheer level of turbulence. He’d threatened you before, at a time where it had seemed so out of the blue it was laughable - now, if he’d done the same thing you’d be more worried - he wasn’t as careful as he had always been. You weren’t a pilot, you didn’t have the same responsibilities, but even so the guns at Binghampton had almost cost you your job and would have certainly cost you your reputation had it all gone south. Had Elvis not somehow, despite his state, been able to effectively charm the officer in charge into forgetting his apparent oversight; although how, considering the guns had tumbled out right in front of them, was anyone’s guess. The ramifications were awful though, you and Ron and Elwood stressed about the ‘cargo’ on the plane, while Elvis shouted to anyone who would listen that he could do what he goddamn liked, waving his narcotics badge at anyone who tried to tactfully protest. You hated it.

It’s a long flight, at the end of a long week. It’s been trying for all involved, although Elvis has spent a lot of the time that you’ve seen him in a half-asleep state, desperately trying to recover from the strains and stresses of the brutal tour schedule he’s been put on again. You’ve corralled him into the bedroom on the Lisa-Marie, it’s a six-hour flight - not nearly long enough for him to recuperate properly, but enough that you actually have a fighting chance for once. He’d been playful and handsy the day before, the way he was sometimes - likely having taken one too many uppers, but you could tell from the lines and bags under his make-up that, though it’s been ages - to try and tease or play with him now would be borderline cruel. Instead, you focus on making him comfortable, tucking him up with you under the soft covers of the large bed, petting him exactly as he likes it. He’s just starting to calm himself down and you continue to murmur to the top of his head when he suddenly starts talking,

“I don’t, don’t wanna marry-marry her.” His speech is slurring, and you can’t be sure if it’s from sleep, or the effects of the palmful of pills he’d taken an hour ago, or some combination of it all. Oh, so maybe that’s why he’s gone off the rails?

“You don’t, - you don’t have to El- if you don’t want to,” You murmur back to him, acknowledging internally that he must be both absolutely exhausted and feeling miserable if his immediate response wasn’t to tell you to mind your own goddamn business.

“I’ve gotta take care of it - get the boys to take care of it…. Daddy'll do it for me. He should.” He nods to himself, but his eyes stay closed.

“Elvis, sweetheart,” You whisper to him, “you can’t make your daddy do that for you, you’ve… gotta do it yourself.” You pat his back, and he burrows his head further into your lap, your fingers finding their way into his scalp, curling around and into the hairs at the nape of his neck as you gently stroke his head and back. “She’s, she’s a reasonable girl - I’m sure she’ll understand-”

“That’s…” There’s a long enough pause as his breathing evens out that you’re fairly sure he’s asleep, but then he mumbles back, “’S not her ‘m worried about…’s her, her folks.”

You try desperately to reassure him, muttering about how no-one could judge him for making a sensible decision, and better to cool it off now than later, but it’s too late, and the only response you get back is the sound of him snuffling in his sleep, his eyelids and forehead relaxing as he curls his legs into you, snuggling against your warm heat, tucked against the thick gold comforter.

You try to relax yourself, but your mind is whirring at a thousand thoughts a minute; all too many of which were imagining poor Vernon being gifted with the unfortunate task of breaking up with his son’s girlfriend.

You feel sorry for him, you never believe when the husbands of your friends make jokes about how they’ve been ‘trapped’ - it’s a man’s world, and it seems absurd to suggest that someone’s womanly wiles were solely the root of their relationship crisis and yet, his description of his relationship is starting to sound less like young fun and more like a calculated entrapment. For perhaps not the first time in his life. You sigh again, and jump when Elvis pats your arm,

“Shhh, s’ok, s’ok baby, I got you,” He’s fast asleep, eyes twitching being their lids — but still, his hands swipe over your side as he clumsily pats at you, shushing you while he does. The notion makes your eyes fill with tears, how could he still be so utterly sweet and dependent?

The next morning he made no reference to the night before, or his whispered confession and you dressed and continued on as normal. Your mind though kept floating back to the words Billy had said to you back in early February. Should you attempt to make a move? Or at least, make sure Elvis knew you were totally available? Before you have the chance to act on any of these impulses though there’s a rumour spreading across the group - that Elvis wasn’t coping, that he needed a break, that the tour was going to have to be cancelled. You’d pushed it out of your head, hopeful he’d just need a decent rest that would be enough to rejuvenate him to get through the tour. But tragically, the rumour had turned out to be true and you’d delivered him home to Memphis amidst cancelled shows and runs to the hospital. He’d looked terrible when you’d left him, looking back at you at the top of the plane steps. You want to turn up, check he’s ok, check that he’s sure about Ginger, that if he’s not going to end things then that she knows how to take care of him. That she’s doing the best she can.

It had been radio silence since that last flight and perhaps you should be assuming that no news is good news, but you find yourself thinking about him most days. Worrying and waiting. You wonder if he would let you in if you went to Graceland to see him, or if that was altogether too presumptuous, hell you’d heard all about how he hated girls that were too forward. But he loved to be taken care of - you supposed it all came down to control, and though you were desperate that he be well looked after, and you wished you could supervise that yourself, you were otherwise happy to let him take the lead – it was just altogether too scary to do anything else.

———————————

Finally, in the middle of the third week of July you get a call reminding you of the upcoming tour, and then, almost immediately after you agree, an unusual call from Elvis himself. The phone ringing insistently less than 5 minutes after you’d agreed to the tour details.

“How’re you doing baby?” He’s talking in that slow drawl he does when he’s sleepy, worn out from the day - from rehearsals maybe, or just life in general. “My bitty baby doin’ ok, huh?”

“I’m just fine,” You’re impossibly hungry for details, but reluctant to sound too eager,

“My yittle bun-bun lookin’ after herself?” You’d basically already told him this, but the wording makes you blush, and you don’t mind repeating yourself for him, “Of course. I’m ‘cited to see you.”

“That’s good, well, that’s reeeall good honey, because, uh, you see,” His voice takes on the explanatory tone he so enjoys, both didactic and gossiping, “I don’t know if you’ve heard… or I suppose you wouldn’t have yet, but uh, Ginger’s not, she’s not coming on this tour with me, we’re, uh, we’re well…” He trails off, and there’s little breathy noises down the phone to you, which lets you picture the way he would have just taken off his glasses, rubbing his fingers along the bridge of his nose.

“Oh,” What else is there to say? ‘Oh Elvis, I’m glad you’ve ditched your fiancee?’ Hardly.

“She was just, just a lil too young, jus’ a baby, not, she just - it wouldn’t be right to make her settle down with me right now. Not, not when I don’t know if she really…well you know.” You don’t know what to say, and Elvis waits only for a brief second before filling the silence himself,

“The thing is - I wasn’t sure, I don’t know if you’d heard, I’ve uh, I’ve been, well, I’ve been real sick to tell you the truth. Weren’t sure I were gonna make it out to this tour and we thought for sure we were gonna have to cancel but well, here we are.”

“You’re not… you’re feeling better?”

“Yes ma’am.” At least that sounds confident, “Got myself a new doctor, and ‘m, uh, on some new, uh, treatments and uh stuff.” He pauses, “Playin’ a lot of racquetball.” He sounds slightly sheepish, and while you’re endlessly curious you don’t press the point.

“Were you just ringing to confirm I’d be around?”

“Well, here’s the thing, the thing is, honey, the thing is - I know you’ve already had a call, but you see, I was sorta hoping maybe you’d be happy to cancel them plans?”

“Oh. You don’t want me on the plane?” There’s a moment of silence before he swears to himself, muttering down the phone that he’d learn to have some balls one of these days.

“No, No, you misunnerstand - I want you on the plane, and off the plane - I just want you to come with me.”

“Oh.”

“If you can’t, well, I understand.” He sounds resigned, and your heart breaks a little, “But, I want company baby, and I want yours.” You twist the phone cord around your fingers, breathless in your excited agreement,

“I want yours too! I’ve been - Billy said, well I’ve been hopin’ for months El, I miss you so much when we’re at home, and oh, I’d love to.” Somehow you can hear him shaking his head through the phone,

“That meddlin’ shit.” You giggle back at him, and he laughs in response before he keeps talking, “So - pack your bags, honey, and I’ll send a car to get you at the usual time?”

“So, am I - like working?” He huffs at you,

“No - no, not workin’ for me no more - just being there for me. Want you to be my girl baby - be good just for me - not chasing down the other guys to make ‘em drinks.” You shake your head, brain skipping over the important part of the statement to the last part for a moment.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever ‘chased’ the other guys,” He huffs down the phone,

“Well lemme tell you they’ve been chasin’ you, wolves chasin’ their lil bunny,”

“Hmm, there’s only one wolf I want to eat me though Elvis.”

“S’that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well then, I’ll have it all ready for you, s’probably easier, y’know this late notice and all,” You read between the lines that Ginger’s still at Graceland, “that I’ll uh, you’ll be waitin’ for me on the Lisa-Marie?” You cringe, but he does sound more like himself than he has in weeks, and hopefully - unlike with Linda and Ginger he’ll keep to his promise and actually get rid of her before you get on board.

“Mmhmm, that should be fine.” You hear him move away from the phone for a second, talking to someone else for a moment,

“Right, honey, I’ve - I’ve, I’m bein’ told I’ve gotta go now - got a meeting in a minute, but don’t be afraid to call - anytime, you’re to be put straight through to me, y’hear?”

“Yep, Elvis, I hear,”

“Alright then, I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, then - you take care of yourself baby,”

“You too El,” You’re about to say something stupid, like I love you, but with one last,

“Ok - buh-bye.” The line’s gone dead.

———————————

TAGLIST:

i’m just gonna tag anyone that’s specifically msged me about it and/or anyone who commented/reblogged the last three chapters -

@lookingforrainbows @ooihcnoiwlerh @ellie-24, @whositmcwhatsit, @thatbanditqueen, @vintageshanny, @doll-elvis @18lkpeters @prompted-wordsmith @richardslady121 @meetmeatyourworst @marriedtopresley @steph-speaks @a-literal-no-name @elvisabutler @precious-little-scoundrel @eliseinmemphis @iloveelvis @literally-just-elvis-fics @livelaughlove-talia @angelborn1 @amydarcimarie @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @i-r-i-n-a-a @saintomie @literally-just-elvis-fics

#fic rec!!#elvis fanfic #elvis smut #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis x reader #elvis fanfiction #be-my-ally #big bunny #big daddy elvis #elvis x you #1976 elvis #1977 elvis #elvis presley fanfic

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pretty-blkgirl · 8 months

Note

hi!! i read one of your fics and immediately came to do a request 🤣❤️. id love a angst to fluff with changbin! maybe he makes the wrong comment or forgets to pick up the reader or literally whatever lol. i just love angst and binnie

-🕷️anon (?)

Hi anon!!!! I was so excited when I seen this because it’s my first request 🥹. I LOVE angst too and while I was writing this, I realized 98% was angst and the fluff ain’t fluffing that much😂. Still, I hope you enjoy and don’t hesitate to request anything else ❤️🫶🏾

_____

Thin Ice

//gn!reader x idol!Changbin//

Synopsis: Changbin forgets about you….again

Genre: Angst/eventual fluff (kinda sorta)

Warnings: super angsty, sad…not enough fluff (lmao)

~~~|~~~

You walk into your dark apartment, rain dripping from your heavy clothes. It rained -hard- all day. Usually, you walk to and from work every day but this morning you asked your boyfriend to drive you.

He was ecstatic when you asked. He finally had a couple of days off and wanted to spend every waking moment with you. You and Changbin blasted his group’s music to your job, singing and laughing as rain pounded down on the car.

He swore he’d be outside your building 30 minutes before you even got off. The rain was starting to flood the streets a little, so he texted you every hour to check-in.

Two hours before you got off, he had stopped texting. You thought nothing of it, thinking he was probably napping. It wasn’t until 45 minutes before you were set to leave that you started to call him. He wasn’t answering, which worried you.

At the end of your shift, you left the building and were immediately met with the worsening weather.

The rain sounded like stomps when they met the ground. The bottom of your pants and your shoes would undoubtedly get immersed in water. Even with a jacket and umbrella, you knew you’d still be soaked.

After looking around for Changbin’s car, you conclude that he wasn’t there. No biggie, maybe traffic? Maybe he overslept a little- but was still on his way?

But what if something happened? He wasn’t answering you, and your stomach started to hurt while you thought of any and everything that could have happened.

You called Chan. You knew that if anyone knew where Changbin was, it was one of his members.

Chan’s phone rang for a while, making you even more anxious because he never took this long to answer.

Thankfully, he answered on the last ring.

“Hello?” He asked, voice laced with worry

“Hi Channie! I’m so sorry to call so randomly but I can’t get in touch with Bin. Please tell me you know where he is”

Chan says, “I talked to him a little while ago, he was at the studio last time I checked”

You were taken aback. The studio? Why was he there? He had time off, why was he working?

“You guys were at the studio?” You question

“No, he was at the studio. He said he needed to work on an idea before it escaped him.”

You sigh, knowing how Changbin gets when he’s at the studio. He can’t multitask, he probably couldn’t even hear his phone ringing while working.

You groan loudly, seeing the rain only get worse “Okay. Thanks anyways”

“No problem y/nnie. Are you okay though? Do you need me to do anything?”

You smile despite your current feelings. Chan always wanted to help out, and you would ask him to come get you if the weather wasn’t getting so bad.

“I’m fine, but could you call up to the company and get someone to check in on Bin?”

“Sure! Is that all you need though? Aren’t you off work now? Are you home? Are you safe?”

“I’m safe.” You say, not wanting to explain the situation. Chan seems satisfied with your answer and you two hang up just as a loud boom of thunder erupts in the darkening sky.

Your coworkers are all rushing to their cars to get home, You on the other hand go to your building’s lobby and sit down.

Hours go by and not a single call from Changbin. Chan did tell you a staff member looked in on him, and he was fine, just in his zone.

You didn’t want to be upset, but you were. When work was involved, nothing else around him mattered. You wanted to believe you didn’t take a backseat to his career, but this event had your mind racing.

This isn’t the first time he forgot about you when his job was involved. He had a habit of ignoring you during the little time you guys had together to work.

The studio was his place, and you knew that.

You loved how passionate he was about the things he liked- but you wanted him to be just as passionate about you and you guy’s relationship.

Changbin was far from being a bad boyfriend, he was an amazing partner, but things like this made you sick to your stomach.

Once the rain calmed down a little, you attempted to call a cab but the streets were a little too flooded. You had to walk home, getting completely drenched.

That brings you to the present, standing in your dark living room while listening to the sounds of the shower running.

He was home. He didn’t even call you to tell you he had gotten home safe.

You walk through the apartment until you reach your bedroom. There, you begin to strip out your wet clothes. You didn’t stop until you were down to your underwear. You took the clothes and placed them in your hamper while hearing the bathroom door open and footsteps near the bedroom.

Changbin entered the room and immediately froze. He looked over your body, still wet from your clothes. He looked at your face, and a scarily calm expression was staring back at him.

He immediately felt bad, rushing over and giving you the tightest hug. You couldn’t even hear the string of apologies leave his lips, it all sounded like a jumbled mess in your ears.

Fortunately, you didn’t want to hear it. You gently pushed him off you and walked out of the room, him following after you.

You walked into the still steamy bathroom and took your undergarments off, Changbin decided to sit on the sink and watch as you turned the water on and stepped into the shower.

Some more apologies, but you expertly ignored him. You spent 25 minutes in the shower, trying to calm your nerves. Changbin stayed the whole time, switching between begging for your forgiveness and going silent.

You could hear him sniffling, so you knew he was crying. You hated seeing him cry, but you were too upset to care at the moment.

Once out of the shower, he handed you a towel and you took it without any real acknowledgment.

He walked behind you into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, head down while you got dressed.

He was still sniffling, but you kept a poker face.

“Baby please talk to me” He begged for the nth time. No answer.

“I’m so sorry. I know I said I wouldn’t work during my break. Please forgive me, I swear this will never happen again”

You rolled your eyes at that one.

“Y/n PLEASE. I know I fucked up, but don’t ignore me, baby. I can’t stand it when you don’t talk to me. Yell or scream if you need to! Just don’t ignore me”

Again, no answer. You walked out of the room and to the kitchen, Changbin still hot on your tail.

He still had his robe on from when he got out of the shower, which made you chuckle a little. In the kitchen, you started to heat some leftovers as your boyfriend stares at you.

After a short while, you were ready to chew him out so you looked up, meeting his eyes.

“Go put some clothes on” You simply said, making him dash to the bedroom. It took him a couple of seconds to throw something on and rush back to the kitchen. By that time, the leftovers were ready and you were fixing two plates.

He watched quietly and muttered a “thank you” when you handed him a plate. You two walked wordlessly to the dining room. You took a seat and he sat across from you, still staring.

You began to eat, but he didn’t. He had lost his appetite. You met his gaze and mocked a confused look, “Not hungry? You must have eaten at the studio”

He sighed, ready to apologize again but you cut him off, “I’m hungry, that walk in the rain left me a little famished.”

“Baby please” He begs.

You giggle bitterly, still stabbing at the food on your plate, “You know, I love how hardworking you are. I love the way you love music. However, if your love for music overshadows your love for me- then this won’t work out”

You take a big bite from your food before setting your fork down. You take your time to chew, swallow, and wipe your mouth with a napkin.

“I’m sorry. You know how I get when I have an idea”

“That’s not a fucking excuse Changbin”

He jumps at your use of his name. You rarely call him by his name, always preferring a pet name.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone down there, I shouldn’t have forgotten about you”

“You always forget about me when music is involved. Which, I get that this is your career, but damn. I’m always taking a backseat to your career and I try to be understanding but THIS was my last fucking straw”

“Baby don’t say that, please. I swear I’ll do better”

“You said that when you forgot about my work dinner. You said that when you forgot about Valentine’s Day. You’ve said that after every single date night you forgot. I’m sick of this shit Changbin, seriously.”

You stand now, prompting him to do the same. Tears were once again running down his face and were threatening to start to roll down yours.

“I respect that this is your job. I knew what I was getting myself into when we got together. But I have given you a lot of grace, all I ask for is a little of your time. We finally have an extended amount of time together and you PROMISED you wouldn’t work. Not to mention, I didn’t even ask you to do that- YOU made that promise”

He sighs, head hanging in pure disappointment.

“Baby you’re right. I wronged you, and I keep wronging you. But I swear this will never happen again. Not ever. I will never hurt you like this again. I will never make you question our relationship again”

Your tears start to fall now, “I don’t know if I believe you Bin”

His heart sinks when he hears that, mentally kicking himself for making you feel this way.

“Y/N you’re the single best thing to ever happen to me. I love you so much that it’s not fathomable. You’re more important than anything and everything. I’ll give up this fucking career if it means I can spend the rest of my life with you.”

He gets down on his knees in front of you, grabbing your hands and holding them tightly. The look on his face made you want to instantly forgive him and forget everything, but you knew you needed to stand your ground.

This couldn’t happen again.

“One more chance baby. Let me show you how much you mean to me. Let me spend the rest of our lives making sure you know how much I love you.”

You look away, a quiet sob escaping before hesitantly nodding.

“I love you so much,” You say, “So I’ll give you one more chance. But this is your last chance. You’re on thin ice. Please don’t let anything like this happen again”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He says, standing and taking you into his arms.

145 notes · View notes

plush-rabbit · 10 months

Text

A Bad Date and A Late Night Drive

Part 3 to Simmering and Smothering

Word Count: 5.4K

A/N: I didn't wanna study quantum and physics and science at like 12am, so, yeah the explanation (when you get there) is cut off for a reason

You stand outside a bar, pulling your jacket closer around your body, not for warmth, but for comfort. Sniffling, you think about calling for a taxi but after the night you’ve had, you rather not. You don’t think you could deal with the questioning looks, the one that writes a story in their head, that wants to know the details and asks every question to pry them out of you with the same gentleness that a crowbar has.

A close friend is another option. Your fingers swipe over your contacts and the thought about contacting any friend right now seems embarrassing despite the situation. Far better than a taxi driver, but when you stare at the contact name, you can’t bring yourself to click the green icon. Their pitiful gazes would make you squirm and wish for the taxi driver. They’d comfort you over your failed date and tell you that you’re great and any other positive quality that they could think about just to make you feel better.

You don’t want to feel better. You want to be distracted; you want your mind taken off of the past hour.

There’s a chance that the person who you want to call won’t even answer, but you're already feeling low enough, anything more is just icing on the cake. You scroll until you find the name ‘Johnathan’ and rubbing your nose, you press the phone icon. It rings and rings, and you think that you should hang up and take your chance walking home. Sucking in your breath, you pull the phone away, ready to hang up. He’s busy, you rationalize to yourself. He has no time to answer you- and that’s perfectly fine.

“Hello?” His voice Comes out, unsure and tentative.

“Johnathan?” You think that you could cry. You lean your head closer to the phone, and fist the fabric of your jacket.

He calls out your name, soft and concerned. “Are you okay?”

Ignoring the question, you kick at the ground under your feet. “Are you busy?”

A pause. “No.” You hear something clink against a surface. A glass, maybe? “Why? Do you need something?”

You’re starting to regret calling him. “I’m um- I’m at this bar. I was wondering if I could get a ride?” You shouldn’t have bothered him. Maybe he was busy and he was saving you from embarrassment. And maybe out of the kindness of his heart, or the fact that even to yourself, you sound so pitable, he says yes. “Thank you,” you say breathlessly, relief making your chest light.

“Of course. I’ll be over right away. Something scrapes against another, a harsh unforgiving sound and you hear the twinkling of glass bump into each other. “Sorry,” he mumbles into the phone. “I’ll need the address.”

Nodding, you hum a noise. “I’ll text it to you.” Sucking in your bottom lip, and teasing it with your teeth, you clear your throat. “Um, no rush or anything. Just uh- I’ll be here.” You pull the phone away, his voice softer now that’s far away, and you can hear him bump into other things, and a beeping noise. Your fingers copy-and-paste the address into the text box. “Okay, I just sent it.”

“I'll be there soon. I’m walking towards my car already.” As if to prove himself, you hear the sound of keys clash against one another.

You want to ask him to stay on the line, but he already seems so frazzled at having to pick you up. You wonder if he’d even agree to keep talking to you if you asked. Biting your tongue, you lean against the wall of the building, and nod. “Like I said, take your time. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Sniffling, you nod. “Just don’t get lost. Okay, Johnathan?”

“I’ll try my best not to,” and the way that he says your name has your hand twisting the fabric over your stomach, heat rushing at your chest to the cups of your cheeks.

“See you soon,” you muse and at his goodbye, the phone clicks and you’re left looking out onto the streets of New York.

True to his word, he arrives shortly after your phone call. You wave towards him, and he waves in reply, and his blinkers light the street. Behind him a car hinks, and you scurry to the passenger side door, pulling on the handle only to find it locked. Your mouth straightens in a line when the car behind him honks again. There’s a click, and the door opens.

The air conditioner cools your warmed skin. When the seatbelt clicks, he pulls forward, only to be stopped by a red light. You can only imagine the fury that the car behind him has.

“Hi Johnathan,” you tell him.

His head turns towards you, and with red casting a glow in the car, he nods. “Hi,” he says, your name said in a soft voice. The light turns green, and he takes his gaze away from you. “How are you?”

It’s much easier to share with a stranger than with a friend, but when you look at him, you can’t bring yourself to share. You wonder what he thinks of you. Does he think of you as a friend? Or perhaps something more? Are you still just that pestering reporter that follows him like a lost pup? Oh, you hope that you’re more to him than just that.

“Oh, you know-” you cock your head to the side, watching out the windshield- “I’ve been better.” You stay silent for a beat, and with guilt twisting at your stomach, you focus on the bitter taste on your tongue. “I went on a date,” you force yourself to say- every vowel and consonant tasting like acid and cheap alcohol.

You hear him hum, and still seeing him in the corner of your eye, you turn your head, watching the passersby through the window. “Oh.” The word comes out soft and weak. He clears his throat. “How was it?” You can see him much more clearly than you had intended.

“Bad.” You fist your hands into your jacket. “He was just- weird. Like odd.” He’s silent again. You need to fill the silence. You need words to be shouted and spat, and poison to drip before you feel your throat begin to close and before your eyes start to water. “Thank you for picking me up.” You turn towards him, and you tap against the rubber mat of the car.

“Of course,” he tells you in a whisper. “Anytime.”

Your eyes take note of the lab coat that he still wears, and the way that he stays hunched over, eyes barely being able to be kept open. “You said you weren’t busy.” He takes a quick glance at you and returns his gaze to the road. “You’re wearing your lab coat. Did I take you away from something?”

“That’s not important,” he answers quickly.

“It’s important to me,” you whisper, the seat belt stretches as you turn yourself and lean over. “Johnathan.” He startles at his name being called, but he still does not give you an answer. You frown. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. If I had, I would've called a taxi or something.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He waves his hand nonchalantly.

“But-”

“I made the choice to answer your call. I was the one that told you that I wasn’t busy. You don’t have to apologize.” He takes a quick glance at you. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

“Why did you lie then?”

His hands tighten over the steering wheel. “I don’t know.”

Shifting your gaze and feeling your heart start to quicken, you tap your hands against your thighs. “Do you wanna know why I called you?”

“Will I have to answer you if I say yes?” There’s a smile teasing at the corners of his lips, and you wish he’d smile at you.

You shrug. “That’s up to you.” You tap your shoes, a quick little pitter-patter fills the car. “I wanted you to pick me up. I know my friends would have, but I didn’t want to see them. Not when I look like this.”

“I think you look nice.” He’s quick to respond, and you catch his eye for a moment before he turns it away. “I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “That’s not the right thing to say, is it?”

Smiling, you lean against the seat. “You don’t have to apologize,” you tell him. Sucking in a shaky breath, you let go the same way. “I just- I wanted-” you shake your head- “I needed someone.”

“And you thought to call me?”

You turn in your seat, and suddenly the air conditioner in the car isn’t enough to cool your burning skin. “Should I not have?”

Shaking his own head, he sucks in his bottom lip. “No. I mean yes- yes you should have.” At a red light, he turns to you, and the red illuminates his skin. “I’m glad that you did.” He doesn’t stop looking at you. “I’m glad that I was able to help.” He scratches at the side of face, his nails drag down, ruffling at his beard. “It’s not as if you could have known I was going to be busy.”

“If I had known that you were busy, I wouldn’t have called,” you say without thinking, hating to be an inconvenience to him. You wanted to be fun, not something that he had to care for. And yet, you called him because you couldn’t dare to be seen by anyone else.

He shakes his head. “You can always call me. If it’s something that you need, I’ll do my best to deliver.”

You’ve heard similar statements before, and every time you took the offer of the statements, it only made you feel smaller, feel like you were much more delicate than anything else. You felt too needy, too whiny- it would leave a sour taste in your mouth.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, and you stare out the window. A part of you hopes that after this night, he doesn't contact you again. Then mabe, you’d get over your silly, little crush.

Your name is called. You hum in response, not wanting to face him just yet. “Are you hungry? Do you want to stop somewhere and get something?”

Pushing yourself deeper against the seat, you hope to disappear. “I don’t want to take up anymore of your time.” You shake your head.

“I’m offering. You’re not taking up my time.” The way his words are heavy with sincerity, makes you turn to him.

“For real?” You ask, and he nods. “Okay, yeah. We can do that.”

Nodding, he waits at a stop sign, and grabs his phone and types in an address. “I know this drive-in. We won’t even have to get off. We can stay in the car.”

“Okay, good.” You let out a weak laugh. “I don’t really think I want to see other people, right now.” The voice rings into the air, telling him to make a right.

“It’ll just be us, I promise.”

Smiling, you nod. “Alright then,” you let out a breath, sinking into the seat. “Lead the way then, Johnathan.” You sweep your hand in front of you.

The silence between the two of you is broken by the directions given out, and the music that plays from the radio. You tap your foot along to the beat, and stare out the window. You think you should talk to him- ask about his day, or if the place you’re about to visit is any good.

“Am I allowed to ask you something?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You turn your head, and he keeps his gaze on the road before him. “Yeah, go for it.”

“How was the date?” You stare at him, and he pulls at a length of his hair. “You said that he was “odd” and I just- I thought you might have liked to talk about it.” You watch as he lets go and the piece bounces back into place. “I understand if you would rather not. I don’t want to pressure you or anything.”

Shrugging, you stretch your legs as far as you can. “He kept going on about how no one wants to date him because he’s ugly and how I’m so nice for giving him a chance. He kept putting himself down, and maybe if I was younger, I would have given him a chance to help his self-esteem or whatever, but now?” You sigh, and direct your attention to his hands that grip the steering wheel. “Now, I just don’t find all of that appealing in any way. Confidence is attractive, you know?”

“I can understand that,” he replies. “And you ended the date?”

“When I wouldn’t compliment him after his self-deprecation, he was getting flustered. And then he started going on about how I wasn’t all that either and I guess he wasn’t getting the response he wanted from me so he threw this fit and walked out.”

“What?” He turns to you, and you’re thankful for the red light he’s stopped at. “He did all that to you?”

“Average dating experience,” you muse. “Thank goodness he only ordered a beer and an appetizer.” He has this furrowed look in his eyes that scan over you, and you shrug, unable to look away from him. “It happens,” you reason.

“It shouldn’t happen to you,” he counters.

There’s a breath lodged in your throat. “Yeah, well-” you’re unable to give any other reason, and you let your words falter. “It is how it is, ya know?” With the way that he’s looking at you, you wish that the light would turn green. That he would look away from you, and maybe that he would stop making your heart beat so fast.

“Why did you go out with him?” He asks. The light turns green, and he’s still looking at you, and you’re still looking at him, unable to tear your gaze away from him.

How do you tell him that you went out because you think- you know- that you have a crush on him, and that with your job as a reporter and his as a scientist, you know that it won’t end well. It’ll be fun, but it won’t last. You should tell him that you were bored, that you needed something to get your mind off of him. That maybe, you hoped that what you feel towards the scientist isn’t anything more than a surface level crush.

“Johnathan,” you whisper, and he leans closer. You hold your breath, and losing all your resolve, the light turns yellow. You let the breath go. “The light changed.”

He looks away, and the car speeds off.

Your stomach twists itself, intestines wrapping around and contracting your organs and making you feel like you’re going to be sick. “I needed a distraction,” you tell him. The phone tells him to make a right in two hundred feet. “Thought going on a date might help with that.” The neon sign of the drive-in flashes, part of the sign is dimmed. “Only got me insults and less money.”

Pulling into an empty section, he puts the car into park. He turns to you. “Let me move my seat back so you can look at the menu.”

With slumped shoulders, you nod. You lean over, and can barely see the menu without having to go across him. Once, satisfied, you pull yourself back to your seat, and he takes a glance. Lowering down the window, he asks what it is that you want, and you tell him your order. He presses on the button, and repeats yours and his order.

His hands rest over his thighs, and you try to suppress a yawn.

“Why did you need a distraction?” He straightens his glasses with his index and middle finger.

You pause. “I- I had my mind preoccupied with other things. I thought getting out would bring me out of that type of mindset.”

“Did it help?”

You shake your head. “No, no it didn’t.” Pulling at the hem of your jacket, you pull with a stray fiber. “This is helping.” You can feel his gaze. “You’re helping, thanks for this.”

He calls your name, told in a low tone, each letter held together with an emotion that you can only wish for, and when you look at him, you can only stay quiet, and stare at him. His mouth parts, and the tip of his tongue peeks to wet his lips. You’re grateful for the jacket for hiding your goosebump pricked arms. Someone knocks on the window. It startles the both of you.

It’s the waiter, holding your tray of food. You pull out your wallet, but Johnathan has you beat. He lowers the window and hands over his card, and there’s an exchange between the two as you're handed the drinks and the bags that contain your orders. Words of gratitude are shared, and when the window is raised back into place, you wait as he searches through the bags handing you your own.

“I could have paid,” you tell him, pulling out your meal. “You’re the one who’s wasting gas on me.”

He shakes his head. “I offered. Nothing here is being wasted on you.”

“If you say so.” Your straw punctures through the hole of the lid, and when drops of your drink puddle upwards, you slurp, bringing your lips close to the lid, and taking in the sweet nectar. Once the two of you have settled, and once you’re sure the atmosphere of what was before is gone, you break the quiet eating. “How was work?”

“Do you want to know what I was doing before I picked you up?”

“You mean when you lied?”

He smiles and eats a fry. “Do you want to know?” Taking a sip of your own drink, you nod. “I was working on an experiment with a few other scientists. I had to step into another room to take your call.”

“Was it important?”

“Very much so.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The other scientists are more than qualified to take the lead for the night. Any mistakes that might have been made can easily be fixed in the morning. And I doubt there are any mistakes to be made in the project.”

“Why’s that?”

He gives you a look. “It’s part of the reason why you’re so interested in Alchemax.”

He shrugs. “It was a late night. Those are beginning to be more common. Being one of the lead scientists isn’t easy, but to see my theories and work pay off is gratifying.” he looks at you. “Are you going to ask what it is that I'm working on?”

You take a sip of your drink. “If you want to tell me. I doubt I’d be able to keep up.”

“You said you read my papers on blackholes before?” nodding, he looks down on his own food. “It's something similar to that.” He twists a piece of hair around his index.”Off the record?”

You blink owlishly at him, and the words hit you, and the context hits you even harder. “Off the record,” you confirm, waving your hand to let him continue.

“So the bases of black holes and what I’m- or rather Fisk is interested in, is connected. There’s already been articles written about how if a hole is large enough-” you smile at the phrase- “and is rotating quickly enough, then it could possibly provide a way into the hole for explorers. Of course,” you can hear the excitement in his voice, and you can only hope that he puts things into layman’s terms for you, “all of this is theoretical.” He waves his hand in the air. “You’ve heard of string theory, correct?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “So, how reality is made up of imperceptible vibrating strings, those strings twist and fold- like rubber bands, ya know? So the theory-” You can only catch words that you’ve heard before quantum something, the last part of the word going by too fast for you to catch onto. Colliders and energy, something that has to be perfected and harnessed, excitement shining with the words, that for a moment, you see him, beaming and whole.

“I’m gonna be completely honest, Dr. Ohnn-”

“I told you to call me Johnathan,” he interjects.

“I know, I know. But after that I just- Dr. Ohnn gives you credit, you know. I just- It was so complex and I got some parts of it, and stuff. I knew you were smart- I mean, you have to be- but fuck. You’re fucking brillant,” you gasp out. You note that your drink has watered down when you take a sip. “Like incredibly so.”

He coughs weakly, and rubs his hand over his mouth, scratching where his fingers reach. He shakes his head. “It’s-” it comes out higher pitched than expected, and he clears his throat- “It’s nothing, really. It’s what I’ve studied and worked on. I-” he lets out a shaky breath- “Really, it’s nothing.”

“It's totally something,” you counter, leaning closer towards him. “Like yeah, you’re probably around other really smart people, but to people like me, that’s incredible. It sounds impossible. And you talk about it like it’s possible. I mean, come on, everyone loves the thought of alternate universes, but to try to connect-”

“If it’s all the same with you-” he turns towards you, eyes shifting unable to keep his focus on you, and under the fluorescent lights, you can see that he has freckles- “I hadn’t meant to go on a tangent.” He clears his throat. “I try to keep my work life and-” he looks at you- “and my um, my personal life separate.” Your disappointment is noticeable. “I really am glad that you found it interesting. Please don’t take offense to it.”

You’re unsure how to feel. On one hand, you want to keep praising him, to talk more about his work and you feel disheartened to have the conversation shut down. However, on the other hand, he considers you part of his personal life. You hope. No, you’re sure of it. You’re going to be sure of it. Though the meaning of what his personal life is, isn’t known, you’ll take it as a good thing.

“Fair enough,” you lift your shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t think I could have kept up with you.”

“I’m sure that you could have. I just-” his hand fiddles with the chest pocket on his lab coat- “you know.”

“You want to keep your work life and personal life separate,” you finish. Johnathan nods sheepishly. Your eyes find themselves at his chest. There’s three blank inky dots, one large, and the other two significantly smaller. The edges of the circle spread like thin tendrils. “How’d you get such a stain on your lab coat?” You point at your own chest where the stains would be.

“Hm?” He looks down, and stretches the fabric. Frowning at the stain, he drags a finger down. “A pen might have popped. I-” he falters- “Yeah, a pen.”

“Huh, okay.” You frown. “Are you comfortable wearing the coat? You can take it off, you know?”

He shakes his head. “Honestly, it’s like a second skin at this point.” He looks at you. “You could have taken yours off.”

“Second skin, I guess,” you say, mimicking his words. He rolls his eyes at the response, and you snort a laugh. The air conditioner is giving you chills despite your jacket. “I have an article due in two days.” Your nails bite into the styrofoam cup and the color of his eyes linger on the lid of your drink. “I’m thinking about writing about Spider-man.” He’s silent. “He always does well. He’s always swinging around and I have a few pictures saved on my SD card- for rainy days, you know.”

“You like Spider-man?” He asks, and you look out the windshield, seeing moths dance under the fluorescent lights.

“Who doesn’t,” you shrug. “He saves people and walks kids to their homes. He likes to visit neighborhood bodegas and he thanks people who help him. I’m sure writing an article about that would do great.”

“You think so?”

“You’d be surprised at how many people want to take a picture with the guy.” You pull at the straw, the squeaking sound making you grit your teeth. “I don’t blame them.”

He’s silent. “Are you ready to go home?”

You look at him, and nod. “Yeah, I think it’s late enough.” And with the words, you let out a yawn, hiding it behind the palm of your hand. “Thanks for this Johnathan. You didn’t have to pick me up and much less take me out, but you did, so thanks,” you end the statement weakly, still holding onto your drink.

“Anytime,” he responds. “I’m glad that I was able to help.”

You can’t handle the silence- especially if you still have a considerable amount of time left until you arrive back home, so you clear your throat and turn to face him. “You know, before we started to hang out, I thought you were really mean.”

“You did?” He actually sounds shocked, and that has you smiling.

“Mhm,” you hum with a grin. “You know, the type to slam doors in someone’s face and all.”

His mouth parts, and his own grin starts to form, sharp and knowing. “I only did that once.” He lifts his index finger for clarification. “And it was completely accidental.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say with a roll of your eyes.

“I was holding a stack of files, I couldn’t-” he tries to defend himself, and he feigns offense. “How did you even get into the building at that time?” He gives you a quick look and returns his gaze back to the road.

“Turns out confidence is key. If you walk in like you belong there, people are less likely to stop you,” you say truthfully.

“That’s trespassing,” he adds.

“What are you- a cop?” You give him a look and when he catches your eye, you stick your tongue out at him.

He narrows his eyes at you. “If I had known this before, I could have gotten you arrested.”

“Seriously?”

He nods. “Seriously. Might have even slammed another door in your face.” He bares his teeth in a grin, and it reaches his eyes, pushing upwards, making them squint.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You see, I knew you were mean.”

“Only to you.” Your mouth drops at his words, and you can’t hide the giddiness that makes your legs bounce. “I’m actually quite pleasant to be around with.”

You scoff a laugh, unable to hide your grin. “I can hardly believe that.”

“Wasn’t it you who thanked me for all of this?” He tries to counter.

“And clearly I was misguided in doing so,” you say with a hand over your heart, feigning hurt.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“Ha, so we’re enemies now?” You stick your tongue out at the words. “The mad scientist versus the dashing reporter.”

“Other way around,” he says quickly. “I’m quite handsome by scientist standards.”

You look at him, and turning around, you smile. It’s softer than what it was moments ago, teasing and quips had sharpened it, and now fondness has sanded it down, and made you gentle with your tones.. “Yeah, of course you are.” The words come out warmer than expected, and before he can comment on it, and before the silence can wrap itself around the two of you, you start. “Still, I think I should take the compliment. I’m already having such a low night. A bad date and now being declared an enemy? Truly, this night cannot get any worse.”

“I’m sure it can,” he says with sickly sweet positivity that makes you roll your eyes.

“You’re just a ray of sunlight, aren’t you?”

“Like I said, I’m quite pleasant to be around with.” You hum at his words. “Which is why I should take the dashing part of the adjectives.”

“And what adjective would mine be? We both can’t be dashing.”

He’s smiling. “There are a few I can think of.”

“Like?” You lean towards him, and your heart thumps against your bones and flesh, and blood rushes through your body, burning the back of your neck and sending fire to burn at your face.

“Annoying.” Even with the lack of compliment that you wish to have gotten, hearing him play and fight with you, still makes you grow fond of him.

You gasp and smack his bicep. “Awful! You are completely awful!” He laughs. “And here I am allowing you to take the dashing adjective.”

“Kidding, kidding!” He says through a fit of laughter that rings through the car.

“Next time, I’ll just walk home.”

“You can get out right now.” You give him a look and he nods his head out the window. You’ve arrived. “You’re welcome for the ride.” He’s grinning at you, teeth bared and glee evident.

“I would’ve said thank you if not for the insult.” You click off your seatbelt. “But, I suppose you do deserve a thanks. So-” you turn to him- “thank you, Johnathan the dashing scientist.”

Your door is on the handle, and his smile slowly falls. He turns off the car, and you furrow your brows. “Give me a second.” He steps out of the car and goes around, your door opens and you smile. You don’t think anyone has ever opened the door for you. You’ve forever held the doors open for others, but no one has given you the same kindness in return.

He helps you out of the car, and he walks you to the steps of your home.

“I’d invite you up, but I have a mess. And an article to write.”

He shakes his head. “I understand.” He stares at you, and looks at your door. It’s like he’s bracing himself for something with the way that he sucks in a heavy breath. “How long do you think it’ll take you to write the article?”

You shrug. “Not that long. I could probably also do a Top Ten of something.” You wave your hand in the air, your brain too fried to think about anything else. “Something easy wouldn’t take too long.” You look at him, and raise your brows. “Why? What’s up?”

“I was thinking that we could get dinner. Together. If you want to, of course.”

Your eyes widen, and a cold gust of wind jolts you back to reality. “Together?” He nods and your mouth has gone dry. “Oh- Um, yeah. Yeah, dinner sounds good. Um-” you scratch at your neck- “at the diner? The one that we went to the other day?”

“No. I was thinking that we could go to the one that was near where I picked you up? It uh- It has flowers on the walls-” his index squiggles down the air- “the colorful ones.”

“The one on eighth avenue, right?” He nods. “That’s quite a choice, Johnathan.” You scoff a smile. “I uh- I’ve never been and I haven’t heard much about it, but um- you know-” you shift in your place- “I’m not really sure how pricey it is and I kinda gotta make rent this month, ya know.”

“You don’t have to worry about paying.” All oxygen escapes your lungs, and you’ve forgotten how to breathe. “I’m inviting you. I’ll be paying.”

You look him up and down. “You sure?”

“Of course.”

“Oh! Oh, okay. Yeah, okay. I’ll go. I’d love to.”

He smiles. “Good. I’m glad.” He stands in front of you and looks to the street, and looks back towards you. His hand lifts and brushes against the side of your face. Your stomach flips, and your heart skips. “I- I’ll make sure to tell you the details.” You might have imagined it, but you’re sure that he takes the slightest step towards you. You stand there, waiting until his hand pats at your shoulder. “Good night,” he says your name quietly, heavy with emotion, and you can only nod.

Once he’s at the bottom of the steps, do you find your voice. “Good night Johnathan!” He turns and you wave at him. He returns the gesture.

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