#fast forward a hundred or so chapters

[thebestofoneshots]

tastes | Marauders x Reader

Pairing: J.P. x S.B. x R.L x Female Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: Smut, finger fucкing, oral (male receiving), P in V, lots of praise (especially from Remus), Sirius gets all the love he deserves, consent is sexy, lusty!boys, сreаm piе, they literally can't take their eyes off you.

Prompt: Inspired by the sense of taste. Reader has a very strong gag reflex, so the boys have never asked you to blow them, and you love them for it. But today, you want to taste them.

tastes is part of The Five Senses: an anthology series where each chapter will be a stand-alone story, inspired by the different ways we have of perceiving the world around us.

18+ readers only (smut under the cut)

Cum Feel The Noize

You had always had pretty strong gag reflex, just brushing your tongue while you brushed your teeth made you want to puкe sometimes, it wasn’t ideal, but it was what you were born with so you settled. 

The boys knew, you’d been friends with them long before you started dating, and you had been pretty vocal about it, really, you were just so comfortable with them around that you didn’t mind talking about those things.

“What about sucking a dicк?” Sirius asked, half teasingly, half because he’d been genuinenly curious. He got elbowed by James after asking, but you just laughed.   

“Nah, it’s fine,” you told James dismissively “In truth, I’ve never done that.” 

“Never, ever? Not even the tip?” Asked James impressed, now curious as well. You shook your head as an answer.

“Not even when you dated that stupid Harland boy?” asked Remus. They all hated Harland because they all liked you, even then, a few months before you started all dating each other.

“Harland?” you asked in disbelief “Hell no! He asked a couple of times but, I just couldn’t do it,” you admitted “I really didn’t want to puкe all over his dicк.” 

“Understandable,” Remus nodded. 

“Yeah, you’d think. That’s why we broke up tho.” 

“What? Shut up!” James said, almost standing straigther.

“No, it’s true!” you said with a nod “He said there were plenty other girls in the market, and that most of them would die just to get the chance to suck him off.”

“And what did you tell him?” Sirius asked. 

“To fuck off,” you said with a laugh “didn’t even like him that much anyway,” you said with a sight, “But he’s so petty, he asked me to go see him in one of the abandoned classrooms to give me back some of my stuff, but he had just gotten a girl to blow him there. So when I arrived–” 

James gasped, he had his mouth open wide, completely shocked.

“–Poor girl, she was so embarrassed ‘cause she thought we were still dating. Which in hindsight, probably makes is worse. Anyway, he tried to go after me and jinxed him.” 

“We thought you stopped dating because he moved away.” 

“Nope, he moved away because the girl told all her friends about it and gave him the worst reputation.” 

Fast forward to now, you had been dating them for almost a year, and they had, never once, asked you to suck them off, not even by accident, which only made you love them even more, making you realize they truly listened, the difference abysmal between them and Harland, who’d asked hundreds of times, and your boys, who actually cared about you and your limits. And since they also had each other to have fun with it, neither of them missed out on getting blowjobs all that often either. Benefits of being in a poly relationship. 

But the boys were always so caring, and so giving, both in and outside of the bedroom, that you really wanted to give back to them. In fact, seeing the way James sucked Remus once, made you want to test it yourself, mouth watering at the thought. You had done your research too, asked your friends about their techniques and paid a lot more attention when they were doing each other, making mental notes of the things they clearly liked and the things they didn’t. For the first time in your life, you actually wanted to try. 

So, on Sirius’ birthday, you thought it’d be your chance. The boy had asked Peter for the room and he happily left the three of them to do their thing while going to bunk with his own girlfriend. Remus had been the one to pick you up at your room with the invisibility cloak that day. 

“You ready luv?” he asked tenderly when you got out of your room, quickly enveloping you in the cloak as he stood behind you.

“Very ready,” you said with a little smirk, which had Remus raise one of his eyebrows. Did you plan something? That’s definitely your “I’ve planned something” tone.

He dipped his head in the crook of your neck and gave it a short whiff “You’re wearing Sirius’ favourite perfume,” he mouthed, you could feel his lips brushing against your skin, already sending warmth to your core. “What else?” 

 You smiled mischievously “Nothing else,” you admitted. 

A rush of blood went straight to his cock when he heard you say that so confidently, and he finally peaked from his spot in your neck, looking through the thin white shirt you were wearing, he could see your nipple perking underneath the fabric, marking it ever so slightly. “Fuck, dove you’re such a tease.” 

You shrugged, turning to press a kiss to his cheek, realizing how blown out his pupils were already, “You know how much Sirius loves it.” 

He slid his hands under your skirt, only feeling the outside of your tight, all the way to your waist, as if trying to feel if you really had nothing underneath at the bottom. “Yeah, he’s not the only one,” he grunted, digging his digits a little, just below your pelvis. You pressed yourself to him a little more, realizing he was already getting turned on, even from such a short interaction, which only fueled you even more, turning completely around you wrapped your fingers on his neck and brought him down for a kiss. He complied, pushing you against a nearby wall as he kissed back, hands still extended above his head to keep the cloak covering the two of you. When you finally separated, you were both panting, his lips were already pink from the stimulation, and he brought one of his hands down to accommodate his pants, they were already making him uncomfortable. 

“Come on handsome,” you told him with a smile, butting your bottom lip for a mere second and pulling at his bicep ever so slightly, “Why don’t we continue the party inside?” 

When you arrived at their room, Sirius was on his bed, sketching something in his notebook while James was setting up the record player. After all the initial plan had been to just chill and listen to music together. But you all knew that wasn’t going to be the end of the story from the moment the suggestion left Remus’ lips. 

You went straight to Siri, pressing a chaste kiss over his mouth as you laid down next to him “Happy birthday Puppy!” 

“That’s like the 10th time today you say that,” James teased. 

“It’s probably just an excuse to snog him,” added Remus. 

You shrugged and leaned in again, pressing another short kiss to Sirius’ soft lips “Happy birthday,” you whispered again. 

Sirius just smiled, he loved when you showered him with attention, he had always had a knack for being the center of it, but when he was the center of yours, it made him soar, “You can snog me without wishing me happy birthday kitten, in fact, you can snog me whenever the hell you want.” 

You laughed at the suggestive little smirk he made and searched with your hand to grab his. Sirius would definitely go crazy with how much attention you were all about to give him. He leaned in a little closer, dipping his head in the crook of your neck as he turned  “You smell nice,” he whispered. 

James almost jumped to the bed, placing the top half of his body over the bottom half of yours, his head looking at you from above your belly, “Don’t act like we aren’t in the room,” he said with a pout, placing a hand over your bare leg. 

“We weren’t,” Sirius said, still from the crook of your neck “We were just giving you a show,” he added in the end, you could feel the smirk in his tone. Remus laughed, still standing in the middle of the room as he took off his sweater, passing it over his head, slowly, Remus was the most patient of the three; unless you were close to the moon.

You took a deep breath, feeling James’ forearm press against your belly as you did, he leaned down over them and noticed. “You’re not wearing a bra today,” he said as he raised just the edge of your shirt to get a peak. 

“And it’s not the only thing I didn’t put on,” you said teasingly. 

Sirius turned to you shocked “Shut up.” 

“Why don’t you see it for yourself,” you said with a smirk. Sirius didn’t think twice as he dipped his hand under your skirt. Unlike Remus, he went straight to your slick, feeling how wet you already were. 

“Bloody hell kitten, you’re soaked,” he said, now his own eyes blown out in lust “Wait, why are you so…?” he turned to Remus, who just shrugged in response, a cheeky smile playing on his face. He narrowed his eyes at him and turned back to you, “fine then… my turn,” he said, lightly pushing James off you as he grabbed you by the waist and placed you on top of him, you were now straddling him, each leg to the side of his. The friction of his pants in your core, only making you all the more turned on, you ground yourself against him, which had him moan, if ever so lightly. James had placed one hand over your tight as he moved to kiss Sirius’ neck. Today was his day, after all. 

You smiled, slowly grinding yourself against the boy one more time before leaning in to kiss him on the lips. Remus was sitting on the bed beside yours, lousily looking at the three of you as he patted himself. After a couple more kisses, you reached your hand under Sirius’ shirt, and both you and James pulled Sirius on a sitting position so you could completely remove it, gently passing it over his head. James didn’t leave him lay back down though, he pressed himself behind him to gain better access to his neck instead. 

You smiled, still kissing Sirius as you fumbled your fingers over the button of his trousers. “Someone’s thirsty,” he teased. 

“You wouldn’t know how much,” you whispered enigmatically. There it is again, Remus thought, she’s onto something. With the help of James, you managed to remove Sirius’ pants too. Playing with the hem of his trousers as you continued to grind onto his leg. Now it was your turn, moving in tandem with James, the two of you managed to lay Sirius back, over James’ chest, who rubbed soft circles on his arms as he watched you grind onto his boyfriend. Sirius was malleable, in fact, at this point, he would let you do whatever the hell you wanted with him, he wasn’t sure he was even still on earth. 

Finally, you pulled his boxers down, pulling back just a little when his thick cock sprang out, pressing against his stomach from the force of the release. You licked your lips but stood back straight, taking your time to throw the boxers somewhere. Remus smiled, you were being fast tonight, maybe he’ll get his turn faster than– 

He lost his train of thought, you had dropped kisses all over Sirius’ stomach and your face was dangerously close to his cock. It wasn’t unusual that you played and rubbed their cocks with your hands, but you usually kept your head a little further away from them. 

He almost completely lost it when he noticed you playing with Sirius’ tights, pressing kisses against them as you spread them a little with your hands. That was a move he knew all too well, he’d done it several times. Finally, when you leaned down and pressed your lips against Sirius’ cock, it was he who jumped out of James’ grasp, Remus crossing the distance that there was in between the two of you with two long strides. 

“Kitten what are you–” Sirius asked, his throat dry. 

“–what do you think?” you said, motioning to his cock. 

“But your gag reflex sweetheart,” James said, he was peering through Sirius’ shoulders. 

Your heart warmth at the boys’ concern, “I wanna try,” you added. 

“Are you sure? You don’t have to do it… If you feel pressured into it because it’s my birthday then–” 

“–It’s not that,” you cut him off “I want to try.”  

“Are you very sure luv?” Remus asked, he had leaned down near the bed to level his head with yours. 

You nodded “Positive.” 

“Sirius can be a little desperate sometimes,” James added “We can help you hold him in place so he doesn’t accidentally jerk too hard into your throat, How does that sound?” 

You peered to look at him through your lashes, Sirius thought you’d never looked more stunning “If Sirius is all right with that.” 

The boy in question nodded excitedly, and James leaned a little to the side, pressing one of his legs, while Remus held him from the other side. 

“We’re ready,” Remus said with a short nod. 

You nodded in response, taking a deep breath, and leaned back down pressing little kisses on Sirius’ soft abdomen before placing your hand over his balls. You’d seen James do it, and Sirius seemed to like it when he did. 

Judging by the way he moaned, he also enjoyed it when you did. After kneading them a little more, and rubbing circles over his tight with your other hand, you placed your hand around his cock, pumping it a couple of times before finally leaning down, placing a light kiss over his tip. The sound Sirius emitted was so sinful, you felt your arousal dripping from your cunt. 

James had moved over the bed, one hand still over Sirius’ leg, the other on his cock, he was watching mouth dry as you leaned down on Sirius. He had only dreamed of you doing such a thing, never daring to ask for it. 

You took a deep breath, and went for a long lick, all the way from shaft to the end. Remus smirked, such a tease, he thought. 

Sirius moaned again, head plopping back into the pillows James had placed when he moved to the side.

Remus hummed “Stop teasing him so much sweetheart,” he said as he placed a hand on the side of Sirius’ face, brushing lightly from his temple to his neck all the while looking tenderly at the boy, “He might just combust in flames if you keep it up.” 

You stroked Sirius one more time, brushing your thumb over his tip the way you knew he liked so much and then you leaned down again, this time wrapping your mouth around his tip. You didn’t go down too deep at first, only really staying around the tip, making sure to test how much you could actually fit into your mouth without it getting uncomfortable. 

You started moving your tongue around his tip, nipping and teasing. Another moan escaped from Sirius’ mouth, James didn’t know where to look as he touched himself, either at you or Sirius’ pleasure-driven face. At some point, you felt a slight buckle of Sirius’ hips, or at least an attempt of it, since both James and Remus had managed to restrain him from moving too much. 

“Please,” he begged. You knew exactly what he wanted. When he got all whinny like that, it was because he wanted you to pick up the pace, either by stroking him faster or bobbing your hips up and down his length. You squeezed slightly with your hand since you knew how much he liked it when you clenched your “tight little pussy” around him. And finally, you started to bob your head up and down, slowly, taking in very little of him in your mouth at first. Testing the waters.

Sirius emitted the kind of groan you only heard of him when he was so deep into you, he couldn’t think of anything else. You then felt Remus’ hand, the one he wasn’t using to hold Sirius’s hip, moving under your skirt. Slowly moving up until he reached the tender flesh of the inside of your tight. And then he went further up, tracing your slit with his long finger. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, “Pads, if you could feel how wet she is at this point… she’s practically dripping.”

Remus knew exactly what he was doing, Sirius was as much into physical pleasure as emotional, much like you were, and Remus was well aware knowing such a thing would set his boyfriend on fire, he wasn’t wrong, you could feel his hips trying to buckle into your mouth again, only to be stopped by the boys’ strong hands.  

Remus did not remove his hand either, he kept playing around your slit, slowly parting with two fingers as you perked your ass just a bit more for easier access, which just had him grin. You moaned when he placed one of his fingers over your clit and started rubbing, Remus had the most confident grip when it came to finger fucking you, and he always delivered. 

You started taking in a bit more of Sirius, forcing yourself a little over what you’d consider your comfort zone. Every moan his noises and Remus’ hands pulled from you, reverberating across his cock and bringing him closer. 

“Sweethea… aaaah, fuck.” Sirius was trying to tell you something, but the way his moans sounded, you knew exactly what he wanted to say. 

Regardless, it was James who took his hand away from his own cock and bought it to caress your back, “Kitten…” he said softly, you eyed him, not stopping the way you moved your mouth around Sirius, which almost got him to lose his train of thought, “Kitten, Sirius is about to come,” he informed. 

You hummed in response, being aware of it already. You knew. Finally, that brought Remus back into the conversation “Wait, luv, does that mean you’re going to…” you hummed again. 

“fuck,” you heard him whisper. She’s gonna swallow, he thought, not being able to keep his eyes off you. 

Sirius was just as impressed, even if he wasn’t thinking much at this point, he had brought his hand down, and he toyed with your hair before settling it just over the back of your neck, he wasn’t pushing though, he was rubbing soft circles with his thumb, even amongst all the madness you’d brought to him, he was still thinking of your comfort. 

You drove your head up and down three more times, and then you felt it, warm and a little salty, spurring into your mouth. And as you had planned you swallowed it all, helping Sirius ride through his orgasm by still bobbing your head a couple of times. 

“It’s ok sweetheart,” you heard James, he still had his hand on your back “He’s done, you can stop.” 

You did, slowly taking your mouth out and letting your head fall over Sirius’ belly, making sure to keep your ass up so Remus wouldn’t stop toying with your pussy, which he wasn’t planning on either way. Sirius looked at you, breath heavy as he wrapped his hand over your cheek, “That was incredible sweets, and for your first time.” 

You pressed a soft, gentle kiss to his stomach, and then turned your eyes back to him “I’d been observing you…” you said. Being stoped by your own moan as Remus drove a finger inside of you “taking notes of what each of my boys likes best.” 

“fuck you’re so tight,” the boy whispered, only James heard, you and Sirius were too wrapped in your own little bubble. 

“Have you now?” he said with a teasing smile, “you might become the best of the three,” he whispered, it earned him a smack from James, who had been attentively watching the way Remus finger fucked you, imagining how it would look like without the skirt. 

“Next time you beg for me to blow you after a game I’ll tell you to go beg elsewhere,” he teased. Which earned a chuckle from you and Sirius. 

“I want to see,” Sirius added, motioning to Remus’ hand under your skirt. 

“That makes two of us,” James said as he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you into a sitting position, you whined in response, almost crying at the loss of Remus’ expert fingers. 

“It’s ok baby, we’re just gonna reposition,” James cooed, and he started to unbutton your shirt as Remus got on the bed, taking off his shirt in one swift motion before helping James remove yours. The boys moved in tandem, smoothly as if they knew exactly what the other was about to do next, which perhaps they did, since they knew each other so well. Once the shirt was off, you felt the cold air perk your nipples, giving both boys sitting in front of you their own little show. While that was going on, Remus was the one to unbutton and unzip your skirt, lifting you up towards him as James pulled it off. 

Remus placed you in between his legs, enjoying the feeling of the soft bare skin of your back flushing against his torso. He hadn’t yet removed his pants, but you could feel how hard he was under them, so hard it’s gotta be painful.

But Remus had only two moods, either being patient or being desperate; today he was the first one, so when you rocked your hips back, trying to get a reaction, he just held you down “Steady on sweetheart, let us enjoy you first.” 

And they were going to enjoy you, while Remus spread you wide open, carefully passing your feet over his legs so they would stay in position, James had leaned in to spread soft kisses on your neck. All of you facing Sirius, who was just smiling darkly at the sight. 

Remus was slow at first, passing a hand over your inner tight, massaging the soft skin before getting closer to your slit. Even then, he just massaged around it “Remus!” you whined, which only earned him a chuckle. 

“What is it luv?” he asked, playing dumb. 

“Yeah, what is it?” James asked, unlaching his lips from your neck and turning to you, joining the teasing. 

“Please!” you added, grabbing onto Remus’ hand and placing it on your slit. 

Finally, he complied, tracing his strong fingers over your slit, still impossibly wet. James had already moved on to kiss one of your nipples, nipping and teasing the tender skin. Sucking it into peaks before laying it back with his tongue. One of his hands had been placed in the small of your neck, and the other on your other breast, making sure not to let it skip on the fun. 

“How are you three so goddamned beautiful?” you heard Sirius mumble as he enjoyed the view. 

This time around, after toying with your clit once more, Remus placed two fingers inside instead of one, which had you gasp, but he just smiled devilishly as he thrusted them in and out, eliciting one of his favourite sounds in the world, your moans. While lost in bliss, you felt James’ cock brush against your skin, which made you remember how forgotten you had left him tonight, so you reached out and brushed your hand around it, brushing your thumb over the tip a couple of times, earning a couple of moans from him. 

“Yes, please,” he whispered, and you complied, finally starting to stroke him. James did not stop the kissing as you continued to move your hand up and down his length, only moaning your name a couple of times, and squeezing your breast a little tighter when he was close. 

You were just as close, you realized Remus had been not only finger fucking you, but preparing you as well, slowly stretching you out with the help of his two fingers. Remus was big, and without stretching, he just didn’t fit in. And if he was stretching you out, then it meant he knew he’d get your wet little cunt tonight and it only fueled him more and turned you on even more in return. You buckled your hips against his fingers a couple of times, and his pace became faster. Just like your stroking around James’ cock. 

James came first, thrusting into your hand as his cum dripped all over it, finally unlatching himself from your nipples and breathing heavily as he stared dumbly at you and Remus, lips parted and slightly red, just the sight of it made you buckle your hips against Remus’ hand once again. He was about to take his wand to clean your hand with it, when Remus used his free hand to bring it over to his mouth and ran his tongue from your wrist bone to your fingers, licking most James’ cum along, which James swore made his cock twitch again. 

And then Remus turned to you, not slowing down the pace on your pussy, but looking as calm as unbothered as if he were a teacher asking a student for an answer “Do you want to taste him too, sweetheart?” 

You nodded, and he pushed your hand towards your mouth, carefully placing the soft section between your thumb and your wrist right over your lips, it was the only section still covered with James’ cum, and you slowly brought your lips around it, sucking carefully on your hand and letting your lips slowly go back to their place as Remus’ pulled your hand out. James was a little saltier than Sirius, but also relatively sweet.

“fuck… i’m gonna end up getting hard again,” you heard James’ groan, which had Sirius chuckle as he pulled the boy towards him. 

“Come Prongs, enjoy the show with me,” he said with a smile. James leaned in and gave Sirius a short kiss before leaning on his shoulder. 

“All right sweetheart, your turn,” Remus said as he brought his index finger from the other hand to your clit, you leaned your head back on his shoulder, buckling your hips against him with more conviction now that you weren’t distracted by anything else. 

His pace quickened and you moaned and whined under his expert hands “Hmmm… please Rem, I’m about to…” 

“It’s ok baby, be good and come all over my fingers,” he cooed, and you did, harshly pulling your head back as you allowed him to finger fuck you to oblivion. “There we go, such a good girl for me, isn’t that right?” he praised, as he brought his hand, still wet with your slick over to his mouth and sucked sinfully over the two fingers that were inside of you, moaning as he tasted your juices. He then turned back to you again. “Now, are you gonna allow me to fuck that tight little pussy of yours tonight or do you feel too tired already?” 

You wanted nothing more than for Remus to stretch you up just right, so you nodded, head still a little foggy from the high, “Please Remus,” you added for good measure, moving your hips back just to feel him press against you one more time. 

Finally, you moved to the side, allowing the boy to take both his pants and underwear off before he laid down on the bed, Remus knew it was easier for you to be the one to ride him, at least at first –and when he was the first one– since that way you had a little more control over how big he was, and he was always more than happy to let you do it, in fact, he quite enjoyed the way your breast bounced as you bobbed up and down his length. And he knew the boys liked it just as much, so he strategically laid in a way so that they would get a good view of you. 

You slowly straddled him, placing both knees on each side of his hip before rubbing yourself against his cock a couple of times, causing him to moan this time. You were still so fucking wet.

Eventually, you lifted yourself up and lined him with your entrance. He placed both of his hands around your hips, to help hold you up as you slowly pushed yourself down, moaning as you went as deep as you could. Remus had responded to your tightness with a grunt, truth be told he’d been dreaming of it from the moment he went to pick you up. 

You started bobbing up and down his length, slow at first, but picking up that pace as your walls got used to his size. Remus had his hands on your waist, helping you move easily as he started to thrust up into you, reaching the right spot. “fuck… yes,” you said breathily as he continued thrusting.

“So fucking tight,” Remus breathed as he helped you ride him, completely focused on you, on your parted lips, your soft huffs and moans; you were absolutely entrancing in the way you moved your hips on him, “You’re taking me in so well sweetheart…” 

You moaned, and clenched around him, which just caused him to buckle against you even harder. That got you to whimper and you brought both of your palms to lay over his shoulders, to hold yourself better as you continued to rock your hips on the boy, “Baby… if you keep that up I’m not gonna last,” he added, and just to tease him, you clenched again, eliciting a moan from the boy so sinful, it fueled you to keep moving, faster this time around.

“So beautiful, aren’t they Prongs?” you heard Sirius say, almost not quite registering it with the way Remus’ cock trusted into you right after. The other boy hummed in response, not able to take his eyes off the way you were moving. 

When Remus was close, he switched the two of you around, laying you flat on the bed as he brought one of his hands over to your clit, “Be a good girl and come for me one last time sweetheart,” he said as he continued to thrust. Holding back his own orgasm, he wanted to hear you moan his name as he came. 

And after a few more flicks and circles of his thumb, with his pace quickening, you came, “hmm Remus…” you whispered as he continued to thrust inside of you, the way your walls clenched around tipping the boy over the edge, he had hold it back so long, he practically grunted into your ear and spiled inside of you.

Eventually, he pulled back, staring at your pussy as he panted, you knew what he wanted and so you squeezed, allowing the thick white liquid to spill from your inside, dripping from your entrance to the back of your ass. Remus really liked to see the evidence of fucking you, somehow satisfying his most primal desires, or so he’d told you once. 

Remus brought one of his hands back to your cunt, you shivered with the contact since you were still slightly overstimulated, but he didn’t budge, using his middle and index to gather some of your combined juices, he angled his head cockily, “Are you gonna taste me tonight as well sweetheart?” he asked. 

You smiled wickedly, using your elbows to prop yourself up and leaning in towards the boy’s hand, not bothering to answer as you opened your mouth and wrapped it around both of his fingers, making sure to let your lips pull as you slowly hollowed your mouth and pulled yourself back, licking your lips as you completely separated from the boy. Remus had not been expecting that, his cocky demeanour faltering as his mouth dried. Remus was the sweetest of the three. 

A/N: this is the third piece of smut I’ve written so far, and omg this definitely got out of hand. Regardless… I do feel like I’m getting the hang of it. Maybe? A little bit? At least I don’t feel the cringe, anymore. Saying that, I do still stop myself every now and then and wonder “what the hell am I writing?” In a “I’d be burned in the stake for imagining these things” sort of way haha! Either way, I’m having fun, and that’s what matters!

The Five Senses was born as a way for me to practice writing smut for my brand new Wolfstar x Reader series that's currently being posted on a weekly basis. If you have feedback, please leve it in the comment below. I absolutely love reading your comments <3

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❝ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ❞ — chapter five | part two | coriolanus snow

「ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ:」 SFW | Dr. Gaul is her own warning, Coriolanus Snow is his own warning, mentions of Arachnes' death

「ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ:」 young! Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader

「ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:」 you meet Dr. Gaul and her snakes with Coryo at your side 🐍

「ᴀ/ɴ:」 here's part two!! Hope y'all enjoy it! Give me your feedback!

beta read by the AWESOME @nowitsmissing

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Classes were dull. He couldn't stop thinking about the morning, Sejanus' tears, and Lucy Gray's smile. It felt like a terrible dream possible when sick. He hates how easily Sejanus will have his girl after Coryo makes sure she wins.

He hates how he will never have you. And another district girl will be brought to riches undeserving or maybe Sejanus will leave with her.

He hates how he sees himself in Sejanus. Sejanus' sobs are so similar to the tantrum Coriolanus had thrown when he was eight. The tears were the same as his, unable to stop. The pain is too much. Coriolanus’ tears were of shame of who his soulmate was. Sejanus’ tears were of fear that his soulmate might die in the arena.

He had to make sure Lucy Gray won in the arena. Not because he felt pity for his so-called friend but for the fact that this would ensure his victory over the Plinth Prize. Surely, mentoring the soulmate of the heir of Plinth's fortune would get him some kind of reward, at least from the kind, foolish Sejanus.

Coriolanus received a dismissal from his current history class as he was called to meet Dr. Gaul. It took him mere minutes to reach the lab of the Academy where she was temporarily stationed until the games ended. His proposal is in his satchel. He sees you there, waiting for him, and he pauses.

He soaks you in, ignoring the confusion in your eyes. He stomps on his heart that he feels broken because of how fast it is beating. And begins to walk towards you confidently, trying to channel annoyance and anger over your actions of yesterday. He failed miserably.

He mirrors the small smile you give him and he acknowledges last night by saying, “How's the day going for you, little thief?” He feels his worries fade away, the paranoia that you might have stolen his work gone as he hears you laugh at being called a thief.

“I wasn't confident enough to let you read it, and it felt rude to make you walk back to her lab to submit when I was on my way there anyways,” you explained instead, your eyes hoping for his understanding and forgiveness.

You answered his question as well, “It's been going well, I was nearly late for my classes.”

It's pathetic how easily he caved in. “It's fine,” he whispered, “maybe next time don't leave a note, so the culprit isn't more obvious.” Coriolanus Snow decided your giggle was the prettiest sound he had ever heard and his face burns as his mind repeats it. You give him a friendly swat on his arm and Snow lets himself grin. A real smile with teeth, not the perfect one designated for his classmates.

His proposal is forgotten in his bag as he and you enter the lab. He pulls you a bit closer to him, and a bit behind so he's a step ahead. Dr. Gaul was insane and Coriolanus couldn't help the feeling of being protective of you. He didn't want you to receive even a scratch while he was there.

Dr. Gaul greets you and the Coryo with a feral look in her eyes and her red-stained lips in a wild grin befitting animals. You politely greet her back and Coriolanus follows. Coriolanus swallows as he sees hundreds if not more rainbow-colored snakes in a tank.

“For the games?” He hears you ask.

Dr. Gaul replied, “We'll see, child. Now come forth.”

Coriolanus swallows and even though he shouldn't, he holds your hand, his fingers gripping yours and he walks forward, still keeping you a step behind.

The snakes hiss and move around the tank in swirls of color that hurt his eyes. But in the limited space, he could almost make out parchments with familiar handwriting. What was Dr. Gaul planning?

As if on cue, Dr. Gaul asked, “Which brings me to your proposal. I liked it. Who wrote it? Just you two? Or did your brassy friend weigh in before her throat was cut?”

Coriolanus is surprised by the small laugh you let out, and he sees the humor in Dr. Gauls’ eyes. “No ma'am, I am sure she was rather busy choking on blood. They were written by us,” you said.

“Is that so?” Gauls' voice is full of suspicion but it deters neither of you.

“Yes,” Coriolanus butts in. “Our proposals were written completely by us.”

“Well, let's read it again, shall we?” Dr. Gaul adds, “Unfortunately, my assistant lined this very case with it while I was having my lunch. Let's retrieve it, shall we?”

“Isn't it dangerous?” Coriolanus asked, his voice edged.

Dr. Gaul chuckled and explained, “They can’t see too well, and they hear even less,” said Dr. Gaul. “But they know you’re there. Snakes can smell you using their tongues, these mutts here more than others.” “If you’re familiar, if they have pleasant associations with your scent — a warm tank, for instance — they’ll ignore you. A new scent, something foreign, that would be a threat,” said Dr. Gaul. “You’d be on your own, little boy.”

He doesn't let the fear swallow him, not when he saw how eager you were to prove her suspicions wrong. He didn't want to take Dr. Gauls' words at face value but what else could he do? In no world, he would let you dip your hand into a pit of possibly venomous snakes. Not if he had a choice.

“Me first then,” he said, his voice filled with (fake) confidence.

He puts his hand inside the tank, trying not to shiver in disgust. The snakes ignore him, slithering around his hand as he wiggles through to pull out his proposal successfully. It was safe. Which means you could do the same as well. He hands his proposal to Dr. Gaul before stepping so you can repeat the action.

And you succeed as well with flying colors. You step back to stand beside Snow as Gaul holds both of your works. She raised an eyebrow impressed but Coriolanus can see the underlying disappointment and vows to never leave you alone in her presence.

Dr. Gaul said, “Well… I will try to implement both of your ideas for the Games as soon as possible. The victory tour and idea of what you called tesserae were impeccable. Same with your idea, Coriolanus Snow. I am proud to have you both as Capitol students. I am also looking forward to Arachnes’ funeral”

“Now leave,” Dr. Gaul dismissed, “It's time for my tea and crackers.”

Coriolanus couldn't walk out of there faster. Je catches you before you can walk away. Your actions tilted his reality, in so little time since the reaping day, you were changing every thought of his.

“Choking on blood?” He said, “So much for Arachne's 'family'.”

You raised an eyebrow, “There were people in the library and it was already a bad look that we weren't in our homes grieving or whatever.”

He frowned, “So that tear- those red eyes were fake?”

You looked around the hall, the students present were out of earshot. You pulled him closer by the collar and whispered,

“Guess your songbird isn't the only performer.”

Your lips were mere inches away from his. He could seal a kiss. He could take you- he processes your words and doesn't know how to react. You… you changed his whole reality, his perception of you with a sentence. Coriolanus Snow didn't know what to make of you anymore.

You pulled back (why, why, why) and handed him your proposal. “I need you to know, everything I wrote here is for Panem. Don't judge me too harshly.”

You were nothing like he thought of and you were laid bare as he read down your proposal, what you had planned for Arachnes’ funeral. And in his mind, he realized that perhaps. . .

You stopped being District a long time ago.

NEXT PART

#character x reader #x you #x reader #x female reader #fem reader #scenario #young coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow x reader #president coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus smut #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x reader smut #coriolanus snow x female!reader #coriolanus snow x you #snow x reader #dystopian fiction #tom blyth #thg tbosas #tbosas fanfiction #tbosas x reader #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games #thg x reader #thg series #thg fanfiction

[charlietheepicwriter7]

V The Mysterious Wayne Family

Dick Grayson V Gotham - Chapter 2

“Why can’t I sit in the front seat?” Danny demanded to know, crossing his arms from the back of Dick’s car. 

Dick sighed, peering back at him with the rearview mirror. He’d been shaky as they escaped the apartment without getting attacked by the media. Did the idiot get sick? Was the media in this dimension such a big threat? 

Truthfully, Danny didn’t know a lot about this dimension, despite having lived in it for around a year. That year was spent almost entirely homeless, spending only the last few weeks with Dick. Otherwise, he was sleeping where he could, spending his days in libraries and conning people out of cash as a child medium. 

…Well, calling it “conning” was a bit of an overstatement. He did get people in contact with dead relatives and the like. He just… didn’t always quote them exactly, especially when it meant he could get enough money to eat for the day. 

“It’s unsafe, Danny, you know that.”

Danny glared at him from his booster seat, which put him perfectly at eye level so he could lock eyes with Dick with the rear-view mirror. He hated this whole situation: the booster seat, his age, needing to rely on an adult, the stupid media, the stupid police, the stupid Dick… Okay, he kinda liked the booster seat. It was based off of some hero—Superbman—who was an alien? But looked like a human?

That may be one of the biggest differences between this dimension and his hom–the dimension he was born in. Danny had been one of the only heroes back there, along with Valerie and Dani, if you could even call them heroes. In this dimension? There were hundreds. There were space aliens to normal people in costumes to other humans with powers, and while not all of them were heroes, a lot of them were. 

And Danny hated how easy they had it. 

Every day back in Amity Park was a fight for acceptance, a battle to convince people that yes, he was a ghost with good intentions, only for that trust to be lost the moment he wasn’t fast enough to stop a ghost from hurting someone, or got thrown through a wall trying to protect people. It was constantly one step forward and one step back, and nothing Sam or Tucker or Jazz said ever truly made him okay with it.

Despite everything, he hoped Amity Park was doing alright without him. He couldn’t go back—wouldn’t go back, even if he had an open portal and his powers, not after what happened—but hopefully they were doing okay. 

He hoped his rogues had listened and stayed away from the Fenton portal. For their own safety.

Like every time he thought of his pa–the Fentons, the scars across his chest flared up. They might have been long-healed, but the pain always lingered, a sharp lance that lingered in the thin skin of his wound. Fiddling around in his pocket, Danny found his juul and puffed. Exhaling, a bubble gum smoke filled the cabin as the CBD started to work its way into his blood. 

Dick coughed. “You know you won’t be able to do that in the manor, right?”

Danny grumbled, rolling down the window a crack. 

“I’m serious, Danny. I know you need it, but the rules are different at the manor. You’ll need to go outside to smoke.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll smoke outside. Wouldn’t want your gramps to get bent out of shape.”

He laughed. “I think Alfred would be alright, once we explain your medical issues. It’s Bruce we’ll have to worry about. He’s got this thing about drugs… once he learns what’s in your juul, he do whatever it takes to get you off it. He won’t even listen if we tell him about your chronic pain, he’ll just think you’re lying!” Dick threw his hand up in the air. “Honestly, it’s just lecture after lecture with him.”

“He can suck a cock then!”

Dick laughed, all traces of anger gone as his bright eyes glanced at him through the mirror. “Say that to his face, and you get ice cream for a week.”

“Done!”

The illusive Bruce Wayne. Danny had heard the name from the TV that morning, and apparently he was Dick’s dad. Not that Dick ever mentioned him in the months they knew each other. Not that this Bruce guy ever visited on the occasions Dick managed to convince him to stay the night, nor in the weeks after his foster placement was finalized. Danny didn’t even know Dick had a dad until this morning, so clearly something was going on here. 

If he focused on this case—the mystery behind the estrangement of Dick and Bruce—then he’d finally be able to get his mind off Mrs. Bennett’s case. The Shade had approached him early that morning, flickering in the moonlight, barely visible and just formed. Her case was so easy too; her killer was her son-in-law, she’d been awake when he killed her and he’d definitely left behind evidence too, but there was no telling if the other detectives at Bludhaven PD would find it. Or would care enough to find it. 

Corrupt bastards. 

Speaking of which—”Are we actually going to be able to consult on cases while we’re in Gotham, or was that just something you said to make me feel better?”

“I believe I said case, as in the singular one with Mrs. Bennett. But yes, I’ve already arranged it with the Commissioner.” 

“But she works for the Damir family! We can’t trust her.”

“We can’t trust her when it comes to cases related to the Damir family,” Dick corrected. “Other than that, she’s decent at her job.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“She’s better than the other officers in our department?” he tried again.

“Also not a compliment. I’ve met dead guys that are better cops.”

They bantered back and forth, but the closer they got to Gotham, the tenser Dick became. Dick wasn’t the type to get serious out of nowhere—the only times Danny could remember were when a case involved a gang or that one terrible time when some ugly-ass assassin with a stupid-ass name came to town—but whatever was waiting for them… must be bad. Right? 

Gotham, Danny noticed as they drove through town, looked better than Bludhaven, like how rats look better than turds. Danny had heard the rumors about Gotham, mostly about all the dangerous villains, but there was clearly some money going into infrastructure. Beautiful gothic buildings dripping with gargoyles towered overhead, and there weren’t nearly as many boarded up shops and potholes. 

It wouldn’t have been a bad place to set up shop if it weren’t for all the Shades around.

The ghost population of this dimension mostly comprised of Shades with the occasional Poltergeists and Wraiths. Ectoplasm wasn’t as accessible here; just traveling to this dimension had stripped Danny of almost all the ectoplasm in his body and he still hadn’t recovered, so his powers barely worked. But Shades were shadows of humans when they were alive, weak and incorporeal unless you were a ghost too, barely kept together with their obsession.

Bludhaven had a lot of Shades. That’s why Danny settled down there when he first arrived. He wanted to help people move on if he could, either by solving their murder or contacting their loved ones. 

If Bludhaven had a lot of Shades, Gotham had a colossal number. 

Shades clogged the walkways and the streets, dissipating when someone or something went through them and reforming in an instant. Some alleys were plugged with them and some alleys were empty. Danny watched with wide eyes. Ghosts were supposed to be rare. He’d thought ghosts were rare. But Gotham was plagued with violent crime… violent, unique, indescribable crime, worse in intensity from Bludhaven, but not quite there in frequency. There were women with their faces melted off, men ripped in half down the center, children blown to bits, creeping around the streets of Gotham. 

Danny sunk down in his booster seat. “I want to go home,” he admitted quietly. 

Dick sighed. “I know, kiddo. I want to go home too.”

He blinked away stubborn tears. Dick didn’t understand. This wasn’t Danny’s home, this dimension wasn’t Danny’s home, Dick wasn’t Danny’s home (as much as Danny appreciated Dick, he wanted his family, but they hated him, they attacked him, they—)

Dick continued talking. “But you know what? Everything’s going to be okay. Because my grandfather is going to love you. And Bruce— He’s a little rough around the edges and we might not get along right now, but he’s going to love you too.” Dick sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Danny. “Tim’s going to adore you; he’s told me that he’s always wanted a younger sibling and I can’t blame him; his house looks so lonely and his parents were always gone. He’s staying with Bruce now as a foster since his dad’s in a coma, but he’s been family long before that…”

He listened to Dick continue to ramble about his family. Bruce was rarely touched upon in his stories, but Alfred was spoken of with unmistakable love (Danny never knew his grandparents, Mom and Dad were disowned years before he was born, he could probably guess why), and he clearly adored Tim (He could understand that, Danny loved Jazz with his entire soul, but what would it have been like if he had a younger sibling? Would his relationship with Dani have turned into this if they could’ve spent time together?). Dick continued with stories about his best friend and ex-girlfriend, Barabra (Sam and Tuck, Tuck and Sam, his friends were dead and it's his fault—), and even a few including Tim’s ex-girlfriend too.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think. 

Before long, the car slowed to a stop. Ahead of them was a grand manor, the kind shown in those regency tv shows that Jazz loved watching, with obsessively maintained gardens and beautiful, clean exterior. A stone staircase led up to larger-than-life wooden doors; Danny couldn’t identify what kind of wood, but it was probably something expensive and old. Mahogany? That sounded like an expensive wood. 

Dick put the car in park before turning around in his seat to look at Danny. “Alright, buddy. Are you ready to meet our family?”

“Your family,” Danny corrected mulishly, unbuckling his seat belt. 

“Our family,” Dick said again, smiling. “They’re good people, and they’re going to be here for you.”

“Sure.” Sliding out of his seat and out of the car, Danny stayed slightly behind Dick as they walked up the steps and to the front door. Before Dick could knock or find the doorbell, the doors opened to reveal an old stereotypical butler. He even had a British accent! “Master Grayson,” he addressed Dick coolly, but when he looked at Danny, his expression softened. “And Young Master Daniel. It is good to finally meet you, and welcome to Wayne Manor. I am the family butler, Alfred Pennyworth.”

Danny ducked away. “Danny’s fine,” came his muttered response. 

Alfred smiled. “Young Master Danny, then. Come along; Master Bruce is waiting for you both in the foyer.” 

Dick grimaced. Did that mean something bad? What was a foyer, a fancy word for office? Was Dick going to get scolded?

They followed Alfred into the house (although, calling it a house felt like an understatement). It was even fancier inside, with marble floors and a glistening chandelier overhead. Danny felt significantly out of place in his jeans and ratty coat he’d pulled out of the trash.

There was a man pacing in the room (was this the foyer?). He was dressed in a fancy suit and built like a brick house, but looked similar enough to Dick in a weird funhouse-mirror way. The moment he saw them, his face smoothed into a banal smile and Danny immediately didn’t like him. “Dick! You’re home.” Striding up to them, the man immediately hugged Dick, who stiffly returned it. “Welcome back, chum. And who’s this?”

Dick’s smile was strained. “This is my foster son, Danny. Danny, this is Bruce; I was his ward until I turned 18.” Ouch. Not even a foster son, but a ward? That sounded like a significant step down from fostering. Danny glared at Bruce, who seemed taken aback by his hostility. Dick laughed nervously. “Sorry about him, he’s shy.” Now Danny glared at Dick. 

Bruce’s smiled evened out as he crouched down, like that would hide his fucking massive body. “It’s nice to meet you, Danny,” he said. “I’m very happy you're here. Hopefully it’ll be a lot more peaceful now that you’re staying with us.”

Danny scowled. “Suck a cock, douchebag.”

Bruce’s smile dropped as Dick smothered a laugh. “Watch your mouth,” Dick scolded without any heat behind it. Danny smirked. 

“It’s okay, Dick,” Bruce said, straightening up. “I’m sure Danny’s just shaken up from the sudden change. I’m feel the same, since you didn’t tell any of your friends or family that you were taking in a child.”

“Oh, so you can adopt a child without telling anyone, but when I do it—”

Alfred stepped in. “If you both could contain yourselves a minute longer, I can get the Young Masters settled in. I’ve already arranged a room for you in the family ward, Young Master Danny, if you’d like to rest? It is still rather early in the morning.”

“It might be better to give him a tour of the manor before anything else,” Dick said, eyeing Danny warrily. 

“I’m not going to get lost.”

“Mhmm.” Dick didn’t believe him. 

“I’m not!”

“Just like how you didn’t get lost at the precinct? Or at the morgue? Or at—”

“I never got lost on the streets!” Danny thought that was rather impressive. Besides, it’s not his fault the morgue was just empty hallways that all looked the same!

“The streets are labeled. Besides, you’ll never know where the in-house theater is without a tour.” Dick winked, like that was a big selling point. 

Bruce interrupted them. “Why don't you give him a tour after we talk, Dick? It’s been a long time since we last spoke and I was hoping to ask you about your… recent life change.”

Dick pinched the bridge of nose. “Of course you want to start the interrogation right away,” he muttered, eyebrows furrowed. “Alright, but I don’t want Danny to hear this. Alfie, could you– Tim!” Following Dick’s glance, Danny found a teenager in his fancy pajamas standing on the stairs leading to the second floor. The teen, who looked enough like Dick to be his brother and Bruce’s son, rubbed his eyes like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Tim can take you on the tour! Come on, Danny.” 

Dick ushered Danny up the stairs to Tim. “Will you be okay without me?” Danny asked, not wanting to leave Dick alone with Bruce.

He got a bright smile in return. Danny didn’t trust it. “Of course I will, kiddo. Don’t worry about me, just focus on having fun with Timmy.”

Tim looked blearily between them. “What is going on?”

“You’re taking Danny on a tour so he doesn’t hear me and Bruce fight,” Dick told him plainly. “Danny, this is my brother and Bruce’s foster son, Tim. Tim, this is my foster son, Danny. You two have fun!”

Ignoring Tim’s protests that he hadn’t had breakfast yet, Dick pushed them up the stairs and into the immediate hallway, closing the door behind him. They stared at each other for a moment before Danny pressed his ear against the crack in the door. “When did Dick get a kid?” Tim asked.

“Like, three weeks ago, keep up.” Tim tried to say something again, but Danny shushed him. After a moment, Tim joined him in eavesdropping by the door. 

Dick spoke. “I’ll start. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you both I was fostering a kid. I was planning to inform you after the two month mark and Danny had settled in a bit more, but obviously that plan is out the window.”

“I accept your apology, Master Dick,” Alfred said, and there was a sigh of relief. “However, I would still like to know how this happened in the first place.”

“I’m more interested in knowing how you managed to foster him without us being interviewed as character references.”

“...I may have used my boss’ influence to make sure that only my co-workers were interviewed?” Dick admitted.

“Master Richard.”

“I’m sorry, Alfie, but he’s a flight risk! Do you know how many times I managed to get him to come home with me only for him to disappear in the middle of the night!? Fourteen times! Danny’s admitted that he ran away from his previous home, he still hasn’t told me his real last name, and he’s paranoid enough to give Bruce a run for his money! I’ve just barely managed to gain his trust. I didn’t need Bruce being Bruce to ruin it for us—”

“If you had asked me to stay away, I would have—”

“No you wouldn’t, Bruce! You’d pick and prod and try to uncover his every little secret because you don’t trust me to figure it out myself! If Danny had suspected that someone was looking into his past, he would have bolted, B. And I would have lost him forever.”

Danny nodded. He would have. Not that Bruce would have found anything about his past–the perks of getting stuck in an alternate dimension–but some rich asshole poking his nose in his business? Danny would have snuck onto the next bus out of the city.

“You can barely take care of yourself, Dick!” Bruce insisted. “If it was such a dire situation, then you could have contacted me and I would have–”

“–Lost him immediately because he has a strange hatred for billionaires?” Dick scoffed. “He wouldn’t let you get within six feet of him if you tried to take custody.”

“I–”

“He bites too.”

“Dick–”

“Hard.”

“Richard–”

“And it’s pretty bold of you to say I can’t take care of myself. Have you looked in the mirror recently? Because the word hypocrite is written across your forehead in crayon.”

“But I’m not the one who struggles to make rent each month.” Danny flinched. He’d known that Dick didn’t get paid that much, but was it really that bad? Didn’t Dick get a pay increase when he was made detective? Or was Danny taking so much money that it negated the pay increase— “Nevertheless, I’m not trying to take custody away from you, Dick. I’m just… trying to figure out how we got to this point.”

“We got to this point by not trusting each other,” Dick said tiredly. “And I still don’t trust you, not after what you did.”

Dick, I–”

“No, Bruce. This is my life. Besides you were only a few years older than me when my parents died and you decided to raise me on your own. It’s hypocritical for you to complain that I’m doing the same. Look, I’ve known Danny for over a year–”

“You mean you’ve hid this from me for over a year?”

“Bruce–”

“I knew I should have been suspicious when you got that foster license. You’ve been planning this for months–”

“Bruce!” Dick snapped, and Danny had never heard Dick that mad before, not even the first time they met. “Obviously I’ve been planning this for months! I’ve been planning this since the first week I met Danny! The only reason I got that damn license was for him!” He felt… warm. Danny knew that foster licenses were hard to get, but Dick had really wanted him since the week they met. Danny had been so… feral back then, he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting him, not even Jazz. Dick continued, voice barely audible through the door. “He’s a good kid. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

A sigh. “I just… don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret, that’s all.”

“Are you saying you regret adopting me?” The angry voice was back. “Adopting Jason?”

“That’s not what I meant—!”

Tim pulled him away from the door. “We shouldn’t be listening to this. Come on, let’s start that tour you need.”

Danny tried to pull away, but Tim was deceptively strong for his thin frame. Despite his struggles, he was halfway down the hall before he knew it. “Let me go, cocksleeve!”

“You don’t need to hear that,” Tim said. “Trust me, things always get… heated between them, when Jason is brought up. That’s not something you need to witness.”

Jason, huh? That must be the linchpin in this entire investigation. Dick had never mentioned a Jason before, but he was clearly important if the entire family got bent out of shape for him. Did Dick cut contact with Bruce because of this Jason? Did Jason force Dick to do it? Dick would never abandon his family like that, Danny knew this had to be true because of his determination in trying to take Danny home, but if he was forced to stay away… Maybe Jason is an associate of Bruce that Dick hates?

Danny finally managed to jerk his arm away. His entire hand ached. “You don’t have to drag me!”

Shock crossed Tim’s face, like he’d finally realized what he was doing, before it fell. “I’m sorry, Danny. I shouldn’t have pulled you. It’s just… Jason isn’t something you should hear about, at your age. I would appreciate it if you didn’t bring him up, especially around Bruce. Okay?”

Studying the boy, Danny agreed. Sounds like Jason’s some sort of criminal contact, so it was best to behave carefully. Danny kicked at the ground, scraping dirt off onto the carpet that ran in the center of the hall. “So, what do you guys do for fun around here?” He asked. “I don’t need a tour, I’m not a baby.”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I just spent the night in the library, working on a case? If you want to lend a hand with that?”

Danny narrowed his eyes. “I thought you just woke up?”

“...Just because I was in the library doesn’t mean I was awake the entire time.”

Ah, a fellow insomniac. His eyes narrowed further. “I only like interesting cases. What kind are we talking about? Fraud? Robbery? Some dinky school kid project?”

“Multiple homicides. If that’s interesting enough for you?”

“...Carry on.”

A/N: Anyway, I’m using @/jedipirateking’s age chart for the ages of Batman characters. Since we’re right before Under the Red Hood, that makes Dick 24. Danny is roughly a year younger than Damian, but was originally 17 before he was deaged. 

Dick: Yes, this is my feral street child. Danny: *foaming at the mouth, swearing*

Tim, internally: Oh! Dick must have already informed Danny about our identities! They work on cases together too, maybe we can work on one to bond? Danny, internally: Wow, rich people have weird ass hobbies

Danny: *so close, yet so far from figuring out the Jason thing* Red Hood: Did someone just walk over my fucking grave again?

Yes, some things are being kept vague on purpose. That’s for a better reveal in the future.

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#dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dpxdc #constantine jr au #c: danny fenton #c: nightwing #c: tim drake #c: alfred pennyworth #c: bruce wayne #c: jason todd #fictag dgvg

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER FIVE — CHEERLEADERS MAKE BAD NEIGHBORS

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summary: after you get kicked off the cheerleading squad by an enraged tina, you're stranded in a rainstorm of biblical proprtions- and the only safe haven is eddie munson's trailer. fuck. content warnings: MINORS DNI I'M NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU HERE- male masturbation, sexualized language, some mild objectification, cursing, smoking, drinking, drug mention, reader backstory (i do it for the plot the plot the plot), steve harrington cameo, reader is a pretentious bitch word count: 10.1k

Dear reader, Joan Didion said something because Joan Didion is always saying something. Particularly to me. She comes at me hard, smacking me in the back of the head with perfect clarity and I have not gotten around to not resenting her for it yet. 

‘I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.’

Joan Didion probably did not have to stay on nodding terms with a girl she used to be in order to score a cheerleading scholarship because her family blitzed her college fund on ill-chosen legal advice. 

But she’s got a point.  

You remember that day with perfect clarity. 

Middle school had been a lesson in elocution, thanks to your then-best friend Phoebe’s older sister Casey. Phoebe was a relic of your former life– a bookish indoor kid with Coke bottle glasses, a slight stammer and a distinct lack of style. Despite this, you loved Phoebe and she loved you. But more than that, more than anything, you loved that Phoebe had an older sister. 

A cool older sister. 

Casey was popular in the best way, which is to say that she wasn’t showy about it but she wasn’t humble either. By recognizing the power of being hot and likeable, she knew nothing could ever touch her. 

You wanted to be just like that. 

You remember the first time Casey told you you’ve got potential. Her hand-me-downs were a little too big for Phoebe, because Casey had boobs and Phoebe’s hadn’t come in yet. Even as a pre-teen, you knew an opportunity when you saw it. Can I try that top? And you did, flipping your hair and adjusting yourself in the mirror just like you’d watched Casey do a hundred times, sitting on her bedroom floor and soaking up her knowledge while Phoebe moaned and sulked about being bored. 

Check you out, hot stuff, Casey had smirked, but not in a way where you felt stupid. You’ve got potential.

The shirt didn’t feel entirely right on you, but the way Casey regarded you did. 

Fast forward– your first day of freshman year. You were in the parking lot, stepping out of the passenger side of Casey’s car. Phoebe slid out of the back seat, shoulders slumped forward. You were dressed in an outfit that you and Casey spent hours agonizing over the night before–first impressions are everything, girl–while, again, Phoebe looked on glaring. 

Come meet some of the crew, Casey said, pointedly to you and not to Phoebe. 

Hey– I thought were were going to find our homerooms together, Phoebe protested, grabbing you by the elbow. She knew she wasn’t invited. And she didn’t care– she’d never cared for Casey and her ‘airhead ways’, as she so derisively called them. 

Yeah, girl! you affirmed, a note-perfect impression of her older sister. Phoebe’s big eyes flared with disbelief. You’d spent junior high carefully studying Casey’s every movement, absorbing and adopting her behaviors as your own. Stella Adler would have loved your ass. Don’t worry about it. I’ll catch up with you later, ‘kay?

Make a move, freshman! Casey yelled, and you came trotting after her. There would be no catching up later, and you knew that. You bit back the sinking in your stomach with a Bonne Bell-glossed smile. 

Look, I love my sister, Casey murmured, but I’m glad that you’re my little freshman experiment, ‘kay? You are way more fun that Phoebs and her goddamn library card. 

You nodded, wordlessly grateful. Way more fun. The older girl confiding in you like this made you feel warm, included, grown-up. But not quite so grown-up that you remembered to watch where you were going– the laces of your left Chuck Taylor All-Stars came undone, sending you tripping– tripping–

Oof! Right into the muscular arms of Steve Harrington. Steve Harrington and his autumn colored eyes, his swathe of hair that seemed to grow more voluminous the more girls he flirted with, his shock of grown-up cologne and his perfect, perfect, perfect smile.

But it wasn’t just Steve Harrington. It was also all the surrounding popular kids that had already made a name for themselves coming up alongside you in middle school–Tina, Carol and her boyfriend Tommy Hagan–mingling with the older kids. 

You okay? Steve asked, his voice all breathy and cute the way boys voices are when they’re halfway making fun of you. 

Uh-huh, you nodded, lashes fluttering like crazy as you wracked your brain for something smart to say. 

Let me help you out here.

Then Steve did something you never thought possible, something right out of your daydreams. He got down on one knee and started to re-tie your shoe. 

Better watch yourself, Lacy, he said, tightening the bunny ears, gazing right up at you, Wiping out on the first day is not a good look.

Lacy. Lacy. Your heartbeat quickened at the nickname, hammering like hummingbird wings. It was the greatest thing you’d ever heard– it makes you feel fresh. New. Seen for the first time. Seen by Steve Harrington for the first time. 

Can you blame me? you said before you knew you were saying it; a common occurrence with you, You’re just too easy to fall for, Harrington. 

You drawled out too easy like you’re making fun of him, which of course you weren’t, because he’s Steve Harrington and you would never– but it earned some warm guffaws from the surrounding kids and a little ugh, please, from Tommy Hagan. 

Hagan’s something else. Hagan’s hated you since day dot, and you him. You remember his merciless teasing of some kid during Nancy Wheeler’s thirteenth birthday party, the last boy-girl party of your middle school careers, goading that they were too chicken to go into the closet with you for Seven Minutes in Heaven.

Steve grinned at you, eyebrows quirking upward. A fizzing feeling ran through your sternum and you felt like you might faint. Casey threw an arm around your shoulder, a magnet for attention. Well, it looks like some of you already know my little Lacy! You guys better be fuckin’ cool to her, okay, or else you’ve got me to answer to. 

You smiled up at her, the older sister you’d always prayed for, and she looked impressed with you. That’s all you wanted. That’s all you craved. That, and for Steve Harrington and everybody else to never quit calling you Lacy. 

And they didn’t.

Everything you’d gleaned from Casey equipped you to cruise through freshman year with no speedbumps, no checkpoints– you knew exactly how to wear your hair, how to flirt, how not to flirt, what not to eat, who not to be seen with… and even better than that, these people really took a shine to you. The girls especially.

Hawkins isn’t kind to teenage girls. It’s heavy with passive-aggressive Midwestern sensibility, with all the backwards, misogynistic attitude that comes along with that. It’s not overt, it’s insidious. It makes sense that these girls were scared. Few women make it out of here, and look at the ones that don’t. Their mothers. Your mother.

But what was even scarier was to want something more. To strive for better and be met with the begrudgery of your attempt. To think about life outside the snowglobe of this wicked little town. 

That's the thing with wanting. It doesn’t leave you alone. It gnaws at you while you zone out in the cafeteria, churning around with the half fat yogurt in your stomach. It finds you in the middle of the night, awake on the floor of your friend Carol’s room after an evening of pounding secret wine coolers and picking apart the rest of the Hawkins student body for their flaws and faults, looking around at your friends and thinking, 

God, I fucking hate these people. God, I’ve got to get out.

And you were working on it. Like a motherfucker, you were working on it– perfect grades, perfect attendance, the perfect extracurriculars in an excruciating balancing act with your demanding social life. Keep your record spotless and you could fly the coop to any college you wanted.

One such extracurricular was–is cheerleading. And god, you were great. You’re a flyer, one of the shining, pretty faces responsible for revving up the Hawkins Tigers and their adoring fans. Given your propensity for perfectionism, it’s an obvious position for you. Tina, the reigning captain of the cheer squad, had even taken you under her wing and spit shined up your back handsprings when you tried out as a freshman. Tina had a prior career as a child gymnast, making her a shoo-in for the title come senior year. And here she is now, hollering you all into formation. 

It’s Thursday, and it’s still the week from hell. You had almost forgot about cheer practice, but here you are, in your green and white and gold, ponytail too tight and bruise fading out. The tension between you and Tina casts a thick haze over the gym, the other, less-clued-in members of the squad not exactly knowing where to look. 

It probably wasn’t fair, outing Tina and her indiscretion with Hagan like that. But you felt like a cornered animal. It was all you could do, after all of them subtly chipping away at you for weeks when you’d done nothing but be there for them. Wiped their tears. 

Bought their crabs lotion, in Tina’s case. 

“Sloppy, Lacy! Again!” She’s drilling you like you’ve never been drilled before. Each twist and flip you perform, she finds something wrong with it– and you can’t even tell her she’s wrong. You have gotten sloppy, because your head’s not in the game. While cheerleading was a social and athletic high at one time, it wasn’t high on your list of priorities right now. Dismounting your bases and tugging your ponytail ever tighter over your skull, you stalk towards her. 

“Alright, Tina!” you yell, bubbling over with frustration. “How about you just drop the Russian gym coach bit and tell me what I’m doing wrong? Or is yelling at me all you got?” 

She does her best attempt at a withering glare. You can’t help but think it looks like something she learned from you. “How about I show you instead?”

Tina shoulder checks you, hard, and calls to one of the underclassmen. A mousy sophomore with sandy bangs and blazing Bambi eyes. This kid looks terrified, and knowing Tina’s reputation, she should be. “Cunningham! You’re up!”

Chrissy Cunningham. Right. Heir to the throne of Hawkins High. You don’t think you’ve heard her speak more than a couple of words and most of those have been in response to her Aryan meathead boyfriend, Jason Carver. 

But for what Cunningham lacks in vocal force, she makes up for in aerodynamics. This girl makes a basket toss look like ballet, ponytail pirouetting as she lands in the bases’ arms. Every move, faultless. She’s locked in. 

“That is what I want. What I don’t want, Lacy, is a flyer that looks like she’s losing control of her rectum mid-toss,” Tina hollers. “We all know how crucial this weekend is. Not just for us, but for the Tigers, too. Right? So that means the last thing we need is dead weight dragging us down.” She locks her laserlike stare on you. “Right?”

The squad mumbles in the affirmative. Chrissy Cunningham visibly gulps.

And you? A knife slices right through you, cold and exacting. You almost gag, trying to swallow through your thickening throat. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” 

“You tell me, Lace. You’re the one that knows everything.”

You don’t waste a second of time trying to counter-argue, because you can’t be sure it won’t end in your limbs flailing, trying to smash Tina’s head against the waxed floorboards of the gym. Instead, you grab your bag. You give the squad a grimacing nod and head to heave the double doors open. 

The sound of your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor makes you want to tear your shoes off and throw them through a window, just to watch the glass shatter.

You really never thought of yourself as a violent person, not until– everything happened. 

But now, god, now you just want to punch and tear and rip everything apart. This slow burn of your social status, your friends, your tether to reality as you know it slipping away is torturous. You’d rather burn it all up than let it swallow you whole. 

Standing on the front steps of the school, your eyes automatically dart to the parking lot. 

It’s not there. He’s not there.

And why would he be? you think, starting in the direction of the trailer park. You hadn’t spoken to him since that day in the record store, leaving him hanging with his hands behind his back and his mouth in that grin.

There was a reason for that. Call it post-high clarity or something else, but you knew right then you needed to focus the fuck up. Quit acting out because of your daddy’s mistakes and prove all of these shitheels wrong once and for all. 

Blend in. Stop causing trouble. Fall in line and study hard and cheer harder and get the hell out of dodge once you get your hands on that high school diploma. By whatever means necessary. Those means really did not include hanging out with Eddie Munson for even a second longer than you already had. 

–which is a nice thought and all, but Tina really shit all over that one with this shedding the dead weight move. 

The clouds above you carry the most pathetic of pathetic fallacies, gray and pregnant with rain that starts to hit you square on the crown of your head in fat, heavy drops. You’re still fifteen minutes from the trailer park, at least, and you don’t have a raincoat. You don’t have an umbrella. And you don’t fucking care.

You stomp up the dirt drive leading into Forest Hills, the pleats of your green skirt heavy with water, your cheerleader’s cardigan weighing down your shoulders. Your white knee-high socks are flecked with mud and getting dirtier with every sloppy step. And the rain, the relentless relentless rain, is streaming into your eyes, streaming mascara with it. 

You gasp against the cold of the downpour as you approach your trailer– and a glowing yellow light catches in your peripheral vision. His bedroom, the one you can see into from your bedroom. Though you try not to look. And sometimes you fail. 

You don’t see much, when you do look. It’s mostly his hunching figure, bent over his guitar or some binder or book or map or figurine. But he always seems calmer, the frenetic energy he wears around like chainmail finally falling to the floor. Watching him like that makes you want to breathe a sigh of relief right along with him, just to see if you’d feel similarly. Calmer. 

Calm is not how you feel right now, wiping the rain from your face as you dig in your bag for your keys. Once, twice, thrice they slip out of your hands, and on the fourth try, you finally get them in the door. And then– the key strains in the lock. Come on. This door has always been unnecessarily sticky, but this wasn’t really the time– you push and you push the silver key to the left with no give. 

Was your mom in there? Had she left her key in the door by accident before she went on another overnighter with Prince Valium? “Mom! Mom!” you yell, hammering on the door. No dice. You pull at the key again, and pull and pull and– 

Snap.

You shudder, a full body shake that’s only partially down to the rainwater that’s soaked you right to the bone marrow. The key has snapped off in the lock, leaving you standing there with a useless silver nub. 

“Fuck!” you holler, “Fuckfuckfuckfuck fuck! Fucking–shit!” 

Your fists go straight to the side of the trailer, banging one after the other against the metallic veneer. You don’t care that it hurts your knuckles, you want it to dent or crack or something, you want to not feel so impotent and fucking useless, but here you are! 

“Hey! Asshole!”

Your head whips around, heavy, sodden ponytail smacking you in the face. 

Eddie Munson is leaning out his bedroom window, barely visible through the downpour. 

“Keep it down! You’re in a residential goddamn area!” He’s not smiling that shiteating smile. He’s not even grinning. He’s just glowering at you, which is the look you’re most accustomed to seeing him wear. Even so, it feels– it feels– it makes you feel worse. 

“Fuck you!” you scream across to him, “Who died and made you the fucking neighborhood watch?!”

“Go inside, you lunatic!”

“My fucking– my key broke off, dickhead!” 

That makes his brow loosen a little bit. You just stand there, gasping in the rain. And then he disappears from the window–

–only to fling open the front door of his trailer. 

“Come on,” he grumbles, massaging the space between his eyebrows like he can’t believe what he’s fucking doing. 

“No.” 

“What? Cut the shit, Lacy, come inside.” 

“No! I don’t want to!” 

Munson’s face opens up in an expression of sheer incredulity– and you partially can’t believe yourself either. What is it about him that just makes you shove and shove and shove, unable to let him win– or in this case, unable to let him help? 

“Fine! Fucking drown out there for all I care!” The trailer door slams.

Your teeth have started to chatter, and your options from here on out are… walk or hitch your way back to town and drag your sodden ass somewhere there’s a phone where you then call your mom and pray she’ll pick up (she won’t) and tell her about the lock and try to tell her about the cheerleading squad and pray she’ll understand how upset you are (she won’t) and how much of an awful spiral this whole year has become and it’s not even Christmas yet and–

The trailer door swings back open. 

Eddie Munson comes stalking out into the rain, white Reeboks splattering mud everywhere. He’s wearing that shirt from his Dungeons and Dragons club, the one with the big fucking smug Satan splayed across it and you wonder, did he model that after himself? 

“What’s your fucking problem?” he asks, point blank. It feels like he’s aiming something at you. 

“I’m having a shitty fucking day!” you scream in response, making that dog belonging to that red headed kid sister of Billy Hargrove’s yap somewhere in the distance. “And I keep telling you, I don’t need your fucking–”

“Help? Right!” he scoffs, loud and indignant, crossing his arms across his chest. The fabric of the ringer tee is changing color before your eyes, clinging to him. “You don’t need my help yet you always take it, you don’t wanna be seen with me yet you end up at my lunch table, in my van, smoking my weed– you know, it may shock you but I’m not exactly thrilled to be seen with you either, Lacy! I mean, playing chauffeur to a grade A certified bitch that wouldn’t give me the time of day unless she was desperate? Who stood by and let her shitty friends, who aren’t even her friends anymore, make mine and my friends’ life a living hell for how many years? What kind of an asshole does that make me? How pathetic is that?” 

The way he spits the word bitch– it was different from the way he said it in the record store. There, it felt like a come-on. A compliment. Here, it feels like a curse. But oh, he doesn’t stop there! You are rooted to the spot, an unmoving target for his justified rage. 

“You can’t even play ignorant, y’know, because I’ve seen you. You’re smarter than them. You know how godawful those people are–Harrington, Carver, Carol, fucking Hagan worst of all–and you just let ‘em run. Because you needed that status, you needed to be the most evil fucking twat at the twat table, and for what? They left you, Lacy! They all left you!” 

You’re not sure at what point in his speech you started sobbing but at its crescendo, you yelp. It’s a high, pathetic sound you wish you could stuff back inside your throat and hopefully choke yourself with. See, you know all these things. You’ve told them to yourself in your most honest moments, of which there are not many, but having Eddie Munson lay them out for you in the pouring rain– it’s horrible. You’re horrible. 

Eddie’s arms move from where they were bound on his chest. Okay, that was an outburst, sure, but he didn’t mean to make you cry. And you’re like, really crying. He can’t stand it when girls cry, and you, in particular–you, having never displayed much emotion beyond bemusement and annoyance and mild disgust toward him–is especially frightening. 

And then you let out this scream. It comes right from the center of your chest, rumbling and primal and visceral and real. It’s a real noise, not one you put careful, curative thought into, tuning it just right before you let it out. Because in this instance, he’s right! You’ve worked so hard, and for what! For fucking nothing! For it to blow up in your face! So you let out another howl– and it feels so, so good. A feeling of satisfaction, more than a feeling of relief–

–so Eddie screams too. God, that feels fantastic.

His is heavier than yours, obviously, because he’s a guy and he probably screams as a hobby in whatever metal band he supposedly plays in. But you like that sound. You like the way it seems to ring off the exteriors of the trailer, ricocheting around like a pinball in its machine. 

A couple more painful sobs escape you, and Eddie’s taking tentative steps toward you, like you’re a snarling animal he’s trying to coax. 

In ways, you are, but that’s because you feel hunted. You have to blink, through tears and through rain, but you see that his shirt is so soaked that it’s see-through. You can see a vague suggestion of a tattoo on his chest. You see that he’s fighting a smile. 

This is so stupid. This is so ridiculous, that you could make a noise like that and completely short circuit the white hot anger he was spewing at you. 

“Come inside,” he breathes, a little less than a foot of space between you, “You lunatic.”

Your head, so heavy on your neck, so heavy from crying, so heavy from carrying your spiteful brain around, falls against his chest. 

“Uhh…” Eddie mumbles, hands hovering behind your back, not sure if he’s supposed to embrace you or if you’re about to rip his heart out of his chest. Either could be true. 

You know what you’d prefer. 

You’re positive he doesn’t here you exhale into his chest, into the mouth of the cartoon Satan, into the thrum of his jumping heartbeat. Sorry. I’m really… I’m so sorry.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “hey. Shit.” His hand finally rests in between your shoulder blades. You let him guide you inside, and he even picks up the book bag you had thrown in the mud. You reach, try to grab it from him, but he yanks it out of your grasp. Half teasing, half assuring you that it’s okay.

A squeaky, squelching silence settles between you two as you stand in his doorway. You’re creating a puddle near some old work boots. You wonder if they’re his– you’ve never seen him not wear those Reeboks. 

“So… welcome,” he cringes, emitting a pitchy, awkward laugh. You follow him through to the kitchenette, which is identical to your kitchenette, except every surface is not covered in legal correspondence or empty wine bottles or too-expensive tchotchkes. The light in here seems dimmer, warmer. There’s a distinct aroma of stale cigarette smoke and old coffee, which you breathe in deep. “Sorry for the mess–”

“It’s fine. It’s good mess,” you say, a little distant. You peer around the place like you’re in a gallery. 

“Good mess?” he queries, crossing to the kitchen sink where he attempts to wring his shirt out by hand– still wearing it. 

“Lived-in mess,” you say. What you mean is, it doesn’t look like a mausoleum of a life someone left behind. A storage locker. A haphazard sarcophagus. Before you moved to the trailer, your house was so clean– that was a whole other problem. The same tchotchkes that are scattered on your counter were kept behind glass, only touched when your mother polished them, the only housework she ever did. You stare at a collection of trucker hats nailed along the living room wall, the shelf of novelty mugs that accompanies them. 

“Living in mess? What is that, like living in filth? You better start showing this fine abode some respect before–”

“Lived. In. Munson, I said, lived in if you would just listen– it’s good, it’s fine. It’s n-nice.” 

It’s warm in the trailer, you can tell, but you’re shivering. You bear down in your body, jaw all set so your teeth don’t start chattering again, but he hears it in your voice. 

“Uh-oh,” he says, somehow not at all betraying any signs of being out in the freezing rain except for being entirely soaked. You bet his skin is still running hot, like you felt through his shirt, like you felt grabbing his wrist. “Star cheerleader’s coming down with a case of hypothermia. Right before the big game!” 

He slaps his hands to his cheeks in mock horror. 

“I’m–” you’re about to tell him a couple things; one, that you’re fine which would be stupid, because you are so clearly not fine; two, you’re not the star cheerleader anymore; and a third, forgotten thing. “--cold,” is what you settle on. It sounds small, vulnerable.

Eddie holds his breath for a second. You sound so delicate. Hard, terrible you.

“No, sure, of course you are,” he fumbles. The way his wet hair has flattened to his skull makes him look younger– exposing a nervous boy behind the metalhead posturing. “You can– take a shower. If you want. To warm up.” 

Take a shower. In Eddie Munson’s trailer. Your eyelids flutter closed, taking on their own vibrations from the wracking of your body. This is a hell of my own making. “Yes. Sure. Thank you.”

“I can also,” he starts, crossing the kitchen again and knocking something over on his way– it just clatters to the floor, whatever it was, and he lets it, like he’s used to leaving crashing sounds in his wake. “I can take your clothes if you want. Put ‘em in the washer.” 

You hesitate a beat, then follow him down a hallway. 

“I probably have something you can wear,” he says. There’s a note in his tone that’s high and nervous. “You’re for sure gonna hate it, but hey– beats freezing to death.” 

“Just barely,” you murmur. 

“Huh?”

“This, uh– this is dry-clean only,” you correct yourself, gesturing to the uniform. 

He rolls his eyes. “Of course. Only the best for the pom-pom shakers.” 

He ducks into a room that must be his bedroom, but you don’t follow him. Instead, you linger in the hallway, near the dingy bathroom, staring at the corn themed wall calendar. Going into his bedroom feels too personal– too intimate, as if preparing to take a shower in Eddie Munson’s trailer only to change into his clothes isn’t intimate. 

“I figured,” he says, emerging from the bedroom with clothes and a towel in hand, “since you like all that rinky-dinky-tinkly garbage, you wouldn’t hate wearing a Stooges shirt.” 

“I–” the shirt is soft under your wrinkled fingers, as are the boxers he passes off to you. Boxers. You hold them up between your forefinger and thumb, stepping into the bathroom. “These are clean, right?”

Eddie stares at you for a second– then leans his head into the bathroom and shakes his sopping locks at you, just like a dog. You let out a shriek that he thinks almost sounds like an involuntary giggle. I’ll take it.

“No comment!” And he slams the door on you. 

Then you’re standing. In Eddie Munson’s trailer. In Eddie Munson’s bathroom. Holding his old Stooges shirt and his boxers, with mascara running down your face. 

You pinch yourself, hard, just in case. 

The shower heats up quick–quicker than yours, you notice–and you rest your head against the tile as the steam swirls up around you. This is so weird. This is so fucking weird, and you can’t scrub away the weirdness fast enough. There’s not enough Irish Spring in the world. You reach into the shower caddy to replace the bottle and notice something familiar– wait, that’s–

Wait. 

Do you and Eddie Munson use the same brand of shampoo? 

You had to switch from your favorite to the best that the Big Buy had to offer, given the change in your personal means, and this was the top score in terms of quality. Eddie Munson apparently agrees– but better yet, you realize as a grin spreads across your face, Munson uses women’s shampoo. 

It’s nice to have a fresh piece of arsenal to aim at him once you get out of the shower. 

Toweling off and changing, you do give the boxers a wary sniff before you put them on– but luckily, they smell like generic detergent and aren’t stiff in any way. So you slide them on.

They fit snugly– naturally, given he’s all sinewy and you have hips. He is really sinewy, now that you think about it. 

His wrist wasn’t bony, but it was active. Tendons flexing under the thin, soaked layer of his shirt. You wonder, absently, was that a tattoo you saw. What is it. What does it look like. Is it shitty. It’s his, so it’s probably shitty, but I want to see it. Does he have any more. 

You shiver, slipping the Stooges t-shirt on, and blame your hardening nipples on the cold.

The cheer outfit is another problem. You emerge from the bathroom, clutching the still-sodden uniform with Eddie’s– Munson’s towel thrown over your shoulder. 

“Do you have, like, a garbage bag or something?” you ask, eyes rising to look at him where he stands in the doorframe of his room. He’s still in his soaked clothes. 

He takes a second to answer you, and when he does, his voice is all thick. Avoiding eye contact. 

“Suuure,” and he disappears and reappears with a plastic bag, quick as a blink. 

“Thanks.” You dump the uniform, sneakers and all, into the bag and make for the door. 

“Hey, it’s still raining–” his voice follows you, as if you hadn’t heard the raindrop gunshots hitting the trailer roof. 

“Yup,” you say, popping the ‘p’. You yank Munson’s door open and fling the garbage bag outside. It lands squarely between your trailer and his. 

Munson appears over your shoulder, looking out at the garbage bag. His face is twisted in confusion, concern, curiosity. 

“I got kicked off,” you explain, plain as biscuits. 

“Off the pom pom squad?” he whispers, eyes flaring in surprise that you think might actually be real. You’re looking at his lashes again, fanning around the almost-perfect circles of his eye sockets. 

“The very same.”

“Escándalo. What happened?”

“How about you go and shower first,” you suggest, poking a finger into his chest. He makes a little breathy noise, a little ‘unh’, that you don’t… hate. “Can’t have the star dork of the make believe board game club catch his death, can we?” 

“Anything happens to me and you’re the prime suspect, babe,” he grins and snaps the towel off your shoulder. 

“Hey!”

“This is the last clean one. What am I, a fuckin’ Rockefeller?”

-

Christ, he wants to jerk off into this towel but he knows that’s weird. That’s perverted. That’s fucked up. That’s everything everyone says about him and that’s everything you make him feel. 

So he strips, turns the hot water to scalding and furiously rubs one out down the drain. One, because he feels bizarre about leaving you alone among all of his things for too long and two, because hot water is in short supply. 

And three, because he’s achingly rock hard at the sight of you in his boxers, tossing your cheerleading outfit into the mud and the wet. 

The metaphors. The implications. The feeling of your forehead against his chest. The stab of your finger in his sternum. 

He cums jaggedly, almost silently, with his mouth rammed against his forearm. 

If you heard him– God, you’d be so nasty about it. God, he’d never live it down. God, he’d love to know what you’d say.

He makes damn quick work of sudsing up and rinsing down, wrapping a towel around his waist– only to run into you as he’s coming out of the bathroom. 

You stare. You stare at him, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry, and all the blood drains away from his brain. Again.

“Stare much?” he sneers, but only just about. Because his first instinct is to drop the towel and give you an eyeful. See what you’d do– hopefully something with your mouth. God, he hopes it’d be something with your mouth. 

“Where are your smokes?” you snap back. “I know you have some.”

“Kitchen. There’s probably–,” he needs you to stop looking at him like that; like you’re going to snap his neck, “--kitchen.”

Eddie slams his bedroom door and smacks his face with three quick strikes. “Come on, man! Get it together!” 

Because it’s go time. 

He has to formulate some kind of plan. 

He hadn’t exactly thought ahead when he invited you inside–or, demanded you come inside–and since you now had no place to go and Wayne had specifically told him not to go near you and your boobs were stretching out his dad’s old Stooges t-shirt…

Christ. 

He’s entirely, massively, completely at a loss. Eddie paces around the room like an animal in panic, grabbing a Scorpion shirt and some worn flannel pants as he goes. 

“Like, I’m supposed to go out there and do what? Ask her to hang out? Fucking paint her nails, read Cosmo? Study?! Jesus!” he angrily mumbles to his reflection, tearing the towel away and tugging his t-shirt over his sopping hair. “Hey, Lacy, you wanna beer? Who am I, Steve fucking Harrington? Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ, dude!”

“Munson. Are you talking to me in there?” He hears your voice from a minute distance away– see, that’s the thing about trailers. Small space, thin walls, and Eddie Munson’s voice travels at super speed. 

He stops, seizing, cringing, shoulders hitching up to his ears. 

That was not enough time to formulate a plan. 

Eddie, jankily tugging his pants on, sweeps out to the kitchenette area like something is chasing him and stops dead when he sees you. You haven’t trashed the place. You haven’t even tried to stick your head in the oven, two things he was kind of concerned about given the way you were wailing outside. 

You’re standing in the middle of the room with your hip cocked out, smoking a stolen cigarette and studying his uncle’s trucker hat collection. 

All the air in the room seems to orbit around you like a tornado in slow motion. 

How is it that you make an old shirt and boxers look like a skirt set? How is it that you can be sobbing your lungs out one minute, then the picture of poise and sophistication the next? 

All that air and none left for Eddie to take a breath.

“Hey, Lacy,” he strains, “you wanna beer?” 

“What,” you purr– like, he’s so sure that you actually purr, “You mean you’re all out of Sancerre?”

He does not know what the hell that is, but he can only assume it’s some rich people bullshit– and he’s relieved. You’re mocking him. At least that’s some tether to normalcy. She’s baa-aack. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, not entirely meaning it, but if he beams right at you he’s going to give the game away. 

“Think fast!” He tosses a can of the cheapest beer available at the Big Buy your way and you just about catch it, hands above your head and the cigarette dangling out of your mouth like Keith Richards. 

“God, Munson,” you mumble around the filter, “What kept you off the basketball team?” 

“Half a brain and a big dick,” he smirks, cracking the pull top and snatching the soft pack of cigarettes you’d left on the countertop. You cross from the living room, propping yourself up on the counter stool in a fluid movement that can only be described as feline. 

“Well, we sure can account for one of those things,” you say, ashing with your right hand and tapping at your temple with your left. 

“And the other?” Eddie asks, voice dropping a mocking octave. 

“I’d sooner drink arsenic than find out.”

He raises his beer can to you. “In that case, cheers!”

Your mouth twists around a smile and Eddie can see you’re fighting hard to keep it at bay. And that you’re losing. You tip your beer to your lips and he braces his elbows on the counter, looking around for a lighter. He spots a Bic, but the trigger won’t light it– just sparks, no flame. 

“That thing’s dead,” you say, “I lit this off the toaster.” 

“Oh! Right,” Eddie goes to turn, but something chilly snaps to his forearm. Your fingers. Damn. What is it with you? Circulation thing or what?

“Don’t do that,” you shake your head. “I don’t trust you not to burn the whole trailer down.”

“This is my trailer, y’know.”

“Yeah, and I’m in it. So burn it down on your own time.”

You motion for him to light his cigarette off the half-burned length of yours and Eddie tentatively places the filter between his lips. You prop yourself up on the stool, ass raised from the seat, leaning toward him. He leans in too and you cup that little hand with the perfectly painted fingers around the cigarettes. Like you’re whispering a secret. You look down, focusing on making fire, but Eddie’s eyes follow the tiny crease of your brow, the slope of your nose. The little wipe of mascara still underneath your eye. 

Tips touch and Eddie inhales just as you do. The cherried ends of the smokes glow orange and you pull back and Eddie just stays there a moment, frozen with the now-lit ember hanging out of his mouth. 

You pull back and inhale that smoke like one of those chicks from those black and white movies Wayne is always watching. You exhale all daintily, in one perfect clouding stream. You’re all– you’re so–... 

“Fucked,” you groan, shoving the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I am so fucked.” 

Eddie finally tugs the cigarette from his mouth, filter gone a little soft with the low-level salivating he’d been doing. “Oh. The cheerleader shit?”

“Yes, Munson. The cheerleader shit.” 

“What happened, anyway?” He resumes the position of being elbow-up on the countertop, which incidentally brings him a little bit closer to you. Incidentally. “You crack some skulls this time?”

“Huh,” you chuckle emptily, “Almost. Um, Tina more or less took me out at the knees. Which, I understand of course. If I were her, I would have obliterated me, but–” 

“You’re not her, and it doesn’t feel awesome to be on the other end of obliterated,” Eddie nods, giving you a squint-eyed pout of mock-sympathy. “Poor Lacy. Getting shitkicked by the consequences of her own actions.”

Thunk! You punch him in the shoulder, which hurts and he gasps, but it’s so funny and categorically unladylike coming from you. These little peals of violence that keep coming off you are a seemingly bottomless source of amusement for him. 

She’s so funny-looking when she’s mad. 

“Fuck off!” you bark, as if reading him like a goddamn horoscope, but there’s a glimmer to your narrowed stare. “I got replaced by a sophomore, as if I needed an insult topping on that injury shitshake.” 

“Oh, she Old Yeller’d your ass!” Eddie gasps again, chuckling heartily, “Took you out back and–” He mimes blowing your brains right out, nailing you right through the forehead. You stare at him square, unimpressed. “Who usurped ya?”

“Chrissy Cunningham.”

Oh. Well, isn’t that interesting. Eddie’s lips flatten into a straight line and he makes a little mmh sound. And you pick up on that immediately, being that you’re annoyingly perceptive. 

“Munson! Come on!” 

“What? Whaaat? I didn’t say anything!”

“That’s a child.”

“That is a sophomore and you said so yourself. Besides…” he trails off, pointedly crushing the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray until it’s oversquished. “...we have history.”

If his cigarette extinguishing was pointed, yours is needle sharp with the way you crush it into the ashtray right next to the remnants of his. 

“Go on,” you hum, just like you did in the van that last night. I really wanna know. It’s conspiratorial and intoxicating and makes it feel like you’re on his side, which you know he’s not but it’s so, so tasty to think that for a second you might be. 

Is this how you make everyone feel? Lull ‘em into a false sense of security? Hoard your ammo and go apeshit later? 

Eddie draws back, nearly congratulating himself for doing so. “That’s for me to know, and you to die ignorant.” 

The way your lips pop open is almost too good, your little doll face turning to a mask of betrayal too quick for you to hide it. Too quick for you to be all like fine! Keep it to yourself! You’re both totally irrelevant anyway! or whatever other bitchy retort you’re bound to come up with. 

“Wow. Well, if that holds any water, Carver’ll shit,” you start, sipping on your beer, “His little virgin Mary deflowered by the devil’s first alternate.” 

“Hey, I never said–!” Fuck. Fuck! How do you do that! Eddie pinches his lips together as you smirk over the rim of the beer can, all stuck under your gaze. Fly in the spider’s web. 

“A-ha,” you say, irritatingly smoothly. “So nothing happened. She’s just spank bank material.” 

“Didn’t– say that either,” Eddie mumbles, mind going annoyingly blank under your rapid fire tearing and the inebriating way you’re delivering it. He hates this and he has no intention of telling you to stop. The duality of man. 

“Didn’t not say that, though.” 

“You oughta be a lawyer,” he tells you, swigging deep, “the way you find a loophole in everything.”

“The way you want me to get you off, you mean.” 

You come out with that, something so incendiary, oh-so-casually and slip off your seat. She can’t just do that. You’re padding around the living room again, bare footed and small-looking, but Eddie’s staring at you like you’re a hand grenade with the pin missing that also has the secret to everlasting life inside. Terrified. Fascinated. 

A little stiff.

“What?” he breathes, but doesn’t really want you to answer the question. 

And you don’t, you just keep looking around the living room with your arms crossed over your chest. “You need money to be a lawyer, Munson. To go to law school. To go to any school. And I don’t have that. And I foolishly figured getting a cheerleading scholarship would be a cinch of a backup plan, and now I can’t do that either.”

“What are you looking for?” he asks, finally willing his dick down and his legs to work, rounding into the living room with you. 

“Your, like… stereo, or record player, or something,” you murmur, smoothing down his boxers over your hips. “It’s too quiet in here.”

Eddie blinks. What should really happen is he should say, no, stay out here in the silence, you insolent wench. Think on your crimes. Reflect. Repent. Stop being such a bossy little ballbreaker and give my balls a break.

“Room. Uh– it’s in my room,” is what he says instead. 

“‘kay,” is all you say with a little shrug of your shoulder, grabbing your can from the counter and padding down the hallway toward that same bedroom. His bedroom. Eddie Munson’s bedroom with his bed and his shit in it. “Let’s go.”

How irregular does your heartbeat have to get before you classify it as a cardiac event?

-

There’s only so many times you can flagellate yourself with the ol’ what the fuck are you doing thing before it becomes redundant.

Songs get overplayed, nail polish color gets overused, trends die. Things become redundant all the time, and you discard them. 

The notion of what the fuck are you doing in Eddie Munson’s trailer in Eddie Munson’s boxers walking towards Eddie Munson’s bedroom has become redundant because you simply are doing all those things. Not much point in questioning them. The chips have fallen. 

An eerie calm had come over you when he was in the shower and you were staring at all of these trucker hats on the wall– if the insanity is temporary, you might as well lean into it. You can’t go anywhere else. You’re trapped. Might as well get comfortable.

“God, this place is filthy, Munson.” You, with your arms still bound across your chest, toe a discarded t-shirt out of your path as you move into the bedroom with that same reserved interest of a gallery-goer. The place is cluttered, posters and flyers and doodles torn out of notebooks tacked up on the wall in total disarray. Every surface area is covered in what could be organized chaos, but knowing Munson the little that you do, you doubt it. 

To test the theory, you ask, “Where are your records? Tapes, anything?”

But he’s just lingering in the doorway, chewing on the end of a lock of hair. Watching you stand in the middle of the room with astronaut eyes, unblinking. It’s kind of– sweet, in a deeply unnerving way. He looks like a kid. 

Your brow furrows, grimace turning your lips into a point.

“Fine. Ogle me like a goddamn lobotomy patient, then.”

You resume your perusing of his things, when you spot the most precious piece of hardware hanging by the mirror. A marbled black and red body fashioned into nasty spikes. You reach out to give the strings an aimless thrum but your wrist is rapidly snatched away. 

“Nuh-uh. That’s where I draw the line,” Munson says, shuffling you away from the guitar like a security guard. A flash of something as your calves hit his mattress– him shepherding you toward your own bed, you drunk out of your gourd. “Siddown.”

And you sit, bouncing against the sinking mattress on impact. Rubbing at the spot on your wrist that his fingers had been squeezing. Staring up at him glowering down at you. “Ow.”

And Munson, it turns out, knows where everything is in his nuclear fallout of a room. He shoves a shoebox of tapes into your hands and nudges a bigger milk crate full of records nearer to you with his foot. 

“Knock yourself out,” he huffs, flinging himself face-down on the mattress next to you. You jerk; always the court jester, this guy. “Not that you’re gonna find anything you want to listen to.” 

A scoff flies out of your mouth before you’ve got a chance to suppress it– he’s gotta know, right? He’s gotta know he can’t just say shit like that to you without you fully activating that I can do anything you can do better–backwards–bleeding–in heels chip in your brain. You’ll show him. There’s nothing that matters to you more in the world right now than showing him. 

Though, rattling through his box of tapes, each one bearing a different variation of hot chick and the Devil artwork, you’ve got your work cut out for you. W.A.S.P. Mercyful Fate. Dirty Rotten Imbeciles. Witchfinder General. Some band that’s literally just called Loudness, for Chrissake. As you flick and flick, hope wavering, one catches your eye. There’s a jump in your throat. Scrawled letterhead against a draped satin background. A photo of something you always figured was a headless marble statue, though you could never be sure. 

“Why do you have this?”

No response from the corpse of Munson, presumably smothered by his own comforter.

“Hey!” you tap the back of his skull with the plastic casing. One eye appears, glaring up at you from the mattress. Rattle rattle goes the Cocteau Twins tape as you shake it in its case. “Thought this was haunted doll music.” 

“Ow.” Munson slowly raises himself onto his elbows, looking like he’s about to start kicking his legs in the air behind him. Twirling his hair around his finger. A grin is edging onto his lips, lips he’s pulling strands of hair away from. 

“Sometimes the five finger discount chooses you.” 

A feeling akin to heat spreads rights across your breastbone. You want to pry, secretly. You want an explanation. Why would you take that? Do you like me, or something? But asking speaks it into existence, and the insanity is temporary, and you’re so waiting for dawn to break on it so you can resume some hobbled together semblance of a normal existence. 

One that doesn’t include Eddie Munson stealing tapes that make you feel ticklish in order to, I don’t know, listen to them on his own so he can feel ticklish too. 

He hadn’t listened to it, for the record. Not all the way through, at least. 

He’d gotten as far as track two and had to switch it off, ejecting it out of the tape deck of his van with such speed that he was sure it’d shoot clean through the doors in the back. Too close, too real. That had veered a little out of the lane of objectifying you as someone whose crotch he maybe wanted to bury his face in and a little into the lane of you being like, a person. With feelings. 

The events of tonight aren’t helping that case. He hoped that lying face down for as long as he possibly could might let them just unfold around him, like he’d roll over and you’d just be gone, no evidence left behind except for your hair in the drain. 

But you demand attention. Eddie might be obvious, but you demand attention. His attention, at least. 

He grabs the tape from you. “We’re not listenin’ to that bullshit. Try again.”

“Fine!” you snap, but there’s this irritating bemusement dancing around your face. 

You lean forward from your spot on the mattress and tug the milk crate between your calves. Now, this is more your lane– in here, Munson’s got the classics. Or as close to the classics as he will deign to recognise. Zeppelin, Sabbath, Alice Cooper, Blue Öyster Cult– the combination of which you have something borderline mean to say about, but you’ll leave that ‘til later. You dig around, and then.

And then. Hello there, handsome.

In your hands are twelve inches of beauty, belonging to a grisly-voiced Tom Waits. Blue Valentine. Straight to the record player with this old bastard.

“People give this record too much shit,” you remark, and Eddie watches you as you tentatively lift a sock off the turntable. Yeah, he’ll cop to it, he doesn’t take such good care of some of his gear, but sometimes his brain behaves like a police scanner. Lotta channels operating at once. Anyway. Doesn’t matter. He’s watching you lift the needle onto the vinyl right now. “People say that this is a mediocre addition to the oeuvre, but what is mediocre about this–!”

Rousing strings seep from the stereo speakers– it’s Waits’ cover of Somewhere from West Side Story. Eddie knows it within the first half a second because, and now he’ll never admit it since he knows you like it so much, he has played this album to death. 

Somewhere around the halfway mark of Christmas Card For a Hooker in Minneapolis, the record will skip because it's scratched. Or well-loved, if you ask Eddie. 

“Fucking Robert Christgau thinks he’s being funny, doing this, y’know,” you sneer, examining the record sleeve as if you hadn’t seen it thirty thousand times before. Your copy had been lost in the move, among a number of your little sonic secrets. The records you’d keep to listen to by yourself, lying on your bedroom floor. “As if the whole core of Tom Waits’ whole thing isn’t heartache, the sentimentality of what-if. What if we could, what if life wasn’t garbage. That’s sentimentality, right there. It’s West Side Story, I mean, c'mon. Tom Waits is singing to us with his heart on his sleeve, but Christgau wants to suddenly be pedantic, turn around and be like, it’s a vaudeville act! because Waits sometimes also wears his dick on his sleeve.”

It’s a tirade you’ve often repeated to yourself, in your diary or alone in your room, pretending like you’re on a panel, pretending like you’re Susan Sontag and people actually give a shit what you actually have to say. You can’t exactly figure why you’ve said it again now. Maybe because you always found the strings on this song too much to bear without emoting, and you’re already vulnerable and tired. 

Munson, for his part, has flipped over onto his back on the mattress. “Who?” he drones.

“Robert Christgau,” you say, momentarily distracted by the way his shirt has rucked up around his belly. No six pack. Some meat there. Tendons, like you’d noticed before. “Just one of the most seminal rock writers of our time.”

You have a well-thumbed copy of his Record Guide: Rock Albums of the Seventies somewhere in a still-unpacked box.

Munson has a happy trail that curls like brushstrokes.

“You fucking trifler,” you grumble.

His face takes on that terrible look that he’d given you in the record store, all enraptured and cloudy at the corners of his eyes. Looking at you from where he leans on his elbows, one knee propped up, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. You want to shove it back down. 

And see what he’ll do about that. 

“How do you know all this shit?” he asks. Eddie can’t help this. He can’t help that he keeps changing his channel about you (again, police scanner) because one second you’ll be such a massive pain in the ass, then the next, you’ll say something so clever that it’ll make him want to vomit. 

“I like music,” you say, flatly. You give it to him straight, because you suddenly feel searched. You clutch Waitsy’s printed face to your chest in an effort of self-defense. “And I like… words. Kind of makes sense that I would enjoy music journalism, if you’re not totally stupid.” 

“I’m only a little stupid.” 

“Debatable.” 

“Wait, but I mean–” and he’s gearing up, because Eddie is about to ask you a real question. Something that’s been on his mind, the more ice shavings he can tear off of you. Considering you, all three dimensions of you– four, if you add in how much you like to punch him and stuff. “You’re like, incredibly smart, right.”

“Yes.”

“Like, perfect grades.”

“Almost. Save Kaminsky, because he can’t teach for shit and he can’t grade for piss.”

“And you’re a cheerleader… like, an important one?”

“Artist formerly known as, but yes.”

“And you’re on the newspaper.” 

“Very perceptive, aren't we.”

“You’re also popular– or, yeah, were. You party and stuff. You’re always hanging out with those assholes who don’t do half the shit that you do.”

 “Are you closing in on a point here, Munson?”

“How?” he nearly whispers, tone close to dreamy. “You’ve gotta have like, body doubles running around or something because no human person could possibly have that much time in the day. How the fuck did you do all that and also be running around ready to cite, like, an issue of the New Yorker from 1975, and not go completely insane?”

How do you know I’m not completely insane. Because, if he had ever witnessed how Jekyll and Hyde you could get, smacking the shit out of yourself with your hairbrush before you could turn on and be Lacy the cheerleader, Lacy the hot chick, Lacy the playground bitch, he would think you are totally insane. 

You answer him half-straight this time. 

“Diet pills.”

This makes him sit up, and makes you take a couple of steps back towards the bed. You flop down, tossing the Blue Valentine sleeve to the side. 

“Diet pills,” he repeats. 

“Oohhh, yes,” you nod, drawing the shape of the cylindrical pills on his comforter with your finger. You don’t really want to look up at him. “Rainbow diet pills. Soon as I hit my menses, I started lifting them from my mom.” 

“Isn’t that stuff illegal?” Eddie murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, mimicking your criss-cross applesauce seating position. “It’s basically speed, right?”

“Said the drug dealer,” a snort bursts from you. You’ve moved your fidgeting, starting to braid your half-damp hair. “And it is. It’s fully speed. I was doing baby Valley of the Dolls at age thirteen.”

“That is fucked up, Lacy.” 

“Yeah. Well. I'm a little fucked up, or haven't you heard?” 

“There’s been rumblings.” Eddie watches your fingers work, weaving locks of hair, one over the other. He’s never braided his hair. He wonders what it might look like. You come to the end and twist it around your finger, at a loss for a hair tie. He sticks a finger under his leather and silver bracelet, digging out an elastic he keeps handy, just in case. There are a lot of times that Eddie needs to yank his hair out of his face just to focus. “Here.” 

You mouth a silent thanks and wind the elastic around the tuft of hair. Tom Waits whines away about rain washing memories from the sidewalks and you feel weirdly… at ease. You’ve shared a couple of rainbow diet pills with Nicole and Carol (Tina doesn’t mess with amphetamines, a consummate athlete), but you’ve never had anyone ask you how you’ve managed to be the person you’re pretending to be. 

To put the clues together about your impossible do-it-all identity.

And not react in disgust when he finds out you’re fallible. 

“Hey,” Eddie says. Something about hearing you rattle off, not sniping for once, saying something real… it eased the heartburn. It has loosened his tension around you, a little. He figures it’s his turn to say something real. “I’m sorry I called you evil.” 

Most evil twat at the twat table, you nearly correct. “You had grounds.”

“No, no, I didn’t. You–” this is actually harder for him to get out than he thought, “You’re trying. You’re trying really hard to make the best of a messed up situation, and maybe I should’ve seen that– but I didn’t, because it’s high school, and it’s dumb, and I’m trying too, and we’re all trying, just to survive this messed up microcosm of the world– and– and–" He huffs. It's you gazing at him this time. Eyes sparkling in the half-light cast by his bedside lamp. You're... really pretty. "Jesus, can you just forgive me so I can stop talking?”

“That’s a first,” you say. “Microcosm is a five dollar vocab word, Eddie.”

The way you say his name. “I’m a changed man.”

“Can you use adulation in a sentence next?” Your big grin is devastating.

He leans right into you, dastardly looking suddenly. “Is this provocation getting you hot, you psycho?”

Fingertips braced over your knees, your torso keening just the right amount of degrees to favor him, your stare making an unsubtle job of darting from Eddie’s lashes to his lips to his lashes to his lips… 

“Maybe.” A beat. A heavy beat. “What are you gonna do about it?” 

In any other world, with any other person, the wanting would completely make sense. Wanting him to say nothing more and just do, to plant a big, ringed hand either side of your hips and pull you into his lap. To crush his lips against yours. To dig his hands into your thighs, to wind your fingers into his hair. To feel the chill of silver traveling up, under the back of your borrowed shirt, to press down onto him and–

Hey Charlie, I almost went crazy-ayzy-ayzy-ayzy-ay–

Eddie doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t mean to, but his head snaps away from you just as the record starts to skip. 

Then the door slams.

Fuck.

“Ed?”

Wayne.

He totally forgot to formulate that plan.

author's notes: ZOOWEE MAMA HOW WE FEELING ARE YOU STILL WITH ME longest chapter in the fic so far. thanks for keepin up. i love you, let's not waste any time, i don't think i've got a lot of notes for you this go around but i love you - there is nothing more secretly pretentious teenage girl than loving joan didion and susan sontag (i know this because i was her, i am her to this day in fragments) but particularly joan didion on keeping a notebook really sticks to one's ribs. this is not the last joan didion ref in this fic, sorry for being unbearable - stella adler, the mother of method acting - steve harrington being the originator of the nickname lacy is a tribute to him showing signs of being a goofy motherfucker from day dot. please see this post. it was always there, we just couldn't see it in freshman year because of all the hairspray - what's going on with tommy hagan? does anyone really care but me, probably not. but for those that are keeping tick on the timeline (don't)- he got held back senior year, hence why he did not graduate with steve and is in the same grade as eddie, lacy, carol, et al. - WICKED LITTLE TOWN!!!! - the stooges t-shirt is yet another flight of icarus pick; al wears a stooges shirt and i creamed because i love the stooges. let's listen to one of my favorites - loudness are a metal band from osaka, japan! they got signed to an american label in 1985, but how did eddie munson get that tape in hawkins, indiana in 1984? well, my theory is that eddie loves music and jerry from main street vinyl loves benzos. a trade's a trade's a trade. - reader, you are an 18y/o girl who thinks you're better than everyone. of course you're stealing lester bangs' opinions on blue oyster cult and making them your own - and shitting on robert christgau bc you've got a wetty for tom waits - also, here is tom waits' cover of somewhere! my theory on eddie being a tom waits fan-- of course he is, that man looks and sounds like billy goat gruff and is a storytella just like eddie is. he would especially be into his later stuff, like the megalithic orphans album. y'all remember this song from shrek 2 - rainbow diet pills were a real insane thing! this seems more accessible than adderall for the time period, which modern!lacy would certainly have been abusing - for the time that's in it, let me present tom waits' anti-christmas song, christmas card from a hooker in minneapolis my loves, if you've still stuck with me this far, i thank you greatly. i know i'm nutso but i'm having fun writing this fic. i would've been writing it if nobody was reading, but it's a billion times better now that you are. reblogs are always appreciated, and the inbox is always open to chat shit ♡

#published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #e. munson by powder

[ghost-proofbaby]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER SIX: IS IT OVER NOW?

LET'S FAST FORWARD TO THREE HUNDRED TAKEOUT COFFEES LATER, I SEE YOUR PROFILE AND YOUR SMILE ON UNSUSPECTING WAITERS.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, minors dni

☆ WC: 5.8K+

☆ A/N: if i could put the entirety of the lyrics to this song on here, i would. it's! their! song! (side note: these idiots need to start making progress before i tear my hair out i mean it. they make me think about jumping off of very tall somethings)

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

The coffeeshop that Eddie chooses isn’t one you’re familiar with. It’s smaller, more hidden, tucked away in an unsuspecting corner and disguised from prying eyes. 

It wouldn’t have been your first choice, but you’re sure his thought process on choosing public locations differs from yours now. One wrong move, and he’s sure to end up on the cover of another magazine. Actually, one wrong breath, and the public eye probably eats him alive. 

He’d sort of brought that upon himself, building up such a polarizing reputation all by his own hands. 

“Ever been before?” he asks as the two of you stand in line, the scent of espresso burning your nose and the hiss of steam wands cutting straight through the soft chatter of fellow patrons. 

You only shake your head. No words to ease his clear anxiety as you watch him shift his weight between his two feet and his hands dig deep into his pockets. 

“It’s pretty good,” he continues to ramble, looking up at the menu rather than you, “They’ve got decent hot coffee, and their lattes aren’t too bad. I like the vanilla one best, which is probably boring but-”

“Eddie,” you interrupt him sternly, “What happened to not talking?” 

He scoffs a little, finally turning to look at you. “We aren’t seated yet. Once we get a table, I swear, my lips are sealed.” 

You highly doubt that. 

It’s torture being this close to him for this long. The accidental bumps of his elbow against your shoulder that send you jumping from the contact. The way you nearly stepped on his foot when you’d shuffled out of the way for someone, and your apology got tangled on your tongue when he’d reached out to steady you. In small moments, when he’s too busy glancing nervously around the cafe, you spare him longer looks. Since he first came tumbling back into your life a mere week ago, you’d been staunch on your stance that he had changed beyond measure. But here, out at a coffee shop with just the two of you present along with all his nervousness, you can see glimpses of something familiar beneath the surface. The way he bites his lip, the way he fiddles with his rings, how he’s occasionally humming tunes beneath his breath as he avoids eye contact with you – you hate it. You hate every aspect of it, and all the painful nostalgia it stirs within you. 

It reminds you of your first date with him, back in Hawkins. All the confidence he’d exuded at that Halloween party you’d met him at had disappeared the moment he got you alone sober. As if he had felt the weight of what this would become from day one, as if he knew just how much of both your future’s rested in one stupid date. 

You almost get lost in the memories before it’s your turn to order at the counter. 

“Just a vanilla latte, please.” 

You can see his small smile out of the corner of your eye. A small trace of triumph is clear as day as you order the exact thing he just said was his favorite. It wasn’t intentional, but there’s no use trying to convince him of that. 

It’s just a coincidence, you try to convince yourself. It just sounded good after he brought it up. 

“I’ll have the same,” he tells the barista behind the counter, moving to pull out his wallet. 

On your first date with him, you had bickered endlessly about who would pay. And you nearly do it again – you nearly reach out a hand to stop him and insist you could pay for your own coffee on instinct. 

It would be so easy to let history repeat itself, to watch your greatest hits reinvent themselves at this moment. Maybe, this time around, the two of you can get it right. 

You don’t move a single muscle as he hands over his card. 

He murmurs out a soft thank you when it’s returned to him with a receipt, and you’re already turned to scout out a table to sit at. 

There’s plentiful booths, a few high-tops by the front windows. There’s even half booths lining one wall of the cafe. If you were out on your own, all of these choices would be perfect. You’d take a seat at any of the tables and be content, especially the high-tops that offered the perfect opportunity for people watching between work. 

You choose a table in one of the back corners. Somewhere darker, and far from everyone else in the building. Somewhere hidden. 

“Here?” he questions, hesitating behind you as you drop your bag down beside one of the chairs.

“Something wrong with this table?” you ask over your shoulder, hand gripping on the back of the chair as if it could ground you. 

“I mean… not really,” you turn and look at him over your shoulder, “It’s just kind of dark back here, and you used to like sitting by windows-”

Your throat tightens at it – the acknowledgement that he remembers. That he can recall anything from the past, of you, of your time spent together. Part of you had been convinced he’d taken a sledgehammer to the past, shattered it into something unrecognizable and abandoned it altogether. 

He hadn’t. It should have been obvious, but he hadn’t. 

“Maybe I’ve changed,” you cut in, gaze unwavering as you dare him to challenge you on the fact, “Besides, I don’t want to be distracted while I work.” 

You won’t lose this game; whatever he’s currently playing at, you can’t afford to lose. You are not the girl he remembers, and he is not the man you’ve mourned for two years. Both of you, it seems, need that reminder. 

He joins you at the shadowy table without another word. 

You take to setting up your laptop and notebook, powering up your devices as you flip back open to your pages of contacts and physical notes already taken. Your eyes refuse to find his the entire time as you log in, as you open up to that damn refusal from the latest venue, as you sigh harshly out your nose at that bitter reminder of failure. 

When they call your names for the lattes, he’s up and retrieving them without you even asking him to. 

In your short time alone at the table, you lean forward to rest your forehead on the palms of your hands. It’s exhausting – being around him, pretending like you wouldn’t have enjoyed the view out the window, facing the reality that his mess had once again become yours. Every inch of your skin prickles with the need to run. And yet you don’t. You could have told him no, easily turned down his offer for coffee. But you didn’t, so now, you’ll live with the consequences. 

“One vanilla latte,” Eddie appears, setting down that takeout cup of coffee down in front of you before he takes his seat, “I didn’t know if you’d want any extra sugars, but if you do, I can grab them-”

“Thanks,” you interrupt blandly, lifting your head from your hands as you watch him sit down his own coffee. You really, really didn’t want to hear him ramble anymore. 

Didn’t want to ponder how it’s almost as endearing as the first day you met him. Didn’t want to think about how each syllable that falls from his lips strikes something deep in you, something stained and something yearning for erasure of a past both of you can’t change now. Didn’t want to keep caving so damn easily. 

You are meant to be furious. You have every right to be; he left first, he stopped loving you first, he broke this first. You’ve had two years to gather up all your grief and all your anger, package it nicely with a bow on top, and that is what you should be handing over to him right now. Not forgiveness, not understanding. Certainly not endearment. 

Something in your chest still shudders at the sight of his wince when he tries to sip the hot latte too soon, effectively burning his lip and tongue. 

“So, you come here often?”

What the hell happened to not talking? 

It’s not him to blame – it’s you. The words tumble out embarrassingly quickly. You had a plan, why weren’t you following the plan? Get a free coffee, get a break from the office, maybe manage to have some sort of breakthrough while away from that stuffy building. You weren’t supposed to be talking to him.

And he knows it. Damn it, does he know it as his lips curl at their corners ever so slightly, “Yeah. It’s convenient, nice and close to the studio.”

Where the fuck had all his rambles disappeared to? What are you supposed to do with such a short, such a normal response? 

“Right,” you nod, acting as though the location of his studio would be common knowledge to you, “Right, no, of course. It’s good to have a convenient coffee place.” 

He leans back in his chair, nervousness misting away and some sort of confidence creeping in instead. Fuck him. 

“Do you have one around here?” 

He’s testing the waters, seeing just how much conversation you’ll allow. The threshold should be none. Zilch. A resounding absolutely not. 

“I usually stop by the Starbucks closest to my apartment.”

So much for that.

“Starbucks?” he crinkles his nose, and dear Lord, you need to look away. Save yourself the heartbreak, because those wrinkles are almost a replica map of the ones you remember back in Hawkins when he’d make faces at you across the Hideout when someone would approach him with boring conversation he wanted no part in. The same disgust, the same silent conversation between you transpiring, “I thought you were always a coffee snob. Hated that shit.” 

You had been. When he had known you, you had hated that subpar commercial coffee.

“Like I said,” you swallow hard, looking down to your keyboard, realizing the conversation needed to end, “People change.” 

Did you change, though? You still hated the taste of your morning coffee, cringed at either the burnt bitterness or overwhelming sweetness you could never find peaceful equilibrium between. A thousand different orders, a thousand different experiments, and you still had yet to find anything that satisfied your caffeine cravings. 

Kind of like how you window-shopped at the bars. How you’d look over various men that Romina pointed out, and only shake your head before picking out something wrong with them. Something that wasn’t to your usual taste, something that wasn’t him. 

You finally take a sip of your latte as Eddie nods, muttering a soft, “Guess so.”

It’s perfect. The latte isn’t too sweet, isn’t too bitter. It’s exactly what you’ve been searching for these last two years. 

“They have really good muffins,” Eddie continues on, mimicking you by taking another sip of his drink. This time, he doesn’t burn his mouth, “Cinnamon rolls, too.”

The small talk is nearly killing you. You should go silent on him, begin to work on figuring out the venue situation. But you watch the way he fiddles with the sleeves of his leather jacket and can’t help but remember the old one with safety pins holding together the sleeves. Finally, you cave outwardly. 

“What kind of venue do you want?” 

It’s not small talk, but it’s not personal talk. It’s just you swallowing your pride, and shocking yourself by reaching out for the help everyone has pestered you with offering the last week. 

“What?” Eddie’s eyes widen, no longer rubbing the fabric between his fingertips.

“The venue for the party,” you elaborate, “What are you looking for in it? Small? Big? Private? Rooftop? I’ve tried asking Matt, and he’s given me nothing to work off of.”

Eddie slowly lifts his hands to lay on the tabletop, watching you with such careful eyes that you can see all the lack of trust in them. “Does it… matter?” 

You scoff, and before your brain or heart can warn you against it, you’re scooting your chair around the table to be closer to Eddie. You pull your laptop along with you, shifting it so that both of you can see the screen as you bring up your list of options. A colorful spreadsheet: rejections highlighted in a muted red, the ones you haven’t heard back from highlighted in soft orange, the ones you’re unsure of and haven’t even sent out queries regarding highlighted in a nearly transparent yellow. 

Only one is highlighted in a pastel green. The one with a rooftop option, as well as several downstairs rooms. The one you thought seemed the most like Eddie.

“Yes, it matters a fuck ton,” you explain, pointing at a random line as his eyes dart about your impressive display, “The ones in red are ones that already rejected me, but most are larger venues you’ve played in the past. By the way, why have you destroyed so many green rooms?”

“I get bored,” he flatly replies, leaning in with squinted eyes, “What does that yellow mean?��

“Those are ones I’m unsure about. Either too big, too small, or too exclusive.”

“And orange?”

“I sent out an email, and haven’t heard back.”

“And…” he pauses as he reaches that venue, “And green? Why’s there only one green?” 

It occurs to you he’s the first person to not turn their nose up at your extensive organization. Everyone else had thought it was stupid, wasteful, to spend so much time on the spreadsheet. No one had asked you to explain the color system before, usually hardly glancing at the screen before brushing you off. 

No one had even questioned the green line yet. 

“Green is the one I think…” you trail off, unsure of why you’re so afraid to admit the meaning. You sort of feel foolish; that terrible imposter syndrome managing to creep up on you as you doubt your judgment, “It’s the one I think might be the best fit. It probably isn’t, I don’t know. Honestly, I can take it off the list-”

“Show me the venue.” 

“I really don’t-”

He interrupts you by saying your name sternly, looking away from the screen to glance at you with raised eyebrows, “Just show me. It can’t be any worse than…” he looks back over the list, letting out a snort, “Jesus, Webster Hall? Yeah, they’re not letting us come back any time soon.” 

“What did you do to them?” you ask, too curious for your own good. Most of the venues wouldn’t divulge the messy details, only staunchly say no and promise they had their reasons once you mentioned Corroded Coffin.

“I’ll tell you if you show me the green venue.”

He knows he’s won when you finally click onto the still open tabs. You’d opened the hyperlink for every single different room, ranging from the large main one to the petty small one on a rooftop. You start with the largest room, and Eddie eagerly drinks in the details on the page.

He whistles softly, only loud enough for you to hear, “Quite the venue.”

“This is just the first room.”

He looks at you, clearly shocked, subtly nodding for you to click through the rest of the tabs. His reaction is fairly consistent as you show each new room, new capacity, new option. You can see the way his face lights up – you had been right.

Your judgment was correct. You hadn’t been an idiot, shouldn’t have doubted yourself. It almost makes you feel as if there’s still a chance that you still know him. Somewhere deep down, beneath your layers of stained armor and his layers of reckless defenses, you still know him. 

“It’s… good,” he says softly after reading over that final tab you had opened, “Like, really good.”

You exhale in relief, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he leans back in his chair, “I don’t think we’ve ever played that venue before, either, so… no wrecked green room to hold over my head.”

You should stay on track and focus; you are making progress. After a week of hopelessness, you were finally not feeling like an absolute failure. Better to keep the train moving forward than to halt right now. 

And yet, your mind picks up on that green room comment again, and you can’t help it – all your focus flies out the window. 

“Why do you fuck up all those green rooms? And don’t just say you were bored,” you ask, curling your hands around your still warm cup of coffee, “I mean, I get it – the rockstar image or whatever – but isn’t it… isn’t it more trouble than it’s worth when it comes to scheduling tours?” 

He shakes his head softly, curls tumbling over tense shoulders, “Definitely not for the rockstar image.” 

“Then why?” you turn your head, ignore the screen, focus on him. On his scruff and the bags under his eyes, on the cracks in his chapped lips. 

On that distinct look overtaking his face that says you overstepped.

“Forget it,” you weakly say, taking back your words to the best of your abilities without being able to pull them back onto your tongue, tuck them back into that box of anger and grief, and curiosity now, apparently. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. Either way, it’s good that these guys have nothing against you, right?” 

“They still might,” Eddie shrugs, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth, “Word travels fast between venues.” 

He says it so sadly, it’s hard to think of a proper response. You know he brought it upon himself. There’s no room for sympathy at this table, in this cafe. 

But it still only adds to your motivation to do this job, and do it well. A parting gift to Eddie; a way to silently swallow the pride leftover from a messy breakup, and apologize for the way you’d left without a trace. Right then and right there, you decide that’s what this has to become. For your peace of mind, and possibly for his. 

“You want a rooftop,” you don’t phrase it as a question, but as a statement as you yank your laptop closer to you, fingers flying over the keyboard, “A rooftop with a nice view, that’s what your email said.”

“I mean, that’d be nice-”

“You all want an open bar,” you add, continuing to type loudly enough a few people glance back towards the dark corner. You pay them no mind, your determination taking over, “And it needs to be smaller than your normal shows according to Matt. That doesn’t mean we have to limit venues by capacity – we could just limit ticket sales.” 

Eddie’s mouth falls open ever so slightly, watching you in awe as you start a new document. Making a checklist of just what was possible. No more spreadsheets littered with reminders of rejections, of what you weren’t sure you could get for the band. It would be nice to have a list of the venues you couldn’t contact now, but there was no need to let their names glare at you every time you reviewed your plans. 

“We need a top three for venues. What are your top three?”

You finally pause your clacking to look at him. Still stunned, still under the spell of watching you come to life. 

It used to be this way back in Hawkins, too. Whenever you took over on a school project, or a new gig for Corroded Coffin. You could do this. You would do this.

“I don’t-” Eddie starts, before taking a deep breath, “The only venues I really know by name are the ones I can’t perform at. The ones that banned me.”

“Awesome,” he shrinks back a little at that, almost in disbelief, but it was awesome. Not that he’d gotten banned, but that you had somewhere to start, “Send me that list. Type it up on your phone right now, and send it.”

“To your email?” he questions, already doing as you’d commanded of him. 

You consider it. Your email was already overflowing with work related notions, and brimming with those goddamn rejections you had yet to delete and move past. 

Personal email was out of the question. You only checked it for coupons from your favorite online shops and notifications from your mother’s Facebook. 

You snatch his phone out of his palm, and don’t look up at him until you navigate to the contacts app, hit the small plus sign, type in the magic number that you don’t check to see if he actually deleted two years ago. You just assume he did.

Your number. 

“Text it to me,” you instruct him as you pass the phone back. His hand still hovers where it’d been when you’d taken the cell phone, as if he’s frozen. “Now, please.” 

You don’t care if it’s stupid to do, it’s necessary. He’ll probably just delete it once you finish this final favor, this final gift to him to send him off and out of your life for good. 

“O-Okay,” he stutters, and not even a minute later, your phone buzzes with a text. 

You flip it over, keep it angled so Eddie can’t see the screen. 

New text from ROCKSTAR ♡ !

He may have deleted your contact, but you’d never deleted his. 

You’d tried to, make no mistake. Spent plenty of late hours staring at that haunted number, even tried to backspace it away a few times. But every time your thumb would hover over the delete button, your hands would shake and knuckles would ache. Every time you’d manage to fully backspace the number away, it was no use; you still knew it by heart, still retyped it and saved it as if nothing had ever changed. There had been a short week of having his number blocked, but you’d given up, unblocked it then sometimes still sat and waited for another round of calls from him begging for a chance to just talk. 

You always seemed to have one foot in the door, one foot out with Eddie. Always stained, never cleaned of him. 

It didn’t matter. After these next three months, you’d delete it. You told yourself you would, for real this time. You’d erase him, properly let him go until you forgot the sound of his voice and couldn’t even recall the first three digits of his phone number. You would. You had to. 

You flip the phone back over and face it down on the table, looking up at him, forcing a polite smile. It kills you – it startles him. 

“Alright, Mr. Rescue Party. Shall we begin?”

—

You never return to the office. 

Hours later, when the sun was setting and the table was littered with empty coffee cups bought by Eddie to continue to fuel the two of you, you receive an email from Lydia. 

Leaving and locking up the office now. Hope the meeting with your client went well. See you tomorrow. 

You blink rapidly at the message, hardly being able to process the time. It was nearly seven. 

“Okay, so, that venue was a no-go,” Eddie says as he approaches the table again, finally stepping back inside from calling your green venue. The two of you had decided it was time to stop sending off emails that could be easily ignored – you were tracking down numbers and calling them directly, now. Forcing them to give an answer then and there rather than putting you off for weeks, “I was right about word traveling between those assholes- What’s wrong?” 

He stops just before he pulls out his chair, leaning down with his forearms pressed into the back of the seat when he notices your expression of shock. 

It had been easy, too easy, to waste away the hours with Eddie. And, sure, the main distraction had been planning and putting everything into action. Eddie had narrowed down his top three venues, you had found a few businesses that would service an open bar and had begun to gather quotes. But it hadn’t all been business. 

Small things had slipped in. A short conversation had been had about the best bars in town when you’d begun that side quest, Eddie admitting which bars in town let him frequent them while offering the most privacy (not many, unsurprisingly) and you’d listed a few of the clubs your coworkers liked to frequent. No overlap to be found. But then, there had been the joking after Eddie called one of his other top three venues and put them on speaker, allowing you to hear the way the owner chewed Eddie out for the time he’d caused chaos at a show that wasn’t even his own. The moment the owner hung up, Eddie had made a face, somewhere between embarrassment and irritation, until you’d finally spoken up and mocked one of the last things the owner had said before the dial tone.

“Don’t you ever call here again,” you’d jokingly mimicked in a deep and comical voice, wagging a finger in Eddie’s direction in fake scolding. 

It hadn’t even been that funny. But the two of you had still descended into giggles like two children, until tears pricked the corners of your eyes and your stomach ached just a little bit. 

Small moments. Small exchanges. Things that were personal, things you wouldn’t have done with a normal client. Things that had a full day slipping away from you quietly in the darkest corner of a coffee shop you never even knew existed mere blocks from your work. 

“It’s seven, Eddie,” you tell him as if he should be just as taken back. He hardly blinks an eye, “We’ve been here seven hours.”

“And?” the creases between his brows finally smooth, standing back up straight, “We’ve been getting shit done, and we’ve been paying customers the entire time. I don’t see the issue.” 

The issue is the way you made work not feel like work. 

The issue was the cycle you had been fearing, avoiding, and falling victim to ever since he’d been waiting for you in that conference room that very first day. Every time Eddie would inch back into your vision, whether right before you as he was now or in the form of emails you’d find yourself reading over before bed, you were forgetting the anger. It kept feeling like a time machine, sending you right back to that very first night. Before the fame, before the hurt.

You have no idea how you’ll manage to keep this to just a parting gift. 

“I just…” your words fall short, because he’s technically right, “I didn’t realize we’d been here that long.” 

Eddie takes his seat with a nonchalant shrug, “Easy to lose track of time when you’re actually getting shit done,” he stops, blanches at his words as he stares at you as if he thinks he’s just insulted you, “Wait, I- No, I just mean- I don’t mean you weren’t getting things done before. I swear.”

You’re not offended in the slightest, “I know. But to be fair, I really wasn’t. I’m sorry for doubting how helpful you’d be when you showed up earlier today.” 

“Don’t do that.”

“What? Apologize?”

“No, discredit yourself,” he stresses. And you hadn’t noticed it, but your two chairs had seemingly grown closer over the hours as his knee bumps your thigh, “You… I’m not an easy client. You were handed a shit deal, plus Matt really wasn’t giving you anything to work with. I wasn’t giving you anything to work with.” 

“I’m working for the entire band,” you remind him, remind yourself. 

All it does is remind you of even more people you miss. Gareth, who was the little brother you never had back in Hawkins. Jeff, who had been one of your closest confidants. Craig, who would’ve answered your phone calls even in the dead of night. All friends you gave up when you walked out on Eddie. You always forget that – you didn’t just leave behind one person, you left behind an entire life.

Eddie’s phone buzzes, and he makes no move to grab it, “Have they been helpful?”

You stare at the phone, waiting for him to reach out. He doesn’t.

“Sort of.”

Another buzz. Another unanswered message Eddie clearly has no interest in responding to. 

“Sort of? What did they ask for in their lists?”

Another buzz. Finally, you break free of whatever conversation Eddie’s trying to have, and lean forward to grab his phone and pass it to him, “You need to check that. What if it’s Matt?”

Eddie doesn’t glance at the phone, only crosses his arms, effectively tucking the phone out of your sight as well, “He can wait. What did the other guys ask for?”

You can hear the next buzz, more muffled against his t-shirt and beneath his jacket.

“Eddie.”

“Sugar.”

He knows the nickname is a weapon against you. He uses it more deliberately this time, not letting it just slip out as it had at the office. 

“Open bar, fuzzy robes, normal things,” you finally spit out, trying to not let the echo of him calling you that name to worm into your brain and begin to rot you away, “Now, check your phone. Please.” 

This time, when the phone buzzes, Eddie removes it from being trapped beneath his armpit and actually looks at the screen. You know immediately you were right; his face falls as he reads over the missed messages, all his teasing fading and that air of light-hearted arrogance being sucked out of the space between you two. 

You don’t need to ask, but you do anyways, “Rockstar duty calls?”

He looks up rapidly, mouth already forming the word no, but you shake your head to stop his lie. 

It’s fine. It’s entirely acceptable that other people need his attention, that he has other affairs to tend to. You had gotten used to it when the two of you were dating and he first made his big break, you shouldn’t expect a change now when you were nothing more than a stranger working for him. It shouldn’t sting, and you shouldn’t feel a small fraction of you hopeful that he’ll be defiant and insist on ignoring those duties.

Today was only ever meant to be one cup of coffee. The fact that you two had lost track, fumbled and turned one cup into four, was only a blip. 

“I get it,” you say, sinking back into your chair. And you did, you really did. It was easier now to understand than it was back then, back when this very type of situation started the domino effect that was the beginning of the end, “You should go if they need you. You are a rockstar, after all.” 

It’s a hard sentiment to say without a trace of bitterness, but you manage. He’s a rockstar. All his hopes, all his dreams, have finally come true. He gets to breathe, he gets to be rowdy, he gets to hear crowds scream back all those lyrics you’d watched him write in his bedroom back in Hawkins. He got everything he wished for. 

You should be happy for him. If this arrangement is going to work, you have to be happy for him. 

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks you as he shoves his phone into the pocket of his jeans, standing and beginning to gather empty coffee cups.

“Work,” you shrug, crossing your arms as you glare at the laptop, already feeling preemptive frustration at the thought of picking up where you’ve left off today, alone. 

It’s not just because you want Eddie to join you on the project. It’s not Eddie’s help that you specifically want. It’s just nice to have someone to help shoulder the load with you, right? 

“At the office?”

“That’s where I usually work, yes.”

“Come to my place instead.”

Time almost freezes. He’s standing there, nearly all of the empty latte cups balanced in his arms, and looking at you as if he hadn’t just asked the most insane possible thing of you. 

“Eddie,” you speak softly, carefully, as your arms drop from your chest, “I don’t think that Lydia would be okay with that-”

“I’m a client,” he points out, “Besides, you’ve been stressed about this project, and I like to think I helped with that today.”

He did. God, he did.

“Just think about it,” he’s nearly begging. Beneath the lowlights of this cafe, features dancing with the reflection of some Christmas lights pinned up to line the top of the wall as they cast an aesthetic glow of gold over the surroundings, Eddie Munson is begging for your time, “You have my number. Think it over tonight, and just text me if you decide you want to. I can send over my address.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Probably not,” at least he’s being honest. But quickly, it becomes apparent he’s misinterpreted you as he continues on, “You’re probably going to get photographed by paparazzi when you show up if you’re not careful, and if they figure out you’re there to see me, you’ll probably end up on the cover of some lowlife magazine-”

“That’s not the part I’m concerned with,” you lament, finally choosing to stand now. The last thing on your mind is publicity, or cameras, or magazines, “I mean, I don’t think it’s a good idea to make this,” you motion your arms between the two of you, “A habit.”

His face falls ever so slightly. A soft drop of his eyebrows, a gentle pinch of his lips. You swear, you watch him nearly drop one of the coffee cups before he regains composure, “It won’t be. It’s… It’s just work, yeah?” 

Just work. Just a project. Just one final parting gift. This is nothing more than a source of closure for the two of you, a slamming of the door on that chapter of your life where the boy standing before you was your end-all, be-all. He’s right – it’s just work. 

Your voice hardly comes out a whisper, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll think about it,” it takes everything in you to level your words, to keep them from shaking, “I’ll ask Lydia, and I’ll let you know.” 

A slow smile spreads across his face, and you can’t ignore the way it puts the glimmering lights on the ceiling to shame. No shade of gold, no twinkling reflection on the windows overlooking the busy street, can compare to the knife his hopeful smile strikes in you. It’s the type of smile that aches, that resonates, that haunts.

It’s the kind of smile that tells you you’re going to bleed for this, no matter how much you resist. 

“Cool,” he nods, finally taking a few steps back, “I’ll see you tomorrow then, maybe?”

The kind of smile that tells you the bloodstain is never going to wash out, whether this is all just for work or not.

“See you tomorrow, Eddie.” 

The idea of closure is about as tangible as smoke and mirrors as he leaves you alone in the dark corner of the coffee shop. It almost hurts as much as it did the first time he walked out to be a rockstar.

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#my writing #ghost's writing #maroon #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst #rockstar eddie munson #will she go to his place the next day? will something happen at his apartment? will i go insane by the end of writing this fic? who knows ! #certainly not me #as the writer it is not my place to know these things #i am just a vessel for my visions #they frustrate me endlessly #as always #if it ain't good do not tell me #this is burning slower than i expected #wah

[eddiemunsons80sbaby]

Never Say Never

Chapter 2

Pairing: SingleDad!StevexReader

Summary: You are a 32 year old single mother, raising your seven year old son on your own. After being widowed at 30 and going out on awful dates with disgusting men for the past month, you have decided that you're giving up. You already had your great love. One person can't possibly get lucky enough to have two in their lifetime. But then your son starts playing baseball and the coach might just change your mind about that.

No posting schedule.

18+ only for eventual smut

Word Count: 7.3K

1

“It seems to be just a case of the common cold,” you told the worried mother. “Dr. Wilson said she just needs rest and to make sure she drinks lots of fluids. She should be back to herself within a few days.”

“Thanks. I know I’m probably being silly rushing her in here but she kept waking up last night, crying, and I’m all alone. I’ve just been exhausted having to do everything on my own. It’s been so hard. And with her not feeling well, neither of us have gotten much sleep the last few days. My husband’s in the Air Force and he’s currently deployed and we don’t know when he’s going to get to come back home and my parents live three hundred miles away.”

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Let the feeling come. Acknowledge the feeling and then move forward. You closed your eyes for a moment, centering yourself, not letting this one burrow too far in before you forced it back. Maybe you weren't supposed to push them away but sometimes it was necessary. Like now. You couldn’t be the nurse who assured the nervous mother if you were busy trying to find three things to look at, smell, and move. It wasn’t reassuring to have your medical professional falling apart in front of you.

Pressing your index finger to your thumb, you allowed yourself to feel the sensation, to know you were here. You weren't back there. No one was waiting on the other side of the door to give you the news that would send a wrecking ball through the middle of your life, destroying and altering it forever. You were strong. You were handling it. You were moving forward. Opening your eyes, you put on your best smile. 

“Of course. I can’t imagine how challenging that must be for you.” Actually, you could, but this was not the time or place to share your own story. This was the time to be an empathetic ear, to listen to your patient. It was not the time to unpack your own trauma or make this about yourself. “Please, no need to apologize. You call us whenever you need to. It’s always better to be safe than sorry.”

The mother thanked you, lifting her three year old into her arms. You directed her which way to go. Parents often got a bit turned around in this place, the hallways like a maze to the various exam rooms, like a figure eight. This practice was a thriving one, one that kept you very busy, your days packed with back-to-back appointments. But you preferred it that way. It made your days go faster. 

After you finished college with your Bachelor’s of Science in nursing, you had immediately gotten a job at the local hospital. You'd loved it. The hours were long and you were exhausted all the time but it had been fast-paced and so rewarding. However, it had also been heartbreaking as some children who came into the hospital were there to stay and would never again leave. They would never get tucked into their own bed again, never run through their own backyard again, never sit on the floor of their living room on a Saturday morning eating cereal while watching cartoons again. The job had not just been physically exhausting but mentally and emotionally exhausting as well. 

After you'd found out you were expecting Eli, Justin had suggested that maybe you needed something a bit more predictable. It would be hard for you to work twelve hour shifts with a baby at home. It would be even harder to watch children suffer, watch parents in the darkest moments of their lives, when you had a little one at home. You weren't sure how you could face that kind of heartbreak and then go home to your own child, hoping it never happened to you.

Still, you wouldn’t have given it up if it weren’t for Justin being in the military. With his job, he would often be gone for months at a time, leaving you alone. It hadn’t been a problem before but with your parents living across the country and his parents more than three hours away, you were limited when it came to help. So, you'd applied to the new local pediatrician's office, delighted when you got a call that same week, inviting you in for an interview. 

You'd been there ever since, watching as Dr. Wilson’s practice grew. He was young, just a bit older than you, and new to the job but his warm demeanor and empathetic ear quickly had every mom in town bringing their child to him. It probably didn’t hurt that he was pretty damn good looking too. 

“Hey Rita, I’m going to take my lunch if I don’t have any more patients for a bit,” you told your receptionist as you placed the child’s file into the cabinet. 

“That’s fine. Your next appointment isn’t for an hour so you’re good. I’ll have Sarah handle anything that pops up while you’re out.”

“Thanks.”

You grabbed your lunch bag from the fridge and made your way out of the office, heading for the pond. When it was nice out, you always chose to eat your lunch out here, a little escape from the fluorescent lights and germs of the office. Finding a bench, you sat down, pulling out your bologna sandwich. It wasn’t your usual choice but it had simply felt easier to make two this morning instead of trying to come up with something else for yourself. 

You pulled out your phone, dialing the number of the one person you'd been desperate to talk to after the events of yesterday. Janice was a photographer. She did great business and had multiple clients who came back to her again and again for family portraits, baby pictures, and senior photos. She worked from home, which also meant her hours were flexible and she was almost always available to take your calls. Sure enough, your best friend picked up after two rings. 

“Are you sitting under your tree?”

You laughed, “How did you know?”

“Because it’s your lunchtime and that’s what you always do when the sun is shining. Are the geese around?”

“Yep. The five little babies are swimming with mom and dad. They’re so cute. Little brown fluffballs that look so soft and sweet. I just want to cuddle them.”

“I wouldn’t try it. Geese can be nasty.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Remember when Eli was two and he wanted to feed them and those two geese hissed and opened their wings wide when he got too close. We didn’t know they had a nest right there. I know they were just protecting their babies but that scared the shit out of me.”

“Well, Eli’s your baby. Of course you were scared,” Janice laughed. “Oh my god. That poor kid. He won’t go anywhere near them now. It cemented itself into his brain and gave him a complex. He’ll probably hate those feathered fiends for the rest of his life. So, how was his first baseball practice? Did he love it? Matt can’t wait to talk to him about it.”

“He did. He talked my ear off the whole way home. His best friend is on his team and his coach is the kid’s dad. He loves him and said he was so nice and fun. He’s really patient with the kids. When Eli missed the ball for the third time, he was so upset with himself. The coach was so sweet, giving him some pointers, and assuring him he could do it.”

“Oh…okay, hold on. Wait a minute. Why do you sound like that when you’re talking about his coach?”

“Like what?” you demanded. 

“Like you did in high school when you used to talk about Josh.”

“What? No I don’t.”

“Yeah you do! You’re all gushy. You sound like a Disney princess about to break into song among the forest animals who are going to help you clean your home about the guy you just met in the woods.”

You snorted, “Oh please. No I don’t. I’m just glad that his coach is so kind since Eli is new at this.”

“Uh-huh…so, this coach isn’t cute?”

“I mean, yeah, he is…objectively speaking, most women would say he was very attractive.”

“Most women, huh? And what about you?”

“Yes, okay? Yes, I think he’s very attractive. Anyone with eyes would see that he is good-looking. You should have heard the moms at practice going on about his ass. Married moms basically saying they would cheat on their husbands for this guy. I swear, the housewives club is scary. But it’s just…he’s just Eli’s coach. His son is coming over to our house later today to play with Eli.”

Steve was attractive. Hell, he was possibly the most attractive man you'd ever laid eyes on and that made the guilt just twist in your stomach even harder. Justin had been the love of your life. How could you be so turned around by some guy you barely even knew? You'd spoken for all of three minutes. You didn’t know anything about him besides the fact that he coached kids baseball. 

“Oh, is he now?”

“Janice, stop. Eli and Jeremiah have become best friends this year and Eli asked forever ago if he could come over and I completely forgot about it and it never happened. He asked again yesterday so I promised him I would set it up. That’s all it is.”

“And is his dad coming over to play too?”

You groaned, your hand coming to y our forehead, “Do you have to say it like that? And no he’s not. He has a work meeting. So, I’m kind of helping him out, I guess, but not really because I was going to invite the kid over anyway.”

“So, he’s just dropping him off and picking him up?”

“Well, he may have offered to grab a pizza on his way back to thank me for watching his kid. Which is completely unnecessary because I asked for him to come over before he ever told me about his meeting. I wouldn’t even have known I was babysitting for him if he wouldn’t have told me about it. I never would have expected him to hang around while our kids hung out.”

“Hmm, so you’re going to be having dinner with him, then?”

“And our kids,” you reminded her. 

Janice had this all wrong. Of course she did. He was just being friendly. Your kids were friends and they wanted to spend time together. He’d said it himself, you were helping him out of a bind with childcare issues. That was all. He was just being nice and buying everybody dinner. Your sons were going to be there. It wasn’t like it was a date. 

“Still. You know, I said maybe you could find a hot, single dad at practice and look at you, finding one on the first go! He is single, right?”

“I think so. He said his best friend was busy and he had no one else to watch Jeremiah. That would make me think the mom isn’t in the picture but I honestly have no idea. We barely talked because he had to start the practice.”

“Well, you should have plenty of time to talk tonight and get clarification on his status.”

“I don’t need clarification on his status. I told you, I’m done with all of that. I had Justin. There is no way I will ever find anything that can begin to compare with what we had.”

“You definitely won’t if you just throw in the towel. Come on, Aly. Would it really be so bad to just talk to him a bit? I’m not saying you have to jump his bones tonight. I mean, probably wouldn’t hurt. You haven’t been laid in two years, my friend. Your vagina could use some airing out. Clear all the cobwebs that have settled, you know?”

“Jesus, you are so foul,” you sighed, catching sight of a young family heading into the office. The dad had a little boy on his shoulders. He said something to the mom and she grinned, leaning up onto her toes to kiss him. The sight sent familiar pangs of the loss of what could have been, what should have been, through you. 

“Maybe but you know I’m right. Anyway, if you’re going to be such a prude, then just talk to him. Be his friend. If your kids like each other that much, chances are this won’t be the only time you’re around each other. And then who knows?”

“Yeah…who knows…” you sighed, thinking you did know. The universe was never going to let you get that lucky twice. Something had to be wrong with this guy.

___________________________________________________________

You folded the towel from the dryer as you watched Jeremiah and Eli race around the backyard, dressed up in Eli’s superhero costumes. Your son had an entire bin of them. He was obsessed. Comic books and action figures covered the shelves in his bedroom. Eli had always loved superheroes but Matt, who was a self-proclaimed, very proud nerd, had gotten him into comics. Most of the items Eli now had came from Matt himself, stuff he’d kept since he was a kid.

You'd survived the drop-off, being cordial and friendly without giving off any signals that you were interested in anything more. At least, you thought you were. It was hard to concentrate when that man looked so damn good, standing there in gray slacks and a yellow sweater. When his cologne hit your olfactory nerves, a woodsy scent of sandalwood and pine, you had gripped the door frame, fighting back the swoon that was quickly coming on. But no, you were sure you kept things professional, just two parents in the midst of an exchange for a playdate. 

Besides, you weren't even sure you were interested in anything more. You didn’t even know how to do more at this point. It had been so long since you'd spent real time with any man that wasn’t Justin or Matt. And even if Janice kept pushing you to move on, even if it had been two years, you weren't sure you were ready. 

And you weren't sure if Eli would be ready. His therapist said he was doing well. He had adjusted as best as you could expect a child who’d lost his father to adjust. But did that mean he was ready to see his mom with a new guy? Was it fair to bring someone new into his life that could just disappear? What if you started something with someone and it ended badly and he lost another male figure and his best friend at the same time? Would he be so well adjusted then? He had settled into their routine, him and you against the world. You weren't sure you could change that on him. 

He’d only been five when it happened but you had made sure that he’d never forgotten his daddy. A picture of him and Justin sat on his nightstand by his bed. It was one of your favorites, taken at the pumpkin farm when Eli was four. He held a giant pumpkin, looking so proud, when really Justin was holding the bottom of it for him, both of them beaming their matching smiles. 

The two of you talked about him often, you sharing stories with him of you and Justin and him and Justin. Reminded him how much his daddy had loved him. You couldn’t allow him to forget. You couldn’t do that to Justin whose smile could have lit up the entire planet the first time he laid eyes on his son. 

“Mommy! We’re hungry!” Eli yelled as he and Jeremiah came racing in the back door. 

You glanced over at the clock, “Well, Jeremiah’s dad is bringing pizza and he should be here any minute. Do you think Superman and Batman can wait just a few minutes to eat?”

Eli groaned, dramatically tumbling down to the floor, “But fighting crime and saving the world is hard work. It makes us so hungry, mommy.”

“Okay…how about you two have some strawberries?” you offered, thinking it wouldn’t be too filling and it would get something good in their system before they loaded up on carbs and cheese. 

“Strawberries!” Jeremiah’s eyes lit up. “They’re my favorite fruit. Daddy takes me strawberry picking every single year and we get a ton. My daddy makes strawberry jam and it’s so good on my toast.” His eyes went wide, shooting over to Eli. “Hey! I’ll ask my dad if you guys can come this year! It’s super fun. They have goats, cows, chickens, and ponies that you can ride!”

“Can we mommy?” Eli asked, turning those sweet blue eyes up at you. 

“I…uh…I mean, strawberry picking around here isn’t for another month or so. But, maybe, I guess? I mean, if Eli’s daddy wants to take you too, that would be fine.”

“You can come too!” Jeremiah told you. “They have other stuff there like fancy soaps and stuff that they make. My mommy used to like those.”

“Oh, well, maybe…” you muttered as you busied yourself with getting out the strawberries. You ran them under water before working at slicing them onto a plate for the boys to share. 

His mommy used to like those? So, she’d been around during his life, obviously. Enough for him to remember going strawberry picking with them. Unless, like Eli, he was repeating stories his dad had shared with him.  Where was she now? Had she left? Had she died? You couldn’t very well ask a little boy. What if she had passed? You couldn’t bring up that pain for him. 

“Did we ever go strawberry picking with daddy?” asked Eli as the boys sat down at the table, the plate of strawberries between them.

You swallowed, “No. We didn’t go strawberry picking but we used to go to the apple orchard every fall and daddy would put you up on his shoulders so you could get the apples. And we always went to the pumpkin farm too.”

“We still do that!”

“Yes we do,” you smiled as you washed your hands. You worked so hard to keep the traditions that you and Justin started alive. It was another way for you to remind your son how incredible the five short years he had with his dad was. You looked up when there was a knock at the door, drying your hands on a kitchen towel. “I bet that’s Jeremiah’s daddy with the pizza.”

Smoothing your hands over your hair, you inhaled deeply, reminding yourself that this was just two parents whose kids had become best friends getting to know each other. No pressure. No reason to be nervous. You were simply trying to be good parents. 

Grabbing onto the door, you swung it open, only to feel like the entire world had turned upside down at the sight of Steve. There he stood in those slacks and that yellow sweater that looked so damn good on him. Not many people could pull off yellow but boy, he could. His right arm was raised, two pizza boxes balancing on his hand and a smile that could have outshone the sun on his face. 

“Pizza, as promised,” he announced. 

Gathering yourself, you returned his smile, “The boys will be very relieved. Superman and Batman have been battling the forces of evil all afternoon and they are wasting away to nothing.”

Steve’s cheeks hollowed out as he released a long, audible breath, “Can’t have that. How will they ever keep the city safe if we don’t recharge them with greasy pizza? But seriously, I hope he was good for you.”

“He was great,” you assured him. “Seriously.”

“Good. Thanks again. You were a real lifesaver.”

“No problem. I…”

“Daddy! Where’s the pizza!?” came Jeremiah’s whine from the kitchen, loud and impatient. 

“Sorry. It’s right here.” Steve grinned, tossing you a wink that had you dazed, before making his way into the kitchen, plopping the boxes down in the middle of the table. “We can’t have Superman and Batman losing their strength. Have to keep them fed so they can keep the city safe. Are we currently in Gotham or Metropolis?”

“Daddy,” Jeremiah sighed, looking exasperated with his father. “Everyone knows both of those places are based on New York City. Then we can be there together.”

“Oh, sorry,” snorted Steve, sharing an amused look with you. “I am not as well versed in superhero lore as you.”

“I know. Uncle Dusty knows way more than you.”

“Of course he does because Uncle Dusty is so much cooler than your boring, old dad.” Steve rolled his eyes, pulling out the chair next to Jeremiah and having a seat. 

“You have a brother?” you asked as you stretched your arm up to retrieve the plastic paper plate holders from the top shelf. Turning, your breath caught in your throat. Steve’s eyes were watching you, focused on your midsection, right where your sweater had ridden up when you'd reached for the plates. He quickly looked down at his son as you cleared your throat and set the holders and plates on the table. 

“Uhh…no. I mean, not really,” he laughed. “Dustin isn’t actually my brother. I used to babysit him actually. I helped him out one day. There were some older kids picking on him and his friends at the park and I stepped in. Anyway, he went home and told his mom about this cool teenager and she tracked me down and asked if I’d be interested in babysitting. I think she really just wanted him to have a guy in his life. His dad died when he was young and he was an only child. Anyway, he was ten and I was sixteen and he just latched on like a leech and stuck. So…” He balanced his elbows on the table, hands facing up. “I guess he’s mine now. Him and Jere, here, are really close. Jere is into all the nerdy stuff that Dustin likes so Dustin is like his hero.”

“Uncle Dusty is amazing! He taught me how to make a homemade rocket,” Jeremiah told you, his smile so like his dad’s. 

But his eyes were different, a beautiful blue like the color of the ocean on a sunny day. And his nose was rounded, a cute little button, the complete opposite of Steve’s which was longer and pointed, almost Romanesque. He must have gotten those features from his mom, which left you wondering where she was again. 

“Yeah, and you almost burned the garage down. That thing singed the walls. I had to pull out the fire extinguisher,” Steve reminded his son, grabbing plates and placing them into the holders. 

Eli’s eyes went wide, “You almost started a fire?”

“Only a little one but you should have seen the rocket. It zoomed around the garage and then flew out and went bang! It was so cool.”

“Yeah, real cool,” Steve rolled his eyes. 

“Daddy, did you get just cheese?” asked Jeremiah as Steve moved to open one of the boxes.

“Of course, kid. Do you think I’m new here?” He reached over, ruffling his son’s hair, causing Jeremiah to giggle and that familiar pain, the pain that reminded you of everything your son was missing out on, tightened around you once again. Steve looked up at you. “I got one cheese and one pepperoni. I figured those were safe bets since I don’t know what either of you like. Hope that’s okay?”

“I love cheese too!” Eli told him eagerly, grinning over at Steve. “And mommy usually gets bacon and pineapple for herself but she likes all pizza. Pizza is our favorite food. We have it every Friday and watch a movie.”

“Pineapple on pizza?” Steve questioned skeptically, that beautiful nose crinkling. 

“Hey, don’t knock it until you try it,” you teased with a laugh, pouring milk for the kids. “My husb…” You paused, swallowing hard before taking the seat between Steve and Eli. But why shouldn’t you talk about Justin? Steve had to know Eli didn’t arrive by immaculate conception. “My husband thought I was crazy too. He was more of a pepperoni and green onions kind of guy. But my roommate in college is the one who got me into it. She ordered it one night and I was skeptical too but the combination of sweet and savory is delicious.”

“I think I’ll just have to take your word on that one,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Fruit on pizza.” He looked over at the boys, one of those long, thick fingers swirling around by his ear. “Can you believe that? She’s nuts.”

Eli giggled as Steve plopped a piece of cheese on his plate, “My mommy can be crazy. Sometimes we do backward dinner.”

Steve’s lips pursed, head tilted, “Backward dinner? What’s that?”

“It’s where we have dessert first. So, we’ll have hot fudge sundaes and then we’ll have chicken nuggets and vegetables. It’s my favorite kind of dinner because I don’t have to eat all my vegetables before I get my dessert.”

“Oh, that does sound like a good deal because dessert is the best part of the meal,” Steve agreed with a nod. 

“I mean, it’s only done sometimes as a special treat.” You didn’t know why you felt the need to justify yourself but you did. “I do make sure he eats healthy.”

Steve laughed, “I’m sure you do. Sometimes Jere Bear and I like to have ice cream for dinner, don’t we?”

“Yeah! My daddy used to work at Scoops Ahoy and they have the best ice cream! I always get a banana split and daddy gets the U.S.S. Butterscotch.”

“Mmm, the U.S.S. Butterscotch is my favorite,” you grinned. “Eli always gets the hot fudge sundae.”

“With extra fudge!” he added. 

“Obviously,” Steve scoffed. “You can never have too much fudge.”

“So, how long ago was this when you worked at Scoops Ahoy?” you asked, picturing him in their little sailor outfit. You couldn’t deny that it gave you a little thrill of pleasure.

“Oh god, it’s been years now. I worked there right out of high school. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and when I couldn’t even get into community college, my father forced me to get a job. Said I needed to know what it was like to earn a working man’s wage.” He snorted harshly, leaving you with the impression that his relationship with his father wasn’t a particularly good one. “Anyway, I worked there for a couple years. That’s actually how I met my best friend, Robin.”

“And I assume you did figure out what you wanted to do with your life since you had a work meeting tonight?”

Steve took a large bite of his pizza, the slice folded up in his hand, “I’m a project manager for a construction company.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that job. What exactly do you do?”

“I oversee the building process, make sure everything is completed on time and within budget. I work with the architects and the engineers to develop plans, establish timelines for different phases to be complete, and calculate what labor and materials are going to cost. That’s what my meeting was about tonight actually. We just got a contract for a new subdivision they’re putting in off of Cherry. It’s a big job. We’re thinking it’s going to take about two years.”

“Wow, that’s a long time.”

“Not really when you consider we’re building around sixty new houses. It’s a good thing really, means my team will have plenty of work to do for a while. Steady income, you know? Nothing’s worse than having to lay someone off, knowing you’re possibly making their life impossible.”

“What’s laying off?” asked Eli. 

“Well, when we don’t have enough work to do, then we don’t have the money to pay people. So, I have to tell them that we’re letting them go for a while. It’s not really getting fired because you hope you can call them back when there’s more work. They can apply to get money from the government but it’s not nearly as much as they make when they’re working. That can make it hard for them to feed their families and pay their bills.”

“That seems mean,” Eli commented. “Why do you do it?”

“I don’t want to do it. But when the money’s not there, we have no way to pay them. It happens a lot in the wintertime because there’s not as much building when the weather’s bad. That’s why this job is such a good thing because it will be steady work for the next two winters. I won’t have to worry and neither will my guys.”

“Well, that’s good. Did you have to go to school for that or like a trade school?” you inquired. 

“No college. I don’t think I was ever made for college. I struggled through high school. Of course, that could have been because I was interested in everything else but high school. That’s why I’m so glad my kiddo here got his mom’s brains. She was an overachiever, still is. I actually started just like my guys, doing the construction part. I got interested in how the job runs and wound up getting my certification. And about four years ago, they promoted me to project manager.”

So Mom definitely wasn’t gone but then why did he need a babysitter? Maybe she was busy too? Or maybe she lived out of town and they shared custody? And this was none of your business. Why were you so interested in what the situation was with mom? 

“Wow, that’s amazing. You must have really impressed them then. Going to college isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, anyway. I’ve told Eli, it all depends on what you want to do with your life. Some jobs don’t require college and they’re just as important. I mean, you build homes. You provide a space for families to start their lives and make memories. I think that’s pretty important work.”

A flush rose up along his neck, bright red against the yellow of his sweater. A small smile curved his lips as he tapped the table before looking up at you. The boys had long given up on your conversation, deeply entrenched in one of their own about the latest episode of X-men: Evolution. 

“I mean, you work in a pediatrician’s office, right? You help sick kids. I think that might be just a bit more important than what I do. But thanks. What do you do in the office, anyway? Are you the doctor?”

You laughed, “No. That was far more schooling than I was interested in doing. I’m a nurse but honestly, we know just as much as they do. Experience is way more educational than sitting in some class, listening to someone talk about stuff. Sometimes, I think we might know more than the doctors do. But Dr. Wilson is great to work with. He’s not one of those guys that talks down to his nurses or acts like he’s superior because he’s got that M.D. after his name. I worked with plenty of misogynist ego-driven jerks when I worked at the hospital. They act like they’re royalty or something. Dr. Wilson actually trusts us and values our input. He makes us feel like a part of a team instead of a dictatorship.”

The conversation flowed easily, the boys jumping in here and there, all four of you laughing and smiling as you enjoyed your pizza. You could not deny the feeling of rightness in this moment, this moment that was everything you had ever wanted for your son. It was a picture perfect moment in time, this little dinner at your kitchen table full of warmth and laughter. 

And no, you weren't insane. It wasn’t that you were looking at this as a family or that you were jumping ten steps ahead of just this pleasant evening. It was just nice to have a full table, to have it not be just you and Eli, to watch your son enjoying himself. He loved when Matt and Janice came for dinner but this was different. He had his best friend with him, the two boys sending each other into hysterics every thirty seconds.

For just this moment, this little slice of time, the weight had been lifted from your shoulders. The constant guilt that you weren't enough, that you could never be enough for your son. You could never be all of the things that he needed you to be. For just this moment, you thought maybe you didn’t have to be if you could surround him with people who provided everything he needed. 

“Alright, kiddo, we should probably get heading home so you can take a shower before bed,” Steve announced around seven thirty, pushing back from the table and standing up. He gathered the paper plates, tossing them in the trash. “Did you want help cleaning up before we head out?”

You waved your hand dismissively, “Oh no. That’s not necessary. Just a quick wipe down of the holders and popping the cups in the dishwasher. It will only take a couple minutes.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, seriously. No big deal. Besides, you bought the dinner so the least I can do is the clean up.”

“Yes, but I brought the dinner to thank you for watching my kid.”

 “Please. I offered to take him and having Jeremiah here saved me from having to wear the Superman cape and run around with Eli all evening. It was nice to just be an average human instead of a superhero tonight.”

“You’re a nurse,” Steve said with a soft smile, leaning into you, causing your heart to skip a beat. “Pretty sure you’re a superhero all the time.”

“Daddy, can Eli come to our house this weekend? Please? He really wants to meet Miles.”

“Miles?” you asked.

“It’s his dog!” Eli told you excitedly. “He wears capes too! Jeremiah said he can be my sidekick, Robin.”

"Which is silly because that's my Aunt Robin's name," Jeremiah added, "but the cape doesn't fit her so good so she's usually Catwoman because it's a mask and a tail."

Steve laughed, “Sure kid. He can come over. If it’s okay with his mom.”

“Fine with me,” you shrugged. Seeing the joy on your son’s face to get to spend time with his friend was all the reason you needed to readily agree. It definitely did not have to do with having the chance to see his dad again. No. That didn’t factor in at all.

“Okay, well, how about this?” Steve knelt down to his son’s level. “We’ve got baseball practice on Saturday until two. Why don’t we all go get ice cream afterward and then Jeremiah and his mom can come meet Miles afterward?”

“All of us?” you questioned, wondering if you'd heard him correctly.

He rose, head tilting forward, those eyes as warm as a chocolate chip cookie coming right out of the oven, and just as delicious. “Why not? I mean, if you have something else to do…”

“No. No, I don’t. I mean, that would be nice. We haven’t gotten ice cream yet since they opened. And I love dogs. Who doesn’t love dogs? Crazy people, right? So obviously meeting your dog would be fun. I just…I mean…yeah, okay.”

He appeared amused with you once again and you wished you could just pull the foot out of your mouth. It appeared to be permanently wedged there whenever he was around. 

“Good. Maybe we can even have a sleepover.” Your breath caught as his mouth dropped open, eyes going wide, one of those hands running nervously through his hair, sweeping it to the side. “I mean the boys. The boys could have a sleepover. At my house. If you’re okay with that?”

Had he meant what you thought he meant? Had that just been an innocent mistake or was he as attracted to you as you were to him? Trying to let your son hang out with his friend was proving to be far more complicated than you thought it would be when you'd approached him on the baseball field. 

“Yeah.” You weren't sure why. You hadn’t even let Eli stay the night anywhere before but there was just something about Steve that you trusted. “Eli would love that, honestly.”

“You’re gonna sleep at my house!” Jeremiah yelled, grabbing Eli’s hands, the two boys jumping around the kitchen. 

“Obviously, they’re both okay with it,” Steve chuckled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “So, we’ll see you Saturday at practice?”

“Yeah. Saturday.”

You said your goodbyes, the boys both still screeching, talking about how it was only two more sleeps until their sleepover. Steve gave you one last smile and a little finger wave before turning and taking his son’s hand, leading him to his Ford Explorer that was parked just behind your Prius. 

“Mommy, are you and Jeremiah’s dad friends now too?”

“Kind of, I guess,” you shrugged.

“Cool because if you’re friends and want to play with each other all the time then me and Eli can play with each other all the time too!”

You gripped the door, closing it slowly behind you. Your son had no idea the implications of what he’d just said but you definitely did. Your entire body was vibrating with the implications of what he’d just said.

___________________________________________________________

“Daddy, when Eli spends the night can we make a fort like the one we made that one time where it was the whole living room? Remember? And we put up the Christmas lights inside and we put in our sleeping bags and pillows.”

Steve blinked, glancing up at his son in the rearview mirror. He’d completely missed everything that his kid had just said. The boy had been rambling from the moment they’d gotten in the car and he was having trouble focusing, his thoughts completely focused on the last hour of his day. 

You had been consuming all of his brain space since you'd approached him yesterday on the baseball field. Yeah, you were gorgeous. He’d noticed that instantly. Who wouldn’t? But there was something else about you, something that wouldn’t let his brain rest, something that kept poking at him, telling him to do something about these feelings you were stirring up inside him. 

And it had been so long since he’d had anything stirring inside of him. After him and Nancy had split four years ago, Steve had jumped right into another relationship. He struggled with being alone. According to Robin, it was his dysfunctional childhood. The little boy inside of him who never got the love he needed from his parents, constantly seeking it out in someone else. 

According to Robin, that was why he’d married Nancy even though the two of them had been all wrong for each other. He clung to the first solid thing that had come along and refused to see any of the millions of little signs that it wasn’t working. Of course, that was according to Robin, his best friend who thought she knew more about the internal workings of his mind than he did.

He’d dated Stacy for a year, convinced himself that she was the one, told Robin he was thinking of proposing and his obnoxious friend had slapped him upside the head. To be fair, he probably needed a good jarring, something to knock some sense into him. Marrying Stacy would have led to him being twice divorced. She had been even worse for him than Nancy. 

Not that there was anything wrong with Nance. No, she was amazing. She was smart, beautiful, kind, and an absolutely wonderful mother. Neither of them had ever cheated or hurt the other. They simply just weren’t a good fit. It seemed so obvious now when he could see how well her and Jonathan slid together, like two puzzle pieces locking into place perfectly. 

He’d dated a few other women after Stacy, most recently Janet, a single mother that he met at the park last summer. They’d made it about four months before he saw it was going nowhere. She was clingy, pushing for them to move in together, and it was in that moment that he realized he could not see a future with her. The idea of waking up next to her every day was exhausting. He’d ended it and she had not taken it well, calling him every name in the book, very loudly, in the middle of the restaurant he’d taken her to to try to soften the blow.

Steve didn’t lack for options. It felt like the moms of this town were throwing themselves at him constantly, some of them not even single. But none of them fit. None of them made him feel that thing, that thing that Robin said was like the Big Bang, everything exploding and then rearranging into this perfect arrangement. She kept telling him it was called falling in love, not forcing in love. He needed to stop trying to make it happen and just let it come to him. Yeah, well, that was easy for her to see, the girl who’d found the right person in high school.

Was that what he was doing right now? Was he just trying to force something to be what he wanted? Your kids were friends. You'd approached him because you wanted to set up a time for your sons to be able to play. It could be that simple. You might not even be interested in him or in anything. 

He knew your husband had died. Jere had told him that Eli’s dad was in heaven. But he didn’t know how and he didn’t know how long ago. Maybe you were still freshly grieving. You'd definitely struggled when you were talking about him tonight. If you were still in the midst of your grief, the last thing you needed was some guy trying to push you to go out with him sometime. 

No, he probably needed to just take a step back. Cool it off. Yeah, you were beautiful and you seemed far more real than most of the women in this town who were interested in him. But if he tried to force something that wasn’t there, he wouldn’t be the only one to suffer. Jere would too because he would inevitably lose his best friend when things went south. He couldn’t do that to him. 

“Daddy, are you even listening to me?” Jeremiah huffed from the backseat, breaking through Steve’s thoughts. 

“I’m sorry buddy. What did you say?”

“I said can we make a big fort when Eli comes with the lights and our sleeping bags and stuff?”

“Oh yeah. Of course, bud. We can definitely do that. You want to make some s’mores too?”

“Yeah! And can we have popcorn and watch the new Scooby Doo movie too?”

“Absolutely!” Steve replied, grinning in the mirror. “And I can grill some hamburgers and hot dogs. We’ll make it the best sleepover ever, kid.”

His son’s smile stretched from ear to ear, reminding Steve why he very much needed to focus on his son’s happiness instead of his loneliness. No, he didn’t need to jump into another relationship with some woman he’d just met. He was just seeing things he wanted to see, trying to rearrange the pieces into the image he was so desperate for.

“Is Eli's mommy gonna sleepover too? Our fort will be big enough.”

“Uh, no buddy,” Steve answered. “She’s gonna come over and see Miles but she’s not staying.”

“Why not? Don’t you want a friend, daddy?”

Yeah, he did. More than his son could possibly know.

Chapter 3

Taglist: @katethetank

If you wanted to be added to the taglist, just let me know. 😊

#dad steve harrington #steve harrington #singledad!steveharrington #steve harrington single dad #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x fem #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #fluff #smut #fluff and smut #romance #second chance romance #second chance at love #widow #divorced dad steve harrington #slow burn

[spiderceo]

− ⌗ vaudeville vows pt.2 ⊹.∿

summary; alastor shows up to ruin your evening in his own fun little way.

tags; gender-neutral reader, reader can play piano and sing, reader gets used to alastor surprisingly fast and he (definitely) doesn’t like that, sugary sweet manipulation, scopophobia (fear of being watched or stared at), alastor’s stupid mangled body

word count; 2.2k

pairing; alastor x reader

a/n; i plan to make chapters longer in the future so hopefully you enjoy that kind of thing. i also have proof-read this. as usual, reposts are greatly appreciated <3

tag list; @chewbrry @zatrinaxxx

master post | part one

Days passed since your first encounter with Alastor. He hadn’t shown his face again in your apartment which you were extremely happy for. But even though he wasn’t there physically, there was always this awful feeling of being watched no matter where you went. It was that bad that you struggled to even go for a shower or get changed for work in the mornings.

The whole while this was happening, you couldn’t shake the idea of the demon’s proposal. The allure of fame and fortune continued to tug at your thoughts every time you passed by your piano. The instrument now served as a reminder of what you could have had. Having someone like Alastor to guide you to your full potential would mean you could have so many great things. It was a tantalising dream that seemed just out of reach.

The days turned into weeks and still you remained steadfast in your decision against accepting the deal. Life had gone back to normal and the staring had reduced in its intensity. Whenever you got home from work, you managed to sit down at your piano and get some practice in. Part of you wanted to prove you didn’t need to make a deal with a demon to achieve what you wanted.

However, fate works in mysterious ways and we don’t always get what we want.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the city was bathed in the soft glow of twilight, you found yourself lost in your music once more. The melody flowed smoothly from your fingertips, weaving a tapestry of sound that filled the room with warmth and light. You sung along quietly with a content smile on your face. This had been your calmest night by far, until an awful feeling washed over you.

A chill ran down your spine as you looked around the room. The sensation of hundreds of little eyes watching you made your skin crawl as the temperature dropped. The lights in your apartment dimmed and flickered and your hands shakily slid away from the piano keys. Your eyes landed on a dark corner of the room where a lanky shadow stood. Eyes with a familiar shade of carmine pierced your soul and you couldn’t help but keep your body completely still.

He hadn’t moved from his spot, just tilted his head as if to tell you to continue what you were doing. If he hadn’t been a scary looking creature that wanted your soul, you probably would have found this gesture cute. Alastor’s eyes carried a look of amusement in them as he waited for you to do something.

Should you continue playing? Is that what he wanted?

You carefully turned your back to him and felt your hands tremble as they went back to their positions on the piano. With uncertainty, you pressed the keys and began to play a different song from before. This one was a bit more well known despite it’s age, and had also featured a lot in your grandad’s record collection.

‘Anything Goes’ by Cole Porter.

The beginning of the tune rung out and was immediately halted by Alastor’s presence reappearing on your left. “My dear musician,” he addressed you as if you were old friends, his voice exaggerated as always. “Your playing is splendid, but I feel that something is missing.”

You tensed at his words, unsure of what he meant. Before you could respond, Alastor took a step forward with his wicked grin becoming slightly smaller — he looked less like he was straining. This was how his expression usually sat, you guessed. But smiling constantly must be painful, right? Perhaps demons didn’t feel that type of pain.

“Why don’t you sing with me, my dear?” his gaze never left yours as you could feel your heart ready to beat out of your chest. A mix of excitement and trepidation coursed through your veins at the thought of singing with Alastor. Sharing a duet with a devil wasn’t something you got to do everyday. “Sing with you?” you queried, not quite sure if he was joking or not behind that talk-show voice of his. The idea of the duet was both thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. Sharing the stage with a demonic being was definitely something you could tell the grandkids one day.

“Why, of course! I wouldn’t pass up the chance to perform with a talent such as yourself, now would I?” Alastor sure knew how to sweet talk his way into getting what he wanted. You glanced at the piano, its keys beckoning you to return your hands to them. You knew you couldn’t resist this time, and decided it wouldn’t hurt to entertain Alastor just this once.

With a weary smile, you began to play once more, letting the melody of the song flow with effortless grace. And as you finished the intro, your voice began to accompany your playing. It was trembling, unlike when you were alone. Alastor’s overbearing presence was making it hard to focus on the words. It wasn’t until radio crackles filled the room and more instruments joined in. Along with them came the demon’s familiar accented voice.

Your singing quietened as you listened to the creature sing. His voice was pleasing to the ear and with the added effect of a vintage radio, it reminded you of home — listening to your grandad’s records play as you ran around his garden and he sat in his rocking chair on the porch. The pleasant memories brought a bigger smile to your face as you forgot all about the fact that who you were singing with was trying to capture your soul.

For a moment, you and Alastor were united in a devil’s duet. Your singing was more confident as the demon leaned against your piano casually. Even when he sung, his toothy smile never ceased. And as the music eventually faded back to static, you met his gaze that was just as oppressive as it had always been. A glimmer of approval appeared in them as he moved to pace behind you. You turned to watch him as his boots clicked against the floor and he twirled a cane behind his back.

“Marvellous, my dear! Simply marvellous!” he praised, coming to a stop and stretching his arms out wide with great exaggeration (You hadn’t noticed just how lanky his limbs were until now). His tone was dripping with satisfaction and you couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride at the fact you had impressed him. Your subconscious was whispering to you that maybe taking his deal wouldn’t be so bad if these were the emotions you got out of it. It had been so long since you showed your music to anyone and his reaction was slowly pulling you towards his clutches.

As you pondered your next move, Alastor’s stare was unwavering. He had moved into a more relaxed position with his arms back behind him, still holding that cane of his. The demon’s presence was a reminder of the choice that lay before you. No matter what choice you made, there was always the certainty that Alastor would continue to be a pest in your life. If you refused his deal then there was nothing stopping him from sticking around until you finally caved or he came up with another proposition.

Exhaustion hit you like a brick wall when your eyes caught sight of the clock on the wall. It was almost two in the morning and you had work later in the day. You groaned and made a move to get up. “Leaving so soon?” the demon didn’t sound the least bit concerned about where you were going. His tone hinted at a secret plan to simply annoy you.

“The night is still young and I’d like another song.” Alastor requested, switching places with you. He now sat at your piano while you stood glaring at him through half-lidded eyes. “I need to get ready for bed,” you sighed, desperately trying to find words as to not offend him. Having an angry demon on your hands sounded worse than giving away your soul at the moment. “I have an early start tomorrow.” you tried to justify yourself.

Instead of a response, Alastor simply slipped away into shadows. You stared confused at the spot where he once sat. That was odd…not a single goodbye or comment. You tried not to linger on it too much and left to do your nightly routine.

The fluorescent light in your bathroom made a light buzzing sound as you turned it on. The tiles were cold on your feet as you shuffled in and grabbed your toothbrush. You knew you were alone now but that all familiar feeling of being watched remained persistent. Glancing nervously in the mirror, you half-expected to see Alastor’s sinister grin staring back at you. All that appeared, however, was your own tired visage which donned bags under its eyes.

After you finished, you left the bathroom and immediately went to change. You grabbed the first set of pyjamas out your drawers and slipped into them with haste. Crawling into bed, you made yourself comfortable and turned out the lamp on your side table. You tried to ignore the creaks of the floorboards and the uncharacteristic cold in the room but it was bothering you too much.

“Still awake there?” came Alastor’s voice from somewhere in the room. You rolled face first into one of your pillows sleepily. You knew he hadn’t left altogether. “Go away, Alastor,” your voice was muffled by fabric as you willed it not to shake. He still made you uneasy but you could manage it as long as you didn’t look him in the eye. “I just want to sleep.” you squeezed your eyes shut tighter and mentally hoped he would take the hint and go.

But Alastor was tenacious, his laughter that filled the room was accompanied by a faint laugh track. “But where’s the fun in that?” he teased, his voice coming from multiple directions at once. “Surely you wouldn’t deny me the pleasure of your company?”

You grit your teeth. Trying to ignore him was almost impossible as his voice bounced off the walls of your room. You tried to block out the sound with your pillow but even that did nothing to muffle it. No matter how hard you tried, sleep remained elusive as your new pest continued to ask you numerous questions purely for his own entertainment.

His insidious whispers penetrated your mind, you could feel them twisting and coiling like serpents, their venomous words seeping into every crevice of your consciousness. With a surge of frustration and fear, you bolted upright, your gaze fixating on the ghastly figure perched at the foot of your bed.

His form was twisted and contorted, limbs elongated and skeletal, like some grotesque parody of the human form. Antlers sprouted from his skull, their jagged points piercing through the walls and ceiling of your room. The glow of his eyes illuminated the darkness, casting an unearthly green hue that seemed to dance with malevolent intent as radio dials ticked within them.

But it was his grin that sent a shiver down your spine, a macabre smile stitched together with glowing green threads that threatened to unravel at any moment. Each stitch seemed to pulse with a sickly light, as if straining against the weight of the demon’s own malevolence.

You narrowed your eyes, your resolve hardening in the face of his unsettling presence. You craved sleep more than anything and if it meant scolding a demon to get it, then so be it. Despite the fear gnawing at the edges of your mind, you refused to cower before this twisted abomination. Your voice was filled with steely determination as you met his gaze and spoke.

“Leave me alone, Alastor.” you commanded, your tone ringing with defiance. The dead serious expression on your face was almost laughable. For a moment, Alastor’s smile faltered and his form shrunk down. A low chuckle crackled from his chest as he disappeared into the darkness, leaving your alone with only the memory of what you saw.

Now that he was gone, you let out the gasping breath you didn’t realise you were holding in. You tried to steady your racing heart as you placed a hand to your chest. With trembling hands, you reached for the lamp on your bedside table, casting a warm glow across the room that banished the shadows to the corners. But even in the soft light, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that clung to the air like a suffocating fog.

As you lay back against the pillows, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs, you couldn’t help but wonder: Was this only a temporary reprieve? The idea left a nagging sense of dread that picked away at your conscious. If he was like this now, you hated to see what he would pull later on. A demon like him was hound to have more tricks up his sleeve than just shapeshifting.

You were baffled that he even listened to you. Something told you that he was limited to what he could and couldn’t do without a contract between you both. You knew he could probably cause you physical harm given the way he could interact with your environment. So maybe it wasn’t what he could do to you, but rather how much time he had with you. You pushed the thoughts aside for the night and pulled yourself back under the covers.

Lingering fear aside, sleep eventually claimed you, dragging you down into the depths of unconsciousness where dreams and nightmares intertwined in a tangled web of darkness.

#hazbin alastor #reader insert #gender neutral reader #x reader #hazbin hotel #gender neutral insert #alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor #vaudeville vows

[rosadreams]

LILIA VANROUGE is the definition of "people change over time"

In Diasomnia chapter 4, we learnt that Lilia never intended to start a family, let alone taking care of children. He seems to dread taking care of Malleus since he had a hunch that Maleanor will push the baby sitting duty to him. He even expressed his discontent towards the idea of raising children since they are weak and can't do anything.

When Maleanor asked Lilia to run away with the egg, he doubted his abilities to hatch the egg, since dragon eggs need love and magic from it's parents. It was Maleanor who knocked some sense into Lilia, to which she proudly says " You love me, don't you?" "You, my right hand general, spends so much time with my left hand general like a married couple. How could you not love the child of our blood?"

Lilia reluctantly listened to Maleanor to flee with the egg and leave her as bait to the Silver Owl, and he was even heard protesting about it but Baul had to remind him that the egg is the future king of Briar Valley who is still incapable of protecting itself.

It seems to me that Lilia loved Maleanor and Levan but he did not understand that it's "love", thats why he wasn't sure if the egg would hatch. Lilia even said that he did not care much about what he eat until adopting silver. This can be implied that he probably don't know how to self care. His tone was also quite cold (as compared to the present), addressing Silver, MC and Sebek as human, unlike in the present time where he just addresses everyone by their name; regardless of their race.

Malleus's hatching was delayed quite a few hundred years, it's possible that Lilia spent those amount of time grieving with the loss of his precious friends and trying to sort himself out cause he needs to hatch the egg and raise the child (Malleus is like the last thing holding Lilia together since he's the child of Maleanor and Levan).

When the egg finally hatches, I think that's the period where Lilia had finally accepted the death of his friends, and learnt to move on and understood the meaning of love . Keep in mind that dragon egg hatches with magic AND LOVE between the parents. Lilia probably came to love Malleus like how he did to Maleanor and Levan (platonically).

Fast forward to a hundred years later when Lilia discovered Silver in Wild Rose Castle. To recap on the spell that the 3 fairies casted on Silver, " The prince will go into a deep slumber, until he finally meets the one who loves him " Baby silver probably woke up from his sleep and was crying aggressively when Lilia stepped foot into the castle. When Lilia knew of Silver's identity, he almost wanted to take revenge for his dead friends and kill Silver. I personally think that prime Lilia would do it without any hesitation BUT he stopped himself from doing so, and instead, choose to coo at the baby, bless it with his magic and GAVE HIM A NAME. The name was not because of the hair colour (the reason that he gave to adult Silver), but instead, Lilia wanted Silver to be able to find light in darkness, as a guide in life. Can be implied that Lilia was at complete loss + didn't know what to do when he lost both of his friends and he didn't want Silver to go through that path especially when Silver is the son of Briar Valley's enemy.

Lilia KNEW what he signed himself up for when he decided to adopt Baby Silver. "Can the current me really learn how to love?" I think Lilia was still in doubt of himself back then and was pondering on the topic of Love and emotions so much, he probably wanted to see if he was capable loving of an enemy's son (throw back to the earlier chapters when he said that it's a hassle to have a family cause it would be harder to say goodbye) Yeah sure, Lilia might have made egg Malleus hatched (still not confirmed but I think it's safe to say that it's true for now), but I feel like he wanted to dive deeper to understand humans and the concept of love. Thus, baby silver was adopted and raised in seclusion (probably to avoid the eyes of other faes so that they won't take notice of Silver. They might do smth bad since Silver's biological parents were the reason why Briar Valley is suffering loss)

((Cue Maleficient Move, when Maleficent herself was the one who cursed Aurora but is also the one who broke the curse))

Fast forward to when Baby silver gave Lilia an acorn bracelet, saying that he wants to stay with Lilia forever and wishes him for a long and healthy life.

"Papa, stay healthy and let's always, always and always stay together and forever~"

"Will you pray for my long life? You, the human...."

The human who is related to the person that killed his friend is probably what Lilia wanted to say. However, Lilia only chose to hug Baby silver tightly and says nothing more. Baby silver tells Lilia that he loves him, and Lilia responded with a me too. This is probably the moment when Lilia's heart starts to finally waver by A LOT (since he kept the acorn bracelet for a LONG time and even brought it to NRC).

However, I theorized that the only reason why Lilia never openly called Silver his son and says I love you back is because he was afraid of admitting it. It would explain why Silver's sleeping curse is still on and off since the person who supposedly love him didn't admit it?

Might just be me overthinking this, but I think the loss of Maleanor and Levan made Lilia a little bit more closed off in his emotions. It's not that he can't express his happiness or what, but more of him choosing to hide away his fear (eg the intense fear he felt when he had to leave Maleanor alone to defend herself). He probably felt extremely useless back then, which might make him a little bit terrified of love?

This can be further carried on to the recent timeline when he verbalised his desire to leave and "spent his final moments" in the red dragon country, even though it's just excuses to cover up his loss of magic. He doesn't want to be viewed as weak (especially since his 3 sons looked up to him), cause he might feel "useless" again.

I think that modern Lilia understands love better now (throw back to ghost bride event when he told the bride that what you desire is always the nearest to you; bro knows how the ghost knight feels since he was in his position before) but he still lacks the ability to admit that he loves his 3 sons and cares for them deeply (just hear the way he screams when Malleus overblotted + using his whole body to defend Silver). Prime Lilia would ask them to buck up and do better...

Lilia definitely changed, and I think that's what makes his character interesting. The long of passing of time changed him from someone who is "cold" to someone who has learnt how to love and adapt to changes.

He just needs to learn how to communicate these thoughts to his sons now, seeing how 1 of them has already overblotted while the other is falling into pit darkness.

#— rosa speaks about twst #twisted wonderland malleus #twst lilia vanrouge #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #twst diasomnia #silver #twst silver #silver vanrouge #sebek zigvolt #silver twst #silver twisted wonderland

[mistfallenmemes]

"𝚂𝙻𝚄𝚃!"

"Being this young is art."

"What if all I need is you?"

"Got lovestruck, went straight to my head."

"Got lovesick all over my bed."

"(I'm) lovelorn and nobody knows."

"I'll pay the price, you won't."

"But if I'm all dressed up, they might as well be looking at us."

"And if they call me a slut, you know, it might be worth it for once."

"If I'm gonna be drunk, I might as well be drunk in love."

"The sticks and stones they throw froze in mid-air."

"Everybody wants him."

"That was my crime."

"In a world of boys, he's a gentleman."

"We'll pay the price, I guess."

"You're not saying you're in love with me."

"You're not saying you're in love with me, but you're going to."

"It might blow up in your pretty face."

"I'm not saying 'do it anyway' but you're going to."

𝚂𝙰𝚈 𝙳𝙾𝙽'𝚃 𝙶𝙾

"I've known it from the very start."

"We're a shot in the darkest dark."

"I'm unarmed."

"The waiting is a sadness."

"(I'm) falling into madness."

"I'm standing on a tightrope alone."

"(I'm) halfway out the door, but it won't close."

"I'm holding out hope for you."

"I would stay forever if you say 'don't go'."

"Why have you led me on?"

"Why'd you have to twist the knife?"

"Why'd you whisper in the dark, just to leave me in the night?"

"Your silence has me screaming."

"You kiss me and time stops."

"I'm yours, but you're not mine."

"I'm trying to see the cards that you won't show."

"I'm about to fold."

"I said 'I love you'."

𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝚆𝙴 𝙳𝙾𝙽'𝚃 𝚃𝙰𝙻𝙺

"You went to a party."

"I heard from everybody."

"You part the crowd like the Red Sea."

"Don't even get me started."

"Did you get anxious though?"

"I guess I'll never ever know"

"It looks like you're tryin' lives on"

"You didn't have to change."

"But I guess I don't have a say."

"It was for the best."

"The morе I gave, you'd want me less."

"I cannot be your friend."

"So I pay the price of what I lost."

"I cannot bе your friend, so I pay the price of what I lost."

"What do you tell your friends we shared dinners (and) long weekends with?"

"Truth is, I can't pretend it's platonic."

"It just ended, so..."

"She said to get it off my chest."

"I don't have to pretend."

"I don't have to pretend I like acid rock. Or that I'd like to be on a mega yaught with important men who think important thoughts."

"Guess maybe I am better off now that we don't talk."

"The only way back to my dignity was to turn into a shrouded mystery."

"Guess this is how it has to be now that we don't talk."

𝚂𝚄𝙱𝚄𝚁𝙱𝙰𝙽 𝙻𝙴𝙶𝙴𝙽𝙳𝚂

"You had people who called you on unmarked numbers."

"I let it slide like a hose on a slippery plastic summer."

"All was quickly forgiven."

"You were so magnetic, it was almost obnoxious."

"I was always turnin' out my empty pockets."

"I didn't come here to make friends."

"We were born to be suburban legends."

"When you hold me, it holds me together."

"And you kiss me in a way that's gonna screw me up forever."

"You'd be more than a chapter in my old diaries."

"And I can still see you now..."

"I know that you still remember."

"We were born to be national treasures."

"You told me we'd get back together, and you kissed me in a way that's gonna screw me up forever."

"I pace down your block."

"I broke my own heart 'cause you were too polite to do it."

"You don't knock anymore and my whole life's ruined."

𝙸𝚂 𝙸𝚃 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙽𝙾𝚆?

"I slept all alone."

"You still wouldn't go."

"Let's fast forward to three hundred takeout coffees later."

"You dream of my mouth before it called you a lying traitor."

"You search in every maiden's bed for somethin' greater."

"Was it over when she laid down on your couch?"

"Was it over when he unbuttoned my blouse?"

"Come here,"

"Was it over then?"

"Was it over then and is it over now?"

"Your new girl is my clone."

"And did you think I didn't see you?"

"At least I had the decency to keep my nights out of sight."

"Oh Lord, I think about jumping."

"I think about jumping off of very tall somethings."

"I think about jumping off of very tall somethings... just to see you come running."

"Three hundred awkward blind dates later."

"If she's got (blue) eyes, I will surmise that you'll probably date her."

"I was hoping you'd be there."

"I was hoping you'd be there, and say the one thing I've been wanting... but no."

#memes #roleplay meme #rp meme #meme #roleplay memes #rp memes #sentence starters #taylor swift meme #taylor swift rp meme

[seblaineaddict]

Happy 6 months of RWRB movie!

When Red, White, and Royal Blue came out back in 2019, I read it every day during my 90 minutes (each way!) Train commute to work, until it was finished. Every morning, I'd immerse myself in it, feeling cheated when I had to wait a few hours to read the next few chapters, and every night, I'd repeat the process. I loved it so much, in fact, that as soon as I'd completed it, I started it from the very beginning again.

I rarely do that. But when I do, it's always with books that clobber me over the head and deliver a sucker punch of emotions. Casey's incredible book and their unique style of writing were hugely impactful on my life and changed it in ways I couldn’t even have begun to imagine.

Fast forward to the movie announcement...Not gonna lie, I honestly vacillated between being so excited to a feeling of trepidation and dare I say it - deep dread... What if they ruined my new favourite book? What if the actors portraying Alex and Henry just didn’t fit for me? What if they changed it beyond all recognition and..I ended up hating it? We all know of at least one movie that started out life as a book, and was ruined beyond all repair when it hit the big screen. But then...on 11th August 2023, my Bestie @hrh-henrywales and I watched it together, and...all my doubts disappeared. It was just everything I'd been hoping for and so much more. Absolute perfection.

So thank you, Casey, for writing a book that has changed hundreds of thousands (dare I even say, millions?) of lives, and has helped so many LGBTQ+ people who previously felt marginalised and at times very lonely, to feel seen and appreciated, and celebrated for being exactly who and what they are. Thank you, Matthew, for vividly bringing to life Casey's wonderful story and, most importantly, keeping the essence of what makes Red, White, and Royal Blue so truly special and so uniquely ours.

And last, but by no means least, thank you, Taylor and Nick, for capturing our hearts and being our perfect Alex and Henry. We all love all four of you and the rest of the wonderful cast so much. Now...can we have our sequel? Pleaseee?

Music used is of course Oliver Sims' iconic Fruit - Red, White and Royal Blue version.

@hrh-henrywales

@acd-at-oxford

#alex claremont diaz #henry hanover stuart fox #rwrb #rwrb book #rwrb movie #rwrb fanart #alex and henry #alex x henry #red white and royal blue #firstprince edit #firstprince art #firstprince graphic #my graphic #6 months of RWRB movie #taylor zakhar perez #nicholas galitzine

[astxrwar]

drops of blood [1/4]

SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.

Rating: M

Word Count: 7k

CONTENT WARNINGS: Off-screen violence. Series will enter gray territory in later chapters; angsty guilt-ridden stalking, exhibitionism, consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes all the way down. teehee.

Read on AO3

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]

When you’re a teenager— no, not even, when you’re a preteen, in middle school— a crew of surveyors for a Russian oil company finds a plane frozen in the Arctic. You’d just finished up the section on World War Two in history class; two weeks ago you’d been sitting in a hard-backed chair with the lights off trying not to fall asleep while watching a Netflix documentary about the life and death of Steve Rogers, the prototypical American Hero, that your teacher put on presumably to get out of having to actually teach. You had to fill out a worksheet about it. You had homework asking about the ways that national ideals of heroism have changed over time. You spent a whole class period talking about that, comparing and contrasting Captain America and Iron Man. You had to write a five-paragraph essay about whether or not you thought the American Hero archetype would even exist without Captain America’s death.

Except Captain America is not dead.

Captain America is alive.

It is 2012, and a lot of things are popular. The Hunger Games. Gangnam Style. The new Batman movie, the one with Christian Bale. A type of teenage and pre-teenage girl exists—has existed, will continue to exist— and while there was NSYNC and Backstreet Boys and whatever the fuck else in the 90s; right now there’s Twilight and One Direction and Justin Bieber.

Captain America comes out of the ice. Captain America is 6’4 and muscular and blond and blue-eyed and unfailingly kind, and then he goes on to join up with a bunch of other people—superheros— and saves the world.

The end result, the one that anyone with a brain could have seen coming a mile off, the one that gets referenced by late-night talk-show hosts and poked at in grocery-store gossip rags and sometimes said outright in interviews with the guy on national television,  is that Steve Rogers— Captain America— kind of ends up rounding out the “teenage girl obsessions during the ‘10s” list. 

And—

Well.

You were never big on any of that.

Your friends were, though, and so you let yourself be dragged through the onslaught of new Netflix specials and you dutifully and appropriately emoji-reacted to every Battle of New York youtube compilation and Vine edit they sent to you and you even went to the movies to watch the new remastered docudrama about the life and now the not-death of Steve Rogers, and—

You never really liked blonds, so.

His friend, though—

His friend was kind of cute.

Sergeant James Barnes. Twenty-eight, dark-haired and blue-eyed and attractive, in a charming, boyish kind of way. 

Fast forward ten years. There’s some weird drama with a helicarrier and some entirely anticlimactic fight at an airport and then an alien kills half the population of the world and then they all come back again, courtesy of Iron Man’s sacrifice and your middle school history teacher one-hundred-percent predicting the future with the whole “the American Hero trope is dependent on the hero’s death” shit that you totally didn’t understand at the ripe age of twelve—

Anyway. Life happens, basically. You grow up. You’re not even friends with those girls anymore. Not uncommon. And that crush on cute little baby-faced James Buchanan Barnes lasted all of something like three months— one of those fleeting childhood infatuations you have on people who are safely unobtainable, like rock stars or fictional characters or guys who are very, very dead— after which time you never really thought about it again. 

And now you’re twenty-three and working closing shifts at a coffee shop in Brooklyn while figuring out what your life trajectory is even going to be, adjusting as best you can to your fucking daily customer base having quite literally doubled in the last six months, that part of you that’d read his entire wikipedia page on a phone with an actual physical slide-out keyboard at two in the morning an entire eleven years ago so far away it feels like something even less than a memory.

Except one night in April this guy walks in. He’s dark-haired and blue-eyed and wearing a leather jacket and matching gloves; he comes up to the counter and he makes startlingly unbreaking eye contact that freaks you out a teensy bit— a lot— and orders a coffee, black, and nothing else, and you stare right back kind of temporarily immune to the weirdness of it because you know him, why do you know him—

It clicks as you’re pouring the coffee into a reinforced cardboard cup and it stuns you so completely that you almost overfill it and wind up less than a second away from burning the shit out of your hand.

Sergeant James Barnes. 

He looks the same, kind of, but also not at all— you sneak glances at him while you fumble for a lid, the harsher angles of his cheekbones and the wider set of his jaw, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the lines setting into his forehead and the way he doesn’t really have any of the baby fat left in his face that he had in all the photos you’d seen of him. 

“Thanks,” he says, when you give him his coffee.

His smile, or his attempt at it, looks more like a grimace than anything. 

You expect him to leave, then, but he doesn’t— he goes over to one of the tables in the lobby, the one by the window in the corner of the room, and he sits there and he drinks his coffee and he stares out at the street. It’s dark already; late November, almost December, the solstice approaching. It’ll be a long while before it’s still light later than 4:30.

He stays there for a long time, and the awareness of him prickles at the nape of your neck as you work, filling orders for a dwindling trickle of customers and starting the long and arduous process of cleaning up everything for close. 

Sometime around 9:30 you go into the back to try to get started on dishes; the doorbell chimes when you’re about halfway through, and you grumble under your breath and rinse soap suds off of your forearms and resolve to pretend you hadn’t lost track of the hose and accidentally soaked the whole of your shirt from about the sternum down—

There’s nobody waiting at the counter when you come out, though.

And Sergeant James Barnes is gone.

~

You expect it to be one of those things. Everyone in New York has one of those things. They’re great party stories. One time I sat next to Denzel Washington on the subway. Michael Keaton bought a phone from me when I worked at Apple in Midtown. I ran into Steve Buscemi at this one mom-and-pop bagel place. 

I served coffee to Captain America’s not-dead friend in Brooklyn. 

Except next week, same day, he’s there again.

The lady in front of him is getting something stupid complicated and being annoying about it. Two pumps caramel, two pumps vanilla, two creams and two skim milk, three sugars and make sure to melt it first, if you don’t, I’ll know, Jesus Christ, make your coffee at home—

The guy who is maybe potentially Barnes laughs.

You said that out loud, apparently. Mumbled it under your breath, or something, quiet enough that the lady hadn’t heard, just shot you a suspicious look and sipped at her drink and then left without a thank-you, apparently satisfied. It’s just you and him now, your coworker off doing food prep in the back room and the lobby empty.

Somehow, he’d heard you. And he’d laughed. It was a weird sound, sharp and rough and cut short like he hadn’t meant to and like he’d tried to make himself stop; his expression is flat, and he’s not smiling, but there’s something— lighter, about it, than when you’d seen him last.

“Black coffee?” you blurt out, before he can say anything. 

He blinks. He’s doing that thing again— the staring. 

“Easy to remember,” you say, by way of explanation.  “Simple.” 

His mouth twitches at the corners, not really a smile, yet, but still— something. That lightness to his expression, impassive as it is, hasn’t faded. “Yeah, just black,” he says. “Thanks.”

You make it for him— ‘make’ is a stretch, you pour it, and that’s all, really— and he takes it back to that same spot by the window in the corner, nurses it as he looks out into the street, the sky cast that bruised purple color when the sun’s gone below the horizon but the light hasn’t faded, yet. 

You try not to stare.

Same deal as the last time; he stays.

“Hey,” your coworker’s voice drifts from the back room, “You want to sweep the lobby or do the dishes?”

“Lobby,” you reply, extremely fast, thinking about last time and the hose mishap and how your shirt hadn’t dried until basically the end of your shift, but also thinking about maybe-Barnes sitting by the window and how part of you really fucking wants to know. Even if it’s not him, if it’s just some particularly uncanny lookalike, you wonder if it happens a lot. The being mistaken.

You make it through about maybe five minutes of actual lobby-sweeping before you become physically incapable of resisting your curiosity. 

“I always got pretty good marks in history,” is what you tell him. Because saying “are you Seargant Barnes” seems kind of— rude. 

He stiffens, and he drums his gloved fingers on the lid of his coffee cup, and he doesn’t look up or say a word.

“Your photo was in a bunch of the textbooks,” you add, twisting your grip on the broom handle, back and forth. It’s definitely him. The haircut. His face. Older, a lot less boyish, but the same eyes. “Sergeant Barnes. 107th.”

He doesn’t look at you. Speaks very deliberately. “Are you going to tell anyone?” 

There’s this bright jolt of satisfaction at being right, followed pretty quickly by a pang of guilt at the thought you’d irritated him.

 “Oh—um, no, definitely not, I’m sure it’s— annoying, probably, getting recognized,” you say, stumbling over the words. “I— sorry, I shouldn’t have— bothered you.”

He does look at you, then. He stares. You’d been fidgeting, still, but under the force of his gaze every muscle in your body goes tense and still, frozen solid, and nerves prickle up at the back of your neck, raising the hairs there. You have to fight back the urge to shiver.

“No,” he says. “It’s never happened before. Don’t— don’t be sorry.”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Your hands resume their twisting around the broom handle before you abruptly decide you do need to actually finish the chore you’d set out to do. 

You tell him one last thing, before you go back to it. You’d always kind of felt weird about saying this kind of stuff; it gets touchy, particularly after Vietnam. Not really a great practice to get into, the whole “thank you for your service” schtick, because a lot of them don’t see it that way, and every war after that was even more complicated and your opinions on those are— similarly complicated. But World War 2– that was different. It wasn’t US military overreach. It was necessary. And he’d been drafted, you remembered that. 

“Hey,” you say, very soft. “I just— Thanks. For— you know. Serving, when your numbers came up. It couldn’t have been easy, I mean.” you clear your throat, shift your weight, suddenly feeling very self-aware. “Coffee’s on me, next time, okay?”

Something flickers across his expression, like a ripple over the surface of a lake. Whatever it was, it’s gone before you can make sense of it.

You spend most of the week thinking he won’t come back next Friday. But he does. There’s nobody in front of him in line, this time, and like the time before your coworker is off in the back, which means it’s easy to slip him his coffee and conveniently forget to ring it out.

“Thanks,” he tells you, his voice a lot quieter. Softer, too.

You smile at him. His mouth twitches back, like maybe he’s not sure if he should return it, but wants to. 

He takes the seat by the window again. 

~

He keeps coming back. You try to make small talk but it feels stilted and awkward. It kind of makes you sad, a little bit, seeing him sitting there for hours, alone. 

On your day off, in early January, you go grocery shopping. 

You spend about 25$ in total and you make a split second decision to grab something out of the ordinary that’s on-sale. Dude was raised during the Great Depression, you guess he’s not the most experienced in the realm of the great big world of Weird Things You Can Purchase At The Modern Day Grocery Store. It’s meant to be a sort of peace offering, a look-I-can-be-normal-about-it, let’s-be-friends kind of deal, if he’s going to keep hanging around the coffee shop. You’re not sure if he, like— wants that, friends, or if maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want to be alone, but you figure it’s worth a shot. 

Part of it is that he interests you. Part of it is that your job, as much as it sucks less than a lot of other service jobs, is very mundane, very normal, often very boring, and James Buchanan Barnes being a regular customer is easily the most interesting and least boring thing that has ever happened to you at work. Or— ever, honestly.

 And maybe that’s selfish, to want to talk to him for that reason, but— whatever.

On Friday, like last week, you get there and you clock in and you try to casually scan the lobby, the floor littered with straw wrappers and crumpled napkins and empty sugar packets, the tables tacky with flavored syrup and coffee stains that you’d need to clean later, chairs around them arranged haphazardly and not pushed in, and—

And in the back corner, sitting low in his seat, baseball cap tugged down and shade over his eyes and fingers drumming restlessly against the side of a paper coffee cup, is James Buchanan Barnes.

The excitement you feel, then, is not really the kind you’d expected to— the last time you’d thought about him had been middle school, and even if it’d been just that three months, you remember with startling clarity that girlish, daydreamy kind of interest, how it felt, pleasant and mild and entirely harmless. Whatever you feel right now is not like that at all. It’s sharp and it’s visceral and it’s real, not a fantasy or the result of your imagination, not directed towards some fiction of a person that functioned as a safe receptacle for the things going on inside your head, but an actual individual human being. 

 It’s just interest, just curiosity, what you feel— you don’t have a crush on him, it’s not like you’re still in middle school and still interested, like that, in even just the general category of person that crush had represented. And the person sitting in the lobby isn’t the person– the fiction– you’d even felt that type of way about, anyways. You don’t know him, and he’s obviously nothing like the guy memorialized in every Captain America docudrama miniseries on Netflix. No, James Buchanan Barnes is a real human being, a very different human being, one that’s a stranger to you and you think— you guess— probably just as much of a stranger to that other, safer, softer, more boyish version of himself. 

You keep thinking about how he looked at you, unbroken and unwavering and eerily fucking precise, how his eyes hadn’t even move at all, focused so intently that it’d made the hairs on the back of your neck raise and goosebumps prickle across the tops of your shoulders and all the way down your arms and your gut instinct yell, loudly, there is something not right about this guy!

You’d read his Wikipedia article again. It’s been updated since; lots of shit came out since 2012. You’d heard about the Winter Soldier stuff, but reading about it in detail— it’s bad. There are probably several things that are not exactly right about him, now. That’s fine, though. The way the world is these days, there’s stuff not right about everyone.

You’re occupied with a steady and annoyingly constant stream of customers until about 8:00, making coffees and sandwiches and trading on and off with your coworker in the back room, where you’re trying to get the brunt of the stocking and dishwashing done before they leave at 8:30. You’d been fucking busy, and you’re annoyed, you got cream from the dispenser machine all up one of the sleeves of your sweater so you’d had to take it off, and there’s fucking caramel sauce stuck to the hairs on the flat of your forearm near your wrist and gluing them to your skin and that grocery bag of fruit is sitting on the back table next to your jacket and your gross sweater and your house keys and it’s staring at you. Accusingly.

Your coworker leaves.

You steal a careful glance over the coffee machines at the lobby, just checking, just to make sure that he’s still—

And he is.

Cool.

It takes you a few minutes to kind of— dredge up the guts to go talk to him, another few more for the last trickle of late-night coffee-getters to start to finally taper out, and then you do it. You gather your resolve and your nerve and whatever else, courage, too, probably, and you go out into the lobby and you stand in front of his table and you wait for him to, eventually, look up from where he’s been staring, kind of sullen-looking, out of the window.

“I looked it up,” you blurt out when he does, before you can think better of it, “Online. Apparently supply chains were really small, in like. The 30s. So people could get stuff, right, but a lot more of it was— local. You know that, obviously, but, um.”

He just looks at you. Unblinking.

“Anyway,” you say, trying to ignore the weird kind of twisty feeling of your nerves in the pit of your stomach; jesus christ, he stares, a lot, “Anyway, I had this neighbor when I was a kid, right, and he was— his family, they were refugees. Immigrants. He was learning English, but I made friends with him by using my allowance to buy things at the grocery store, like, weird things, stuff that he’d never had before. So we could— try it. For– fun. And I thought– well. There was a sale, today, so.”

You gesture to your hand; awkwardly, helplessly, god, this is weird, like ice-breakers on hard mode, if the ice were less like a frozen-over pond and more like one of those miles-deep Antarctic glaciers. A tissue-thin plastic bag, the knotted top of it held in your fist, the lone fruit inside just kind of– sitting there.

He finally blinks, and then he shifts back in his chair, and he looks at you some more, his gaze unwavering and solid and heavy like it has actual, physical weight to it, like it’s pressing down on your shoulders and forcing you into the ground.  “Are you— have you been trying to make friends with me?” he says, in a tone that’s kind of incredulous and a lot disbelieving and tells you absolutely nothing about whether or not he’d actually be amenable to that.

Whatever.

Fuck it, you think, and then you lift your chin and you meet his eyes and you make yourself stare right back, stubborn and deliberately unflinching. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I have.”

His expression– it’d been flat, impassive and unreadable, but something cuts right across it for a fraction of a second when you say that, quick and sure as a knife. For that one heartbeat of a moment he looks expressive and alive– you think he might even look stricken, actually, and you wonder far too late if maybe this had been a mistake, if you’d upset him. Done something wrong.

But then it’s gone, so quickly that you think you must have imagined it.

He leans back in his chair, and he looks down at his empty coffee cup as he taps it absently against the table, like he’s thinking it over. When he looks back at you the sum of his features are wholly neutral, except for his mouth, which is quirked up at the corners, just a little– not a smile, not with the way his lips are pressed together, into a hard, unwavering line, but it doesn’t look like something bad, either. It doesn’t look negative.

“Okay,” he says. “All right, shoot.” He jerks his chin towards the bag in your hand. “What’ve you got?”

You tear the side of it with your fingernails and dump the contents on the table. “Pomegranate. Had one before?”

His mouth twitches up more, and this time it does look like a smile, the beginnings of one, like he’s repressing it. He clicks his tongue and stretches his legs out under the table and shakes his head, just a little. “Yep,” he says. “Struck out on your first try.”

“No way Mr. Great Depression is more worldly than me.” You decide you’re going to interpret that as an agreeable reaction. There’s only one chair at his table, so you drag one over from nearby, the legs making this awful grinding sound against the tile floor. “I’ve never had one, so I’m taking half. Only fair.”

You fumble in your pocket for your knife to cut into it. He stares at it, when you pull it out, and then stares at you, “What do you have that for?”

Some nameless tension inside of you unwinds at the realization that he’s not just sitting there in stone-faced silence, anymore.

“Walk home after close,” you reply with an easy shrug; the conversation no longer feels like the world’s most awkward one-person performance or like actually physically pulling teeth, and that’s— pretty cool. Feels like a victory. “I usually finish at like, eleven-thirty. Not super dangerous, or anything, but better safe than sorry.”

Barnes makes a disapproving sound— what you think is a disapproving sound— under his breath when you flick the blade open, and grabs the pomegranate from the center of the table. “Too short,” he says, jerking his chin at it in your hand, “Gonna be a pain in the ass, let me.”

The knife that he pulls from what you think must be a sheath on his boot is a straight blade without a handguard, matte black and tapered to a point and without a doubt longer than four inches. Long enough to halve the pomegranate in one clean cut, sharp enough to bite into the laminate surface of the table underneath, just a little. 

“That’s definitely not street legal,” you say, mostly joking. 

Barnes stares at you. It takes you a second to realize that’s— new. Relatively speaking.

“New York made anything over four inches illegal, plus butterfly knives and switchblades,” you inform him. “I think in the 50s.”

He makes some noncommittal sound of what you assume is probably distaste, and stows the knife back in his boot. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, “I’m not a snitch.”

He doesn’t smile, but his expression lightens a little.

On the table, the pomegranate is split neatly in half, and the little pebbled fruits inside the open skin glint in the warm light from the overhead fixtures. Like flecks of garnet. Or drops of blood.

“Could get these in the fall, sometimes,” he says, looking down at it. “Used to pick the bits out with a sewing needle. Made it last all afternoon.”

Your brain conjures up the image of the baby-faced Barnes, maybe sitting on the curb or the front steps of a building. You wonder what the details of the memory are. You wonder if little scrawny Steve had been there, or if he’d been alone. 

You don’t ask. 

“I don’t have a sewing needle,” is what you do say, “But—“ your nametag is clipped to your shirt, a flat slip of plastic with a pin on the back, and you unfasten it and slide it across the table. 

Behind you, the door hinges creak and the bell chimes and you sigh, long-suffering, and get to your feet with an exaggeratedly affected eye-roll.

“I’ll be back,” you tell him, “Customer.”

You go to take the order and then midway through making it the doorbell sounds again. Midway through making that, same deal. This happens, at night, a trickle of customers just fast enough to keep you working nonstop, now that you’re the only person running the store. It goes on for something like ten minutes, which irritates the shit out of you despite the fact that it is technically your job. It’s nine-thirty at night and you’ve been at work for six hours and what you want to be doing is picking this dude’s brain, not making fucking coffee and bagels.

And also because a part of you is aware that he usually leaves around now.

He’s still there, though, when you come back; on the table there’s the husk of one half of the pomegranate,  this pale and washed-out color like corn silk, and a neat pile of seeds on a recycled-paper napkin. Barnes has the other half and he’s poking out little grains of red with the safety-pin end of your name tag and biting the pieces off the tip, breaking the fragile skin between his teeth. He looks— calmer. Kind of wistful. 

You realize this must be the first time he’s done this since he was a child, all the way back in a Brooklyn that doesn’t look anything like this one. Living alongside different people. Walking different streets. Breathing different air. 

“That’s for you,” he says, nodding at the little bits of red, the empty husk, “I thought— since you’re working.” 

You blink at him, and then you smile, a small, grateful one. Something flashes in his eyes, when you do; you aren’t paying much attention to it, still thinking about him, being so out of time. How strange this all must be. How much you really did mean it when you said you wanted to be his friend.

Barnes seems to realize when he brings the pin to his mouth again that it’s attached to your nametag. “Sorry,” he says, stilted and stiff and awkward-sounding, again, “I— you probably don’t want this back, now.”

“‘S fine, you can throw it out, if you want— I have so many.”You slide back into the chair and fish out of your apron pocket a blank one that you’d grabbed from the back, not knowing he’d gone and picked all the seeds out of your half already.  “I forget them in my pockets, they keep ending up in the washing machine.”

His expression relaxes, a little. He catches the kernel of fruit at the end of the pin between his teeth and bites down until there’s a burst of red in his mouth. Stabs another, works it free of the shell, the flimsy little white membrane around it wilting in on itself. You watch him do that for a minute, contemplative and silent. His mouth is red. His tongue, too, when it darts across his bottom lip. Makes you think about rocket pops from the ice cream truck in the summer. Makes you wonder if they had those, back then. 

“Did all that work for nothing, huh?” he says, after a while. You startle out of your thoughts and blink at him, nonplussed; he glances down at the pile of seeds on the napkin. “Thought you wanted to try it.”

“Oh,” you say, eloquently. “Oh, yeah. Duh.”

The first gem-glittering marble of fruit is softer than you’d expected and ruptures between your thumb and forefinger, staining the pads of them all red. You think about summer, as a kid, when you’d fall and scrape your hands on the asphalt hard enough that they bled. It’s almost the same color. 

The second time the seed is firmer and it bursts sharp and tart and faintly sweet between your teeth. “Kind of like cranberries,” you say, taking another. 

The pile is gone quickly, leaving just the napkin, the juice, like a dark wine stain. You lick your fingers clean. He’d been staring, the way he kind of always stares, but when your lips close around your thumb, he looks away.

~

You learn a bunch about food in the 1940s, mostly by accident.

Mangoes were a thing; they’d had some growing down in Florida, and you could get them seasonally. Pineapples used to be so rare that rich people would display the whole fruit as a centerpiece at parties and things, way back in the very early 1900s and up through the Great Depression, too; but by the time the 30s rolled around you could get the canned kind at the store. Watermelon was a thing, too, but they all had the solid, jet-black seeds you weren’t supposed to swallow; somebody’d bred those out of the commercial ones sometime after Barnes had slipped out of time. 

“I gotta just go straight for the really fucking weird stuff,” you muse, mostly to yourself. It’s late and it’s quiet in the shop and it’s raining outside, the street slick and black and reflecting the light from the lampposts. He stays later, now, leaves closer to 10:30; you’re kind of proud of that. That he seems to like you, your company. Or at least doesn’t dislike it.

“You could just ask,” he says, sounding just the slightest bit exasperated, “If I’ve had something before.”

“No,” you tell him, deeply serious, “No, that fucking ruins it, Barnes, it ruins the surprise.”

He looks at you blankly. A few seconds too late, you realize you’ve never actually said that, out loud. His name. You don’t call him Sergeant in your head anymore, it seems too formal, but James seems too intimate, and you hadn’t asked— hadn’t wanted to ask, hadn’t wanted to pry— if he still thinks of himself as Bucky. 

He doesn’t say anything.

Barnes it is, then.

~

Gooseberries used to be way more popular, all the way up into the 1920s, even though technically it was made federally illegal to grow them a few years before he was born. It was an attempt to stop the spread of this fungus that’d jump from the bushes to pine trees, killed huge swathes of them up and down the Northeast, decimated the lumber industry. He tells you his Ma used to make tarts and pies from them, in the fall when they were in-season, but eventually the farms upstate started getting shut down, and it was too expensive. The federal ban lifted in the 60s, you learn via Google, but production never really ramped back up again— they didn’t even have them at your regular grocery store, you’d had to go all the way to Trader Joe’s.

They taste kind of like green apples. He’d looked the way he did with the pomegranate, that first time, wistful and softer and like he’s remembering. It’s really the most you’ve ever seen behind whatever practiced and controlled exterior he maintains, beyond flashes of almost-smiles and eyebrow-raises and pointed looks. You want to peel that veneer off like peeling the skin from a fruit, get underneath it, get to the flesh of him; when this thought occurs to you, you bury it immediately, as deep as it will go. 

“White pine blister rust,” you read aloud off of your phone, crossing the lobby to his table, coffee cup in one hand. You set it on the table for him and he reaches for it with a mumbled thanks. “That’s what it was called, the fungus-thing. According to wikipedia.”

Barnes blinks at you. He takes a long, slow sip of his coffee, even though it’s still probably a little too hot, not that it matters to him; and then he sets the cup down and frowns and says, “What the fuck is wikipedia?”

You laugh without meaning to.

The skin slips, a little, whatever’s underneath peeking out, bruised and soft and bloody, but then you blink and he’s fine. Watching you, expression light and practiced. Whole, again.

~

In February something happens.

Your coworker tells you before he leaves, pulls you aside in the threshold of the door to the back room to mumble, “there were some dudes out back by the garbage when I took it out before. I was getting bad vibes, I don’t know, just— be careful.”

There’d been a string of robberies through the borough, all within some convenient distance of the subway line, and the store is probably three blocks away from one of the platforms. The back door is one of those that opens only from inside the store, the other end flat and lacking a handle; you leave it propped open when you run to take the garbage out. You’re not stupid, is the thing. The guys, whoever they are— it could be nothing, but it could be that they’re waiting. Waiting for it to be just you, waiting for the door to open, waiting for the opportunity. You have a knife, but it’s a flimsy ten-dollar gas station piece of shit, mostly for intimidation and not for actual use; you’re also well aware that using knives in confrontations tends to make things worse rather than better. Bring that shit out and you’re asking to get it taken from you. Asking to have it used on you.

You could try to call the cops, but more than half of them have been requisitioned by the GRC, and you know what they’d tell you. Unfortunately at the moment we’re understaffed and can’t afford to respond to predictive calls. Please let us know if and when something illegal occurs. Practiced and perfunctory and something people joke about in your neighborhood, because there’s really nothing else any of you can do. Your coworker can’t stay, either; he can’t afford to pay the babysitter another hour, not on minimum wage. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, “I’ll be fine.”

And it is okay. You will be fine.

Barnes is there.

It’s a Wednesday, so it’s just sheer fucking luck that he’s here at all; he must be able to see it, in your face, when you come bursting through the little swinging gate-thing and out into the lobby, because his hands tighten into fists where they’re resting on the table.

“Oh my god I’m so glad you’re here,” you say, breathless and frantic and very much meaning it.

There’s a flash of something on his face that makes you think of heat lightning or splintering ice of the second right before a pomegranate seed bursts between teeth. You are not thinking enough about things that aren’t your immediate anxiety to register it.

“I need your help,” you tell him.

He grows progressively stiffer as you explain the situation, and when you’re done he says nothing, just stands up and pushes his chair in and says, real low, “I’ll go— talk to them. Don’t worry.”

The bell above the door chimes when he leaves.

You stand there at the edge of his table for what feels like some impossible amount of time, every muscle in your body wound up like a spring, jaw clenched so hard it’s starting to drive the beginnings of a headache somewhere on the top of your skull—

He comes back.

“Are you— did they—“ you break from nervously picking at your fingernails to make some vague and anxious gesture. Barnes looks fine, unscathed, cool and neutral and controlled as ever, but when he looks at you it makes something base and instinctive deep inside of you buzz with— alarm. Or— something.

“They were just— being stupid, just drunks,” he says, and maybe you’re imagining it, the thread of tension in his voice. “It’s fine. It’s all— it’s fine.”

You feel yourself visibly relax. “Oh, god, thank you so much, dealing with drunk guys is— it’s the worst.”

He flinches, when you say the first words, just a little, his eyes almost closing and the muscles around them going just briefly tense, like he’d managed to suppress most, but not all, of the instinct. “You don’t— you don’t need to thank me.”

You study him for a minute, like maybe if you look hard enough that flicker of whatever it was would come back, linger long enough for you to make sense of it.

“All right, fine, no thanks. Thanks rescinded,” you say finally, bemused. “I’m going to refill your coffee, though.”

You say it with your hand already half-outstretched, close enough that he can’t stop you even with his reflexes, and whatever entirely reactive and entirely accidental noise of triumph you make when his hand closes around empty space is— not on purpose. 

His mouth twitches, the closest you’ve ever seen to an actual smile.

Something in your stomach flips.

You shove that shit down, too. 

When you come back with the coffee he’s sitting back in the chair with his legs stretched out and he’s staring out the window again. 

“Thanks,” he says, when you set it down.

“Oh, so you can thank me, but I can’t thank you?”

His mouth twitches again. “Yes.”

You make some entirely performative tch sound of affected annoyance as you retreat back behind the counter; you still have to take the garbage out, clear out the pastry display case, start emptying and scrubbing down the coffee pots you’re not using now that business has slowed to a crawl. 

“Are you still coming Friday?” you call out to him,  over the hum and hiss of the espresso machine running through the automated cleaning program, the milk foaming wands steaming in pitchers of sanitizer water, all of it loud enough that you’d never be able to hear him over it, something you realize too late, “Sorry, hold on, I should have asked before I—“

“Do you want me to?” His voice is clear and close and you startle reflexively; he’s at the counter, at the register, staring. Always staring. You thought in the beginning you’d get used to it. It’s not uncommon; those with power stare, and those without cast their eyes down and away. It’s the nature of customer service jobs in New York City. You meet a lot of powerful assholes in suits who make more money than you probably will ever handle in the entirety of your life, and they look at you and talk at you rather than to you, like you’re nothing, a rodent or an insect or something even less than that. You’ve never once flinched away from any of their stares, and never so much as felt like you wanted to, either.

James Buchanan Barnes doesn’t look at you like that at all. He doesn’t look at you like you’re lesser. He looks at you like he can see you— like he can see right through you, like you’re transparent, like everything going on in your head is out in the open, visible, vulnerable, or maybe like he just wants it to be. Like he’s looking for a door hidden somewhere in the minutiae of your expression, some way to force himself inside and pull all of your thoughts and secrets out like unraveling a spool of thread.

He doesn’t look at you like you’re not human. He looks at you like he knows, precisely, intimately, exactly how human you are, and that’s—

Kind of worse. Or maybe it isn’t. It’s definitely weird.

You realize with a start that he’d asked you a question, and you’d been silent for way too long. You tear your eyes away from him and focus on pulling all the cup lids out of the tray at the edge of the counter, sweeping the donut crumbs and sugar crystals and coffee grinds out and onto the floor. 

“I mean—,” your tongue feels thick and clumsy in your mouth and it trips over the words, the syllables, stumbling and uncertain. “Not if you have plans, I— you don’t have to.”

“I never have plans,” he scoffs, scathingly self-deprecating, and then there’s the steady rhythm of his fingers drumming against the counter and you feel it on your neck, the hairs raising there, that he’s staring at you still, “I just—since I came today, I thought maybe you wouldn’t— I don’t want to bother you.”

You freeze, stack of iced coffee lids in one hand, half-lowered back into the now-spotless tray. 

You force yourself to look back up at him.

“You’re not bothering me,” you say, stressing each word, like it’s important. It is important. “You’re— I like you. We’re friends.”

 That thing, from before, the almost-maybe-flinch; it happens again, and you feel your own expression do something reflexive in response, your lips part and your brow furrow in the seconds before you can school your features back to composure. Whatever he does, the control he has over his affect; you’re not very good at that.

“Besides,” you say, into the silence, eyes cast back down and focused on filling the lid tray, “I found something you’ve never tried before, this time. And since I paid for it already, you are, in fact, contractually obligated to be here.” 

He laughs, the same kind of laugh, the only kind of laugh you ever get from him; the cut-short one, like he doesn’t mean to, like he’d tried to stop it. 

Like he couldn’t.

~

Barnes leaves at about 10:45, and you bring the trash out right before he goes, just in case. You wouldn’t have seen it if it weren’t for the fact that you were still kind of nervous and had your phone in hand, shining the washed-out beam of light back-and-forth across the little fenced-in area by the dumpster, trying to keep the garbage bag at arms’ length to avoid getting some disgusting coffee sludge mixture on your shoes where it’s leaking out of the corners.

The light catches on it. It glitters, captures your attention, red against the sun-bleached gray concrete. Pomegranate seeds. Shards of garnet. 

Drops of blood.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #i'm uploading all of the things to tumblr. finally. #fic; drops of blood

[rainy19days]

All the credit for this post goes to @sgushka for sharing her discovery with me.

I don't know if anybody ever noticed it and talked about it but neither of us saw any posts pointing this out. Sorry in advance if it isn't anything new or groundbreaking.

First let me remind you of some things that happened between tianshan in earlier chapters before I get to the point.

That time when it rains and boys go home under one umbrella, He Tian notices Mo looking at guitars in a store's window. He catches a cold and goes cruzing with his brother the next day instead of going to school. When he's back he lures Mo to come over. And this happens:

The next day:

I wonder what could possibly keep him up all night. Hmm...

The same day Mo goes to see his dad in prison and He Tian is looking for him. When he finds him later they fight a gang, He Tian takes injured Mo to the hospital and then leaves to see his father. At the hospital Mo has his first (?) wet dream with He Tian comforting him and squeezing his butt. When he gets back home he has another wet dream that we didn't see.

Fast forward to the day He Tian gifts Mo the guitar and the photo:

Pay attention to their clothes. The only day He Tian was wearing a white tshirt and Mo yellow one is the day Mo visited his dad and then fought the gang with He Tian. It was the day he looked like he hadn't had much sleep. So it would add up that at some point in the day he fell asleep and He Tian sneaked a picture of them. And considering what happened before that day imagine if He Tian would smile even wider if he knew what (or who) was the reason of Mo's lack of sleep at night.

So that's that. We don't know if Mo had his first dream about He Tian after their close encounter and that's why he couldn't sleep, or was he just thinking about He Tian, or maybe something else. Also it's another example how Old Xian puts something in the story to bring it up as an easter egg a hundred chapters later.

#sorry if somebody already talked about it #did mo jerk off that night? xD #19 days #tianshan #old xian #mo guan shan #he tian #19 days analysis

[instructionsnotincluded]

True North - Sneak Peek (John "Bucky" Egan x Original Female Character)

Ok so after a handful of messages yesterday, I was feeling inspired and a little excited about the possibility of a new fandom and may have binged some of Masters of the Air late last night. I'm not quite sure where it's going to end up, but here's part of the first chapter. Testing the waters (or clouds?) to see if there's even any interest in it. OR if it's just total shit, since it's a new era I've never written for before. (If so, we can just pretend this never happened, hahaha.)

Pairing: John "Bucky" Egan x Original Female Character

Length: 1935 Words

Warnings: Language, military inaccuracies, writer flying by the seat of her pants as she tries to research more about WWII and pilots, mentally cursing herself for not paying closer attention in history class, 18+, MDNI.

“You’re flyin’ today, Frank!” 

The loud accented voice filled her ears, the brunette squinting her eyes closed tightly as she heard footsteps echoing all around the shared room, the sounds of trunks opening and closing joining in a moment later. She’d just been on the verge of a delicious dream with Gary Cooper’s character from The Westerner when Dorothy Skylar’s voice interrupted their suggestive conversation, her friend rudely butting into the fantasy.

“If you don’t get up, they’ll give your spot to the boys!”

“Ok!” Frank lifted her arm into the air, waving it around to signal she was, in fact, alive, “ok! I’m up—I’m getting up. Keep your panties on.”

“We call ‘em knickers ‘round here, love!” Dorothy’s laughter bounced along the walls, mixing in with the various posters, postcards, photos, and letters pinned above each of the beds, “if you’re going to talk about them, get it right!”

“You are all so irritating,” Frank shifted into a sitting position, the thin strap of her silk tank-top falling over her shoulder as she pressed the heel of her palm into her eye, “does no one like to sleep in anymore?”

“Haven’t had the luxury in years, darling,” Dorothy finished buckling her belt, pausing briefly in the full-length mirror as she adjusted the pins in her curls, “while you Americans have been ignoring what’s been going on across the Atlantic, we’ve been living this nightmare for years.”

“Well—at least it’s a shared one now,” Frank rested the back of her hand against her mouth as she stifled a yawn, “alright, I’m getting up. Where am I going?”

“Thorpe Abbotts,” Dorothy glanced over her shoulder to look at Frank as the shorter woman moved around her bed and over to her trunk, pushing aside piles of unfolded clothing to find her uniform, “should be a quick flight, you’ll be back before dark.”

“Maybe,” Frank disrobed and redressed once her undergarments were secured, Dorothy averting her eyes as Frank changed before messing with her hair, “we’ll see—last time I flew the airfield manager wouldn’t let me off the plane until he’d spoken to at least three men, one of whom was ranked lower than me.”

Dorothy only hummed, both women more than aware of how difficult it could sometimes be ferrying planes to and from airfields and bases, especially if the Americans were involved. It was still shocking to most men that women flew—and while the program in the US was slowly getting off the ground, the British had fully embraced female pilots, the Air Transport Auxiliary allowing women to help ferry new, repaired, and damaged aircraft between factories, plants, airfields, and squadrons. Frank had jumped at the chance to fly, to do something for the war effort that wasn’t working in a factory—she had well over four-hundred hours of flight time in the US, and while the United States Army Air Forces wasted time debating on whether or not you needed a dick to fly, she bypassed the red tape and joined the ATA shortly after Jacqueline Cochran led the first group to England. Fast forward two years later and Frank found herself an active member of the No. 6 Ferry Pool, doing whatever she could, whenever she could. 

“Are you going to see that boy of yours?” Dorothy asked, nodding towards one of the folded letters on Frank’s nightstand, the corner of it peeking out from under one of her journals.

Frank shook her head as she finished buttoning up her flight suit, the material heavy, thick, and too big for her frame before sliding on the sheepskin jacket. That was another thing about being a female pilot—there weren’t any uniforms to fit the female body, the material often baggy on her arms and legs, but tight across her hips. “He went down a few months ago over the North Sea,” Frank mentally scolded herself for not tossing the letter after she heard the news. They hadn’t been that close—a few afternoon dates when she found herself on overnight trips to London and he happened to be there, brief memories of them sneaking around hallways, bodies pressed up against walls as they sought comfort and distraction in one another. He was from Texas and smelled like home, reminding her of easier times when she was away at college, just trying to find direction in life. But like that experience, he was gone and she was left to figure out which way was North once again. 

“Frank…”

“It’s fine,” Frank reached for her bag, Dorothy pausing at the doorway, eyes cloudy with regret as she watched her friend pass her, pressing the heavy wooden door open as both women stepped out into the hallway of the dormitory the ATA housed them in, “it’s war.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t mean something…that it doesn’t hurt…”

“I thought you were British,” Frank pushed the emotion and tears away, scolding her heart for clenching as she turned to walk backwards, pressing a finger onto Dorothy’s badged chest, “aren’t you supposed to ‘stiff upper lip’ everything?”

Dorothy only rolled her eyes, the girls exiting the building a few moments later, the cloudy gray English sky greeting them as they crossed the pathway towards the waiting trucks, “have I ruined your flight time?” Dorothy asked quietly once they were in the back of the jeep, eyeing her friend as Frank leaned heavily against the side, “you’re not going to be distracted are you? You’re flying a Class 5 aircraft today—you need to be focused.”

“I’m fine,” Frank waved her off, “and even if I wasn’t, I’d be fine once I’m in the air. Trust me, that’s the only place my mind doesn’t wander.”

Dorothy didn’t appear convinced, but didn’t push the matter, the girls sitting in silence the rest of the ride to the airfield. Planes dotted the landscape, the tower looming in the background. Most of the planes would find homes on other bases or airfields, another tool for the boys to use in their battles. For a while it felt like production was stalling, they had so few to ferry around, but it seemed in the last year or so it had definitely picked up, so many different classes of aircraft ready to be delivered to the Allies. Frank hadn’t yet flown into Thorpe Abbotts, the Royal Air Force station just a handful of miles to the east of Diss, Norfolk. It was fairly new, having been built the previous year, but once the United States Army Air Forces took possession of the airfield, it seemed like activity was picking up. 

The boys at Thorpe Abbotts seemed to be going through planes like candy, and Frank was pretty sure this was their fifth ferry to the airfield in less than two weeks. Typically they flew to the smaller satellite bases once a month, maybe twice if there were mechanical issues, but five times in two weeks? Something was definitely going on in East Anglia. She’d heard low rumblings of the amount of planes that went down during their missions from the British pilots—the men criticizing the Americans for bombing during the day rather than waiting until evening. One conversation she overheard at dinner a few weeks ago seemed to be about the recently arrived 100th Bombardment Group and how they kept losing men to dumb tactical decisions. “It’s war,” one of the heavier accented men had said, slumped backwards in his chair as he rested a beer on the table, “you do what you need to survive.”

“...are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

Frank’s eyes snapped back to those of Commander Dorothy Skylar’s, the three gold stripes she wore on the shoulder strap of her jacket seeming to catch in what little sunlight they had today, making Frank’s two stripes seem even less important than they already felt. “Yes, sorry,” Frank shook her head and the memories away, forcing herself back into the present, “I was just thinking about Thorpe Abbotts and some of the conversations that I’ve heard in passing about it.”

“They’re losing men and planes at a rapid rate of speed,” Dorothy nodded, glancing down at the folder of papers Frank just realized the woman was carrying, “I don’t think this will be your last ferry there.”

“No,” Frank turned her head as she watched the massive Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress come into view, eyes slowly taking in the matte green of the plane, white lettering and stars decorating the wings and body, “no, I don’t think it will be either.”

The girls scrambled out of the jeep when it came to a stop, their male driver neither acknowledging nor checking with them before he sped off, Dorothy just barely clearing the rear left bumper as he turned. “Fucker,” Dorothy whispered under her breath as they crossed the tarmac, “we fly planes and he drives a jeep—yet we’re still the gum under his shoe.”

“Men are babies,” Frank said as she approached the plane, left arm extending to slide across the edge of the wing, “they move from one tit to another, starting with their mother’s, until they die.”

Dorothy laughed, shaking her head as she watched Frank move through the checklist she had memorized by now, a few of the engineers hovering nearby if needed. A younger woman, who appeared to be just barely over eighteen approached quickly a handful of minutes later, clipboard pressed tightly to her chest, “Stella Frank?”

“Captain,” Frank corrected her, the girl almost shrinking back in on herself as she looked over at Dorothy for approval, but the higher ranked commander only stared back blankly, “it’s Captain Frank.”

“Yes—yes, Captain Frank,” the woman shuffled a few papers around as Frank came to stand beside Dorothy, both women waiting as she handed over a thin packet of instructions, hand shaking as she did, “here are your pilot notes, I’m so sorry they weren’t delivered sooner.”

“Thank you…” Frank waited expectantly but the girl didn’t appear to catch on that Frank was waiting for her name, and instead smiled politely at both women before scurrying off. 

“Must you be so brash all the time?” Dorothy asked once the girl was out of ear shot, “I think today’s her first day.”

“Then she’s lucky she stumbled across me,” Frank flipped open the folder, eyeing the notes that gave her heading and speed instructions, as well as landing information, “if it’d been Ryan or Phillips she’d be on a plane back to the states right about now with wet knickers.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dorothy squinted up towards the sky, “you better get on with it—you’re due at Thorpe Abbotts in a few hours. You might get held up for a bit after you land, I think you’re ferrying back one of the planes that took heavier fire, so be safe.” Frank saluted her commander and Dorothy only rolled her eyes, “and watch for the fog, alright? I don’t know if Carol put it in the notes, but the fog around the airfield is sometimes incredibly thick. The boys may not see you until you’re landing.”

“And they have seen a woman before, right?” Frank lifted her eyebrows and Dorothy only shrugged playfully, “this isn’t one of the groups where there’s hardly any women on base and I’ll feel like a monkey at the zoo, right?” Dorothy took a few steps back in the direction of one of the metal buildings along the tarmac, a wide smile across her face. Frank only raised her voice to be heard, “right?”

“Don’t fall in love, Captain!” Dorothy called back, “we’ll see you back later tonight.”

#Masters of the Air Fanfiction #mota fanfic #john bucky egan fanfiction #John Bucky egan x oc #Bucky Egan fanfiction #John Bucky Egan x reader #John Egan Fanfiction #Bucky Egan Smut #John Egan Smut #John Egan x ATA!Pilot

[gatzilksis-2]

10 Days Away

(this story includes fart kink and other adult elements)

Part One: 10 Hours Away

Chapter One: The First Stop

I sat in the back of a white SUV, next to my best friend Jimmy. I was the scrawny one. He was a bulky mix of fat and muscle, feathery brown hair and a pinkish face with a kept goatee and rectangular glasses.

Jimmy's mother Anna sat in front of him, and her husband was driving. Kyle was Jimmy's stepfather, a heavy, tall man with a thick beard. He took up every inch of his seat.

Jimmy and I had been best friends since high school. We were well over adults now, both of us 23. He was the only person I could never tire of. We always had fun, and we always laughed our asses off.

A heavy, guttural smell hit me. I glanced at Jimmy, who was already grinning. I was used to the intense smell of his gas, though sometimes he pushed it beyond my limit.

"Oh, James!" Anna rolled down her window, fanning a hand in front of her face. "Please don't stink up the car on this trip, you two!"

She wasn't referring to me but Kyle. The bear-like stepfather was also gifted in the fart department, though I couldn't stand his. Too bad.

"This'll be the longest trip we've taken together." Jimmy got into another lane and scratched his beard. "I'll try to hold it for stops."

"Thank you." Anna grasped Kyle's free hand.

"Are we getting food?" Jimmy yelled.

"If you stop shitting," Kyle responded, a smirk cutting through his facial hair.

"I can't promise anything," Jimmy returned, bumping my shoulder with his own. "Ask Zac. I never hold it."

"True," I confirmed.

"It's about respect, son," said Kyle.

"Well, respect that I fart a lot." Jimmy shrugged emphatically.

Fifteen minutes later, we stopped at a rest area to eat some fast food at a picnic table. Anna was afraid we'd make a mess in the car. He might've been smelly, but Jimmy wasn't messy.

"You know we're not kids anymore?" Jimmy asked his mother.

"You'll always be kids to me, James," she replied.

BWOOOOORRRT!

The sound emanated from the bench beside her, where Kyle's obese form leaned away from his wife. Her mouth fell open.

"Bad idea!" Jimmy and I chimed in unison.

Anna gasped and coughed, only seconds before Kyle's hot garbage and egg fart reached across the table.

Anna turned away to cough more and spat in the grass. She turned back to Kyle with a glare and her lips in a straight, serious line.

He shrugged as he grabbed for his triple cheeseburger in the bag. "It's a stop, ain't it?"

"You're not funny." Anna slid away from him, grabbing her salad bag.

"I think he's funny." I took two medium fries out of our bag and set two burgers in front of Jimmy. It was our constant for fast food; I took his fries, he took my burger.

"Don't encourage him," said Anna.

We fell into silence as we ate. I looked around at other people at the rest area. I had a feeling much of the trip would be gassy, especially after this meal.

"I can't wait to get to the cabin," I said. "I can't stop looking at the pictures."

"Don't get too excited." Kyle burped and smiled. "My brothers are gonna give you so much hell."

"For being gay?" I asked.

"No. It's just what they do." Jimmy rolled his eyes behind a glare on his spectacles.

"And fart, just like him." Anna pushed Kyle's shoulder.

He closed one eye and leaned forward. VWAAAMP! Anna slapped his arm again, and Kyle laughed into his burger.

"Farts sound so funny on picnic benches." Jimmy's mouth was full, but I was fluent in full-mouth. To prove his point, he leaned to point his ass towards me. BRRR-WAP!

"James!" Anna exclaimed in the exact way she had hundreds of times before.

"We want them to get it all out now, right?" I bit a pinch's worth of fries. Jimmy's stink was hot and thick, but I'd been smelling that smell for seven years.

"That's not how digestion works, Zac." Kyle talked with his mouth full, too. Crumbs from the bun and salt from the fries were stuck in his beard. "It'll take a lil bit for all the red meat and cheese to kick in."

"You're so gross." Anna stood with her empty salad container and bag, throwing them in the closest trash can. "I'm gonna use the bathroom. You guys should try, so we won't have to stop as soon."

"I'll have to stop to fart," said Kyle.

"Oh God." Anna rolled her eyes and walked towards the small brick building.

Kyle swallowed his last bite and stood. He walked to the trash can and threw his stuff away, then turned and walked back. This time, however, Kyle headed towards our side of the table.

"Incoming!" I shouted.

Jimmy put his head down as Kyle jogged past us. FWRRMP-BLRRT-PWRRT!

I stood and hurried away from the table, before his cropdusting could enter my senses. Kyle was a notorious cropduster, but only when Anna wasn't around.

I threw mine and Jimmy's bag into a different trashcan. I wasn't going to follow the path of the fart. Kyle's farts stank so bad, and I suddenly became worried about the rest of the ten-hour drive.

#eproctophilia #farts #gatzilksis #eprocto #fart kink #flatulence #fart fiction #fart stories #male fart fiction #male fart stories

[camilasstories]

❝feeling unreciprocated❞ chapter 4 | jungkook x reader

summary: Sleeping with one guy after feeling rejected wasn't a good idea, but sleeping with another one and another seemed to be even worse plan. Especially with your handsome crush behind the wall, who is as confused as you about your ways of coping with a broken heart.

note: I’m sorry for such a short chapter. I just got some messages some of you were waiting for it so here you go!

trailer/masterlist | chapter 3 | next chapter

You got accustomed to your position as a Jungkook's friend. Somehow, it calmed your mind knowing you held any place in, maybe, his heart, which was ridiculous because you barely knew each other. Yet, you found peace in thinking of it like that.

This week passed by pretty fast with you being occupied with your studies and thinking about the project you were soon to present with your partners. It was also sparse in socializing with other people as Gia was preapring for her mock-exams, but especially with Jungkook as he devoted his free time to this new guy - Kim Taehyung whom he met at work. You were used to it, you told yourself and it was true as it was a completely normal state of things between you and him. However, there was this odd felling of uncertainty that manage to weigh you down. Although he mentioned before going out about seeing you later on your traditional movie night, you weren't sure whether his new friendships wouldn't drag him away from you because he was already running late. You couldn't hide the fact it was making you disappointed to the point you got yourself wondering if he even remembered you two were about to meet in your shared living room. Nevertheless, you had too much faith in him to say it out loud.

While you were waiting for him, you checked his instagram. Since you were following Jungkook, you had a full allowance to scroll though his photos and look at his stories he posted from time to time shamelessly without being scared of getting caught in his notifications. Because even if you would have, then it hadn't been seen as something weird or suspicious that you were almost stalking him on his social medias.

When it was half past eight you gave up the idea of waiting for him as thirty minutes already passed and you were one hundred percent sure he wouldn't be anytime soon so you just grabbed your quilt and a pillow to make your way back to your room quite bitter about his actions. He didn't even let you know he wasn't going to come today, which was quite disrespectful, in your opinion, because you were really looking forward to watch a movie with him. To be more precise, just to see him and you didn't ask for too much, right? On the other hand, you could have foresees that such a day would come sooner or later. You should have kicked Jungkook's ass before and met with the guy you slept with in more appropriate circumstances. Maybe you would actually have your love life back and stop daydreaming about this stupid, unreasonable, the most annoying-...

"What? You've finished watching already?"

You gasped agitated hearing the sound of shutting door and male's voice in the foyer. You turned around with bedding cover still in your arms towards the entry of your apartment. It felt like a burden was taken away from your shoulders, a big relief that he didn't ditch you after him having let you know he was actually present and, you hoped, ready to spend the evening with you. You had been so close to the edge in believing he would stood you out and this belief wasn't groundless.

"I haven't even started" you squeezed your quilt even tighter leaning on the wall as you watched him kicking off his shoes.

"Why?" he asked putting away his jacket and leaving his hoodie on with questioning, but cool look visible on his face "Did you pick something, though?"

Taking into consideration that you were busy battling gloomy thoughts in your mind, it was obvious you didn't even touch the remote.

"No, I didn’t" you replied shortly “I thought you wouldn't come, to be honest”.

Jungkook was observing you. There you were standing in a foyer with white material over your chest as you didn’t make it back to your room yet. But he didn’t know why you were not in the living room already watching something on the TV.

"I might have been a little late" he admitted shrugging his shoulders "My phone died, but I grabbed us some things on the way" he showed a see-through bag with colorful packages in it "Am I forgiven?”

"If it's your way to say sorry, then I guess so" you murmured this time with more soft expression on your face.

"Then stop looking so offended" he chuckled reaching his hands to you "Give me this, you're almost drowning" he took the bedding out of your hands and put it back on the couch, while you checked what he had bought.

In general, there were his favourite snacks, but he didn’t think only of himself as you found some crisps and cookies you often ate when you had a bad day. Your heart warmed up at his gesture. But you realized it just wasn’t adding up. Why did he care? Was he just nice? Did he know you overheard him? You sighed and placed the bag on the console in the foyer. The longer you were gazing at it, the more it felt like something was missing in the whole picture. Like everything was on its place, but there was one thing that you couldn't come up with that was lacking. Your forehead wrinkled as your eyebrows raised. You were sure you put them right there. There was no other place in your flat to fit them in.

"Hey, Junkook! Where are the flowers?" you shouted after him still standing in a foyer slightly dumbfounded.

"What flowers?" he stuck his head out after he had stopped searching for his charger.

“The ones that were standing in a foyer” you pointed at the vase with your head after having drawn his attention “Or they used to stand”.

You wondered if he even noticed them in the first place, maybe it was pointless to ask him this, but there were no more people living in this flat, so you presumed might have put them somewhere else. You watched as confusion that was plastered on his face changed into clarity as his expression lit up apparently knowing what you were talking about.

"Ah, right. I've thrown them away" he told casually and made his way to the living room indifferent to his action that managed to baffle you out.

"What? Why?" your squinted your eyes being perplexed "Jungkook, answer me!" you added feeling he didn't listen to you.

"They were dead, I guess" he shrugged his shoulders and took TV remote in his hand looking at the screen “What do you want to watch? Psychological series or comedy?"

"Jungkook!" you watched him in disbelief.

"What? They looked fucking rubbish” he looked at you as you struggled to find words “I’m just telling the truth. They've been withered” he kept convincing you.

You didn't remember them to start to wither, actually. You changed the water in vase almost every day and you even cut their ends one time. It sounded impossible. And rubbish? Okay, maybe it wasn't the prettiest bouquet, but still it was a kind gesture that you appreciated even though it wasn't given by your dream person.

"Did you even think they could have been from somebody?" you folded your arms on your chest while he sat on the couch.

"Were they?" he raised an eyebrow at you waiting for your response.

You sealed your lips immediately muted. You could have spared the information and let these silly flowers go, but obviously you couldn't keep your mouth closed at the right time. Especially when he wasn't supposed to know you were seeing someone. You didn't want to embarrass yourself with the fact it was just one-time thing. It would potentially cross your chances with him. And hooking up was just a way of coping for the time being.

"W-Well..." you stuttered losing the courage feeling the pressure of his gaze "Maybe".

"From whom?" he picked a series since you didn't answer him, but you just shrugged your shoulders not bothering to reply as shame came all over you.

You felt his burning gaze on your back as you sat down on the floor fixing the duvet under your but to make yourself comfortable on the hard ground. Nevertheless, you kept being silent with your blank eyes turned towards TV.

"Not my business, I get it" you heard him fidgeting in his sit and stretching out his legs.

"No, it's just..." you had blurted out before pursing your lips not knowing whether you should speak out "Just a guy, nothing serious".

"You don't have to explain yourself" his immediate answer and him chuckling made you flush even more "Easy there".

"Fine" you sat there for a few minutes not even daring to touch the sweets he had brought with him, somehow losing your appetite as you almost gave yourself away.

"You know you can sit next to me" Jungkook made an offer with his eyes glued to the screen "I don't bite".

In fact, you took Gia's advice to your heart not wanting your feelings to escalate even more, seeing how much it could cost you. Still, you hesitated as you also yearned for his presence, but the damage it could make outweighed the benefits. After your analyzations, you came to one, precious conclusion that it would be healthier for you to leave some free space between you and him. To leave it as it was. To make a safe deal for both of the sides.

"No, no. It's okay" you turned it down knowing what could happen if you let yourself feel more than you allowed to.

Sometimes, saying no to some invitations should be just done. Even to such a dissent one like this. But you had a good head on your shoulders trying not to melt because of his tempting proposition.

"It's not like we've just met, (Y/N)" you almost felt him rolling his eyes at you, but you decided to shrug it off.

Keeping a safe distance between you and Jungkook gave you the sense of control over your absurd feelings and decreased your chances of making embarrassing gaffe in his presence. Although he didn't acknowledge your sympathy towards him, you had to be the one who would be reasonable enough to draw a thick line between both of you, just in case. You had no idea what would happen if any signs of crushing over him came out.

"It's quite comfortable here" you brought your knees closer to your chest which enabled you to rest your chin there "But thanks".

"Yeah, I'm sure of it" he used his sarcasm to deny your silly statement and without giving a hoot he leaned down to slip his hands under your arms.

"What are you doing?" your body became stiff under his firm grip, but instantly it woke up due to the pluck trying to wiggle out from his hold.

"Stop squirming. You're making this difficult" Jungkook groaned silently as he pulled you up from the floor to the cozy couch next to him "And you are not as light as you seem to be".

Actually, when you let yourself feel the intensity of your intimacy after giving up a fight, there came a nice feeling of having him so close to your body. For the first time. Though, you doubted whether he was going through the same thing, you didn't seem to care at the moment completely drowning in a pleasant sensation. He was warm, you felt it only by touching each other with shoulders. And his scent was something else. Fresh, strong and manly. You squeezed yourself deeper into seat back. Fuck, you were melting.

"Comfy, kitten?" he sneered seeing your face expression softening.

Kitten. You gulped down, shaking yourself out. You must have misheard something.

"Not enough" you responded pretending to be serious "You take too much space".

"Better keep your mouth closed or you will get back to that floor" he sighed because of your indication and moved his body to the left side of the sofa "Here, happy?"

As much as you wanted to, you shouldn't, right? Well, avoiding being so close to him to prevent your feelings escalating even more was demanding. In addition, his actions unabled you from doing so. How you were supposed to stay away from him?

“No” you scoffed and started to slide down from the couch to get back to the floor "It was my turn anyway".

"I don't think you're going anywhere farer than this fucking sofa" he grabbed you once again this time placing his hands on your waist as it was easier to lift you up.

"Jungkook, please. Leave-" you couldn't finish your sentence as you felt his hands on your body.

"No way. Get your ass here" he tilted his head amused "You're so irritating sometimes. It must be so tiring, why don't you quit that?"

"Oh, get away" you huffed, but he shrugged it off with a laugh while he put you back next to him "You see me barely once a week, you don't know me" you stated.

"And let's leave it that way" you assumed he made a joke, but you couldn't help feeling a sharp pinning in your chest. He kept mocking "I don't know what's hidden behind this innocent face of yours".

Crush. Random hookup. You name it.

"A lot".

"I imagine" he nodded his head pretending to be serious "How was your week?" the standard question came out of his mouth.

"Uh-Interesting?"

"With your style of living?" he folded his arms not really believing you "What? Were you on some party? Did you went clubbing?" he kept inquiring.

"Yes? I was at..." you stuttered "At..."

"Caleido? Zoid club?" he started to list every place he visited "Because for sure not at Vixen's".

"Well, one of them".

He turned his head towards you while scanning your face as if something was not right with you.

"You are such a bad liar" he said looking straight into your eyes.

"Why do you think I'm lying?" you broke under his intense gaze while gulping down knowing he caught you already. Your heart started to bump strongly in your chest to the point you almost heard it in your ears "Why you don't believe I went clubbing?"

Maybe you were too obvious, too predictable, too… boring to get his attention.

"Because it's just... you".

taglist: @smwhrinthehaze, @betysotelo18

#jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #bts x reader #jungkook fanfic #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #jungkook x you #bts #bts imagines #feeling unreciprocated #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff

[plasticfangtastic]

American Royalty. Ch. 6

A Homelander x F!Reader and Dadlander fanfic

A/N: sorry for the wait lads, sadly I've had to put my other fic on hiatus (bcuz am overwhelmed irl from work and writing) but bcuz of that I'll be able to post this with more frequency. If you're interested in being in the taglist plz drop a comment with a request! Thanks to everybody who reads this work, you guys are awesome! also my masterlist doesn't have anymore space so I'll be making a list for this series soon, here's the previous chapter:

Tags: mild gore, angst, slow burn, fluff, oc characther, child neglect, dadlander, romance, toxic relationship.

Chapter Six

Loaded weapon.

Heavy puddles splashed all accross the floor under hundreds of steps, people panicked and yelled in fear as water burst in violent streams and the foundation of the wall eager to crumble. The dog had lost its professional cool barking madly as his owner tried to leave fast enough. Water pushing people and bodies crashing against the ground, Homelander was the first to notice the strain on her face as she tried to contain another sneeze, he looked at the mutt.

“GET THAT FUCKING RAT AWAY FROM HERE!!” He screamed, his eyes a bright red as he puffed his chest, the woman panicked picking her dog in a single swoop rushing out, splashing loudy and crying.

Behind him Helena held the flood, her arms held before her, creating a thick translucennt blue lit wall separating the thousands of gallons and the room, her body pushed back but she kept pushing forward, glass, debris and fish floating in front of her, the wall rippling around individual points, her face ready to sneeze, she was hurting, growing hot and red.

“Stop that! I'll get you out of here! Ryan!” He looks around trying to find his son in the diminishing crowd.

“The fishies!! I won’t kill the fishies!!” She cried.

“Fuck!” He cursed deciding between picking her by force and letting the chaos worsen or allowing her to continue– Y/N get Ryan, I’ll evacuate these people… can’t fucking believe I have to call Deep!!” He looked at Helena then back at you as you ran fidgeting with your bag– can… can she?”

You ignored him, splashing past him with a prescription blister.

“Is okay Helena, baby… open your mouth.”

She swallowed dried.

“She can hold it! Now do your hero shit!” You shouted at him.

The police and Vought came down, your schedule had been overridden and made irrelevant but you were glad both kids were okay, you both stayed there until the aquarium’s staff and the Deep had taken care of the fish as Helena refused to let the surviving fishes get injured, Homelander had been left in awe watching her eyes blinked a dozen shades of blue as she built stairs out of her own psionic wall for the rescuers to work with ease, getting an idea of how her powers functioned.

Smaller fishes and debri floated under the stairs, she adjusted the height of the wall to let people in, modifying for every request the teams had, as specialist vacuums pumped the water out, the outside was so loud with news vans, police and fire department doing their work, but she never broke concentration.

He had forced Deep to reassure her that the fishes were okay and weren’t angry at her, and Kevin wasn’t stupid enough to question anything about what was happening, he looked at the little girl and talked to her, turning to his freshwater friends to exchanged messages as the girl was filled with guilt and remorse, trying not to cry as to not lose her concentration.

Homelander felt prideful as he watched her work, until the moon was out and she could finally rest.

She passed out the moment the wall came down, after most of the water had been drained, she dropped instantly– Homelander caught her, his sight softening as he lifted her closely.

Ryan watched him with confusion as he carried this stranger in one arm so carefully, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, letting his chin drop against her head, to catch a whiff of her coconut shampoo.

“Is she alright?” Ryan asked, pushing her draping arm towards her stomach.

“I don’t know.” He looked at you, not wanting to hand her back– care to explain.”

“She must’ve turned off her radar… Helena is severely allergic to dogs. She can sneeze no problem” You lifted her sleeves not caring about how close you were to Homelander, her arm was covered in old darkened spots, from years of scratching, fresh hives and red streaks had settled even with the medication– but she can’t be around dogs… thank god she didn’t have an asthma attack.”

You stroke her hair checking for hives, around her neck.

“That’s why I couldn’t stay at friends for long…” You took her from him, he tried not to protest as you tore him apart– her babysitter had a mini poodle… and that was fine even if it gave her hives from time to time… she was getting better… it's my fault I didn’t check if she took her meds today.”

Homelander absorbed the information.

Some fish died and hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages had been incurred but Vought would covered it all, his only nuisance was Ashley that had come down to the scene, she tucked her chin down as she approached him wearily, she had never expected to get such a call from Homelander earlier in the day, making her panic that this had been serious and maybe news worthy.

Seeing him in human clothes was a first, he didn’t look any more approachable than before, Homelander looked at her with annoyance demanding her to ‘spit it out already’ without words.

“Everything is under control as you asked! The aquarium holds no ill-will, and Deep has reassured me… multiple times.” She signed– minimal fish lives were lost and all the fish are not holding any grudges. There’s just one probl—

“What!!?” he yelled.

“The kid!” she jumped trying to hide behind thin air– We… for insurance purposes we need her information.”

Ashley gave you and Homelander a second look, looking at his display of stealth wealth, at Ryan and the ketchup stain on his collar, at your tired look, how severely underdressed compared to him yet still trying to look stylish in your turtleneck, skinny jeans and indoor sneakers then finally at the little girl whom he had made such strange demands for, that her mouth made an ‘O’ shape. 

This was a date.

A date she was interrupting.

“You know what, sir. I’ll handle it all… you can just go and escort these civilians, we can talk about the details tomorrow when everything has calmed down.” She said knowing that a migraine was incoming– is that okay?”

She looked at you instead, trying to decipher who you were.

“I work for Homelander. Am one of his personal cooks… all my contact information– you blurted.

You looked down holding Helena tightly.

“Is okay darling! Just swing by when you come back from work and we can do all the ugly paperwork then. Is that okay?” If she squinted any harder she might go blind as she interrupted you, she smiled stroking your shoulder– just make sure this little bundle is feeling better in the morning. You know where my office is?” 

“Yes, Ms. Barrett… I don’t have to go to HR? or CM?” Your cheeks reddened, yet feeling somewhat relieved.

She gives Homelander a nervous look then back at you with plastic confidence.

“Is fine! We deal with so many little kids… lots of parents have gone thru the same thing.”

“I broke Ashley’s door the other week,” said Ryan nervously.

She nodded with half closed eyes, already stroking the kid’s hair to reassure him it was fine.

“Go get some rest, will you– am just gonna go over there and see what the Deep’s doing”

She could really speed up in those heels, not wanting to persue this any further just glad everything seemed fine.

You expected to part from him at this point, but he escorted you back to your car. His excuse was to keep the reporter or police from harassing you. The long walk was filled with awkward silence, interrupted by Ryan here and there who realized that he could never quite get that dog, if Helena was around.

The kid wasn’t stupid, he had catched his father kissing you earlier, nervous to ask the little girl if she knew what was taking place behind them, and even if he hadn’t he could see in the way he looked at you– that there was something different about you, and in the way he clung to her that made a knot in his throat grow bigger.

Ashley stared at her computer screen as other members of Crisis Management delivered the news, Analytics had removed the videos but they were still circulating, Homelander couldn’t catch a break as he sat in Ashley’s couch looking at the scene, some chump had been recording his trip when it all took place, the accidental power release and Homelander’s violent outburst. It was all too fresh since the sham trial, even if he had left the courtroom with clean hands, there were people waiting for bones to tear him apart, especially when nobody understood why he had lost his cool and nearly lasered down an emotional support dog.

“She’s severely allergic… takes arbinoxa and clarinex for it, even gets asthma on the worse times.” He rested his eyes under his glove, he had skipped sleep and gotten her medical files instead– she couldn’t control her powers– fuck I might need to get her immunotheraphy…” He mumbled.

Homelander had spent the night researching how to help her, reading countless websites and pestering the lab rats downstairs for information. He could in theory provide Helena with help but her skin proved problematic.

“Y’all get the fuck out I need to speak to this idiot!” He hit his arm rest.

The team left without question, Ashley crying after them internally as she foound herself in the same room with a predator.

“Everything okay? The videos we can–

“Tell the media that it was a fucking allergic reaction, keep her ‘anonymous’ understand!! I don’t want anybody knowing who the fuck she is” He snapped– It was an accident!”

He stood up heading straight for her shiny new desk.

“... Helena L/N is my daughter. You know our little issue downstairs in the writer’s room?” She nodded absentmindedly trying to process his revelation– I want her mother to pretend to be Ryan’s… they are both siblings so it's an easy sell.”

“She looks nothing like you.” Ashley’s voice was so low it was barely a peep.

“She’s mine… I triple checked… we can just say genetics are weird– god I already had this conversation! I just need to smooth some things here and there, but she cannot get in trouble! Not my daughter!-- and if the people wanna guess why I reacted like that… well tell them that that fucking mutt being there could’ve hurt people! There were tanks all around us...” Homelander sat across from her, his whole body exhausted a rare sight admittedly, somethign that intrigued Ashley– give that to the team but keep it on a waterproof seal, capiche?”

Ashley bit her lips nervously as she began to process his revelations, this was the odd 2nd penny she received from Homelander, already wondering if this promiscuous bastard had more children spread around, she made a mental note to double check any surviving laids to make sure Vought wouldn’t be hit with an embarrassing child support suit out of the blue. 

“And the mom…?” She looked at her notes– Y/N is she going to be a problem?”

“Look at you all serious.” Her sober expression gained some color, she might now sit higher on the ladder but he was still top dog, maybe it was the brand new plaque on her door or the view on 82 giving her attitude but she was no Edgar or Stillwell– careful with that tone.”

Ryan was a sweet boy, she had grown fond of him, the boy was as if all of his father’s humanity had been spat out and condensed into one innocent child, she had grown to like being called ‘miss Ashley’ and ‘auntie’– she was also aware that the kid had kept her alive on the occasion without noticing… so all those good things came with a price and that was that Homelander now had nothing left to give to mortals like her. She stiffen her back as her skin grew blotchy.

“I’ll have a team do a background check just to be cautious… I’m sure she’ll be a team player.” She forces a confident expression– she looks perfect for the role.”

He got up with a grin.

You headed downstairs to pick up your kid, as Ashley had promised nothing big had come out of it, you were given a business card and a registration application package-- you had missed a lot of paperwork by skirting on the edge of their radars, it seems. You walked mindlessly, your back aching and your feet sore, you couldn’t wait to get takeout and have some mocktails with your kid, when you were spotted.

A man you had never seen before pulled your shoulder gently, he had the nicest shoes you ever seen, you looked at his clothes and it was all sharp and smart casual and probably expensive.

“Hi. You must be Helena’s mom, right?” he asked far too casually to not feel threatening– I'm Nigel, Elmo’s dad.”

You turned pale.

“Nice to meet you… I’m Y/N… our kids are friends!" Your voice slightly shaky-- Sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier!” You stretched your hand, forcing the best customer service voice you could muster– how may I help you?”

“Well… my little prince is finally showing interest in being a supe and he drew this yesterday” He took a folded drawing from his jacket– It seems our kids are making big plans together. I work in hero management so if this is something you’re interested in, give me a call.”

He wasn’t actually pleased, he sounded as if Helena had thwarted some grand vision– at least this wasn’t about your kids' numerous crimes together, with yours as the mastermind.

You took the page seeing a crude drawing of a little asian boy and what you assumed was Helena, their names drawn in crayon “Phantasma and Poltergeist” wearing matching black, white and red suits, your daughter in a mostly black-red suit with red gloves and boots and him in the white-red suit with black gloves and boots. It was crude but you could see the vision.

“We had some names but… it's catchy” He said mildly annoyed– your daughter is very cute, they could make a great tag-team, there is actually not that much competition at the moment.”

“I’ll talk to her and see what she wants but I can take your business card… I actually don’t have a caseworker for Helena, we weren’t really going to pursue this but she seems to be warming up to the idea.”

“Your husband wasn’t down for it?”  He seemed to want to coax information out of you.

“I am single… it's complicated.” He cringed but joined you as you walked towards the daycare entrance– Is it expensive to make a suit?”

He spoke to you of the basics, of the initial investment costs, and the importance of design and branding, he was over the moon that Elmo understood color theory. He told you about how he and his husband Sven adopted Elmo from Korea when he was five months old and you told him how you been a single mom since the start. You both shared bite-sized throwaway stories of dealing with kids with powers and all the broken stuff one had to clean up over the years.

The usually manic carer looked at you with horror as she spoke with two security officers with tears in her eyes, as you opened the doors.

“What did she do now?” You said already drained, already preparing yourself for asking Homelander to help you keep her in OSCH.

“Are you Mr. Cripple and Ms. L/N?” Asked the security officer– "you need to come with us.”

You both panicked but the people gave you no answers, as you were forcible escourted to an area that only Nigel seemed to be familiar with, the thick cement walls of the lower floors made you more than uneasy, even the air tasted stale, both of your kids had been locked in 42D, had those guns not been loaded you would’ve made a scene.

A man neither of you had met before, awaited you in a separate room– A prison cell with a unwelcoming little set-up.

The man looked up from his files offering you both to sit, obeying purely out of fear without protest or sound.

“Ms. L/N how much do you think a vial of compound V cost?” he asked with a menacing tone.

You looked at Nigel who had no reply.

“Did my daughter do something…?” 

“She did something indeed” The man in his serious black clothes who was probably one of the heads of security played you both normal and thermal camera CCTV footage, they didn’t look to be in the room at first until the filter was on, she kept to the corner and only moved to touch stuff after making them invisible.

You could see Helena scribbling on a notepad while fidgeting with the hi-tech equipment in the meantime Elmo sat keeping eye out or just bored out of his mind, exploiting his powers to go in and out at random hours during her care times, the footage compilations of at least one week’s worth of this nonsense.  

The scene culminating with her taking a whole dozen bottles.

“You think my daughter is selling V in the playground!?” You shouted.

“My son has nothing to do with that miscreant!”

“I will have to agree. I doubt he knows what’s happening” You squeezed your fist– I understand she’s done something wrong, but did you just put my seven year old and her friend in jail!?”

“Your daughter is a super. We are just taking the necessary precautions.” He defended his actions.

“My daughter could break out of that cell and she choses not to… you are overreacting!” Your nails dig into your skin, your legs jittery.

“I would argue that makes her more dangerous…” The man looked serious– We are waiting for some people from legal–

The door was ripped apart from its hinges, scrunched and folded, as he tried to speak.

You jumped under the table.

Homelander stood in the wreckage, concrete dust covering his hair and like thunder in a storm his eyes glowed violently like lighting, he lifted his hand and demanded the man’s attention with a wag of his finger, the man stumbled out of his seat as you and Nigel cowered inside.

There was no screaming, just an unbearable silence and faraway steps approaching-- then the sound of a skipping pebble echoing across the hall.

“Congratulations on the promotion, wank stain” Homelander spoke to one of the men that had come– you better pray that my Helena doesn’t have a single scratch.” He growled quite literally growled.

You emerged from beneath, taking meek weary steps towards the exit.

You were on the other side of those eyes, your chest palpitating, your skin tight, it felt as if you could be suffocating on clean air.

As you saw the rage in his face, a part of you that had been left abandoned clench, to see him irate on your behalf, for him to have hurt somebody for your child, it made you blush.

Just how fucked up were you? You shouldn’t find him handsome as he licked a callous splatter of blood off his lip.

But there he was looking at you with those piercing eyes, that you remembered he never was anything but a beautiful and untouchable beast you once tamed.

taglist-- @immyowndefender @fromforeigntofamiliarity @demodemo909

#personal #homelander #homelander x reader #homelander x you #the boys oc #my fic tag #homelander fanfic #i am esl so sorry for grammar #dadlander #the boys fanfic #hopefully i can post chapter 7 in the next few days