#filing cabinet can suffer

[pinkrelish]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶Eddie's month began with a rough start, but as the days passed, and your time together grew, his mood improved. He opened up to you, and you listened. Then things escalated. Slow dancing in the garage? Openly flirting while hanging Christmas decorations? This wasn't what he was supposed to be doing with his coworker who was leaving in a few months. And to make matters worse..

"I swear I didn't hang that," he promised while Adrie held both your hands, giggling under the mistletoe.✶

NSFW — slow burn, fluff, flirting, mutual pining, mild sexual tension, light angst, depictions of poverty, mention of blood, reader wears eddie's work jacket, 18+ overall for eventual smut, drug/alcohol mention/use

chapter: 6/20 [wc: 16k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 6: May I Have This Dance?

Eddie opened the cabinet above the coffee machine in the breakroom, and took out his mug to replace it with a themed one of Garfield attempting to coax Nermal under a sprig of mistletoe for a kiss. He stepped back, admired the change in seasons, and clung onto the giddy elation before the impending stress wove knots into his muscles.

He’d be getting a lot of use out of that mug in the coming days..

————

Eddie disguised his crisis well.

He knocked on your desk while keeping the glass door open with his foot, “Hey, can you make me another pot of coffee?”

It was a favor you were happy to oblige. Pausing from thumbing through the filing cabinet, you smiled at him over your shoulder. “Sure!”

And later, he came to you again–diverting the stress from entering his eyes by focusing on the kindness in yours.

“Do you mind if I eat alone today?” he asked, flopping his black notebook back and forth for you to frown at.

“Fine, but you owe me.” And of course, he made it up to you the next afternoon, eating his sandwich made with the scraggy ends of the loaf, and no side container of leftovers, and downing it with a mug of coffee.

Adding onto that, Eddie concealed his problems through other means. Blocking out his suffering, disallowing it from bothering others, but to you, it was no bother.

You leaned over your desk to look into the garage, and asked Mr. Moore when he was passing by on the way to his office, “Did Eddie leave somewhere?”

“Awh, he’s probably out on a smoke break,” he said, rubbing his knuckles along his grayed beard.

“Another one?”

“Yeah, guess so.” He shrugged, inadvertently confirming your fears. “Been takin’ alottavem the past couple’a days.”

You had an inkling of what was going on when you caught Eddie eating his lunch earlier. Alone, scribbling in his notebook for the third time that week, dipping a knife into an unbranded metal can labeled PEANUT BUTTER and slathering the Government supplied commodity on a plain saltine cracker.

Sustenance to live, and hardly at that. You weren’t about to let him hide his misery behind excuses meant to keep you ignorant.

After closing, when everyone went home but you and Eddie, he poured himself the last of the coffee to stave off his hunger, and you shot up from your desk.

“Hey! I’m going out for a sec. I’ll be right back, ‘kay?”

He backed his lips off the mug mid-sip in order to remind you to be safe because it was dark out, and you really should wear brighter colors for cars to see you, and to slow down before the sharp turns because there could ice on the road and you could get hurt, and, and–

“Bye!” You cut off his worrying by riding past the doors with your eyes on him, not where you were going, narrowly missing a street pole by centimeters.

~~~

Back in record time–beating the previous record by default because you’d never had this idea before–you hopped off your bike, loaded your hands with the two paper bags sitting in the handlebar basket, and ripped the stapled receipt off them. You finagled your way into the garage.

“Eddie!” you shouted his name as you entered. And louder again as you approached him from behind. Tempting as it was, you didn’t want to scare him, but part of you hated raising your voice, as well. It felt blasphemous to disturb the scene which captured your heart time and time again.

He was at the workbench in the back corner, sat on a stool with his heavy boots on footrests, knees angled out, bouncing his legs in a rhythm offset from one another–most likely parroting the drumbeat of the tinny music funneling from his headphones so loud he’d surely lose his hearing one day.

The smooth expanse of his shoulder shifted and flowed under his coveralls as he worked, hunched over a set of parts he was cleaning. He settled his forearms on the edge of the creaky wood and swirled an old toothbrush into a bowl of cleaning solution, and scrubbed at the hunk of metal in his hands, setting it aside on the stained towel when he was finished to let it dry. A diligent worker, through and through. Tendons in his tired hands straining to hold the next slippery piece as he circled the bristles over the grooves craggy with grease. Muscles in his jaw tensing from the way he clenched his teeth in between mouthing the lyrics to the music vibrating his brain.

Concentration bundled itself between his eyebrows and above his scrunched nose.

It was endearing to watch him work; watch the menial things he was good at for no other reason than to familiarize yourself with all assets of him.

But good things must come to an end, for you had a better one in store.

You caught him right as he was dropping into a reserved headbang on a chord progression you could hear wailing from where you stood. “Hey there, handsome.”

He panicked, and knocked the headphones around the back of his neck. “Shit, I didn’t hear you come in.” He paused the cassette player clipped to his pocket with a sharp click, and after fixating on your sly grin for a second longer, he dropped his gaze to the oil-soaked paper bag in your hand. “Food?”

“The burger place down the street messed up my order,” you replied in soft amusement. “Do you want the extra?”

He didn’t need convincing.

~~~

The sounds of your togetherness filled the open room–wheels rolling on concrete, crinkly wrappers in your hands, and the grateful noises of him devouring his dinner. Sitting parallel to one another on the creepers, you rolled back and forth, brushing shoulders with Eddie on each pass, stuffing your faces until your taste buds dulled with french fry oil, and sparked with blooms of tangy ketchup.

Wordlessly, he told you he was ready to talk by coming to a stop past the point of your shoulders touching, and resting his arms atop his wide-spread knees, holding the last bites of his burger in front of his face.

You twisted around to observe the width of his back rise with a deep breath.

“Child support is late again. Happens every December, but it’ll come a day or two before it’s officially considered late in January.” Deepening his voice, he put an edge of distaste when speaking about Adrie’s mom, “She has the money–her and her husband have good jobs–so it’s just to be petty and get back at me, or whatever. Like being tied to me years later should affect our kid when I don’t even speak to her.”

“Eddie..”

He shook his head to dismiss the pointless pity imbued in your tender whisper of his name. “Doesn’t matter. Money’s tight, but we get paid tomorrow, so that’ll help.. I figured you knew something was up when I stopped eating with you, but anywhere I can save helps. I want to make sure Adrie has a good Christmas this year.”

Realizing something, he raised his hand to ward off any criticism you were about to give him, having been trained to expect it from others since his daughter was an infant. “I want to make it clear.. Adrie always has food,” he stated slowly, and from a place of loathsome apprehension in his chest.

“It never crossed my mind she wouldn’t.” You pushed yourself backwards on the rolly board, and leaned into him, bicep to bicep, gazes met. “I know you’re a good dad” –He glanced away– “You are, Eddie, and I know how well you take care of Adrie, even when shit like this happens. And Christmas will always be special because of how much you love her, not because of what you buy her.”

“But I want her to keep up with her friends, and bond over whatever they’re into.”

“I know you do..”

Even to his detriment, through the sacrifices he made, he’d make sure his daughter had whatever she wanted.

You ran a purposeful knuckle along his tensed tricep. It didn’t earn his eye contact, but he did relax his hand, dropping it to peel down the rest of the wrapper and finish his burger while you spoke. “Maybe they’ll mess up my order again tomorrow, and we can eat lunch together.. And maybe Robin’s mom will make an extra casserole for dinner tonight, and I can leave it in the breakroom, if that’s okay?”

“I’d appreciate it.” No malicious pride. No toxic masculinity. No senseless denial. Eddie accepted your offer with gratitude, and packed his trash into the paper bag while you still ate, settling in with his arms hugged around his knees, ensuring some part of your bodies remained touching–in this case, it was your shoulders again.

The sweet, trusting pressure of yourselves melding into each other’s comfort.

Then, while the candidness was raw, it was your turn to point your attention elsewhere as you asked something you were shy to voice out loud, “Uhm, when we were at Adrie’s school, her teacher kept saying something about, like, you not carrying her, and babying her, or whatever.” You gestured vaguely as if you weren’t eavesdropping the entire time. “And I’d been meaning to ask if I’m–uh?–too affectionate with her? Like if it’s weird, or something I shouldn’t be doing? You’re the parent and I never really asked if it was okay before picking her up, and hugging her, and–”

He cut you off.

“No, no, no.” His assurance was delivered swift, and earnest. “How you are with Adrie is fine by me. More than fine. It’s–It’s–Seriously, it’s great having her look up to someone who isn’t me.”

“What about what her teacher said?”

“I don’t care,” he scoffed. “I know she means well, but it’s not like Adrie’s going to be a kid forever, and if I want to coddle her, who gives a shit. Now, her teacher is great, and I don’t want to diminish what my uncle, and people like Steve and Nancy have done for my family, but for most of Adrie’s life, it’s just been me and her, and even if she annoys the living fuck out of me sometimes, she’s all I have, and if I want to carry her around, I will.”

“You have me now, too.”

You heard yourself say it.

You heard yourself say it aloud, after he said his daughter was all he had, and now you had to follow it up with a tongue-tied spew of clarifications.

“Just, you know, it’s not only you, Adrie, your uncle, Steve and Nancy, and her teacher. You have me now, too, as your friend.. I mean, we are friends, aren’t we?”

Warmth spread through your body. From your ribs, outward, where he jabbed his elbow into your side. Thrumming where his weight pressed into you, sending his hip into yours. Pleasure–blooming–from his silly grin to your romantic heart, to your platonic fingers snagging the fabric of his coveralls around his thigh to stop him from shoving your board away. Yearning. Sprung from the grease dirtying your skin being the same as the black streak above his eyebrow where he wiped his bangs off his forehead.

“Yeah.. Yeah, I think after this, you’re my friend,” he agreed, accidentally kicking over the takeout bag in his teasing. “No qualifier of reluctancy, or addendums, or prefaces. We’re friends.”

Yeah, definitely friends.

Friends who could calculate the exact degree of the arc of the other’s smile through memory alone, having stared at their lips for longer than friends ought.

————

And you played the part of companion quite well, you thought, when Eddie cursed as he came in from the garage with his hand cradled to his chest.

He ducked into the bathroom, and before the door closed, he was pushing it open on his way to the breakroom sink. “Shit. Don’t we have a first aid kit?” he asked.

“Oh! I left it in the women’s restroom after I got a paper cut.” You pushed yourself away from your desk, and found it in the cabinetry, bringing it to him as he scrubbed Dawn soap over his left hand, from upper wrist to fingertips. “Is it bad?” you asked cautiously. Blood was.. fine. But anything needing stitches was more than your red zipper pouch could help with.

“I’m okay,” he grunted, voice deep with the resonance of an inconvenience, more so than true pain. “Just one of those shitty surface cuts that doesn’t stop bleeding.”

The moment Eddie’s hands were dripping with diluted red water instead of blackened motor oil droplets, you tore a paper towel from the roll, cupped his palm, and folded it over his pinky and outermost knuckles. You bent over to keep his hand over the sink, and accepted the sharp jut of his elbow tucked into the softness of your waist.

The scrapes were shallow, as he said. You pressed your thumbs over the superficial wounds until the white paper dotted bright crimson–same color as his cheeks–and he remained silent. He didn’t deny your doting. Didn’t disrupt the gesture, nor break the spell.

It was a nice moment. Until you opened an alcohol wipe and swabbed it over the afflicted area. His mouth twitched at the stinging liquid cooling on his skin. As it dried, you made brief eye contact and shied away from his suspicious squint, like you had a secret to tell him sealed behind your lips all morning.

“What’s that look for?”

While pulling out two beige bandages for his knuckles, you answered in feigned indifference, “Oh, nothing. Just.. y’know.. Mr. Moore promoted me to Office Administrator, and maybe it came with a little raise, and who knows, an extra sick day or two.”

“Nice!” He angled his hand so it was easier for you to wrap the Band-aid around to the side of his palm where there was a wet, angry cut. He was trembling from the rush of adrenaline, endorphins, and relief he didn’t get more injured from his strained muscles giving out while wielding a power tool without protective gloves on.

“So now I have the confusing job of being both the person who cleans the toilets, and also organizes payroll.” You drew your eyebrows in. “Whatever organizing payroll means.”

Eddie watched you turn over the pouch to shake out the slots where the more grown up, adult bandages usually resided, and came up empty. Instead, a metal tin with Sesame Street characters clattered on the countertop. You popped it open.

“Hope you don’t mind,” you said.

Cookie Monster and Big Bird were gingerly wrapped around his pinky, protecting him from further harm.

Bright, cheery colors in contrast to the grime nestled into the crevices of his skin, and the dark blue coveralls he wore today. Your delicate touch. And his rough calluses. Your soft, chapstick-slick lips. And his cold-weathered mouth lifted at the corner. Your obedient body turning with his. And his face drawing near. Your tender, weak grip on his injured hand. And his sneaky fingers reaching past you.

He took three extra Band-aids and put them in the pocket below his embroidered name patch.

Eyelashes fluttering at the sensation of your forearm resting against his stomach, you chided him in the faintest exhale, “That’s stealing from the company, you know. I could write you up.”

Pleading with you amidst a persuasive smile, he begged, “If Adrie sees I have a cool Band-aid, and she doesn’t get one too, she’ll be upset.”

“That’s not fair.” Not like you cared if he took things from work, but if the Band-aids were for Adrie, you’d give him the entire tin, and he knew it. “You play a mean game, Eddie, using my greatest weakness against me.”

He took another Bert and Ernie, and slipped them in with the others, patting his pocket flat.

In a defeated sigh, you crumbled under the smug display of his proud chest, gaze trained on the cursive lettering composing his name, the motor oil blackening his cuticles, and the grease stain on his coveralls from the french fry he dropped earlier.

“Who’s the pushover now?”

“Considering you’re robbing me of Sesame Street Band-aids to bribe your daughter out of a tantrum?” You looked him up and down, from his half-closed eyes to the ketchup stain. “Still you.”

He hummed a warm reply, and twitched his other hand closed, curling his fingers over yours for a split second. A movement stunted by the bandages. Likewise, you drummed your fingertips on the heel of his palm, and let go.

“Wear your gloves next time, idiot.”

“Yes, dear.”

————

Taking on the role of Office Administrator meant one thing to the both of you: less time together.

The interactions were fleeting; sneaking a glance at each other when Eddie made an unnecessary trip to the breakroom to get his jacket for an equally unnecessary smoke break. But it meant he’d pass by Mr. Moore’s office twice while you were being taught how to fill out ledgers and spreadsheets. Two possibilities for you to become enamored with his hair flowing from underneath his bandana, and two chances for him to capture your interest with his charm–his larger than life presence stomping past the door with his chin held high and his hands in his back pockets, looking at you out the corner of his eye, and giving you that tight, knowing grin.

It was lonely working in the mornings, having a short lunch at your desk while scheduling business meetings with salesmen for Mr. Moore, and clocking out at 4PM to help take care of things at home while Robin was managing the night shift, and her dad was on bed rest.

You missed Eddie.

Eddie missed you.

————

It was a cold, bleak mid-December night after a dreary day of clouds and wind. The service bay doors were closed, except for one to allow the draft to carry out lingering exhaust fumes. Darkness smothered the world beyond the auto shop, interrupted intermittently by the odd car stopping at the streetlight. Turn signals blinked. Headlights peered into the warehouse, shining light on the single truck in the empty garage.

Blissful, tranquil winter. Crisp, throat-aching air. Bites of frost sinking into flesh. Numbed fingers. Frozen teeth nipping at the bone. Undisturbed. Quiet. No music.

“Man, it’s freezing in the lobby,” you complained loudly upon entering Eddie’s domain and crouching in front of the space heater next to the workbench.

The pair of legs sticking out from under the truck shifted.

Surprised by your sudden appearance, and grumpy about the loss of hot air directed at him, Eddie beat his wrench on the wheel axle to show his annoyance when you giggled and refused to move. In fact, you hunkered down, rubbing your palms together, hogging all the warmth while having the audacity to wear his tan work jacket.

He tapped the heel of his heavy work boot at you. “I thought you left for the day.”

“Did you really not notice me at my desk for the past hour?”

After waving the tool at the underside of the truck he’d been staring at for the better part of the evening, he then tucked his chin to make a snide remark, “Do you think I keep track of your whereabouts at all times?”

“Yes.”

No response except for a sour expression. Predictable. It was in his best interest to roll his head to the side, and pretend to be working by muttering mathematics to himself. You, however, stood up, and sidestepped the heater to read the buttons on the stereo radio, and dug for the cassette you slipped into the jacket’s pocket before coming out here.

Snap. Click. Whirr.

The black tape spun on the wheels, and from the speakers strung at the back corners of the garage, music began.

Eddie’s groan rose above the plucky piano keys. “Oh, please don’t tell me you’re subjecting me to Christmas music.”

You shushed him, “It’s just jazz.”

Ella Fitzgerald’s warbling hum filled the concrete walls. Her stunning voice and evocative, blunt lyrics soothed your eyes closed. Face-burning words you weren’t ashamed of. You let them take you. Dipping and swaying your shoulders side to side as the piano lulled you into its drunken blitheness. Guiding you two steps to the left, the right. A lazy turn. Paused on the cusp of anticipation. You stopped. Blinked lovingly at the boots beneath you.

“May I have this dance?”

Metal clinked to the ground. Eddie gripped the edge of the car, and pulled himself out. Pushed himself into a sitting position on the creeper, focusing on your hand extended to him, and climbing his gaze upwards. To the smudges of pencil lead and blue pen ink on the inside of your fingers from where you gripped the writing utensils, to the coffee stain on the cuff of his jacket, the name patch, the roundness of your cheeks from your hopeful smile.

“My hands are dirty,” he said.

“I don’t care.” You urged in all gentleness, “Don’t turn me down because you’re shy. I’ll teach you.”

Teach me, he mouthed.

A delicious secret emerged.

Excitement, charismatic boisterousness, unhesitating–eager–sincere excessive vulnerability, bursting to be the shameless youth he used to be and oh so endearing–Eddie sprang into action at the upkick in tempo. The namesake of the song vibrated under his ribs–I’ve Got a Crush On You–and the garage blurred in your dizzy eyes.

Eddie, Eddie, eddie eddie eddie, eddieeddieeddie. Hawkins’ reject, the town’s outcast, Eddie, in all his awkward, standoffish exterior built to protect his sensitive heart, swept your right hand into his left. Raised them. Compelled you into a fast, tight spin under his arm, and at the rotation’s completion, you sank into each other’s embrace like a released breath.

You used the solid curve of his shoulder as leverage, and fit your other hand in the space between his thumb and index.

Eddie didn’t lead.

He demanded you follow.

His muscles were braced with ego as he ushered you backwards. Large advances towards you, forcing you away from the truck, and half-turns to the side with an appropriate pressure at your waist to follow him to the unoccupied center of the garage. But his modest hand grew longing in the distance as you struggled to keep up in the short chase. The thick jacket meant for durability kept him wanting more, and he used it to reel you in. Draw you near. Bodies untouching, but radiating heat in the hushed sigh of winter rolling in from the service door.

Not once had you managed to sound the question on your parted lips, but he understood it, and answered.

“You’re not the only theater kid,” he said softly. “It was the only elective I liked. Had to learn to dance for a few parts over the years, and if I may judge by your reaction, I’m not half-bad.”

You laughed, “Wh-Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

The smug grin he wore waned to something more humble in nature. “Mm-nn. I never wanted to interrupt your stories. It’s more interesting listening to you talk about how you played a witch in a slutty Off-Off-Broadway rendition of Macbeth where you managed to snap both your stilettos in the first Act, than it is for me to go on about how I played background character #4 in my second senior year of high school and mostly used the class as an excuse to make props and shit.”

“Eddie,” you whined. Once upon a time, during your first days working here, he told you to leave him alone for jabbering on about the theater works you and Robin were a part of, and now he reveals this? “I didn’t even think you were listening when I told you those stories. And again! Why–didn’t–you–tell me?” Your words were minced from you shaking his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it’d be relevant,” he explained, speaking in that shy mumble of his.

“We could’ve been dancing this whole time.”

Eddie hung his head back, and bounced his brows upward. “Mmm. You make it sound like you’ve been wanting to do this since we met.” His hum, his words sent his Adam’s apple crawling up the deep shadows his jaw cast on his throat. Vibrating from within his alluring chest, and coming from the plump lips which appeared less blemished since the last time you were blessed with studying them up close.

The tube of Carmex you found in his pocket was doing wonders.

Basking in the overhead lights as flowers did in the sun, he listened to the end of the song fade. He willed his eyes half-open as it switched, dropped his face to lock onto your gaze, and obeyed the slower rhythm. Languid lurches into your compliant hips to the smooth saxophone. Step, step– With a pivot, guiding you around the floor in an unpredictable routine. One which kept you guessing. Had the rolled cuff of his pants brushing against your ankle, and his body coaxing you into a quick reverse turn at the piping trumpets on the following track. Broached the intimacy of his scent in your nose. Of course he didn’t smell great after a long day of working, but.. By your racing heart rushing blood in your ears, you had to admit, you didn’t find it as gross as you should, either.

Breaking you from your trance of staring at the frizzy baby curls sticking to the dried sweat on his neck, he suggested, “Dip?”

Your surprised shriek bubbled into a scathing yelp of Mother Fu–.

Impatient, ineloquent, and forgetful of manners. It was by the grace of your muscle memory you grappled for his upper body before your eyes could adjust to the upside down car cruising by the shop, puttering to a stop at the intersection. The arch he put in your back was wicked. Sinful, even. Supported by his strong arms.

Merciful, he righted your world. And in reconciliation, he observed you with the same obsessive interest he showed when he made you laugh. Watching for your reaction, and when it was adoring, he relaxed the apology from his features.

He hooked a finger around the lock of hair stuck at the corner of his mouth, and pulled it free; clasped your hand again–the other was slipped under the back of the jacket, and he settled his forearm around your waist, hot palm on your spine.

You took the cue. You climbed the scope of his shoulder to wager your dignity on the tight muscle at the crook of his neck. When he didn’t object, and his easy grin remained, you ventured under his unruly mane and found the back of his neck. You slipped your thumb into his collar, and rested it along the naked skin of his nape.

He shivered.

A car passed by.

The gossipers of Hawkins watched a mechanic and his boss’ receptionist-turned-Office-Administrator stare into each other’s eyes, and sway.

The distance between you two was unassuming, except for the tastes of more when the music encouraged, twirling yourself under his lifted arm as two separate beings, and rejoining as a pair, rocking back and forth, side to side, smiling from the exploration into something new.

The drum beats ebbed to a drowsy cadence.

Minutes passed. The embrace became familiar. Your held hands were sticky with shared dust and nervous sweat. His exhale mingled with your inhale. The steady sway was a polite shuffle in either direction, any direction. It didn’t matter. The embrace was the point.

“As Office Administrator,” you started, “I wanted to throw a party next week, the day before our holiday off. It’d be right after work, if you wanted to hang out, eat, and maybe bring Adrie?”

Before he could answer, you lowered your voice to an all-too-candid beg, “Please? I promise it won’t be boring. Mr. Moore said no one’s thrown a work party before, and I’m terrified no one but Kevin and his three dogs will show up.” You put a compassionate squeeze on the back of his neck. “Please don’t let it just be me, Kevin, and his three dogs.”

The bottom of Eddie’s two front teeth showed as he spoke on the verge of a grin, “I thought he only had two.”

You whispered dramatically, “It’s three now.”

He pretended to think over the offer, shifting from foot to foot.

“Eddie.”

As if he could keep up the act when you craved his name like that. “I’ll go,” he placated you, but not before inclining his head, viewing you through his messy bangs and long lashes. “And of course I’ll bring Adrie.”

You celebrated by punching up your linked hands–yours smelling of pencil shavings, and his of burnt brake pads. Eddie used it to maneuver you into another turn. Smooth, suave. A true gentleman.

“Would you help me decorate too?” you dared ask. His answer was an apathetic grumble. “And maybe bring any non-denominational wintry decorations you have because all I could find in town were very red and green, and very Christmas-leaning.”

“You’re not sweetening the deal.”

“But it’s a ‘yes,’ isn’t it?”

Another dissuasive grumble.

Whimsy, breathless lyrics about fresh love trilled from the speakers. The cassette was on its last song before needing to be flipped.

“Do you really listen to jazz?” he asked, skirting into the territory of curiosity as his frame rocked you to the left.

“I listen to a little bit of everything,” you answered honestly, engaging in a fluid stride to the right. “Are you asking because of the music you listen to?” At once, your expression went wry, and his widened to barely constrained intrigue, like you were two steps ahead of him, reading his private thoughts. “The kinda stuff you blast when you think I’m not around.”

“You’ve heard that?”

Not helping the pink hue stemming from the hot base of his neck beneath your palm, you were quick to tease him, “Well, I’m not exactly competing in the Tour de France, y’know. You don’t wait for me to ride away before starting up your little concerts in here when you tell me to leave early. Bet you play air-guitar ‘nd everything when I’m gone, like a dork.”

Visibly curbing his habit to lick his lips, not desiring the swipe of dust it’d come with, Eddie narrowed his eyes, and cocked his head back to regard you down the slope of his nose. “Yeah? And what do you think of the music I listen to?”

“Unsurprising. Suits your image.” Engaging in a bit of intentionality, you worked your hand from his nape and introduced your fingertips to his other shoulder, wrapping your arm tighter around him, and you were enveloped by his warmth doing the same. The waistband of his coveralls rubbed against the metal zipper of his bulky jacket you wore as you moved in unison. “I recognize the big stuff. Metallica, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest..” You shrugged. “Accept?”

The tip of Eddie’s nose came into focus, then his big eyes searching yours as he turned his face side to side, examining you up close. “I wasn’t even playing Balls to the Wall. No one just casually names Accept like that. You like them!”

“Okay, okay, slow down, don’t get too excited,” you calmed him before he strained a tendon in the very finger he pointed at you. “I’ve couch surfed with a lot of weirdos, and lived with six roommates at one point. I’ve listened to my fair share of music through thin walls whether I liked it or not.. But yeah, I like metal enough, I guess.”

Though he unlinked your waltzing hands in his rush to assert himself in your personal space, his arm around your waist persisted–and if he were wary of crossing boundaries, he showed no heed when he employed his strength to press your chests together through the layers of clothes in a sense of spontaneity.

Your view was eclipsed by the thrill in his boyish grin, and then, his hair was slipping from your curious fingers.

“Wait here–!”

And he was gone. His body heat bounded away and out the back door. You were stunned with your hands still posed as if he were there.

You dropped your arms to your sides, and clutched the rugged canvas jacket around you, waiting, listening to the gravel crunch and a car door slam, peering out into the dark to see what became so important he left his dancing partner in the middle of the warehouse in utter confusion.

“Got it,” he said in his stride to the stereo.

“Got what?” It was rude enough to abandon you, and now he was ignoring you in his frenzy. You followed him to the workbench, and turned to the side to rest your hip on it. The heater thawed your shins while Eddie pried open a cassette, but you couldn’t read the front from how he held it in his palms.

Snap. Click. Whirr.

He leaned his ass on the table top and folded his arms over his chest, instilling a narrow distance between you two. His gaze was on the floor. Eyes falling closed. For once, he did not want to see your reaction.

The speakers crackled with static.

You startled.

It was a hard left turn from the somber jazz from before.

Drumsticks crashed on cymbals, setting the aggressive pace for a piercing guitar to enter on a screeching note, quickly devolving into thrashy chords sure to make the fingers sore, along with a bass and rhythm guitar that were getting lost in your pounding head.

Though he wasn’t watching, you schooled the surprise from your features, and relaxed your shoulders. The music wasn’t offensive in the least, but it was loud.

After the initial assault, and a quick bass solo, you were nodding along, enjoying the overwhelming beat pulsing in your throat making it difficult to breathe.

The shredding guitar wept to a softer bridge, and the vocals began.

The vocals began.

The vocals..

The lyrics were spoken–sung–with the last word being dragged into a melodic ballad as the instruments went silent. A rich note held by a man whose voice was neither deep, nor falsetto. Perfectly in the middle. Perfectly fitting your preference. Perfectly matching the one you heard most days, and thought about at night, when your bed was lonely and your body was flushed with heat.

Perfectly matching..

You snapped your attention to Eddie’s face. His eyelids twitched with movement. Individual curls of his hair swung in time to his head dipping to the tempo. His cheek jumped at the start of the next verse, and he dug his fingernails into his sleeve until they turned white.

“This is you,” you expelled in pure infatuation. “Eddie!” You clasped his bicep, and leaned in to him, excelling at matching his enthusiasm from earlier, and surpassing it. “Eddie, this is you!” He opened his eyes and slouched away from your efforts in a laugh, angling his face into his hair to hide his shy grin.

You ran your hand along his forearm and tugged, wheedling him out of the tight hug he had himself locked in, urging him to open up. “This is you singing, isn’t it? This is your band.” The cassette case was behind him. Corroded Coffin. Same name as what was on his sweatshirt on Halloween. 

The second button on his coveralls snapped open, below the one he always kept unfastened. You didn’t know at what point you were bold enough to put your hand on his chest, nor gather the fabric into your fist while shaking some sense into him, but you did. You really did expose the tight white shirt clinging to his sticky skin. All for the sake of validating Eddie.

When he continued acting far too humble–shrinking into himself, and mumbling how it wasn’t that cool–you wasted no time embarrassing yourself by jumping on your tiptoes, telling him just how cool it was, you promised.

Reaching behind him, he slapped the volume knob down so you both could stop shouting.

“I appreciate the groupie attitude, but it’s not like we’re a big deal, or anything,” he said, awkwardly folding one of his arms on top of the workbench as he surrendered and turned to you. His other hand hesitated near the bottom of the jacket. “About once a month we get a gig in Indy. Doesn’t pay much, but it covers the cost of the trip, and we get a decent crowd, I guess. Uhm, the venue sells out.. sometimes. People know some of the lyrics. We sell a couple of shirts..” he trailed off upon making eye contact. “We only get to practice on the days I leave work early. Maybe on the weekend.. so.”

Overflowing with sincerity, you trusted your hands to behave themselves on his forearm, laying your decent fingers over the tensed muscle above his wrist where he wore his watch.

He canted his head, and gave you a cynical look. “It’s not like we’re famous or anything.”

“I think it’s so cool you’re in a band,” you stressed. “How come you never told me?”

Shrugging, he glanced elsewhere. “Being you, and being from New York, you probably know hundreds of bands who’ve made it big. I’m sure you’ve met way more impressive people.”

Is that what this was about? Not sharing his theatrical past, and now his band because he was insecure about not impressing you, of all things? Using a resentful tone when speaking about his life versus yours, as if the comparisons mattered when it took all of your willpower to not stare at his lips in this proximity.

“Who cares who I’ve met. You sound amazing. The music, your voice. Everything. It’s uniquely yours, and I can’t believe you didn’t tell me sooner.”

Eddie sighed.

Cozying into the position, he leaned his weight on the arm you cupped your palms over, and there was a pull at the hem of the jacket. You shifted closer. He looped his finger into the pocket and rubbed his thumb along the edge of it, seeking an absent-minded distraction as he explained, “I also didn’t want to, ah–I don’t know.. Scare you off. Like, if you didn’t like it, or thought heavy metal was Satanic, or some shit.”

“Scare me off?” At least, you intended to repeat it back to him as a question, but your laugh interrupted you. “Oh, Eddie. Light of my day, my neverending fountain of mirth, a true joy to be around,” you gushed at his exaggerated sneer. “If you didn’t scare me off the first week of meeting you, where you made it a point to glare at me for the mere act of speaking in your direction, I don’t think your very obvious music taste would.”

He looked at his boots for a moment to reflect on his behavior, but forwent an apology, and instead asked, “So, you don’t think it’s lame for me to be pushing 30-years-old, and still playing in a garage band?” There was a truncated tension at the end of his question, like he wanted to add more self-deprecation to it, but stopped himself. Good thing, too, because you were about to voice your adulations until you were rendered to a puddle of embarrassment.

Sparing no sarcasm, you furrowed your brows and screwed your mouth into a snarky grin as you rolled your eyes. “Yeah, girls find it totally lame when hot guys with long hair drive fast cars and play loud music and are in a band. It’s totally the most unattractive thing, especially when they have tattoos and are good singers. Definitely isn’t a turn-on at all.”

Too far, too much, too inappropriate–

The last sentence was over the line, and you could see it in his surprised eyebrows wrinkling his forehead, and his wide pupils boring into yours, and his cheeks reddening as your words sank in.

The garage went viscerally quiet.

He stopped fidgeting with the jacket pocket.

Mistake, mistake, mistake.

“Not just the vocalist,” he said, voice cracking on the whisper. “I play lead guitar, too.”

You spat out, “Very cool,” desperate for the relief of his face cracking into a flattered grin.

But no, Eddie didn’t grant you such comfort. However, he did spare you the chance to scratch at the anxious sweat dripping down your back when he rearranged how he was standing, and spun around to the stereo. “It’s pretty late, huh? We should probably get going.” He pressed his hips to the workbench as he organized the tapes into their cases. Then, he paused.

The case yours went to was blank. Nothing written on the dotted lines on the back, nor on the front of the tape.

“I need my jacket back,” he reminded you.

“R-Right.”

You shimmied it off, and handed it to him. He draped it over his arm, and clutched the bulk to his stomach, covering his front as he turned to face you again. “Here.” Holding out the black and white cassette with a stylized logo he drew himself, he gave you his personal copy of Corroded Coffin’s first recording session. “You take mine. I’ll take yours.”

“Are you sure?”

Staring at the mixtape compiled of the cheesy love songs you made over the course of a few nights, he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.” And as he dragged his feet backwards–avoiding the space heater without looking–he said on his way to the tray where he kept his rings, “We should do this again. The whole.. dancing thing.” He gestured with the tape. “I’ll pick the music next time, too.”

With his back to you, he cleaned up his station, and let you know you could go. “I’ll lock up behind you.”

“You never answered if you were helping me hang decorations,” you found your voice. It was hiding behind a hammering heart, and shallow-filled lungs.

Outside, a car honked at a truck to take their turn at a green light.

The metal teeth on his jacket ground together as Eddie zipped it up. He sank his heavy hands into the pockets to weigh them down, and crossed his work boots at the ankle to about-face in a sort of pirouette, pinning you with his lopsided grin and mellow demeanor. “You know, I thought with all the life lessons I’ve had to learn over the past five years, I’d be able to resist a pretty girl asking me to do things for her.” He snorted and flicked his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head. “But when they’re as beautiful as you, I just can’t.”

His gaze came crashing down onto you, and your tongue froze at the tip of your teeth.

“Alright, Casanova,” you let out in a shaky breath. “I’ll take that as you agreeing, and will see you bright and early, and without any complaints.” You left as fast as you could.

No, really. The Tour de France better have a spot open for you, with how fast you pedaled home to sit on your bed, cross legged, happily ruining your hearing from having the volume scrolled to the max on your Walkman, listening to Eddie’s voice, wondering at what point the endorphins would wear off and you were stuck agonizing over how blatant you were about calling your coworker hot. And how he called you beautiful in return.

————

Talking amongst the sputtering coffee machine beginning its brew:

“The fourth one–uh–Solivagant, is definitely my favorite!”

“That one’s instrumental,” Eddie pouted. “And here I was under the impression you liked my lyrics.. Mm, a little lower on your side.”

You put blu-tack on your end of the banner, and pressed it into the wall. “I do! But that one really got stuck in my head. The way all the guitars came together to play the harmony was just–Eddie! You did that on purpose.”

Stepping around to the other side of the lunch table, you threw your head back in a groan at the glittery Happy Holidays sign you wrongly assumed he would help you hang without turning it into a way to tease you.

“You’re the worst,” you grumbled on your way to fix the banner so it was even, and his side wasn’t higher by a few inches.

“Sorry,” he said weakly between his snickering. “Let me.”

There was no letting him do what he wanted. He was going to push his way into your space, regardless. Literally, shoving a chair out of his way with his hip, and standing behind you to peel the sticky tacky off the wall, and raising it from your face’s height, to slightly above your head, needlessly, infuriatingly, unhelpfully helping you. Barging in with his hand on your shoulder, and his body at your back. Closer, more intimate than the time at the grocery store.

His inhale swelled his solid chest against your shoulder blades, and his hum rumbled down your spine. “Am I supposed to dress up nice for your party?”

You twisted your head back to admire the underside of his freshly shaven jaw smelling of astringent spice. “Only if you feel like it,” you guessed. “The dress I’m wearing is pretty casual, but you don’t have to do anything special if you don’t want to.” After circling his thumb over the tacky corner of the sign, he dropped his arms, grazing them over yours, if only in passing. “I think the other guys are wearing button down shirts.”

His gaze drifted as he visualized his closet.

You stared. “Do you really not have one nice shirt?”

“I might still have the one from my job interview,” he said, tucking his chin to look at you, creating a silly amount of wrinkles along his burgeoning grin.

The front door chimed. Either Carl, Kevin, or your boss just walked in, and it was then Eddie realized the position he had you in. It struck him when his peppermint-candy-and-cigarettes breath caressed your fluttering lashes, and he could discern the bubblegum flavored chapstick on your lips, just like you could observe the balm on his.

If someone saw him trapping you alone in the breakroom against the wall with your backside pressed to him, there would be no delicate conversation about consensual workplace relationships. He’d be gone.

“Sorry!”

Eddie made his swift retreat–three, no, four steps away.

You widened your eyes at him, at his obviousness, and tried to communicate through your facial expression you knew what he was thinking, and everything was okay. You two were a bit too comfortable around each other, that’s all. It wasn’t something serious he needed to explain away. No one caught him. It was innocent, like slow dancing when no one was around. Innocent. Teasing.

“I, uhm– Y-Yeah, the shirt.” He forced his fingers to unclench into limp fists at his side. Face pale, yet hot. “It’s–I’ll wear it.”

Wringing your hand around the fridge door handle, you bent towards him, and raised your eyebrows higher, imploring him to chill. “Eddie, you can come in a t-shirt and jeans. It doesn’t matter. Adrie can wear whatever she wants, too. It’s just a casual thing.”

Totally casual. Like the body heat fading from the back of your green knit sweater where his chest became acquainted with the acrylic. Dissipating on his skin beneath his coveralls where the crown of your head met his shoulder. Very casual.

“Uhm–”

“So..”

You both started, and ended.

“Mornin’!” Mr. Moore’s gruff greeting came from the hallway.

Treating it as a warning, you each responded with an acknowledgement of your boss’ appearance as he walked into the room. “Good morning!” and “Salutations!” To which you shut your eyes in exasperation at Eddie’s unusual welcome, begging him to act normal while Mr. Moore poured sugar in his coffee.

After stirring in complete silence, he took turns smiling at you both, and meandered to his office, closing the door behind him.

Eddie shifted topics to the table where piles of garland remained coiled.

“Should we–?”

“Wanna just, uh, forget decorating for today, ‘nd do it tomorrow?” you spoke over him.

“Yeah,” he answered, nodding too enthusiastically. He tossed his hair out of his face, revealing the red tips of his ears for a split-second, and said, “Tomorrow, yeah. We can do the rest of this shit tomorrow.”

A very graceful conversation between two people who just had a very ordinary interaction without any explicit implications.

“We’re still having lunch together later, right?” you asked.

“Duh. You’ve gotta finish giving me your thoughts on the rest of our EP. The chorus for Taladasian Empire has some meta references to the other songs, I don’t know if you caught onto that, but the second verse mentions..”

Oh, he was adorable when he hyperfixated. Not only did it steer the conversation away from the previous blood-scorching incident, but it was rather nice to have a reason to stare at his lips move a mile a minute as he conjured an unprompted dissertation about his music’s lore, even as you were sitting at your desk, pointing at your ringing phone, and suggesting he should also get to work.

There were only two days left before the long holiday, and customers needed their cars before the shop was closed for the break.

————

Kevin sipped his coffee in the early morning sunlight filtering through the garage.

You garnered Eddie’s help whenever he was available, and the current task was dressing up your receptionist desk to look like a big present, complete with a gold bow flowing over the ledge where the candy bowl sat. Eddie crouched at one end holding a roll of wrapping paper while you unfurled it to the other, and measured it to the side facing the lobby.

Kevin watched the interaction through a unique lens, noting how Eddie bounced on his heels, appearing both bored and anxious to get back to work, but when he glanced over at you–at your face pinched in concentration as you fought with the tape dispenser with one hand–it was as if his worries melted away.

The boy calmed down.

Though Kevin didn’t come in often, the effect you had on the misfit was overt in the sweetest way. It reminded him of his first and last love, who had since passed.

~~~

Carl sipped his coffee as he stood in the doorway to the breakroom.

The lobby was taken over by a cheerful wonderment.

Eddie was hanging white and blue streamers from the drop ceiling tiles, while you decorated the windows with silver snowflakes. At first, Carl thought Eddie was pinning them up around the perimeter of the room because he lacked direction, but then he saw why he insisted on following you around, setting up the step ladder directly behind you.

Without discussing it, you reached out for Eddie’s arm as you stepped onto the cushiony lobby chair customers sat in when waiting for their cars, and he was at the ready. He lent his balance to you, crooking his elbow for you to slot your fingers into, and once steady, you let go.

The conversation picked up where it was left off, and the decorating continued.

Now that the glass door was unblocked, Kevin shuffled inside with his cold mug to get a refill, and stopped next to Carl on his way to the coffee machine.

“You sure those two ain’t datin’?” he asked.

Carl shrugged with his mug on the way to his mouth. “Apparently not. Ed said they’re just friends.”

At a sound in the lobby, they craned their heads to the furthest wall to witness Eddie beaming down at you. His smile was a rarity, and watching the enormous emotion take over him when you touched his arm and laughed at his joke; it was a sight worthy of remembering.

Kevin scratched at the side of his head, then straightened out the bill to his baseball cap over his wispy white hair, and squinted at the mischievous glint in Carl’s eyes.

“But David did say he walked in on them looking mighty flustered yesterday.”

“Did he, now?”

Swallowing the hot coffee with a wet smack of his lips, he emphasized a drawn out, “Yep.”

Kevin suggested, “Maybe the holiday spirit will take over, and they’ll confess their feelings under some mistletoe.”

“Uck,” he replied with a disgusted noise. “You’re always such a romantic.”

“You’re the one starin’ at them,” Kevin countered on his way to the coffee pot, shuffling from the arthritis in his knees, and focusing his energy into keeping his trembling hand still as he poured his drink. “Besides, I think his little girl would appreciate having someone like her in their lives.”

————

Four hours before the party, the auto shop was swept into a flurry of activity.

Carl and Kevin each had vehicles to work on; driving a truck out to the parking lot for a customer to pick up after you called them, and driving a car in. Working in tandem to the jolly Christmas music on the radio. Crowding the garage with discarded packaging from parts that would be gathered to be burned later.

“Guh–” You hung up the phone, and pressed a button to erase what you previously recorded after you stuttered over part of your script.

This outgoing message thing wasn’t going well.

Sighing, you picked it up and pressed the record button again. “You’ve reached David’s Auto Shop at..” you enunciated the number and address in an even tone. “We’re currently closed for the Holidays, and will open at 8AM, Mon–”

The smell of cigarettes should’ve been your first warning. The hand tipping your office chair back should’ve been the second. The general Eddie-ism of it all should’ve been the third.

Eddie blew a raspberry directly into the receiver.

“You! Why! That one was perfect. God, you are so–freaking–annoying. I swear. Obnoxious little..” Fuming, you hung up, and glared at him.

He cackled on his way to the garage. “Hey, since you’re not busy, can you help me roll this stack of tires to the Buick over there?” Before you could share the choice words you had prepared for him–before you could process the droplets of spit drying on your cheek–before the door could hit him on the way out–he spun and caught it and ducked his head back in. “Oh! Don’t forget your policy. Can’t say no to helping me, huh?” On his smooth exit, he winked and made a clicking sound with his mouth, flashing a gratuitous amount of teeth on the smirk.

“You are the absolute worst.” You grabbed your hoodie and followed him, pointedly not thanking him for holding the door open for you. “And you know what? I seriously regret ever telling you about my dumbass policy.”

“Really? I’ve only just begun to actualize the potential for making you do things for me. I’m loving it!”

~~~

Three hours before the party, you put the finishing touches on the breakroom before Robin arrived with the food you ordered from the bakery and deli at the grocery store. Some was excess that would’ve gone to waste; extra cupcakes, and cookies. Other things were ordered, like finger sandwiches, veggie trays, and an arrangement of cheese cubes with those cute toothpicks that have red and green cellophane at the top. You also gave her money for the makings of smores, bags of pretzels, and crackers, themed plates and cups to match. The works.

You cleaned the countertop free of appliances, putting them away in the cupboards to make space and give outlets to the crockpots Mr. Moore’s wife was bringing later.

Otherwise, you shoved a tall stool borrowed from the garage in the corner of the room, and placed the small TV from Mr. Moore’s office on it, intending to play Holiday programs while people funneled in and out.

~~~

Two hours before the party, the sun was setting on the horizon. Eddie moved his car to the end of the alleyway, and Carl rolled out a barrel to be stuffed with leftover cardboard boxes, and firewood he brought from home.

He and Eddie moved the workbench to the service door, and set up the bigger TV so people could watch the football game while standing around the fire.

~~~

One hour before the party, the garage was cleared of anything that a child could hurt themselves on or with, and the shop was hushed in wait. Eddie left first to get Adrie from school, and go home to change. The other guys did the same, leaving to collect what family they were bringing, while you stayed behind to stress over having enough food to feed everyone, even after Robin dropped off more snacks than you remembered listing, along with your party clothes.

————

The evening began trepidatious.

Guests filled the lobby like a sea of warmly-dressed sardines. Scarves, mittens, jackets brushed necks, hands, shoulders. Those recognizing each other hugged, while three rambunctious dogs wove through their legs. You introduced yourself to Mr. Moore’s daughter, Misty, and waved at her newborn. Carl’s teenage sons took the opportunity of their mom being busy to throw pebbles at each other outside. Mr. Moore’s wife and her brother and his eldest son were either setting up food or starting the fire. There was a moody girl of unknown origin moping in the corner. You lost track. It was hard to concentrate in the excitement.

You tugged your sleeves into your palms, and looked around the room for what must’ve been the hundredth time..

Eddie was late, and it was difficult keeping the concern off your face.

“Don’t look so worried,” Kevin said, landing a hand on your back as he shuffled by, carrying the scent of lighter fluid and smoke. “Your date’s still in his car. Probably workin’ up the nerve to come see you.”

“He’s not my date,” you corrected with a comically repulsed frown, hoping he’d buy it. “We’re friends.”

A twinkle danced in his stark blue eyes, and his open-mouthed smile peeked from beneath his thick mustache. “Look out.”

Look out?

A pair of tiny arms hugged you around your ass, and if it wasn’t for the tell-tale giggle, your stomach would be flipping with a much different emotion.

“Adrie!” You twisted and subtly scooped her arms higher on your hips before cupping the back of her head, and hugging her to your leg in the warmest greeting you could muster while your brain went to mush.

“You made it,” you said, staring, staring, staring.

Eddie pressed his lips together as he looked from his daughter to you. Happiness etched itself in every facet of his expression; in the tight smile he failed to control, to the tenderness of his half-closed eyes shining behind his lashes, his confident stance with his hands slotted into his work jacket pockets, in his washed hair falling to one side as he let his head loll from the heavy thoughts swaying his shoulders in a slow rocking motion. Everything about him was relaxed upon seeing you.

“You look beautiful,” he complimented with a magnificent amount of ease, as if he wasn’t a bundle of anxiety minutes ago. Yet, he didn’t withhold his praise. In gradual seconds–each longer than the last–he beheld your appearance in the highest regard, noting the vast departure from the jeans you usually wore.

The burgundy pinafore dress fit you snug, and the hem stopped high on your thighs. The thin white turtleneck underneath clung to your figure, and your black pantyhose matched your chunky Mary Janes.

It was one beret and a baguette short from being an outfit you wore for a skit with your comedy troupe, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Really beautiful,” he said to himself, taking you in, his whisper lost amongst the beginning strums of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree playing from the garage.

Adrie grabbed at the dress around your waist, chaining herself to you in a needy act for attention, and you stroked your thumb over her hair in return, eyes refusing to leave her father.

“And what about you, handsome?” You signaled it was his turn to show off.

So far, the formfitting gray slacks with a faint plaid pattern were doing him justice, but you wanted to see the whole thing.

Peacocking, Eddie lifted an arrogant brow on the same side of his smirk, and put some confidence in how he unzipped his jacket, savoring the anticipation. Opening it slowly to unveil, unfathomably, a button up shirt. White with blue stripes. Untucked, of course. Dropping the jacket from his shoulders, he strutted in a circle, giving you the full view of his back–no rugged coveralls, no leather, no durable canvas, no sweatshirt–just thin polycotton blend stretched over his frame alluding to his musculature.

Working the jacket back up his arms, he presented one of his legs forward. “Think I gained some weight since I last wore these. They used to fit better.”

Oh. Oh, no. They fit perfectly.

While he was busy looking at where the slacks tapered to his black boots, you were commending other areas. Like his thighs, where the pants gave a slim shadow where his boxers ended. And a little higher, to the place the fabric bunched around, and forced the zipper to curve outward. The real deal. The whole package. The big show.

Jesus..

“You look good,” you croaked out with the last of the air in your lungs. He jerked his head up, and smiled his usual way–too wide, a little askew, showing more teeth on one side than the other. “Should’ve known you’d be just as handsome dressed up as you are in a t-shirt and jeans.”

“You hear that, Adrie? It was worth it being late, because I look extra handsome.”

“I didn’t say extra–”

“Who cares,” she whined at him. After demonstrating an ounce of patience while her dad took a shower, washed his hair, shaved, spritzed on too much cologne, and stood in front of the mirror debating over wearing his nicer clothes or his usual ripped jeans for an excruciating number of minutes, she was at her limits. “My outfit is way, way, way cuter,” she argued in her kid-like way, fighting for your approval.

You crouched to her level, and she twirled in a circle, copying him. “Oh my gosh, you’re right! Your sweatshirt is way, way, way cuter than his boring clothes. What does it say?” Somewhere above you, you heard Eddie suck his teeth.

Adrie pinched the red pullover and held it out for you to read along with her.

“Santa’s.. Widdle helper.” The pronunciation wasn’t her fault. Upon closer inspection, the text did indeed spell ‘little’ as ‘wittl’.’

“And who’s that?” you asked, pointing at the character jumping out of a Christmas stocking on the front.

“Tweety Bird!”

“Alright!” You held your hand up, and she high-fived you.

Thrown back into reality at a dog’s yip, and Mr. Moore’s survey of heads, you let go of the romanticized bubble you surrounded yourself in, where it was just you, Adrie, and Eddie, and took heed of the packed room lurching towards the smell of cooked meatballs wafting in the air.

“Everyone here?” Mr. Moore asked, and when a murmur arose, he rubbed his hands together, and announced, “Let’s eat! Game starts soon.”

The sardine conglomerate moved as one, making a concentrated effort to form a line from the breakroom, down the hallway, and ending where you stood at the glass door. Adrie struggled to accept being last in line, but you prepared many distractions for her; the first of which being Eddie’s present.

“I got something for you,” you said, and reached over the ledge of your desk, patting around in search of the special item. He expressed an unreasonable amount of suspicion. “You have to promise to wear it. Or else..” You gave Adrie a look, and she had a pout at the ready if he didn’t comply.

“I don’t like it when you two gang up on me,” he mumbled, eyeing you.

“Too bad. Here.”

Eddie snorted at the red, white, fuzzy, jingly accessory in your hand. “Really?” he asked, and laughed, “Would’ve worn it anyway.”

After a pause where he held the Santa hat in strange contemplation, he humbly knelt on his knees to Adrie, and asked her to do the honors, “Wanna put it on for me?” She did so enthusiastically, jamming the hat on his head, rattling the bell at the end of the cap, and calling him Daddy Santa while roughly combing his hair. He was sure to hold your gaze as he prompted Adrie, “Not real Santa, right?”

“No, you’re Daddy Santa. Real Santa is coming in two days! And he’s bringing me lots of presents because I’ve been good.”

You understood, then, the glaze of fatigue in the look he gave you. It’d be a few more years until Adrie thanked him for the miracles in her life, the food in her belly, the roof over her head, and as a father, he only hoped he’d fix his situation before she learned the full details of his sacrifices to raise her, to give her a room, to provide her with a bed of her own while he went without.

Still, he was in the constant battle of yearning for the acknowledgement, while fearing her growing up and discovering the real world.

A complex set of emotions to parse for both him and his daughter, and he had to do it alone.

“Ow, Adrie..”

Coming to his rescue when she began pinching his cheeks to a rosy state, you got her attention, “Don’t think I forgot about you, cutie pie.” From behind the ledge, you pulled out a pair of reindeer antlers on a headband, and slid them on for her, doubling as a way to keep her bangs out of her eyes.

Glee burst across her face in a smile which rivaled the dawning rays of the rising sun. Deep-seated satisfaction erupted in your chest at her joy over the small gesture. Her immediate desire was to be picked up by you, ready to be doted on, and in that moment, you wanted nothing other than to gather her in your arms. But Eddie stole her for himself. You were left Adrie-less. And the fact it bothered you, and the fact making his daughter happy affected you in a way you’d only begun to unpack last week when you asked Robin to drive you to the toy store at the mall, was complicated.

“You can’t coerce Miss Mouse into picking you up at your command,” he told her in a playful tone. “You’re a big girl now, and only Daddy’s strong enough to hold you.”

“Oh, puh-lease.” As if your tongue wasn’t already stuck out in disgust, it certainly was when he made a show of flexing his biceps. Under his jacket. Like that would prove anything.

Now, if he were wearing less..

You latched onto the change of subject in your mind, and moved on with the night, away from the poignant feelings of longing for something you hadn’t quite figured out yet.

For now, you made a sardine family. You, Adrie, and Eddie. Your hand in hers, she on his hip, and his kiss to her forehead, fond of one another. Huddled in shared conversation–the type where everything faded away. No one else. Just you, Adrie, and Eddie.

You volunteered to make their dinner. With Adrie clinging to his side, she was able to boss you into putting whatever she wanted on her plate, and you checked Eddie’s amused face every time she added another carrot or ham pinwheel, knowing he’d be the one to eat it when she was full. After hers, you made his, and after his, you made yours. Balancing them all on your palms and forearm, and bringing them to your desk, assuring Eddie he could have the office chair while you took the black stool.

Poor him, though. He sat with Adrie in his lap, desperate to maneuver around her antlers to get a mini cupcake in his mouth while you freely ate your sandwiches, and answered her questions about if reindeer were real, and if they could fly. (Yes, and yes.)

Other guests were present in the lobby, you knew, but at the impact of your knee prodding Eddie’s thigh, and his sly grin over Adrie’s head, they faded away once more.

Until a flash startled you both from your ga-ga gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Just saving memories!” Kevin exclaimed, scrolling his thumb over the disposable camera’s film cog.

And before you could blink away the spot invading your vision, he was gone. “Hope we looked good, at least,” you said to Eddie, not having a candid picture taken since you moved to Hawkins.

He snorted, and leaned around Adrie to see the meatball he was quartering for her with a plastic fork. “I don’t think you have to worry about that, sweetheart.”

Your heart fluttered at the endearment. He said it in a casual manner, not like when he was trying to fluster you. And the compliment was sincere, not teasing. It was sweet, with his arm around his daughter to keep her from squirming away, and the warm comfort of his leg against yours, body heat transferring from his slacks through your thin pantyhose.

A moment you’d like to remember. Including..

“Here,” you giggled.

He looked at the napkin you held out to him, and where you tapped at the corner of your mouth. “Oh.”

In true Eddie fashion, he used his tongue to edge at the green icing, following it with his thumb to get whatever he missed and sucking the rest from his fingers while still managing to entertain Adrie with questions about what she did in preschool today, and dipping a carrot in ranch, dropping some of it too onto his pinky and licking that off without hesitation too. A chaotic mess of a man.

~~~

As predicted, it didn’t take long for Adrie to get bored, and she wandered off to play with Kevin’s dogs. Eddie took it upon himself to finish the monumental task of eating the assortment of leftovers she surrendered on her plate. A real hero of the times, scarfing down the butter ring cookies she wore on her fingers, and downing the sip of juice she didn’t want.

The conversation between you two was the easy kind. Simple, flowing. He slouched to the side with his elbow on the desk, cheek to his fist, legs spread,  listening to you talk about nothing.

“And as you can see” –You pulled open the second drawer to the short filing cabinet under your desk– “I’m all organized for the new year. Got my Post-it notes, a new set of highlighters, some of those fancy pens that make my handwriting look nicer. Living a life of luxury over here.”

“Very cool,” he replied in a hollow tone, implying it was in a mocking ‘you’re adorable’ kind of way, and not a ‘wow, you bought the Bugs Bunny themed sticky notes, that’s very cool of you’ kind of way.

You pushed the drawer closed with your foot, and rocked on your stool, grinning.

Beyond the circle of touching knees, fluorescent lights, and brave glances, there was an abrupt cheer at a scored touchdown. In the lobby, the mothers grouped the chairs together to adore the hiccuping newborn. In the parking lot, the teenage boys drove a remote control car around. The moody girl brought a skewer and marshmallows out to the fire. A Jack Russell terrier panted at your calf. Kevin patted Adrie’s head, and stooped to whisper a secret in her ear as they passed each other outside the glass door.

Eddie took the pom pom end of his Santa hat between two fingers and rattled the bell at you. He looked like he was about to speak, but someone special interrupted him.

“I’ve been sent on a mission. You have to come with me!”

You both turned to Adrie.

When neither of you did anything besides raise your eyebrows expectantly, and she didn’t give more context, nor information, she got impatient. “Come on!” she pleaded with a stomp, and grabbed your hand, and you grabbed Eddie’s sleeve on instinct, practically tripping him over your stool while she dragged you into the hallway.

After several feet, she stopped. You stopped, Eddie stopped.

“What’s the mission?” he played along, linking his hand in hers so you were one big circle. A sardine family.

She didn’t speak. Only grinned, and giggled.

Not catching on, you exchanged a confused shrug with Eddie, and asked her, “Is it a riddle?”

More laughter. Harder, more persistent tugs around your pinky and ring finger where she snared you. And a direct, focused smile aimed above your heads.

Slowly–slowly–slowly–

You straightened up from how you were bent over, and listened to Eddie’s clothes shift as he did the same. You followed the invisible line to where she was looking, tipping your head back in curiosity to see what was taped to the doorway exactly between you, and her beloved dad.

There was silence all around.

From the sharp leaves and red berries of the mistletoe, your gaze began its slow descent to Eddie’s. Passing over the red hat, the wrinkled forehead with messy bangs flattened onto it, the worried eyebrows. His sickly pale cheeks, flushed red lips. Suspended in time. Heart in your tight throat, pounding pulse, stomach twisting. 

You searched the frightened sheen in his eyes.

“I didn’t hang that, I swear,” he whispered.

“I didn’t either,” you promised just as quickly.

It didn’t matter who did.

There was noise all around. The football game turned to a commercial, and heavy feet announced people entering the garage, and approaching the glass door, coming inside to refresh their drinks and nibble at the cheese cubes.

Quickly–quickly–quickly–

“She.. We’ve been watching a lot of Christmas movies, and she must’ve seen it in one of them.” Lowering his voice, he brought his hand up in a sympathetic gesture, trying to explain her behavior. You let go of his sleeve. “She doesn’t understand.. The meaning, and everything.” He paused. “Us.” Another pause, a tic in his lower lip like a tremble. “Working together, and stuff.” Voice almost mute. “That w-we can’t..”

As much as you wanted to smash your lips on his to stop him from overexplaining the multitude of reasons you two couldn’t, or shouldn’t kiss, (you’re at work, this place smells like meatballs, his daughter is right there, Mr. Moore’s shadow breached the lobby, the fact Eddie chose listing coworkers as his rationale for not kissing you and not because you two were friends, but then again, what if he was about to say that, that he only saw you as a friend, and maybe being coworkers was an easier excuse than saying he wasn’t into you like that, oh god–), you had to get out of this situation with grace.

“No, yeah, I get it. Uhm.” Think fast, think fast, think fast. “You know who else is under the mistletoe, hmm?” you drew out the hum to build tension, setting your sights on your target.

Adrie squealed when you snatched her up and spun in a circle, attacking her cheeks with an unrelenting amount of kisses; the type that were quick pecks with lots of kissy noises, so saccharine and fawning and annoying to listen to. Tender and pure and tempting to the man who made a conscious effort to release the pinch of frustration from his face, and remorse from his discontent sigh before answering your question.

“Can she have one of these chocolate snowmen?”

“Only if you’re willing to tire her out before we leave,” Eddie said, taking intentional steps towards you and Adrie on your hip, leaving the mistletoe and its implications behind. He placed a friendly hand along your shoulder blade. His other hand was more menacing on her back, as indicated by her eyes growing large.

He warned her in a stern tone, “If you have too much sugar and keep me up all night, you’ll never have another dessert again.”

She called him out, point blank, nose turned up in triumph. “You’ve already said that before, and I got cookies anyway.”

Your cookies, he said in a quick glance and eyebrow wag at you, before speaking to her again, “You got me there. However.. I would hate for Santa to find out you stayed up past your bedtime.” He sucked his teeth with a pitying shrug. “The consequences are steep. He’s very strict, you know.”

Adrie’s frown was serious.

Eddie was having too much fun using his one seasonal threat to get her to behave.

“Aw, don’t listen to him,” you soothed her. You lifted your chin so she could burrow her head against your neck, and amended, “Well, do listen to your dad, but I have something special planned for us, Adrie.” She roused out of her heart-wrenching pout, and hugged you harder, kicking her feet around your waist in excitement.

You smiled at him, but your gaze fell elsewhere, passing over the men in the hallway, and taking a last, long look at the mistletoe, seeing it for the confusing event it created, not the romantic scene it was known for. “I’ll take her for the night. You go watch the game, or something. Hang out with the adults. I’ve got her.”

The tiny room became overcrowded. Someone whispered, “Oh, aren’t they cute together,” and Eddie chewed on his inner cheek. He removed his hand from you, fingertips slipping over the back of your dress, catching the strap, then your side, below your ribs, above Adrie’s leg. Measured, methodical touches. Not accidents.

While his face lacked strong emotions, there were words in his eyes. Maybe they were an apology for the weirdness you now found yourselves in, or a thank you for taking her off his hands for a bit, or they were something else entirely. He didn’t say.

“You two have fun,” he expressed in his soft voice, and grabbed a cold soda on his way out.

~~~

A cold soda did not unwind him like a beer.

Eddie warmed himself by the barrel fire while the game played. Though any opportunity to talk with his peers rarely expanded past the usual topics of work and raising his daughter, and were frequently shadowed by what was happening on the screen, he didn’t mind the interruption. He knew the rules of the game enough to feel a sense of camaraderie when they celebrated. And really, he just wanted the time to think. Or not think. Definitely not think about how he reacted earlier, stumbling over his words to assure you he wasn’t some creep who hung mistletoe as a way to trick you into kissing him. Absolutely not agonize over his inability to articulate himself, and provide you with an out while also reminding himself why he shouldn’t listen to his impulse clawing to be released, and kiss you on the spot. And certainly not consider your mild response to the whole thing, and how your gaze lingered–for a millisecond–on his lips before you scooped Adrie into your arms.

Eddie ran the heel of palm along his jaw, back and forth, and worked it to the back of his neck, wringing his nape in tight squeezes to release the tension.

A beer was definitely better than soda, but so be it. He downed the rest of it, and justified going inside for another. Of course, his motives for going through the lobby weren’t to quench his thirst, but as he almost ran face-first into the glass door, his mouth went dry.

Your ass in the curve-hugging dress was the first thing he noticed. Noticed it because you were curled into the fetal position on the floor, pretending to die a dramatic death. Oh, and you were wearing a black cape adorned in shiny gold stars, and your mouse ears from Halloween, along with a crown.

The loud crunch of him crushing his soda can got your attention.

“You don’t always have to dress like a mouse for her; she knows who you are,” he said in cool nonchalance on his way to the fridge.

You pointed a pirate’s cutlass at him, regarding him down the plastic blade. “I’m the Rat King.”

The music on the portable radio changed moods from a battle march to a victorious, slow piece.

Ditching the mouse ears by throwing them aside into a small pile of other props, you instructed Adrie to exchange her rapier for a flower crown. “Ooh, ooh! And this is where Clara and the Nutcracker Prince dance. Yeah, hold my hand, lift your leg in arabesque. Just like that.” You walked around her, spinning her in a circle while she posed with her leg behind her, and when you let go, you granted her the stage to improv what ballet moves she knew through pop culture osmosis, clapping and gasping and cheering her on, both of you panting from the exertion of playing an entire cast of characters.

There was a pang in Eddie’s stomach. The usual stuff: wanting to watch, wanting to join, wanting to stop it. The jealousy of being left out of the intimate moment, the yearn to add a third to his and Adrie’s life, the grief of when things don’t work out and this was a mistake. Decisions, daydreams, the reality of you maybe moving away, maybe not. Maybe dating him, maybe not. Maybe making work a place he dreaded coming to again if he tried something and it ended in disaster.

He had no other job options.

And yet..

“Hey.” Eddie traced the rim of the chilled soda in his hand, collecting condensation. “Ah, the TV in there is playing those old claymation Christmas movies in a marathon. D’you guys wanna watch them with me?”

Teaching her to put her toe to her knee in the passé position, you asked, “Don’t you want to hang out and watch the game?” When he didn’t respond, you looked up at him. Immediately, your focus honed in on his shy habit of chewing on his bottom lip.

“Nah. Not really. I’d rather be in here.”

~~~

The breakroom lights were off, save for the dim set on either side of the sink lighting the buffet, and the air was humid from steam curling off the crockpots. On the table were three marshmallow snowmen held together by melted chocolate and pretzel stick arms; remnants of an impromptu competition of which he lost.

It was a warm and cozy affair, made more so by the three of you squished together to watch Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on the small TV in the corner. 

Adrie nestled deeper into her baby blanket. She had the quilt cocooned around her, running her fingertips over her mouth while she watched. Beside her, you sat with your hands laced in your lap, and at the end, Eddie slumped diagonally in his seat, propping his elbow on the back of your chair. Half paying attention to the stop motion film, half congratulating himself on getting this far. It took all of Jack Frost to work up the courage to daintily set his elbow at the very corner of your chair, almost making contact with your shoulder without worrying if he sweated through his deodorant or cologne yet..

But what if his breath smelled bad from the weird combination of food he ate?

Fuck–

The golden retriever lounging on the floor behind Adrie wagged his tail. Kevin’s distinct shuffle came down the hallway. “Well here’s where you three gone off to,” he said. His dog lifted his head, and licked his lips in anticipation for a pet. “Don’t mind me, just came in for another pepperoni slice, isn’t that right, Coop?”

Cooper panted at his name.

Adrie mumbled around her fingers, “I love your puppy. He’s the best.”

“Yeah, she adores him,” you added.

“Aw, you’re a good boy, aren’t ya?” Kevin bent down to praise his dog with a couple of pets under the chin. And when he was finished, he made a fuss about his old knees, and the cold weather affecting them, and the–whatever else he said.

Upon struggling to stand, Kevin sought a place to put his hand for assistance–and wouldn’t you know, the perfect spot was right in front of him. He clutched Eddie’s forearm for purchase, which incidentally took him off guard before he could brace his muscles, and pinned it to the back of your chair. Once the move was complete, Kevin stood and patted the spot he held until Eddie’s arm curved flush against your shoulders. Then he winked and walked off, no longer shuffling. Eddie stared open-mouthed at the determination.

His insides clenched with unreleased tension. The holly hung in the doorway. Things he wasn’t supposed to do. Anxiety, nerves heightened with the sensation of your solid body breathing beneath the weight of him.

Adrie mumbled something about what was happening on screen, and you said something back, nodding.

It’s not like this was the first time he put his arm around a girl. But it was the first time he did so with the burden of pessimism warning him not to.

He scrutinized the side of your face for any sign of acknowledgement that his arm was around you, but if you cared, you didn’t show it. You remained poised as ever.

You didn’t mind, outwardly.

So he didn’t either.

It was only in front of his boss that he lifted his arm to comb the hair off his neck when Mr. Moore entered. And as soon as he was gone, Eddie strung it casually across the back of your chair again, twirling a curl of Adrie’s hair around his finger.

And when Carl came in, you sat forward for the entire duration of his stay, eating a marshmallow while he was in the room. And when he left, you sank back into your seat.

The third time someone came in, neither of you moved. You followed each other’s lead and did nothing. Subconsciously–or consciously–finding the courage to fit your bodies together in a purposeful way, relaxing towards one another, and slotting into the cushiony space his arm allowed against his bulky jacket.

Time went on like that.

The conversation between you two was the easy kind. Wordless, intuitive. Exchanged in the permanent grin affixed to his face, and your tender hums of affection when you looked at him or Adrie. Somewhere in the silent conversation, he summoned the balls to stroke his thumb–only once–over the soft slope of your bicep, and coped with the aftermath of studying the profile of your lips tugging up at the corners.

~~~

The party came to its natural conclusion when the game ended. Eddie scooped what was left in the crockpots into mismatched tupperware he brought from home, filling up an old butter container with chili, and rinsing out the cookware to give back to its original owner. He placed cupcakes in their plastic clamshell packaging, and downsized the veggie tray into a manageable load. You played the part of an amiable host, and wished everyone a happy holiday on their way out, insisting you’d take care of cleaning up. Really, it was no problem. You had Eddie with you, and Adrie was helping by falling asleep with a crayon in her hand.

Eddie listened to you usher them out the door, and lock it behind them once they drove away.

In truth, he preferred them gone when you both made trips to his car, loading the backseat with the leftovers. Didn’t matter if they were room temperature carrots, or the mangled overcooked meatballs from the bottom of the crockpot, he accepted them.

He took inventory of the last containers on the breakroom table while you woke up Adrie, and for once, he felt okay.

Normally stress chewed holes in his stomach this time of year, but knowing the panic of not paying the electric bill before incurring another late fee would be eliminated by the generous bonus Moore gave him in the white envelope tucked away in his inner jacket pocket, Eddie felt.. alright. Like things would be alright. He put enough aside for his daughter to have one big present this year, and things would be alright.

“Ready?” you asked, holding Adrie’s hand in the doorway.

“Yeah, it’s just these two containers, and we’re good. Were we doing anything about the decorations?”

“Nah.” You waved him off. “We can take them down after the break.”

More than happy to get home and reap the reward of a full night’s sleep, he picked her up mid-yawn, and you carried the last of the containers to the car for him. While you found available space to shove the tupperware without it spilling, Eddie swayed with Adrie. He rested his cheek on the top of her head, and closed his eyes, feeling himself meld into the drowsy moment, comforted by her weight in his arms.

He heard the gravel crunch from your movement, and your shivered exhale beneath your jacket. It was his turn to put Adrie in her carseat, but when he caught the dewy glimmer in your eye, he thought he might hold onto her for the next eternity if it meant he could earn that soft awe from you again.

However, it was cold out, and he should hurry up.

“Uh, there’s uh,” you started, standing back while he buckled Adrie in. “There’s actually one more thing inside.”

“There is?” he questioned dumbly. He glanced at your incessant finger guns pointed towards the back entrance door, and tried to picture what he left behind.

“Yeah, if you could just help me real quick.”

He shrugged and tucked the quilt tight around Adrie. “I’ll be right back, okay?” She nodded, and covered the lower half of her face with the blanket.

Still cool, calm, and collected, Eddie followed you into the garage, through the glass door, into the lobby, down the hallway, and stopped when you stopped. In the breakroom doorway. Under the..

He struggled to swallow around the lump in his throat.

Adrenaline raced to his nerves, to his brain, to his heart jumping in confusion. The addictive buzz enabled him to remember each detail of your lips parting, the sound of your shallow inhale, and the sting of doubt on his cheeks when you spun around and pried out the noisy keyring from your pocket, shaking them until you found the one to the storage closet.

You turned the key in the door opposite him in the hallway, and reached inside, into the dark. “I, uhm.. I got a present for Adrie, if that’s okay..”

“You..?” He went silent at the large gift bag you held out to him, with the giant portrait of jolly Saint Nick on the front bulging from what was inside.

Second guessing if you were overstepping boundaries with the gesture, you faltered, “If it’s not okay, I can, I guess–?”

“No, no,” he finally said, screwing his eyes shut at realizing he just stood there like a moron. “No, that’s, that’s so nice of you. I-I don’t even know what to say. Just, yeah.. You didn’t have to do something like that.” He accepted the bag, and hugged it to him, crushing the decorative tissue paper sticking out the top.

“I signed it as being from Santa. I figured that was appropriate.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s perfect. Uhm.. wow.”

He was doing his favorite trait–where his smile evolved into an open laugh; a little obnoxious, and a lot flirty–and he could tell when you beamed up at him and your cheesy grin overflowed into a giggle, it was your favorite trait too.

And you kept the presents rolling.

“As Office Administrator,” you said with a spry loveliness in your sidling up to him, “I have some insider knowledge that someone put in a good word for you, and uh, it looks like you’re getting a pretty nice raise at the beginning of the new year.” There was no mistaking who. “And I heard through the grapevine that Mr. Moore is going to start pulling from his retirement in June, and Misty isn’t interested in running the family business, so he’s seeking out a new owner,” you put more than a hint of inflection on the end of the sentence, and gave him a look.

You shrugged your shoulder to your chin. “Anyway, do with that information what you will.”

Eddie stayed stupefied, speechless, staring down at the bag. Because you were you, you ended the conversation with a weak punch to his arm when a car drove into the parking lot.

“That’s Robin,” you said.

He watched you walk away. Down the hall, into the lobby. Putting distance between him and the doorway to the breakroom, where his regrets taunted him.

The sharp leaves and red berries were lost amongst the shadows, but their warning rang true. The reasons he shouldn’t kiss you. The talk he never had with Adrie, the potential expiration date even if things did work out between you two, the issue of seeing each other every day and knowing he couldn’t handle the habitual rejection of ignoring the other’s existence if things went bad.

New year, same old coward.

Except.

An idea.

An impulse.

A vicious desire.

He rejected the rejection. “Wait!”

You turned, and jumped at his sudden appearance. Eyebrows raised in surprise, a fresh smile lighting up your face in the gentle moonlight.

Eddie stopped you by grabbing your hand, wielding you closer with his rough fingers pressed into your sweaty palm until your arms entwined, and your jackets rubbed. He dropped his head to the side with a shameful shake, and ran the tip of his tongue along his teeth, building to an apologetic admission. “I’m doing that thing again where I forget to thank you,” he said, not needing to speak above a whisper as he gazed down at you, unafraid.

“Then thank me,” you replied, curling your fingers around his.

His wavering voice went deeper in his chest, “Words don’t feel good enough anymore.” The bag under his arm crinkled as he lifted a finger at Robin who had come to peer inside the window, and very quickly made herself scarce after witnessing the moment she was intruding on. “You’re too sweet, and I don’t even get to drive you home.”

You encouraged him in a laugh. “Then think of another way to thank me that’s not transportation based.”

A bad thought bloomed warmth across his cheeks. “I will,” he promised, nodding. “I’ll find a better way to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and Adrie. Something good.”

“Looking forward to it.”

You lingered for a second, waiting, and when you both remained kissless, you rocked your body into him, cozying your sides together with your joined arms squeezed between in a sort of goodbye hug. “Speaking of Adrie, you might want to get back to her before she becomes a popsicle.”

He inhaled sharply and snapped his head up. “Yeah, I should probably go start the car.”

“Have a good holiday, Eddie. Get lots of rest over the break, okay?”

“I will, I will.”

With an absolutely astounding amount of memories made today, you were both content to step away from each other and go home to begin the tossing and turning, sickly sweet, cold-side-of-the-pillow reminiscing about the brave glances, and daring touches.

You reached for the door handle.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You stalled with your back facing him. Thinking you were sly, you checked the reflection to see what part of you his gaze was admiring, and you laughed.

Finally. He was making eye contact with you through the glass.

“Goodnight, handsome,” you answered, and left with your smile ducked into your collar.

The evening ended spectacularly.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #mechanic!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #the yes policy

[indigosunsetao3]

You Have A Few Minutes Before You’re Missed

How do the COD men use that time?

Female reader perspective

NSFW - Minors DNI

Idea came to me because I took a quick weekend trip and have only had a few minutes here and there to sneak away and write. Excuse typos/grammar, literally been writing this in ten minute spurts over a few days.

Alex

“They’ll never miss us.”

You grin as Alex leads the way down a deserted hallway, his hand tightly gripping yours. His body is tense with anticipation and need but he keeps the boyish grin on his face as he walks. His steps only pause to check a door, which is locked, before moving on.

“Alex, maybe we should…” you start as he halts at another door and tries the handle. Locked.

He curses under his breath, breaking the calm exterior look to show the desperation underneath. His eyes cut to you standing there, still holding his other hand and smiling so prettily.

“One more?” He asks, his voice a slight plea as he tugs you closer to him. “If it’s locked we’ll go back and I’ll just suffer,” he grins and gives you a chaste kiss because if he does anything more than that he’ll combust in the hallway.

You had been teasing him all night, knowing he had to keep it together. It was an award ceremony after all and that required decorum. But fuck, seeing him in his dress blues all cleaned up and decorated did something to you. So when he sat next to you at the table your hand wandered a little too high up his thigh. And as he leaned over to pour you more wine you had whispered how badly you wanted him to fuck you while wearing this specific outfit he almost spilled the red liquid all over the table.

“One more,” you agree with a laugh as Alex all but jogs to the last door, dragging you behind. Your heels click on the tile and despite playing coy you’re also hoping he finds an unlocked door. The way he’s desperate for you has only added fuel to your own fire.

Making a show of it Alex grabs the last door handle, pauses for dramatic effect, then twists. It’s unlocked. He doesn’t waste another second as he drags you into the long abandoned office and slams the door shut by pushing you up against it.

“What was that about me in my dress blues?” He asks as one hand grabs your thigh through the slit in your floor length dress and yanks your leg around his waist. He’s already hard and pressing into you, causing you to gasp at the friction as he rolls his hips. “Don’t get all shy on me now,” he chastises as you blush and whimper at his ministrations.

“I want you to fuck me while wearing them,” you gasp out, one hand sliding up his chest to gently tap one of his medals. “You look so fucking good in these,” your hand slides to play with one of the buttons.

“I’m always eager to please,” Alex answers as he gathers the rest of your dress and shoves it out of the way, allowing you to undo his pants for him. When he springs free your hands are instantly on him, pumping him quickly as he shudders and gasps against your lips. Alex is a vocal man in bed and you would do anything to keep him panting and groaning in your ear.

“I need you,” you demand after a few minutes of rushing him toward that edge. “Now,” you add sliding the head of his cock through your folds and laughing at the look of shock on his face that you weren’t wearing any underwear. “I didn’t want the lines,” you answer with a gasp as you line him up with your entrance and he pushes just the tip in.

“How do you want me?” Alex asked, ever the gentleman giving you what you needed first.

“Fuck me against the wall Alex. Hard and fast,” you demand, grabbing his hand that was braced in the wall and guiding it to your backside. He knows what you want and gently grabs you to lift you up so you can wrap your legs fully around him and lock your ankles.

Alex gives you one second to get ready, your hands braced on his shoulders, before he follows through with your command. He takes you hard against the wall, the filing cabinet a few feet away rattling with each thrust, the medals on his chest tinkling as they knocked into one another.

Your perfect soldier and fiancé always took care of you without hesitation. He was breathless and sweating as you hit your climax but he made sure to ride you through it before letting himself release into you. His hands grabbing hard at your ass to grind you down onto him and keep you filled up with him, not wanting to waste a drop.

“We’ll have to go back eventually,” you say as he rests his forehead against your shoulder, still fully inside you. He always liked to stay connected for a bit. Enjoyed feeling your flutter around him in the after shocks of your orgasm and to make sure he doesn’t drip down your leg too fast.

“Just another minute,” Alex answers as he twists his head to kiss at your neck.

Gaz

“This skirt is a goddamn tease. You wore it on purpose just for me, didn’t you?”

You had, in fact, worn it on purpose. It seemed decent enough when viewed in a proper manner that you were careful to display around the other men. But the moment you knew only Gaz was watching from the bar, the rest of the men busy with a game of pool, you bent over at the waist to grab a drink from one of the tables. Felt the slide of the pleated material up your legs to reveal the lacey tops of your thigh highs. If you bent and leaned much more he was going to get a pretty view of your matching lace panties.

He had seen through innocent look you gave him as you stood up and walked over. Gaz’s eyes seemed to be ablaze as he spun to face the way of the game you were pretending to watch as his hand slid up just under your skirt without missing a beat.

He was subtle and slow about his movements to give you the chance to bat him away but you didn’t. You’ve been pining for this for weeks and when you don’t push him away you feel his fingers slide under the lace tops and pluck one to snap the elastic against your skin. The movement elicited a small groan from you that had you sipping on the beer to cover it.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Gaz stated as he let his fingers trail to your other leg, careful to not let on to anyone else what he was doing. If Gaz was anything, he was great at playing casual. “Did you wear this on purpose for me?” He pinched the back of your thigh at that and you nearly dribble your drink down your chin, causing him to laugh lightly.

“Maybe I did,” you answer sounding bolder than you felt. It was one thing to playfully flirt from a distance, playing the game you two did to rile one another but never quite getting to the next step. But when he was this close with his hands so dangerously far up your skirt in public where anyone could see if they looked hard enough it was different. You felt meek and maybe a bit self conscious despite being the one to start the whole thing.

“And why did you? There had to be a reason you thought of me when you put it on then gave me a little show. What is it that you want?” His voice is silky smooth as his hand slides up the curve of your ass to toy with the barely there lace. You haven’t dared to look at him, your eyes locked on the game of pool that Price is dominating without even trying. But you know he’s got a smirk on his face as he continues to run his hands over you.

“You,” you finally say with a smirk around the beer bottle. “I had to get your attention somehow.”

“You’ve always got my attention,” Gaz replies simply as he sets his drink down on an empty table next to him. “You should know that by now,” his fingers are dangerously close to sliding between your legs and you huff lightly. “Anytime you’re around I can’t take my eyes off you,” he pauses in his words pretending to be interested in the pool game as his fingers dip down and you instinctively shift to open your legs a bit more for him.

“Then what took you so long?” You ask a bit breathless as his fingers barely ghost over your center. This was dangerous. The bar hid your lower half from view of anyone unless they came around the back but it doesn’t hide your face and you have a terrible poker face. “I was a bit worried you weren’t interested,” you tack on, hand squeezing the glass bottle hard to keep from squirming.

“The best part is the anticipation,” Gaz answers, still sounding completely unbothered. “I never meant to seem disinterested, just wanted you to pant a bit,” he grins and dares to reach a hand out to turn your face to look at him. “And I think you’re finally there,” he smirks watching your face as his fingers slide up to gently rub circles over your apex through the panties.

Your lips part at that and he quirks an eyebrow as he slides under the lace. His neutral face slipping a bit as he feels the wetness on his fingers and he slides them back to your entrance to gather more.

“Fuck love, maybe I had you waiting a little too long,” he says as he continues to rub his fingers over you, watching you squirm. “The game is almost over,” he breathes out as he pushes just one knuckle into you, causing you to bite your lip and shut your eyes. “They’re going to come back over here and I’m going to have to take my hand away,” he slides his finger a little further in and you hear his appreciative groan as you shift your hips back toward his hand.

“Then buy us more time,” you answer not wanting him to stop as he pushes his finger fully in so his palm is resting on your skin. You whimper and bite your lip as Soap looks over, oblivious as to what is happening, to ask Gaz if he wanted to play next.

“I’ll catch the next game,” Gaz answers simply as he slides back out and runs his glistening finger back up to your clit to rub it gently. He knows you’re struggling to keep it together as he plays it cool with the guys. Soap nods and turns back to rack up the game again, Price heading to get another round of beers and Ghost picks out his cue to play.

“We’ve got about ten minutes before Ghost wipes the floor with him,” Gaz says as he shifts a bit in his chair. “I bet I can have you come all over my hands before it’s my turn to play.”

He’s not wrong.

Ghost

You’d been working a tail for three days now as a pair. Following them wherever they went and it seemed the guy really enjoyed hole in the wall dive bars and lounges. These three days with Simon had only amplified the desire between the two of you and you secretly thought Price assigned this task to you both to finally get you both to act on it.

The touches and banter had been casual and subtle at first. Ones you could pass off as just friendly interactions between colleagues. But the more and more alone time you spent together the more obvious it was that this wasn’t coworkers friendly. There was more. More in the way Ghost watched you work, more in how he always insisted on sitting next to you and how you always felt the need to touch him. Even if it was just a leg brush under the table or arms resting comfortably against one another on the couch.

It had come to a head this evening at the little jazz lounge. The dimly lit floor made it easier to touch and feel one another, using the excuse you were portraying a tourist couple on their honeymoon. Maybe you had been a little to handsy that evening, leaning on him in the velvet booth, draping your legs across his lap or whispering in his ear so your lips brushed the skin there. You needed to sell your cover though and Simon hasn’t pushed you away and even played into it as well. His hands running over your shins and chalves, up to the back of your knee, fingers playing over the nape of your neck as you talked.

When you insisted on another drink Simon followed you to the bar and stood behind you, his hand resting on your hip as he looked around the club. When more people walked up to the bar while you waited Simon gently moved you to lean back on him to make more room. His fingers holding your hips a bit tight so you could feel his length pressing into your backside as he held you close. You swallow as the bartender continues to work taking drink orders and they still hadn’t come over to you yet.

“Mark is on the move,” came a voice in your earpiece. They were meeting someone here and Gaz had infiltrated the club staff so he could monitor the exchange. Effectively giving you and Simon a little reprieve from babysitting duty. “I’m moving in,” Gaz answers a moment later,

Leaning your head back you look up at Ghost who is watching you with an intense look as if waiting for an answer to his silent questions. His fingers are flexing against your hip bone and when your gently roll your hips back into him he takes a sharp breath. He doesn’t wait after that. He all but drags you from the bar, knowing the rest of the team will be busy watching Gaz for a few minutes. Ripping his ear piece out to end the chatter he drags you toward the coat closet that the attendant had abandoned and pulls you inside.

It’s too dark to see anything but you don’t bother with the light switch as Ghost snatches you up and kisses you roughly in the dark. He isn’t slow about it as his hands find your backside and he lifts you up to wrap your legs around his waist. The air leaves your lungs in a rush as he pins you between him and the wall, his mouth never leaving yours as his hands slide down your sides to find the hem of your shirt.

“Fuck,” Simon breathes out as his hand finds the soft skin of your breast. He completely bypasses your shirt and bra and is incessantly kneeding the skin, hard enough you know it’s going to bruise but you groan in satisfaction, not pain. “I’ve wanted you like this for goddamn weeks,” he grounds out as his other hand grabs your waist to grind you down on him. The whimper you let out feeling him pressed against the thin fabric of your leggings is pathetic but it only seems to push him along.

“Then don’t wait any longer,” you breathe and Simon laughs a bit against your lips as he lowers your feet down to the ground. He doesn’t give you a chance to orient yourself before he flips you around so your stomach and chest is flat against the wall. You can hear the rustle of his pants and belt and your move to pull your own pants down, practically shaking with anticipation, before he pins you again.

You can feel his length prodding at you, demanding and a bit slick now that it was free of his clothes. Your mouth is dry as Simon kicks your legs open with precision, even in the pitch blackness of the closet, and his hands slide around your front.

When his fingers find your aching core you moan loudly, arching your back against him as he literally slips between your center. If you weren’t so fucking needy for him you’d be embarrassed by how wet he made you. You can feel the appreciative twitch of his cock against you as he starts working you up into a frenzy of little pants and moans. His fingers are quick to get you to that edge, right as you’re about to come he stops, pulling his hand away and grabbing your hips.

You whine as the loss of contact but it turns into a filthy groan as he notches himself at your entrance and slides into you without hesitation. You can hear his cocky chuckle at your reaction and how easy it was for him to seat himself fully in you without resistance. He rolls his hips once, twice, for you to get used to him before he starts fucking you at a brutal pace. His hands gripping hard to leave matching bruises on your hips.

Your hands are pushed against the wall as you arch to him, begging him to keep going while whining from the pleasure. At one point you hear someone outside the room and you quickly shift as if to pull away from Simon to get him to stop, hissing that someone is outside and what if they hear you? But he doesn’t take well to that. He shoves you harder against the wall so you have nowhere else to go and can’t get away as he rocks his hips into you.

“If you keep making those noises then, yes, they’ll hear you,” Simon answers as his fingers slowly, lazily, play with your clit. You shudder and push back into him to get him to move again. This was the second time he had pushed you toward that blissful edge then stopped. “Think you can keep quiet?” He asks as he leans down to kiss at your ear, “or are we going to have to wait to finish when I can get you alone?”

Fuck waiting, you’ve waited too long. Your hand scrambles to grab at his ass and pull to get him to move. He takes the hint and picks up his pace again, your hand moving to cover your own mouth to drown out the noise but his hand gets there first. His palm and fingers close tight around your lips as he bends your head back and continues to fuck you against the wall not caring about the obscene skin slapping sounds that fill the room.

There is movement and sound outside the room still but you don’t care. He’s got you right on that edge and a final, brutal, thrust combined with him biting down on your shoulder you fall apart. You come hard around him, your hands grabbing at the wall for purchase as you clamp down around him and all but scream into his hand. You can feel the telltale twitch of his cock in you as he finishes, his hips still working to ride out his high and fill you.

You stay locked together for a little bit, breathing and trying to stay standing as you come back down. Simon peppers your neck with kisses as he gently pulls out and right as you’re pulling your pants back up a voice comes in your earpiece.

“Where are you guys? Deals done and they’re leaving,” Gaz’s voice sounds a bit pressed.

“We’ll be there in a moment,” Simon answers as he grabs your hand and yanks open the coat closet door. “Got a little tied up with something,” he finishes looking back at you still red faced and sweaty.

Price

“What’s the use in being in charge if I can’t break the rules?”

You smirk as he slams the door shut to the blacked out SUV in the parking lot. It’s parked between a few other vehicles in a neat little row, inconspicuous and easy to look past.

“True,” you answer as he settles himself in the middle of the bench seat and motions you over. “But you’re a Captain, you’re supposed to be setting the example,” you continue as you shimmy your way over and throw a leg over either side of his lap. “And you’re supposed to be presenting your findings here soon,” you tack on glancing at his watch.

“If I’m supposed to be showing them how to behave, I’ve failed miserably from the start,” Price answers as his hands run up and down your side and legs. “I’ve got time before all that,” he mutters before sliding a hand up into your hair and pulling you down for a heated kiss.

You knew his resolve had snapped the moment you walked into the meeting and your hair was down by your shoulders. Price always loved running his fingers through it when he got you alone, and pulling on it hard as you sucked him off at his desk.

It had been a secret affair for months after you had met him when MI6 and the 141 had teamed up. He had taken a shine to the quiet analyst and while it wasn’t forbidden to have relations, it was frowned upon. So it was just easier to meet in private and steal moments away here and there.

Price had been away on a mission for over a month this time and the need was so strong you nearly threw caution to the wind when you saw him sitting there at the table. Watched him shift in his seat at the sight of you.

“Not too much time,” you counter as you roll your hips onto him making him groan. “Maybe fifteen minutes before everyone realizes the guest of honor has disappeared. That’s what you get for being so…” you don’t finish as Price captures your lips again and grabs hard at your ass.

“Stop analyzing everything,” he counters as he bucks up into you, “and do something else with that pretty little mouth.” He bites at your lip and pulls it gently between his teeth.

You know what he wants and you’re more than happy to oblige him. You’ve missed him. The feel and taste of him and of course the sounds you can elicit from him. He’s not shy with what he wants or how he wants it, and always shows his appreciation.

“Move over then,” you instruct as you slide off his lap and shift as he puts his back up against the door. Price is a big man so it takes some shuffling but you end up kneeling on the floor, thankful for the fact the rest of his team was also huge and required ample leg room.

He’d already helped you remove his pants and you nearly hum with excitement as you see how hard and fucking swollen he is for you. Without much warning you’re on him, you mouth already drooling in anticipation as you take him deep to the back of your throat. He huffs letting you set the pace before his hands brush away the hair from your face, gently pulling it into a ponytail wrapped up tight in his hand.

“Fuck you look so pretty,” Price compliments as your eyes flick up to his to watch his face. Your hands are like vices on his thighs that only tighten at his praise. “Even prettier than when you walked into that meeting room all done up. I like you on your knees for me, drooling and gagging,” he smirks as you whine, moving to slide your hand from his leg to give yourself some relief in the ache between your legs.

He stops you and grabs your wrist and you whimper as he pulls the hand back to rest on his thigh.

“Not yet,” Price admonishes, “that’s my job.” He smirks as he pushes you down on him until you sputter a bit for air and he releases bobbing your head on him at the pace he wants now. “These seats will be ruined by the time I’m done with you,” he smirks as you twist your legs a bit to rub your thighs together for something. Anything. He lets you get away with that because he knows it’ll just make it worse not better.

His moans and bucking tells you he’s close and you move faster, your hand moving to cup his balls and squeeze lightly. Just how you know he likes without him even having to say it. His restraint is gone as he grabs the back of your head with both hands and he spills into your mouth, straight down your throat. You swallow it without hesitation, satisfied with finally tasting him again.

“Fuck,” Price breathes as he watches you lick your lips and roll back on your heels. “You’re already wrecked and I haven’t even touched you,” he teases as his thumbs wipe away some remnants of himself from the corner of your mouth. “How much time do I have to get you out of those pants and screaming?”

Just as you’re about to answer your phone buzzes. It’s your boss and they need you urgently before the next meeting starts and your face falls. “Shit my boss,” you mutter quickly wiping at the makeup you know is running down your face, disappointment all over your expression. “I have to go,” you breathe as another message comes in from a different coworker asking where you disappeared to.

“Now who’s more important?” He asks before helping you clean up and smooth your hair. “Get through this meeting and I promise to make it up to you,” he prompts obviously feeling a bit guilty but still smug as hell that you got on your knees for him first. “I’m still going to get you to make a mess on this fucking bench. Even if my team has to walk home,” he promises as his hand roughly reaches down to rub the seam of your pants for a moment just to get you to whine pitifully before he’s helping you out the door and off to the next meeting.

Soap

“I can’t wait to get home, now shut the door.”

You laugh as you shut the door to the bedroom behind you, doing your best to ignore the fact it’s Price’s. He had invited everyone to his house for a bit of fun bonding and Soap wasn’t about to waste his quick leave with you to just sit with the boys all night. He had dragged you along and despite the fact the other men were keeping him engaged and you chatted along as well, his eyes were boring into you all evening.

“This is your Captain’s bedroom,” you hiss though it’s not a real fight as his lips find the soft skin above your pulse and his hands tug at the thin little straps on your sundress. “What if he walks in?” You ask as the cool air hits your breasts for a second before his calloused hands cover them.

“Then he’ll get a show,” Soap answers with a small chuckle as he nips at your shoulder. “I know you’ve been thinking it all evening. And it’ll be rude to leave before Price’s nightcap,” he explains before tugging harder at your dress to get it bunched around your hips. “And I’m tired of knowing what’s been under this dress and unable to touch it.”

“You barely let me out of bed this morning,” you answer, the ache still pleasantly sore even now as you had sat on the hard picnic chairs. “You’d think you’d have some more restraint,” you continue to tease as you help him out of his zipper hoodie and yank hard on his belt buckle. You currently had no restraint either as you stared blatantly at his chiseled chest and arms, unable to get enough of him even after all this time.

“I think you were the one that dragged me back before my shower,” he answers with a quirk of his brow as he grabs your hips and walks you backward until his knees hit the bed allowing him to sit and pull you to stand between his legs.

“That’s besides the point,” you answer before dropping your head back with a satisfied sigh as he sucks a nipple into his mouth and bites down just enough to send a shock of pain through you that you enjoy. “You had already pinned me down twice before that,” you manage before his knee pushes its way between your legs and he drags you down to sit hard on it. His jeans are rough against the sensitive spot behind your light cotton panties and you shudder as he pushes up and rubs.

“You weren’t complaining when you came all over my face,” he states, smirking as you roll your hips to get more from him. “And I don’t think you’re truly complaining now,” he adds as you continue to ride his thigh without his help, your hands gripping hard on his shoulders.

“You’re just a bad influence,” you answer a bit breathlessly as the bed creaks at your movements. You freeze for just a second realizing you are riding your boyfriend’s thigh on his bosses bed. There has to be some sort of explanation for how fucked up you were both being, especially since you weren’t stopping. “Johnny, maybe we should head back,” you groan out as his hand slides up behind your head to tug a bit at the hair there to pull your head back and making you arch on his leg to hit that sweet spot longer.

“Mmm no lass,” Soap answers as he watches you rock backward and forward chasing a release. “I think you need to ride me until you come and we’ll go from there,” he states though his tone is a command that you’ve grown to love and crave. “Don’t you dare stop,” he orders, eyes flicking to your breasts to watch them bounce with your movement, “until you soak my jeans.”

You whine, feet digging into the floor to give you better leverage as you move on him. He’s not helping you, just watching you use him to work for your own pleasure which makes you bite your lip. You loved when he watched you, how his eyes devoured you when he demanded you touch yourself while he stared from the bedroom door. Or how he requested videos of you for his long trips away, wanting to watch getting yourself off while moaning his name anytime he pleased.

“That’s it lass, I can tell you’re close. You get that cute little hitch in your breath as you’re about to come apart,” he states before gripping your chin gently tilt your head back to look at his face. Your mouth is slightly open as you pant, the release right there and when Soap gives you that crooked cocky grin you explode.

He helps you ride through it before lifting the edge of your skirt up to find a small wet patch. You flush crimson at the sight but Soap seems so proud of himself as he gently helps you off his leg.

“If you’re done, Price is waiting for us,”comes Gaz’s voice from the other side of the door causing you to jump. You can hear him laughing as he walks away back down the stairs and you are mortified right out of your climax high as you look back at Soap.

“It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before,” Soap explains as he gently pulls your dress back up and sets the straps correctly. “It’s not like the tents we stay in have walls, and you’re not exactly quiet on those videos,” he explains at your shocked face with a smirk, “I think they like hearing your little breathy voice as much as I do. Gets a little lonely out there just the few of us.”

“Have you…shown them?” You ask curiously though the excitement is evident in your voice. The thought almost thrills you a bit, that enjoyment of being watched seemingly not limited to just Soap.

“No,” Soap answers with a small tilt of his head. “Do you want me to show them?” You don’t answer feeling suddenly shy and he presses on, “because I will if that gets you excited. I don’t mind showing off what is mine. Making them wish you were theirs but knowing only I get it.”

“Show them one we make when we get home tonight,” you answer before you can back out with a small smirk, the thought already making you ache again.

#18+ only #18+ content #call of duty #cod #call of duty fanfic #my fic #fanfic #fanfiction #cod drabble #random musings #cod alex #cod gaz #cod ghost #cod john price #cod soap #alex keller x reader #gaz x reader #ghost x reader #john price x reader #soap x reader

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The Light Behind Your Eyes

Simon "Ghost" Riley X F!Reader Task Force 141 X Platonic!F!Reader

“Gave us quite a scare, darling, try not to do that again, that’s an order.” Price’s laugh was thick and wet, clearing his throat to try and help stop the tears. “Not allowed to leave us just yet there sweetheart, not until you’re old and gray.” Gaz knew you could hear their jokes, even if they fell somewhat flat.

a/n:ahhhhh! this is thanks to my amazing friend @gaylemonshark fuel my angst filled heart, this was probably the angstiest thing I've written in a while! warnings:mentions of blood, wounds, near death experiences, blood loss, broken bones, it's a total angst fest

It was supposed to be an easy mission, get the intel and get it back to base so that Laswell can analyze it. None of you had been expecting the firefight that greeted you the moment the helicopter landed. Price had taken the lead, Ghost running alongside him as they did their best to take out any enemies that were within eyesight. They’d managed to get more than half, laying low to check ammo and make sure that everyone was alright. A sniper had nearly taken Soap out, you had tackled him to the ground when you noticed the little dot resting on his shirt.

He’d thanked you quickly before firing back his own shot, successfully taking out the sniper that had been firing at your group. Price had sent you, Ghost, and Soap into the building to retrieve any important information while he and Gaz scoured the area. It was unnervingly quiet as you scoured for any documents, or hard drives that you could snag.

“I don’t like this, it seems too easy.” Ghost was on edge, and that wasn’t something he felt often.

“It’ll be alright, we’ll get what we need and meet back up with Price.” You pushed open the door to your left, jaw dropped as you took in the amount of filing cabinets.

Shit, this was going to be a lot more difficult with the amount of information you’d be sorting through now. Shouldering your gun, you started pulling open different drawers to see if any of them held any important documents you needed. You pulled out any files with names that stuck out and laid them down on the table behind you. The stack stayed relatively small, which surprised you. Ghost and Soap were still in the main area, scoping every corner to look for any stragglers that might’ve been hanging around.

You’d been so in your head you hadn’t noticed the man slipping out of the closet closest to you, gun raised. The sound of the safety is what caught your attention, spinning around to face him.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Your body was thrown back against the filing cabinets, pain spreading throughout your body like a wildfire. Ghost slammed into the room, knife wedged into the kids throat before he could even react. You pressed your hands against your thigh, and abdomen, wincing at the blood seeping through your fingers.

“We need evac!” Soap threw himself down beside you, hoisting you into his arms as gently as he could.

“Get her outside, now.” Ghost wanted the man at his feet to suffer, but he’d already bled out in the few minutes it took them to gather the files and get you outside.

You couldn’t keep your eyes open, eyes half lidded as you struggled to take in your surroundings. Price was barking out orders, more concerned with keeping you safe and alive than getting the information back. How could they have let someone slip through their fingers and get to you? It wasn’t until they’d placed you in the heli that the pain seemed to really set in. Ghost’s hands were pressed against your thigh, Johnny cutting off your tac vest to get to the wound in your abdomen. 

“Make it stop!” Your throat felt raw with the guttural scream you let out.

The pain was unbearable, and this wasn’t the first time you’d been shot before. There would always be wounds, times where someone wasn’t quick enough to warn you. This? This was hell incarnated. Your body was turning cold, fingertips and lips turning blue as your heart rate plummeted. Soap and Ghost watched as the heart monitor flatlined, your body limp on the bed in front of them.

“Goddamnit! Open your eyes!” Price was screaming above the sound of the helicopter blades, frantic.

Price threw off his gloves, beginning CPR as they hooked up another blood transfusion. If they weren’t able to get your wounds to stop bleeding they wouldn’t be able to save you. Gaz’s hands hadn’t stopped shaking, pressing more gauze against the angry wound on your thigh.

“You better come back or so help me.” Price’s voice cracked with each press of his hand.

The subtle beep of the heart monitor relaxed him for only a second before he shifted to help get the bleeding to stop. They needed to get you somewhere where a doctor could help take care of you, now. Soap’s hands were shaking as he pressed another wad of gauze against your abdomen, they couldn’t lose you.

“Stay with us darling.” Gaz began to thread a needle, glad the bleeding had slowed for the few precious seconds he had.

You didn’t so much as flinch as the needle made contact with your skin, they only had so long before you bled out and lost the battle your body was fighting. Gaz worked as quickly as his hands, and your body, allowed him to. He glanced over to Ghost when he finished stitching the smaller of the two wounds. Ghost’s hands were covered in your blood, sinking into the cracks that adorned his flesh.

“Lift your hands, I need to close the wound.” Gaz wasn’t sure where the medic was, but right now he was downright pissed they hadn’t been nearby.

Ghost didn’t want to move, to watch you die in front of his eyes. It was all his fault anyway, he hadn’t noticed the man slip into the room and shoot you. He’d been too distracted checking the other rooms, checking each corridor carefully. Gaz worked quicker with the wound on your leg, knowing they’d need to cut the stitches to get the bullets out back at base. Right now all he cared about was making sure that you stayed alive.

“We’re almost there darling, just keep holding on.” Price grabbed your hand, noticing how limp your hand was in his own.

They all sat around you, watching your chest rise and fall slowly, keeping an eye on the heart monitor they’d hooked you up to. The hospital felt too far away, how could they have not arrived yet? 

“Landing now, brace yourselves.” Nikolai knew he had to be gentle, or at least as gentle as he could be while landing a helicopter.

Your body jostled for a brief moment as they finally landed, the doors sliding open as Ghost and Soap started to yank off the IV’s and heart monitor. It wasn’t the safest thing to do considering the state you were in, but goddamnit they needed you to get inside. Ghost slipped out of the helicopter first, grabbing the end of the gurney closest to him. Soap helped slide the gurney out before grabbing the opposite end. They ran into the hospital, screaming for any doctor or nurse that was willing to listen. No one seemed scared or phased by the two, rushing over to take the gurney you were lying on.

Ghost knew his mask was wet, tears streaking down his cheeks as he watched the doors to the operating room swing closed. Soap was no better, chest shuddering as he tried, and failed, to keep his composure. Gaz and Price made their way in slowly, they’d known where you were, and now it was a waiting game.

1 Hour

2 Hours

3 Hours

4 Hours

5 Hours

6 Hours

7 Hours

8 Hours

That’s how long you’d been in surgery, eight fucking torturous hours while the team waited to see if you would even make it out alive. The surgeon had walked out slowly, surgical gown covered in your blood. Soap’s heart sunk, they’d been too late, you were gone.

“We were able to stop the bleeding and get them stable. Unfortunately there’s going to be a long road of recovery ahead, they have five broken ribs on top of the gun wounds.” Price nearly burst into tears at that moment, thankful you’d survived, but horrified at how much worse things were.

“Thank you doctor, is there any chance we can see them?” He wouldn’t push if they said no, your health was number one priority right now.

“Yes, but be advised they probably won’t be awake just yet.” She gave them the room number before heading off to strip off the reminder of what she’d just had to do.

Price and Gaz took off like rockets, eager to prove to themselves that you did in fact make it out of surgery. Soap was much slower to follow, Ghost staying rooted to where he was until Soap had made it to your room. Price was sitting at your bedside, both hands gently cupping one of your own. No one would ever mention the tears that were sliding down the captain's face, soaking into the beard on his cheeks. No one would say anything about how these normally stoic and strong men were brought to their knees knowing you were only clinging to life.

“Gave us quite a scare, darling, try not to do that again, that’s an order.” Price’s laugh was thick and wet, clearing his throat to try and help stop the tears.

“Not allowed to leave us just yet there sweetheart, not until you’re old and gray.” Gaz knew you could hear their jokes, even if they fell somewhat flat.

Soap couldn’t go into your room, couldn’t see you knowing that he still had a chance of truly losing you. You two were thick as thieves, pulling pranks on everyone at base, except for Price of course. He’d welcomed you to the team with open arms, saying he was happy there was someone new he could talk to. Price had told him, in no other terms, that you would still need to befriend all of them. You’d done so within a week, getting to know everyone and seeing how they worked best. It gave you an idea of how they would be in the field, who to stick with for which missions, and who worked better alone.

Ghost was someone that was a little harder to crack, you didn’t want to pry into someone who was clearly trying to stay hidden. Everyone had a past, it came with the territory, but knowing that he was working so hard gave you the push to not push. It took him nearly six months before he opened up to you, telling you everything. It had shocked you, not only because Ghost didn’t trust anyone whatsoever, but that he told you everything about his past. His traumas that had sunk so deep they were embedded into his very being. His soul had been tainted by the actions of other people, something he would never be able to clean.

The first time he’d taken off his mask in front of you was also the first night you’d kissed him. He’d let slip that his body wasn’t the only thing that barred scars, that he had to keep his face hidden to hide the horrors. You had whispered that scars made a person who they were, that with or without them, that person was still beautiful. It was the scar extending from just next to his nose, through his lips, down to his chin. 

In a way it was beautiful, this man who had killed to keep himself alive had a constant reminder of what happened to him. He’d never let it win, never let the horrors of his past be what tore him apart until he succumbed to death. You cupped his cheeks gently, lips pressing softly against his. You could barely feel the scar beneath your own lips, hands sliding so they were gently cradling the back of his neck. Ghost had also told you his real name that night, Simon Riley. You giggled and told him both his callsign, and his real name suited him. Though you had been a little shocked to find out that he had been a blonde.

“I show you my face for the first time, and your biggest gripe is my hair?” It was a soft blonde, a ting of yellow running through the tips.

“I honestly thought you’d be a brunette, pretty brown eyes and all.” You oh so gently gripped the base of his hair, straddling his thighs carefully.

“Ma thought so too, unfortunately my daddy was a blonde.” Ah, of course, men tended to take after their dads.

“Well, I still think you’re very attractive, blonde hair and all.” You pressed another kiss to his lips, sighing into it as Simon’s hands squeezed your thighs.

“She’s gonna be alright, I swear on it.” Soap wasn’t going to lose his best friend, he’d sell his own soul to the devil to fight it if need be.

Ghost couldn’t bear to look at you, to see how lifeless you looked after everything you’d been put through. He turned and stormed off, boots echoing in the nearly empty halls. Anyone who knew him would know he could walk in even the loudest shoes silently. Even with you being so close to death Ghost was still being considerate of those around him. You would joke about how often he scared you, how someone of his size and stature shouldn’t be silent. It was a habit he’d picked up after promising not to scare you anymore

Gaz had thanked you immensely for it, saying how he’d nearly pissed himself on a few occasions because Ghost had slipped into the room unnoticed. You’d played a few pranks with him, mainly scaring Soap and Gaz, or even new recruits that got too cocky. Even if he hadn’t been their superior the man was still intimidating. He never did it to you again though, ignoring your chances to try and ask why he’d stopped. It wasn’t because you’d asked nicely, or that Soap had told him one day that it kind of bothered you. No. It was simply because he truly felt comfortable around you. It had been so long that he didn’t feel as if he had to have the impenetrable walls up, ready to let you in.

He was going to tell you he’d loved you, wanted to wait until you were safe back at the base, but then he’d be the exact fucking reason you were here. Ghost was a lot of things, but an idiot was not one of them. He could spot an enemy without so much as glancing at them at times, so how had this one slipped by? He would’ve heard their shoes stepping on the broken glass that was scattered around. Or had this person already been in the room, hoping you had been one of them instead?

The had chilled slightly as he stepped outside, reaching into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes he’d brought with him. You had jokingly teased him about how they would kill him before any enemy could. And well, he’d actually laughed at that, because he kind of hoped the cigarettes would kill him first, then he wouldn’t have to let you down. He would be by your side when he passed, but life had ulterior motives.

He hadn’t even realized the first stick was gone until he was halfway through smoking the second one. It was a horrible habit he couldn’t break, you didn’t mind that he smoked, but it was the chain smoking that seemed to get to you. It only happened when he was extremely overwhelmed, or was self destructing. Ghost didn’t want to let you down when it happened, but it was the only thing that ever seemed to truly calm him down. He’d wanted it to be you, to have you be the salve his soul desperately needed. Nearly half the pack was gone before he finally stopped, stubbing out the final cigarette in the small dish beside him. He wasn’t sure if that’s what it was meant for, but he wasn’t about to litter.

“She’s awake, asking for ya lt.” Soap was wringing his hands together, creased leather squeaking in the quiet night.

“Go ahead, I’ll be up later.” Ghost couldn’t see you yet, not when his mind was thinking of a million different ways he could still lose you.

“I’ll save you a chair.” Soap patted his shoulder gently, he knew the older man was too tense, but there wasn’t anything he could do.

The only thing they could hope for was that you would make it through these next few days with no issues. Gaz had told them right away he’d stitched you up, not wanting to waste any seconds until you were in safe hands. They told him you were lucky, that if he had waited even a moment too long you wouldn’t have survived. It was a reminder how fragile life truly was, that you could be gone at any second. You wouldn’t admit it to anyone that not seeing Ghost hurt more than you expected.

“Thank you, for everything.” You squeezed Gaz’s hand, smiling at the way his eyes teared up.

“Just wanted to keep my favorite sergeant alive and well.” Gaz patted the back of your hand, laying it down gently in your lap.

“We all know that’s Soap.” Your grin widened as Gaz scoffed, you couldn’t laugh lest you suffer in more pain.

Price couldn’t stop the laugh that slipped through his lips, he would laugh for you since you couldn’t do much besides lay in your bed. The three of you were unaware of Soap and Ghost standing outside the door, watching you. Soap could feel his heart quicken, seeing your eyes truly open and shining with a light he was afraid would slip away. Ghost’s hands were shaking, he wanted to kiss you like it was the last thing he’d do. Price was trying to keep you smiling, to keep the worry from settling in.

Ghost pushed every rational thought from his mind as he pushed the door open, standing at the foot of your bed before he could stop himself. You looked over at him, eyes wide as if you had forgotten he was on the mission with you as well.

“I love you. I absolutely fucking love you Y/N, and watching you nearly die today reminded me that I could’ve lost you before I got the chance to tell you.” Ghost’s chest was rising and falling harshly. You opened your mouth to speak before he held a hand up, effectively cutting you off.

“I’d never gotten as close to someone the way I did with you, you brought out a side of me I haven’t seen since..since before everything.” Ghost swallowed harshly, reaching up to pull off his mask.

You could see the way his cheeks were streaked with tears, the eyeblack he wore underneath smudged and missing in spots. This was someone who hadn’t even told his captain about his past for over two years, hiding away the darkness that sat within him. Here you were, an angel sent from heaven to watch over him. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you today, I will never forgive myself for letting you get hurt.” He dropped the mask onto the bed, hands wrapping around your ankles.

The room fell silent, the only sound being the heart monitor you had been hooked up to. Your heart hadn’t spiked at all, your breathing calm.

“I love you too Simon.” You wiggled your toes beneath the blanket, the tips of your toes pressing into his forearms.

The other three men would deny that they teared up at Ghost’s declaration of love, that they had all watched how much Ghost truly loved you. How he had slowly, oh so slowly, slipped out of his shell to show you who he was. He smiled down at you, the right side of his lip drooping ever so slightly due to his scar.

“‘M gonna go to bed now.” You carefully pulled the blanket higher up onto your chest, snuggling with the soft material.

Ghost let go of your ankles slowly, watching the way you slipped into slumber so effortlessly. Though he was positive it was also the pain meds being pumped into your body, easing away the burning ache that was surely running through you. Price led Gaz and Soap out of the room, telling the two men he’d get rooms close by so they could keep an eye on you. Ghost wouldn’t move, no matter what, not until you were allowed to leave with him.

_________

His dreams were plagued by your death, each one becoming more vivid than the last, your blood staining his skin. He could taste copper, the salty rusted tang that blood always seemed to have. Times where he was the one pulling the trigger, mistaking you for an enemy as he took your life. He couldn’t seem to wake up, no matter how loud he screamed for his unconscious mind to wake up. It wasn’t until your fingers slowly began to run through his hair that he awoke, chest shuddering and cracking as he broke down once more. His chest heaved with wracking painful sobs. How could you still want to be with him? How could you possibly love him after what he’d done to you?

“You know, I always thought you had a softer side to you, something that no one got to see because you kept it hidden away from the world. And I was right.” You curled your hand slightly, running your nails across his scalp.

“Better than you imagined?” It was how Ghost coped, with dry humor.

“It is, thank you for letting me see it.” You continued gently scratching his scalp, feeling the way he slowly relaxed.

You knew that Ghost kept himself closed off for a reason, it wasn’t your typical “I got hurt by an ex and now I’m afraid”. No, this was something that wouldn’t be brushed off with a few kind words and a long hug. He would never be able to live his life without a reminder of what happened to him. And instead of turning him away when he’d practically begged you to, you smiled at him, and pulled him close to you. It was that day that you knew you were in love with him, but it wasn’t the time to voice those thoughts.

“Do you ever think about what happens after we die? If there truly is a heaven or a hell? Or if we reincarnate into new people?” You’d never given it much thought growing up, but this right here? This was a reminder that you were only human, and that life could be gone in the blink of an eye.

“Sometimes, stopped believin’ in all ‘at when I was a kid.” Ghost wouldn’t admit it had been when he was barely five years old.

No one wanted to be with someone that struggled to look at themselves in a mirror, to be reminded of the man that had beaten him so badly as a child. He was angry he’d grown to look like his father, save for his eyes, those belonged to his mother. The only thing he ever had left of her were his eyes. 

“I hope they have your eye color.” You slid your fingers down, grazing the edge of his jaw.

He sat up slowly, brow furrowed as he stared at you in the bed, did he hear you correctly or was he finally losing it?

“Excuse me?” Ghost’s jaw dropped open, your face was clear, so you were actually serious.

“I hope that our kids have your eyes, they’re this gorgeous shade of brown, like trees during fall in Massachusetts.” You’d spent quite a long time there, reveling in the colors when fall came around each year.

Ghost didn’t think before surging forward, pressing his lips roughly against your own, hands sliding back and gripping onto the roots of your hair. You grabbed onto his forearms, putting every ounce of strength you had into the kiss. Simon was the only man you’d willingly spend the rest of your life with, no matter how long or short that time might be.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley angst #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost x y/n #john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #angst #cod mw2 #ghost cod #cod mwii #call of duty #ghost mw2 #mw2 #call of duty mw2 #blood #gore #cw gore

[frogmanfae]

Anthony Lockwood x GN! Reader- You Too? (FLUFF with a little bit of angst)

Summary: Anthony can't sleep at night. You can't sleep at night. Most of the time you avoid running into each other, but one fateful night of tears in the basement leads to an awkward bedroom experience.

A/n: this one is quite a bit longer than my other ones, about 4,000 words. I think it came out pretty well. Please don't make this dirty, I beg of you. It really is just awkwardness that happens to occur in a bed it isn't anything spicy.

Reader pov

There are nights where I can't bear to be in my room. I'm not sure why. Perhaps I need a break from such mundane consistency. I just need to see something other than those walls.

On these nights, I usually make myself some tea and go to the basement. I'd much rather sit in the library, but Lockwood is in there most nights. Nobody ever comes down to the basement. I'm alone with only my thoughts and my tea.

I don't quite understand why my room has this effect on me sometimes. When my parents died, my room was my safe haven. My refuge. My sanctuary. So now that I'm in a new environment, it makes little sense to me that it can feel more like solitary confinement. It makes even less sense that I'm soothed by the concrete and dust of the basement.

Tonight is one of those nights. It's probably three in the morning as I sit on the floor leaned against the wall, sipping my tea. I'm a listener, like Lucy (though not nearly as powerful) so a moment of silence is rare, but extremely calming. To use my power and hear nothing is bliss.

I've only about half way finished my tea when someone comes down the stairs, clearly laser focused on something. We're in the middle of a big case, so that's probably it. I had expected it to be George doing some late research or maybe Lucy to see if she can listen to any of the sources down here and get a lead.

To my surprise, it's the other one.

I watch silently as Lockwood pulls out several files and spreads them out on a table. He seems extra stiff, like something is really bothering him. He grumbles something in frustration before collecting the files and putting them back in the cabinet.

He walks over to my wall and sits down a couple feet away. From what I can tell, he hasn't noticed me.

I'm right here, isn't your talent supposed to be sight?

I simply continue sipping on my tea, remaining quiet and looking forward to not disturb him, though he really is an idiot if he doesn't know I'm here.

I thought for a moment that he actually did see me, but he needed space and realized I needed the same so he just didn't acknowledge it. I was certain on this until I heard him crying.

I look over at him. He's still wearing dress pants and his button up and tie. He's still got on his dress shoes. However, his hair was a mess and his hands were currently tangled in the back locks, only making it worse. His face was buried in his knees. I swear I heard a tear drop on to the floor. He was quietly sobbing, clearly trying to not alert anyone but still in pain. Emotional pain, anyhow.

I debate what I should do for a moment. I don't want to startle him, and honestly he seems like he needs this. I decide to just keep drinking my tea and not look at him. I'll let him get it all out before I make my presence known.

It lasts longer than I thought. Perhaps ten minutes? I'm not the best with comprehending passage of time but that seems right enough. Regardless of the details, it was a long time to sit here holding my breath and listening to his suffering.

Finally, he sniffs and wipes his eyes. I'm still looking straight ahead holding my cup, only seeing him out of my peripheral vision. He runs his hands back and forth over his hair a few times. I close my eyes.

"JESUS FUCKI-"

I snap my head towards Lockwood. He's now on his back with his legs closest to me, propped up on one arm and looking at me as if I'm a ghost. I can properly see his face now. His dark circles seem more prominent than usual and his eyes are red and puffy. His nose is red. His cheeks are discolored. He looks abnormally pale. His lashes have been thickened and darkened by his tears. It was truly a sight.

"HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HERE?"

"I was here before you."

"AND YOU DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING? YOU SAW ALL OF THAT?"

"Shhh you'll wake up the others, we both know how lightly George sleeps while we're in the midst of a case. Anyhow, you seemed like you needed it. I didn't want to interrupt. It's not like I watched you."

"But... You saw it all. You heard everything!"

"Lockwood, I hope you realize I think no less of you."

"What?"

"I- oh gosh you can't be comfortable like that. Sit up, why don't you?" He hesitantly pushes himself up and leans against the wall again. "I'm worried about you."

"Theres no need to be-"

"Bullshit. You can't keep concealing your emotions like this. It's okay to be overwhelmed or stressed or overall upset for any reason. You always act like everything is wonderful but it's not. I don't know if it ever has been."

He looks down. "(Y/n)... It's not that easy-"

"I never said anything about it being easy. Of course it's hard. I can't even imagine how you feel owning an agency so young, having all that pressure on your shoulders. It's terrifying to be vulnerable."

"Is that why you're in the basement in the early hours of the morning, drinking herbal tea?"

I hum. "I just couldn't sleep, and I like herbal tea."

"Now who's bullshitting?" The corners of his mouth tug up in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You much prefer green. Herbal simply calms you down. You only ever drink herbal tea when you're upset."

"How..."

"I notice things, (y/n). Lots of things. Don't think I don't hear the kettle during the midnight hours at least three times a week. The peculiar thing is I never hear anyone go back up the stairs and whenever I go into the kitchen, it's empty."

I look down. How'd he make this about me so quickly?

"Tell me, (y/n), do you spend your nights in the basement often?"

"... No. Only when I can't sleep."

"So... Often." He nods. "Why don't you stay in the library? It's much more inviting."

"I don't want to bother you. That's where you are most nights."

"You could never bother me."

"Stop, you were the one crying a few moments ago, this isn't about me."

He sighs. "It was worth a shot."

"Now, what's bothering you?"

"Uh... Nothing, really."

"Lockwood."

"It's just the case, that's all."

"That's a lie and we both know it."

He let's out a noise of exasperation. "Fine, you really want to know? It's my parents."

"Your parents?" I ask softly as I scoot closer to him.

He nods. "They died when I was six years old. You really have no idea what it's like to have such a great life until suddenly you don't and it all gets ripped away from you without warning and nobody will take you in so you have to fend for yourself before your age even reaches double digits."

"Actually... I think I can relate more than you realize."

"How can you possibly relate?" He almost sounds angry. I don't blame him, I never told him my story. I kept it to myself even after living with other people all this time. I moved here with a purpose, to start new. Therefore, my past never happened according to anyone else. I was another person then. I've left all of that behind, taking only the nightmares and memories with me.

"My parents were murdered when I was eight." I look straight ahead. "Nobody really wants to adopt a kid who's just began to really get strong in their talent for hearing brutal murders and death. It freaks adults out. So I was on my own until I found you guys."

His expression softens. "(Y/n), I'm so sorry, I... Wait, you were fourteen when you applied. That's six years."

"It was hard but I managed. The whole ghost hunting agent thing isn't so bad. Once you've been forced to watch your parents get nothing short of quartered right in front of your sensitive, innocent eyes, you can watch anyone else get ghost touched no big deal."

"I'm sorry, quartered?" His eyes are wide.

"Yeah, are you familiar with the French Revolution?"

"I'm familiar enough to hope you were talking about a different type of quartering."

I shook my head. "It was intense. I still think of it every time I close my eyes."

"I can't even imagine..."

"I didn't tell you this for you to feel sorry for me. I only wanted you to know I'll understand. You aren't as alone as you believe."

He nods slowly. "I see... Thank you... For sharing, I mean."

"Of course. So now that you know I can at least sort of understand what you're feeling, what's going on with you?"

He sighs. "I don't know... Sometimes I just..."

"Miss them?"

"... Yeah." He nods. "Yeah I miss them a lot. I miss them all the time but sometimes when I think about it it's not so bad, it's let me do what I've done, accomplish all of this. Other times..."

"It's mentally suffocating."

"Mentally suffocating... Yeah that's a good word for it. Like it's put a sheet over your brain to prevent it from getting oxygen, but you can still physically breathe with your lungs for the most part."

I nod. "Yeah, it's frightening. George has a book on it he was telling me about some time."

"George knows you feel like this sometimes?"

"No, but we often discuss our readings, trade books, recommend authors or titles... Things of the sort. I haven't told anyone about my past. Except you of course."

"Well aren't I special," he flashes one of his signature Lockwood smiles.

I roll my eyes. "Don't let it get to your head, your ego is already so inflated I fear it might burst."

"Oh haha you love my charisma."

"Is that what we're calling it?" I smile at him.

He laughs. Not his public press laugh, but a true, genuine laugh. One that I've never heard from him before. It makes me feel a little bit warmer with emotion.

"You know, most nights I stay awake in the library simply because I can't stand the solitude of my room."

"What?"

"I know, it's silly-"

"No, not at all! I come down here for the same reason!"

"You do?" He raises his eyebrows, sounding surprised. "I thought you just worried over cases or, well now I thought you thought about your past but-"

"No, it's like..." I think for a moment, trying to figure out how to put it into words. "Like the silence is too loud and the space is too big for just me, even though my bed hardly fits properly."

"Exactly! Like I don't have anything to focus on except for the sensory deprivation and my anxieties."

"Yes! Oh my goodness I can't believe you get it!"

"I thought I was the only one!" He laughs again, different this time. It sounds almost relieved. "Say... Maybe we could help each other out."

I raise an eyebrow. "Help each other out? How so?"

"Well, feel free to decline if you want and we'll never speak of this proposal again, but perhaps we could try spending the night in the same room."

"But..." I get that warm feeling again, more intense this time. "Each room only has one bed..."

"Yes well..." Despite the horrid lighting of the basement, I could faintly see a light pink tint spanning across his nose and blotching on other, seemingly random, spots on his face. "Like I said I understand if you decline and if that is your choice we can pretend I never said anything... However... I feel it may be beneficial to the both of us to have a... companion in the lonely, deafeningly silent hours of the night. If it works, splendid we can finally get some proper sleep. If it doesn't, we each return to our respective seperate rooms and carry on as if nothing ever happened."

"..." I nod slowly. "Okay."

"Ah- really?" He turns to face me more. "In all honesty I thought you would detest the idea."

"Do you still want-"

"Yes! I mean," he clears his throat, "uh... Yeah, the offer still stands."

"Perfect."

"Well then." He stands up and offers me his hand. "Shall we?"

"Oh you mean like right now! Alright then." I take his hand and he pulls me up. He chuckles and leads me to his room.

"I uh... I'll go take this cup back to the kitchen and let you get changed and what not."

"Oh- right." He pushes back some of his hair. "I'll only be a minute or two."

"Okay, I'll be waiting for whenever you're ready."

He smiles at me as he steps back into his room and closes the door. I swiftly make my way to the kitchen and set my cup in the sink, resolving to wash it in the morning, and return in under a minute.

I wait outside for only about thirty seconds longer before Lockwood opens the door again.

"Sorry I took so long."

"Long? Lockwood that was- wait."

"What? Is something the matter?" He takes his hand off of the door handle and peeks his head out around the corner.

"No, just... You're wearing a shirt."

"Oh, well..." He stepped aside, inviting me in, and closed the door behind me "Yes in fact I am. What about it?"

"Lockwood you've never worn a shirt to bed in all the time I've been here. It's like an unspoken principle in the house; you don't wear shirts to bed and George doesn't wear trousers."

"I didn't realize it was such a disruption of order-"

"Well- that's not what I'm saying." I sigh. I've always struggled with putting things into the right words. "Obviously it's fine if you wear a shirt to bed, I just... I'm just wondering why all of a sudden?"

"Well... I don't know. I suppose I thought you may be a bit uncomfortable sharing a bed with me when I've no shirt on." He looked down, those pink splotches returning to his face. "After all, this is only an arrangement of convenience and practicality. It's not like were... uh... going out... or anything..."

"Ah, right..." I can feel myself getting flustered. "Well... I don't mind, really. The whole point is to feel more comfortable going to sleep so if you feel more comfortable with no shirt on, honestly it doesn't make any difference to me."

"... Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, really." I smile reassuringly. "Whatever makes you fall asleep best."

He hesitates. "Well, if you're absolutely positive-"

"Lockwood, I promise you."

He hums lowly. "Alright then. But if you change your mind just tell me and I'll put it back on straight away, I swear-"

"Lockwood!"

"Alright, okay! If you're sure-"

"I'm sure."

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, a smile gracing his face. It isn't one of his signature smiles, it's real, quite boyish actually. He seems so young. Sometimes I forget how young we really are, but then again, all youth since The Problem has forgotten how young they really are.

I try my best to appear to be disinterested and looking away as he removes his shirt and folds it, neatly placing it in the bottom right drawer of his dresser. Of course, I watch the whole thing unfold. I'm only trying to appear as if I'm not.

"Alright, well..." He awkwardly rubs his arm. I've never seen him seem so nervous before. "I suppose now is when we uh... get into bed, then..."

"Yes it does seem like that happens now..." I slowly nod.

"Well uhm... After you." He gestures toward the bed.

"Oh no, please, it's your bed, you go ahead first." I wave my hands.

"No no I insist. You're my... guest? Is that the appropriate term for this? What do we call this?" He lets out a breathy chuckle. "Sorry, I'm a bit..."

"Nervous?"

"To say the least."

We both laugh a little bit. There really was no need for it to be so nerve wrecking. We had already agreed that if it doesn't go well we pretend nothing happened. Nobody needs to know.

"Here, why don't we just both get in at the same time?" I offer.

"Yes! Yes, that sounds like a good idea." He goes to the side of the bed opposite of me.

It's still extremely tense as the both of us climb in under the covers. There's plenty of space in between us. I'm nearly hanging off the edge, no doubt Lockwood is as well.

Fuck it.

I move onto the bed more so I'm a comfortable ways on. "Lockwood?"

"Yes?"

"Can I be frank for a moment?"

"Well I think I'd prefer you to stay (y/n) but I suppose whatever makes you happy-"

"Oh shut up." He laughs one of those real laughs again. I nearly melt.

"What would you like to talk about?"

I take a deep breath, admittedly, his joke (however stupid) managed to cut some of the tension. "This isn't going to work unless we get over ourselves and actually share the bed. Like real sharing."

He pauses. "You're right. The question is, how far are we going?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... Well..." He huffs. "If we're being frank-"

"I prefer Anthony, but I suppose-"

"Oh shut up, it really isn't funny." Despite his words, he was smiling again. "I see your point now."

"Well, what is it you were going to say, Frank?"

"Please don't." He laughs, making me smile more.

"I'm listening."

He inhales deeply. "Well, how far are we going as in... Are we simply laying next to one another and trying to go to sleep or... to be blunt, are we spooning?"

I nearly chocked on my own saliva. Blunt was certainly one way to say it.

"Well... Whatever makes you comfortable. Honestly I think it would work best if we... Uh... Did the latter, but I don't want to make you-"

"I was actually hoping you'd say that-"

He sighs, sounding almost... Relieved?"

"Really?"

"Yes, I-" he rolls over, bringing us from being over a foot apart to our noses now almost touching. "Goodness you are much closer than I thought-"

"Sorry, I-" I start to move back, but he puts his hand on my waist, gently stopping me.

"No no I uh... Well if we're going to uh... You know, uhm, we're going to have to be close anyway so..."

"Right, yeah..."

He softly pulls me closer using his hand that still rests on my waist. I move towards him until my hands are pressed to his chest and our legs are touching under the covers. His face is splotchy red again, the most intense I've ever seen it, though I can't imagine how flustered I must appear.

"Uhm... May I?" He starts to wrap his leg around mine.

"Ah..." I nod, unable to trust my voice.

And so now we lay here, about two seconds away from being puddles of awkwardness and mild embarrassment. He's warm. Very warm. It's kind of nice being this close to him.

I've always found him attractive since the moment I saw him. He is, objectively, a good looking guy.

Then I got to know him a little bit. He and I would often bicker and pester one another, some times seemingly more serious than others, but for the most part it was all in jest. Making jabs at each other is just what we do.

I think I fell for him more and more over my time here, but tonight I saw a new side of him. A side that really pushed me over the edge of having a bit of a crush on him to trying to stop myself from kissing him at any given moment.

"(Y/n)? Are you alright?" He brings a hand up to my forehead. "You're awful warm and you look... Distressed."

"Anthony?"

His gaze softened. I don't think anyone has called him that in... well who knows how long? Too long. "Yes? Is something the matter?"

"No I just..." I make eye contact with him, effectively rendering myself speechless.

He inches closer. "Are you sure? This is quite the... intimate position... I wouldn't want to make you..."

By this time, our noses are back to almost touching, but even closer than before. He tilts his head just enough to avoid colliding them.

"Make me what? Uncomfortable?" I glance down at his lips, quickly looking back to his eyes to avoid suspicion. "Anthony, you could never-"

He kisses me.

Holy shit.

Anthony Lockwood is kissing me.

I'm in Anthony Lockwood's bed.

I'm kissing Anthony Lockwood!

"I'm sorry-" he pulls back. "Oh no... I shouldn't have done that... Shit... Oh shit I'm so sorry-"

I kiss him again. "Shut up, will you? I just had a life altering moment here and I'm trying to enjoy it."

"You- you liked it?"

"Of course I did. Anthony, I've liked you since... Well I suppose there wasn't a single moment I could pick out but-"

"I love it when you call me that."

I smile. "Call you what? Anthony? Well that is your name."

"It hasn't been used in years. Not by itself, anyhow. It sounds nice coming from your lips."

"I like your lips." It takes a moment to register what I just said. "Wait, I didn't mean-"

"You like kissing me~" He teases me, putting on his Lockwood Smile.

"Oh shut up!" I put my head on his chest to hide my face. "Of course I do..."

"Well... You know what I would like more than just kissing you?" He carefully lifts my head up with two fingers under my chin.

"Hm?"

He hesitates for a moment. "I'd like to be your boyfriend."

"What? Really?"

"If you'll have me, that is-"

"Of course I'll have you, you prick!" I lightly punch his chest. "Do you know how long I've wanted to tell you that?"

He shakes his head. "I can't say I do."

"Well there wasn't a specific time but I think I started to think about it more and more around the time we were working the Brentic case."

"The B- (y/n) that was at least a year and a half ago."

"I'm well aware."

"... Huh."

"What?"

"I think I've known since the Dalkins case."

"Lockwood, that was long before the Brentic case-"

"It seems my charm worked then."

"Oh shut up! Go to sleep!"

He laughs a bit. "So... Are we...?"

"... I think we are..."

"Wonderful! Splendid! Perfect! Grand! Fanta-"

I laugh. "Anthony shut up!"

He goes quiet, but the smile remains on his face. "Do we tell the others?"

"... Nah. It's funnier if we just let them figure it out. But we don't necessarily have to hide it either."

He nods. "It'll take all my self control to not shout it from the rooftops."

"Oh hush." I roll my eyes, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. "Get some sleep, lover boy. You clearly need it."

He kisses me once more, shorter this time, before closing his eyes and pulling me closer to his chest. He falls asleep surprisingly quickly, his breaths going even and his mouth falling slightly agape in no time at all.

I watch him for a moment. Once again, he really shows his age for only a second. I push some of his hair away from his face and place a kiss on his forehead, causing him to stir just a bit.

Before I know it, my eyelids feel heavy. It becomes increasingly harder to keep them open, to stay awake. Soon enough, I'm drifting into sleep with pleasant dreams to greet me and Lockwood by my side.

How lucky am I?

#gender neutral reader #lockwood and co #lockwood and co x reader #x gender neutral reader #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #Anthony Lockwood x gender neutral reader #intense awkward cuddles #that is not code for dirty stuff it really is just intense awkward cuddles #i mean it #traumatic past #in depth description of cuddling #again this is actual cuddling they aren't doing anything #actual cuddling #not smut #i want to make that clear #descriptions of brutal death memories #sad past #someone please hug this poor boy #taking on too much than they should have to #start of a relationship #pining #Lockwood doesn't have an aesthetic blush

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Valentine's Day, Shana! 💕🎉

Something FMA, please! Either a continuation of Colonel Elric or Sacrifice is Free

a continuation of 1 2 3

Hughes had intended to get several meetings out of the way in the morning before the day got too hectic, but he hears about the commotion Elric's team caused just trying to get into the building and rapidly rearranges his plans.

"Is everything alright with Roy?" Gracia asks as soon as he gets off the phone.

He blinks. "Yes. At least I think so. Why?"

"That's your managing Roy face," she says, smoothing his jacket across his shoulders.

He grimaces. "It's also my managing Edward face. You'll be seeing it a lot more."

She laughs, but he's serious.

~

As always, he hears them before he sees them.

"How the fuck is this considered well packaged?" Russel shouts, grumpy as usual. "I told you we should have shipped our own equipment."

"You know we had to give them the chance to snoop," Al says at a more reasonable volume. "They would have thrown a fit if we'd insisted on doing it ourselves."

"Well, Russel is throwing a fit now, so I'm not sure what the difference is," Kayal points out.

Maes snorts.

"Russel, put down the protractor," Fletcher begs.

"If I'm not complaining about them putting their grubby hands all over my automail, I don't want to hear anything from the rest of you," Winry snaps.

There's a beat of silence.

"You did complain about them putting their grubby hands all over your automail," Ed says.

"Shut up, Ed." Maes nudges the door open to peek inside. Winry is gesturing a wrench threateningly, which is par for the course. She's signed off on a variety of firearms, but somehow it's the hardware that seems to cause the most injuries. "You and Al took all your notes. You're not suffering like the rest of us."

"Hey, Al and I spent weeks making those decoys! That was a lot of suffering," Ed protests, his jacket tossed aside and his sleeves pushed to his elbows as he works on assembling Kayal's furnace.

Winry's eyes narrow. Sciezka pipes up from where she's buried under aforementioned notes, "Everything would be back in order faster if you all stopped bickering and focused. Also Hughes is here."

Every pair of eyes is suddenly focused on him. It's not the first time he's found himself under their scrutiny, but it's unnerving every time.

"I was wondering when you'd swing by," Ed grins. "I thought we could at least make it to lunch without setting off the rumor mill."

"Ed," he sighs, fond in spite himself. "How long until you're office is back up to standards?"

He looks at everyone else. Al looks up from the chemical compounds he's sorting and says , "Everything will be up in running by the end of the day, and organized by," he glances to Sciezka.

"The end of the week," she says, "assuming I get some more filing cabinets."

"Know where we can get some spare filing cabinets?" Ed grins.

Maes sighs. "Can I borrow your commanding officer for a bit?"

"Take him," Kayal shrugs as Russel says, "You'd be doing us a favor," and Winry adds, "Please."

Ed rolls his eyes. Al smirks and says, "We've got it. I'll find you if something goes wrong."

"If something goes wrong I'll just follow the smoke and screaming," Ed says. Maes wishes he was joking. "All right, all right, I'm gone. Don't have too much fun without me."

Fletcher waves goodbye. No one else does.

"I get no respect," Ed complains as they walk down the hall.

"You wouldn't know what to do with it if you did," Maes points out. People treating Ed appropriately for his rank gives him hives.

"True," he admits easily. "Now tell me all the good gossip. We almost never bothered to come to Central."

#prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #anon #fma

[snezario]

Power Outage; Vo/x

This took so much longer than I anticipated and I kind of got frustrated with it towards the end so it's not proofread at all. The scenario is based off an anon ask I got about a month ago.

Nursing a steaming mug of coffee, Vox plods his way down the spiral staircase from his penthouse. He drags a tired hand down his screen as he stands in front of the door to the room he had been heading towards. It looked plainer than he remembered it. Best get to it. He wraps his hand around the doorknob and enters the room.

The motion sensors detect his presence immediately (at least those were still working) and the overhead light flickers on to illuminate the mess of an office–files scattered along the floor, various colored sticky notes on the desk, and an outdated computer. He squints at the harshness of the fluorescent lighting. After his screen adjusts to the lighting, he places his mug down on a free spot on the messy desk and surveys the room.

It had really been some time since he spent time in his private office, rather than in front of his multitude of screens. Especially after upgrading his personal hardware and software, he didn’t see the need to be down here anymore. 

He had to be very careful moving shit around with the amount of dust coating all the surfaces. Vox mentally berates himself, closing any unnecessary vents. Why oh why did he not send his personal assistant to grab the file? Gingerly sifting through the folders, he lets out a frustrated sigh. Of course, he wouldn’t have left out a file of this importance just strewn amongst these mundane ones.

Vox gazes around the room, thoughtfully tapping his clawed fingers along the bottom of the screen. His gaze finally falls upon a dingy metal cabinet, with a stack of folders perched on top, nestled in the far corner of the room. Bingo. The television demon saunters over to it and reaches to grab the drawer handle, frowning when it doesn’t open immediately. He grunts as he tugs harder on the handle but the drawer won’t budge. His eyebrows knit together after he gives  a couple more forceful pulls.

Sighing when his efforts prove fruitless, he crosses his arms in front of his chest as he glares at the stubborn storage container. Does he even really need it? He has half a mind to give up the venture and get back to preparing for tonight’s broadcast. No, he came all the way down here to fetch the file and he’s not about to leave the room without it.

Marching back over to the cabinet, he rolls up his sleeves and grasps the handle with both hands, one leg against the cabinet and one anchored to the floor. Put your back into it you prissy fuck! Vox grits his teeth as he yanks the handle with a truly unnecessary amount of force. Aha! The drawer squeaks as it finally gives way, a grating sound to Vox’s audio system but he’s grateful because it indicates to him the sweet, sweet sound of success.

However, Vox’s triumph is short-lived. His eyes widen with excitement that quickly devolves into horror as the cabinet drawer finally bursts open and the tower of folders on top of it teeters dangerously before toppling over. It all happens faster than he can react and before he knows it, the whole stack of dust-laden folders smacks him in his face. Shitshitshit.

Vox swallows uncomfortably watching the dust motes swirling in front of him as a result of the commotion. He really was beginning to regret coming down here. That’s what he gets for neglecting to assign cleaning staff to this office, despite not having used it in several years.

It was just a bit of dust, no biggie. Or so he thought all those years ago when he first found himself in the chaotic realm of Hell. Turns out that he and dust don’t really mix. He learned the hard way that despite the excitement and power that came with his abilities, they tended to go haywire at a time like this—as in, he had no control over them whatsoever when he sneezed but especially when he suffered from an allergic reaction.

The delicate skittering across his internal wiring is becoming harder to ignore. He’s pretty certain he’s overthinking it but it feels like someone blew dust directly into his vents because of how itchy it feels back there. At this point it won’t be long before–hh! Vox feels his screen glitch which accompanies the breathy hitch that spells the end of days. Without an actual nose, he can’t really quell the tickle either and no amount of holding back ever did him any good. After a few more decidedly desperate gasps, Vox snaps forward.

“hh–hhZZSHHH! ih…ihh? H-hell… ihh’ZCHH’uh! ”

Vox groans after the outburst, slumping in the desk chair as he scrubs at his screen. The tickling feeling is quite literally beyond his reach, given that the sensation is rooted in his internal wiring. Sure he could try and get back there but what exactly would he be able to do. There was also a high likelihood that he would damage something vital. Especially with how persistent the tickle is. What made it worse was he could never stop at just one, it always had to be at least two or three minimum.

“ehh'ZZTCHHhiew! hihh'TSHHH’uh! hhKTSHH! Guh…” Vox pants, hunched over in the chair as the trio of sneezes leaves him winded. His reprieve is short-lived as a shaky inhale escapes his throat, and he finds himself pitching into his elbow as the sensation peaks again, “ih…ih’DTSSHhhuh! hh’Z̶̨̛̙͙̱̤̰͋̊̋́͊̓Z̷̬̞̦͕̦̃̃̆̿̊̃͌̐̅̍͊͐̒̑̚Ş̷̧͍̺̯̘̱̯̱̈͛͑̔͐̋̊͝H̷̡̦̤̘͓͓͓͎̳͉͎̘̒H̶̹̼̣̦̍H̸̠̞̹̻̘̗͉̼͍̄́́̕hiew!”

He frowns when sparks shower him as the overhead light fixtures burst, engulfing him in darkness. It’s only momentary, as the emergency lights kick in. A warm yellow glow fills the room since these lights utilize an older type of lightbulb, but Vox isn’t sure they’re exactly protected from his involuntary outbursts.

The television demon jumps as Velvette slams open the door. He hazards a glance at his business partner while avoiding eye contact. She is positively fuming. He’s actually surprised she knew he was her, given that she wasn’t around when he even used this office.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Velvette?” Vox flashes her a sharp grin and tries to keep his voice level while he plays dumb.

“Oh piss off! You know exactly why I’m here, Vox,” the social media Overlord snaps at him, her hands on her hips.“The ceiling lights in my department flickered a bit, which isn’t usually cause for concern. But a couple minutes later it happened again and then the whole fucking floor lost power. We were going to reroute power from the floor above but it looks like that’s out too. Care to explain yourself?” She taps her foot rapidly as she waits for him to make up an excuse. 

“N-nothing you can’t h–hh!–andle,” Vox tries to dismiss her concern with a wave of his hand. Velvette’s eyes narrow at the audible hitch in his voice, which he had hoped would have gone unnoticed.

“I swear to fuck, if you blow out the power on another floor–” Velvette warns him as Vox visibly struggles to keep a lid on the feathering in his head. He chuckles nervously, taking in Velvette's imposing demeanor. He really didn’t want to get into it with Velvette. Due to her smaller stature between the Vees, Val was a fucking bememoth of a demon as it was, Sinners tended to dismiss her. A huge mistake on their part, she was the youngest Overlord for a reason, which is why Vox had taken her under his wing as she began acquiring power.

He presses a hand to the back of his head, against the vent that’s been giving him the most trouble. A futile attempt of course, as the irritation in question is far deeper in his components.

“ihh'TZZSHh! Fhh–ucck me… hh’DTCHhieew! hih’IZZSHuh! ehh’Z̴̠̮͛̓̃̾͂D̴̞̳̕Ṱ̵̬̭͉̒̾C̸̘̠̥̝͓͌̊̎͝͝C̷͖̫͚̫̩̈́Ḣ̸̥̮͝Ȟ̴̡͇͚̟̈̓̂͝!”

The lights in the office momentarily dim but remain intact. Small victories. On the floor immediately above them, Vox can hear a cacophony of sounds–no doubt caused by his latest fit. Vox pinches the middle of his screen where the bridge of his nose would have been. Never before did he want a nose as much as he did right now. At least he knew how to deal with it, but this was something else.

“THAT’S IT!”

Vox’s pupils shrink as the younger Overlord stomps over to him.

“N-now, Velvette let’s take a moment–” The television demon stammers, his screen glitching slightly, as she swiftly crosses the room. The expression on her face is beyond annoyance now. She backs him into a corner of the room. Despite being a whole head shorter than him, Vox shrinks under her glare as she looms over him menacingly. The intense magenta glow of her eyes are the last thing he sees before everything goes dark.

Valentino looks up lazily from the show he was watching as Velvette slams open his door. His gaze tracking her trajectory as she trudges past him to flop on the couch beside him with an exasperated sigh. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, before nonchalantly blowing the ruby colored smoke into the air. “Seems like you got Vox under control.”

Velvette scoffs and rolls her eyes, before returning her gaze back to her phone, which she is simultaneously posting on her Sinstagram, ordering the two of them takeout, and texting 3 other sinners. “No thanks to you. But I couldn’t have him short-circuiting and causing another city-wide blackout.”

“So… what happened?”

“I just knocked him out,” Velvette says in a very matter-of-fact tone.

“With a sedative?” Valentino raises an inquisitive brow.

“Something along those lines,” Velvette finally looks up from her phone and smirks mischievously at Valentino, whose eyes widen at her coy response.

“Crisis averted, I suppose. I have a couple of whores already tending to repairs on the affected floors.” Valentino shrugs and goes back to scrolling on his phone.

#fiendwriting #hazbinhyperfixation #i would love to write this other thing but like.... idk how it'll be received #anyways hope my fellow tv demon enthusiasts enjoy this :-)

[monstercampus]

How do we spend time with the student body when we aren't bangin' like bunnies? Like, do we have a movie watch party with the werewolves, gaming marathon with Lidya, just a chill day with the Centipede? Playing sports, study group, etc. I am all for the fucking frenzy like everyone else, but I just wanted to know what are things we do together in our free time :v

Of course! There's lots to do around campus on a day-to-day basis, both organized by the university itself or just what the students like to do on their off time. It's a big part of monster culture to throw parties and hang out with people whether you know them really well or just met, so it's likely that you could be swept into a bush party or invited into someone's dorm to smoke or play board games without even knowing their names.

As for individual students, again, there's lots! With the werewolves being the jocks they are, they're most likely to go live it up at the frat parties and afterparties for the sports games or dances, so if drinking and partying in general is your thing you'll always have a group to go with you (and keep you safe!). Although you'll have to deal with their incessant clinginess when they inevitably get hangovers, and suffer through the touchiest cuddle piles imaginable if more than one or two of them are feeling nauseous or have headaches. If you've got plans the next day, definitely skip the hardcore partying with them the night before!

Lidya and Jude are probably the ones you'll hang out with the most since they're pretty much always available, and since nobody else really tends the arcade she can pretty much open and close it whenever she wants. So if you're in the mood, she'll open up a private or public gaming tourney and you can spend hours just hanging out, talking, and trying to beat each other at your favourite games, and once it gets late she'll get food delivered and you can watch a movie or something on the sofa in the backroom. The best part is that she's spent so much time tinkering with Jude's hardware that she's come up with a couple different devices to take him out into the real world! She has yet to make anything crazy like an android body (she's working on that as a future birthday gift) but for now she's got a keychain that has a modified USB and what looks like a little retro Tamagotchi; the USB is for her to plug into the arcade cabinets so she can upload his data and he can play alongside you guys, and the Tamagotchi has a pixely little version of Jude inside that she can take around so he doesn't get lonely. Whenever she's out of the arcade, there's a good 80-90% chance that she's got Jude with her, so if you wanna hang out you can do so pretty much anywhere! She can even plug him into the laptop she's got at her dorm, although the last time she did that he got ahold of some....ahem, sensitive file folders she wanted to keep private, so she'll only let him in there if you wanna watch something online with her in her room.

As for centipede, you hit the nail on the head! If Efraim's not in class he's usually getting high, so you can stop by his dorm day or night and get a free hit off him pretty much anytime. Don't get me wrong, there are definitely times when he's handsy or you can clearly tell he was planning on jerking off instead of entertaining company, but in general it's just harmless fun and you can just bum around his dorm doing nothing if you want. He's always in the mood to watch a movie or listen to music, and he's surprisingly not averse to cooking and not too bad at it either, so if you get hungry or you're just bored hell find something you two can make together to kill a couple hours. He does that a lot, you'll find--if there's a distinct lull in conversation or your mood shifts downward, he might offer, but most times he'll just quietly get up off the couch and go fix you something to eat. Even if it's just cutting an apple and some peanut butter or making you a sandwich, he fills time pretty well with putzing around the kitchen in the hopes of finding you something you really, really like. Do keep in mind that he's got roommates, however, and although Zombie can be a pretty amiable guy to share a space with...his slime roommate is less so. So if they're home, Efraim will probably try to keep your hangout to his bedroom to limit the distractions.

It may sound a little odd, but your yeti professor is pretty open to spending time together, too! Aryck holds baking lessons quite often and he's almost always in the kitchen, so if you're ever bored or looking to expand your culinary expertise he's usually around. You can even be his taste tester if you want, and hang around the classroom for an hour or two while he tests recipes and puts together his lesson plans for the next semester! It may feel a little awkward at first, but it turns into great fun once you open up to him a little more. A lot of the professors either spend much of their time on campus or are looking for assistance in some of their menial academic tasks, so you could probably find any professor you like and hang out with them awhile in exchange for some easy labour and snacks as a reward. The orc metalworking professor holds girls-only workshops weekly too, which is a great way to get to know the girls at school since they're all so friendly and are eager to make new friends! Go there once and you'll be invited to every sleepover and girl's night and brunch for the rest of the year! And of course, the resident doctor on campus is constantly cycling through "assistants" for his questionable medical trials, so if you're feeling brave you can come help him out and be treated to teatime afterwards.

The harpies are great fun, too! There's a group of them that live in the same dorm building as you do, and while they can be excitable and sometimes a little loud late at night, they're always eager to have company and will invite you in if you so much as pass by their door. They're not only great for parties or dances but they do a lot of studying together too, so they'd be happy to cram together for your exams and midterms! And they know all the professor's likes and weaknesses, so they'll get you any important info you may need if you have to appeal to them so they'll curve your grade. Plus, free snacks!

The university holds lots of intramurals for various sports all throughout the year, too, so even if you don't want to join a team or commit for a whole season you can still play with both the athletes and the casuals, and the pool is almost always open so swimming is a year-round option too. The werewolves and Priam do these a lot during the winter months when the football season is in a lull, so they'll always be up for pretty much any sport you wanna do and will be all too happy to show you how to play if you're a newbie. Plus, they've got rec rooms separate from the arcade in nearly every dorm building and in a few of the main academic buildings, which have the usual dartboards, pool tables, community game consoles, cards, board games, and D&D style books along with signup sheets to join oneshots or campaign groups. Many of the non-athletic clubs and groups gather in the rec rooms around campus, so it's a good way to get a feel for any extracurriculars you might wanna join! Antón runs a book club and Ollie's part of the chess team, for example, so if there's something you're interested in there's probably either someone you know that's in it or a professor you've got that's running it.

Of course, you could always attend sermons or the charity events the chapel holds too, if you feel so inclined--it may be intimidating to walk in knowing how the Archangel feels about you, especially where his protégé is involved. But Isaac would be more than happy to take your hand and show you around, and he'll stick to your side like glue during any events so you won't get caught alone with Mikael and have an interrogation thrown your way. He'll take the tongue-lashing happily in your stead once you're gone--he's used to the strict hand the high angels take anyways, and he's gone through the purity rituals so many times he could sleep through them at this point. If it means you're more likely to come around more often, he'll gladly sit through a lecture as many times as he needs to!

Also, whether you're a strong swimmer or can't swim at all, Nessie and the Kraken always somehow appear when you come to take a dip in the lake. Nessie's unashamedly competitive if you're good and will want to race and time how long you can hold your breath, but if you're not a swimmer at all, he and the Kraken will want very badly to teach you. It's more of Nessie's active guidance that you'll get as he holds you and shows you how to tread and paddle, but you can be reassured that if you ever get scared or the current pulls you down too far, the Kraken will rouse within moments and extend its tentacles from the depths to push you back up to the surface for air. If need be, it'll even carry you above the water and let you down once you're at the shore, or it'll let out that deep, rumbly cry to alert Nessie to your plight so he'll come splashing up to help you!

#monster campus #monster boyfriend #monster girlfriend #werewolf team #werewolf roommate #vampire roommate #anton poenari #priam (mc) #lidya (mc) #judas (mc) #cyberpunk (mc) #centipede stoner #efraim (mc) #yeti professor #aryck (mc) #archangel prof #isaac of virtue #loch ness monster boyfriend #nessie (mc) #kraken (mc) #ellie writes #monster campus lore #anons

[maehemthemisfit]

Can we have #29 with Sanzu from the dialogue prompt list? But it's the reader saying that to him instead if that's okay with you 🤧

(am i doing this right?)

Prompt #29 - "You look so cute when you're flustered."

Warnings: fluff, cursing, Sanzu, reader is gender neutral!

A/N: Yes, you did it right anon! ✨🎉

To say Sanzu was annoyed would be an understatement. He'd been stuck babysitting one of the new gang members for the past hour which wasn't by choice. All he wanted to do was enjoy the drink he bought, think over some plans, and maybe see what Mikey was up to later, but no, he couldn't even do his first objective in peace, not when you were examining him like a newly discovered specimen.

It bothered him the way your eyes did more than linger on his exposed face, tracing every curve, crevice, flaw, and scar that etched his skin.

His brows scrunched at the thought of you burning his features into your memory, most likely filing it off in a cabinet of your worst fears or a category of disgust. He could feel his eye twitch.

"Are you done eye fucking me, or what?" He sent a sharp glare your way, causing you to blink back into reality and straighten your posture.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I just never... seen you without a mask," You cleared your throat. Instead of doing something drastic, he sighed, rolling his eyes as he relentlessly sipped his drink so he could end his suffering and pull back the mask that shielded everything he hated. "You're really pretty."

He fucking choked, fluids nearly shooting from his nose as he coughed out the liquids that fell down the wrong pipe.

Did he hear you correctly? You must be fucking with him, right? Who could ever find his scared face pretty?

His face was tinted a pink that could easily put his hair to shame, a fist coming up to cover his mouth as he suppressed another cough. You relished in his startled and bashful expression, finding the red creeping up his neck adorable while his eyes avoided you, clearly unfamiliar with the phrase being used on him.

"W-What did you..." He wanted to ask but decided against it. He heard you clearly, and hearing you say it again would torture him even more—

"I said you were pretty. Beautiful even." You beamed, leaning forward as he leaned back, eye wide and filled with puzzlement. "Your eyes, your pout, your cute little-"

"Stop, stop talking!" His voice came out meeker than he intended, hand covering his face completely as he tried his best to control his heart beating violently against his ribcage. Was it always this hot? Someone should really open a window...

You smiled, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away. "Aww, you're so cute when you're flustered."

His baby blue orbs snapped back to you, mouth open and closing like a harmless guppy. Your gentle poke on his face had him breathing correctly again, huffing as he pulled up his mask and stood from the booth to leave.

"Wait, come back!" You giggled, happily following behind him to tease him more.

"Go away..." Sanzu groaned, contemplating if he should make a run for it until you grabbed him by the arm, slowing him down to a stroll.

"We still have a few more hours together." You reminded, cooing at the way his brows crossed and imagining the scowl he was making under his mask. There was no way you could find him intimidating after this.

Why me... Sanzu could only grumble, unable to do anything about your presence. He'd threaten you to keep quiet about what happened, but you'd only chuckled and waved him off, saying if he'd let you squish his cheeks, then maybe you'll consider.

Just how the hell did he end up in this mess?

Wanna join my 300+ Event? Shoot me an ask from my Emoji Prompt List or 100 Dialogue Prompts !

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[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 6)

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__________

The sky is already light when Nikolai wakes up. He's disoriented and confused, and for one awful moment he doesn't remember where he is. He's used to waking up in the dark during the winter, to the shrieking calls of sea birds on the beach below his house, and to the warmth of another person next to him in bed. He looks around frantically, convinced he's going to be late for something important and that no one had bothered to remind him about it.

As the fog of sleep clears from his brain, he's able to identify his surroundings. This is Beth-Anne's guest room, or perhaps not so much a guest room as a den, or... a home office with a bed in it. On the opposite side of the room from where his ridiculously comfortable bed is, there's a filing cabinet, and a desk with a laptop computer attached to an external monitor. On the wall above the desk are numerous framed pictures, news articles and award plaques. In the center of the arrangement are two gold medals.

Nikolai allows himself to relax. One of those medals is his. He'd given it to Beth-Anne nearly ten years ago, and it makes him happy to see that she has it on display.

He lets his gaze travel around a bit more. His coat is draped over the back of the desk chair, and his two green suitcases are visible just inside the open closet door. Next to the suitcases, he notices his skate bag and a medium-sized cardboard box with something scribbled on the side of it in black marker. On top of the box is a grey teddy bear with a little fake gold medal on a dark green satin ribbon around its neck. He can't see it from this distance without his glasses any more than he can read what's on the box, but he knows the bear has the word 'champion' stitched onto its foot in white embroidery thread.

I don't remember bringing that here.

Beth-Anne must've thought he'd want it, and gathered it up along with his other things without mentioning it. He's had the bear since he was ten years old, since his first competition in the Novice division, and Champion has accompanied him to every single skating competition since then.

Going through security at airports, he always attracted funny looks from security agents and fellow passengers alike for carrying the teddy bear under his arm, but he didn't care. It comforted him to cuddle Champion while hunkering down miserably in the uncomfortable plane seats and trying not to think about his upset stomach and rattled nerves. He hates flying and suffers horribly with airsickness, but he was never allowed to take anything for it on the way to a competition. The last thing he and Beth-Anne would've wanted was for him to have failed a banned substance screening test.

He smiles ruefully. I'll bet I'd fail if they gave me one right now.

He's been at Beth-Anne's house for two days and three nights. It's not that he didn't recognize his own things in the room before, but that he hadn't been alert enough to observe much of anything, or to retain his observations even if he had been. Having been doped up on painkillers and anti-anxiety medication, there are whole chunks of time missing from his perception of the past couple of days. He's pretty sure he didn't leave his bed except to go to the bathroom, and he guesses he'd been sleeping a lot. He has vague memories of Beth-Anne feeding him soup.

He squints at the clock on the small table next to the bed. It's 7:04 a.m. The day isn't as far gone as he'd thought, and for some reason the knowledge fills him with a sense of reassurance.

The next thing he does is take an assessment of his body. He's a little stiff, but that's likely from lying around too long and probably isn't anything that can't be resolved with some good stretches. His knee still hurts, but not nearly as much as before. Under the blankets, he flexes his leg cautiously. Maybe he can forego the stronger pain medication for now and just take a couple of ibuprofen tablets instead.

He sits up in bed and starts his stretching routine. Neck, shoulders and arms he can do in a seated position, but he's going to have to get up to stretch his back muscles. He wonders if his bad knee will support him well enough to do some leg exercises too, or if he'll have to wait for Beth-Anne to help him do the ones the physiotherapist prescribed.

After climbing out of bed and working the tension from his back, he decides to err on the side of caution and skip the leg work until Beth-Anne is available to supervise him. He limps over to the closet and pulls one of his suitcases out. He's eager for a shower and fresh clothes.

In the process of retrieving his suitcase, he's able to get a better look at the box next to it. What he thought was a scribble when he viewed it from across the room actually turns out to be one. He can just make out the word 'DONATE' beneath a frenetic zigzag of black ink. Above it, in Beth-Anne's precise handwriting, is his own name.

Intrigued, he abandons his suitcase and drags the box out instead. It's folded closed at the top, but there's something purple poking out through the little gap where the flaps of the overfilled box don't quite meet. He knows what it is even before he tugs the flaps of the box apart to reveal its contents.

The purple item is the costume he'd worn for his long program at the Four Continents. They'd tried to cut it off his leg at the hospital in Taiwan, and he'd begged them not to. Through the interpreter, he said he didn't care if he had to sit around in nothing but his underpants and a hospital gown. He wanted to take the costume off himself, intact. They'd allowed him to do that in the end, and he was appreciative of the small kindness.

Under the purple costume is the glittery black and red one he'd worn for his short program. He frowns. Why would his costumes be in a carton that had originally been marked for donation? For that matter, why would his two most recent costumes be in a cardboard box at all? He hasn't kept every skating costume he's ever worn, but he does have a lot of them, and they're all hanging neatly in a wardrobe cupboard in his basement, protected by garment bags and labelled by year.

Perhaps more importantly, he amends, what are my costumes doing in a box here at Beth-Anne's house?

He can guess, but he really doesn't want to go there. Not right now. He's not prepared to wrap his head around the notion of someone he loves being intentionally cruel to him.

But, Anya had already done something mean to him. She'd taken his medals off the wall in their dining room, pulling them all down while he watched helplessly. That had hurt, but he'd somehow convinced himself it wasn't so bad. He could return them to their display frame later. Anya said she'd put them away. When he felt able to restore them to their proper place, he could always ask her where she'd put them, unless...

Nikolai shakes his head.

No.

Anya wouldn't give away his medals. She has a few medals of her own. She knows how important they are. He prefers a less dramatic explanation, like maybe the box was something Beth-Anne had lying around in her garage and she just grabbed it to transport some of his things in. That hypothetical version of events is much easier to accept.

He wants to discover what else is in the box, but an alarmingly loud growl from his stomach reminds him that he has priorities. He probably hasn't eaten a proper meal in two days, and his skin feels sticky and gross. Shower, and then breakfast. Later, when he's got nothing else to do, he can come back to the box.

The hot shower revives him, and he feels almost normal by the time he hobbles into the kitchen on his crutches about fifteen minutes later.

Beth-Anne is standing at the counter next to the sink. Her back is to him, but she turns when he says her name. She's dressed in form-fitting black athletic pants and a red zip-front fleece top, and her curly honey-coloured hair is caught into a messy little bun. She isn't wearing makeup, and the scars on her face are clearly visible on her pale, freckled skin.

She's going to the rink, Nikolai realizes. Oddly, he doesn't know how he feels about that. Of course she should be going to the rink. She's a skating coach, and her job is at the rink. Her students need her. But, she'd stayed home with him for the past two days, and he'd liked that. He's not certain he's ready to be left alone yet.

Beth-Anne offers him a smile. "How are you feeling, sweetheart? You look better."

"I feel a little better," he says. "What's for breakfast? I'm starving."

She laughs. "Yeah, that's definite proof you're on the mend. How about a ham and cheese omelette? That's what I'm making for myself, and it's easy enough to make two. There's oranges and grapefruit in the fridge, and I bought extra milk. Oh, and there's coffee. Help yourself."

He takes an orange from the fridge and pours himself a cup of coffee. While Beth-Anne cooks, he sits at the table and methodically peels and sections his orange. They're both quiet for a while, but finally he ventures, "Are you... are you going to work today?"

"Yes," she tells him. "Mariah and Brett have been skating by themselves for three days now. Stan said he’d keep an eye on them, but that’s not his responsibility. Plus, you know Brett has Junior Worlds coming up in a few weeks. He needs me to be just as committed to that as he is.”

“Oh,” Nikolaï says. "That's right."

He hadn’t meant to sound so disappointed. Suddenly embarrassed, he lowers his head and gazes dismally at his half-eaten orange.

He’s not jealous of Brett exactly, but he does envy the fourteen year old for the chance to compete in a world championship. Nikolai will never do that again. He'll never get to feel the flutter of nervous anticipation in the seconds before he steps onto the ice, or the focus and calm confidence that replaces it when his music begins. He'll never again experience the joy of performing a beautiful and complicated step sequence or the exhilaration of landing a perfect jump. People cheering for him and throwing bouquets onto the ice, Beth-Anne hugging him in the kiss-and-cry and drying his tears with her ubiquitous old-fashioned handkerchiefs while they wait for his scores, the national anthem playing during medal presentations... all of that is over for him now.

One might argue he's had his moment of glory — several, in fact — and that's something to be grateful for. He is grateful for his success, but that does nothing to ease the dull, empty ache in his chest when he imagines what might've been. The truth is, he wasn't ready to leave the sport, isn't ready despite the reality of it. He's only twenty-seven. If it weren't for this devastating injury, he might've had two or three good seasons left before he made his own decision to retire. Maybe he would've even won another medal at Worlds this year. He'd certainly been on track to qualify for the world championship.

But now the only one of Beth-Anne's students who'll be going to a world championship event is Brett Eriksson. He'll be the one getting all the praise and accolades and Beth-Anne's undivided attention, and Nikolai will be doing what? Sitting at home in a pool of his own self-pitying tears?

Nikolai Pavlenko, be a man. You will not cry over this any more, he orders himself fiercely, but the demand has little effect. His throat already feels like it's starting to close, and there's an unwelcome prickling behind his eyes that warns of impending tears.

Beth-Anne shuts off the stove and turns toward the table with a plate in each hand. Nikolai hadn't even noticed that she was done cooking their omelettes, and his face burns with a new wave of embarrassment.

She takes one look at him, hurries forward and quickly sets the plates down. A second or two later, her hand is on his cheek, as if she's checking to see if the flush of colour that he knows must be there might be from a fever.

He raises his eyes to meet hers, and all he sees in her expression is love and concern for him. Brett may need her undivided attention, but she loves him. She put her regularly-scheduled life on hold for the past handful of days for him, lost sleep for him, allowed Brett to skate alone. For him.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"No," he manages to get the words past the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry. I... I'm being selfish."

"You're being human," she says. Her hand moves up to brush back his unruly hair. She can't possibly know what he'd been thinking, but it almost seems like she can read his mind because she continues with, "This isn't going to be an easy adjustment for you. I get that. It's going to be scary and confusing, and if you're angry or sad or envious of the others or... whatever, it's totally okay. I promise."

"How do you...?" he begins, but doesn't finish the question.

"How do I know?"

"Yeah."

"Did you think I retired voluntarily from competing?" she asks.

"Didn't you? You never told me it wasn't voluntary, so I assumed it was. But... it wasn't?"

"No, it wasn't," she says. "If you want to know what happened, I'll tell you, but not right this minute. Right now, you need to eat your breakfast. We have things to do today, and you need the protein.”

She steps away from him and settles into the chair across the table from his. He's sufficiently distracted by the revelation that she hadn't given up competing by choice that his other emotions temporarily fade to the back of his consciousness.

"I do want to know," he says. "And what do you mean, we have things to do? What do I have to do?"

"Eat your breakfast and then put on some warm clothes," says Beth-Anne, apparently unbothered about talking with her mouth full. "You're going to the rink."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm not going to have you sitting around here feeling sorry for yourself all day long. You're allowed to feel like that, but not all day, every day. That's dangerous, and I'll be damned if I let you put yourself in harm's way when there's something we can do about it."

He's so relieved, he doesn't even think before blurting out the first thing that pops into his head. "So, I don't have to be alone? I can be with you all day?"

"If you're feeling up to going out, yes."

"Yes," he says. "But, what am I going to do there? Should I bring a book?"

Beth-Anne looks amused. "I guess you can if you want, but I had something a little more constructive in mind."

"Like what?"

"Like being my assistant," she says. "I'd like you to observe the students while I'm working with them, especially Brett and little Eden. You'll be able to spot things I might not see, things they're doing really well or things they need to work on. Watch me, too. See how I interact with them."

"I already know how you interact with students," he says.

"You know how I interact with you," she corrects. "Observing from the outside, seeing how I interact with other students will give you a different perspective. More of a coach's-eye view, you might say."

"A...what?" He has to admit this idea has literally never occurred to him, but to be fair, up until a month ago he hadn't given much thought at all to his life beyond his career as a professional athlete. He's always known he'd have to stop competing eventually, but he also assumed he'd have more time to figure out his future plans. "You think I could be a coach?"

"No idea," says Beth-Anne around another mouthful of eggs. "You might be absolutely fucking terrible at it, although somehow I doubt that, but we're not going to know one way or the other if we don't give it a try, are we?"

"You're serious."

"When have you ever known me to not be serious?"

"I don't know if I want to be a coach," he confesses. "I don't know what I want, really."

"That's okay," she says. "Ultimately, whatever you do will be your choice. But in the meantime, this'll at least give you something to do and keep your mind off..." She pauses awkwardly before concluding. "Stuff."

It's difficult to argue with her reasoning. She isn't wrong about it being dangerous for him to dwell on all his negative thoughts and feelings. After all, look what that had earned him; the final breath of his already dying marriage, contemplation of suicide, a tearful phone call in the middle of the night, an urgent trip to the hospital, and a massive dose of prescription drugs he'd probably needed but didn't want.

The night he phoned Beth-Anne and begged her to help him, he'd never been so terrified and desperate in his life. He was afraid to be alone because he didn't trust himself not to do something irredeemable.

His mental state has improved since then, but he's still scared. Being with someone feels much safer to him than being left by himself, and being with Beth-Anne feels safest of all. She always takes care of him, and he trusts her more than anyone else.

He thinks she's also right that having something to do will keep him from ruminating on stuff, as she put it. He and Beth-Anne both know what she meant by that. She didn't need to elaborate, and he's thankful to her for leaving it at a generalization.

But... coaching?

He has no clue how the other students might take to him becoming a coach. The younger ones who don't know him might not have any issues with it, but he doubts Brett and Mariah would be thrilled by the prospect. And what about Ginger, Hunter, Juliet and Christian? How would his friends feel about it? Would it be weird for them to see their fellow student become a coach? And what if he actually does turn out to be terrible at it? What then?

Beth-Anne's voice breaks into his thoughts. "Nikolai."

He stares at her, but doesn't reply because he realizes he has a piece of orange in his mouth. Inexplicably, his heartbeat begins to race and his hands tremble uncontrollably. He feels sweat break out on his palms and down the middle of his back.

Why am I panicking? Why am I panicking!? Calm down!

His self-admonition only makes it worse, and the orange section seems to grow huge and suffocating. He wants to spit it out, but his mental image of himself spitting out food in front of Beth-Anne is mortifying to him.

"Nikolai," Beth-Anne says gently. "Chew and swallow."

Her voice anchors him. He does as she instructs, and then mumbles, "Sorry."

"It's okay, sweetheart. You're fine," she assures him. "If you don't want to go to the rink, you don't have to. I can drop you off to spend the day with your grandfather instead, or wherever you want."

"No, I... I want to go to the rink. I'm just... I don't know. Anxious."

"You can take the medication the doctor gave you," she reminds him.

"No," he repeats. "I need to get over this. Get back to normal. Going to the rink is a good idea. Even if I don't stay all day, I think I need to get out of the house and do something before just leaving the house starts to seem like it's too hard."

Beth-Anne nods. "Good. That's the attitude I like. Come with me for the morning, and we'll see how you get along, okay? If you're feeling overwhelmed or like you don't want to stay for whatever reason, I'll bring you home. Sound good?"

"Sounds good," he agrees.

"I'll keep checking on you," she says.

It's his turn to nod. "I'll do my best to keep it together."

"I know you will, but I don't want you to push yourself any further than you can reasonably handle, all right? The point of this is to rebuild you, not to break you even more, so if you feel like you can't do it, you need to tell me straight away. Understand?"

'I understand."

"Excellent. Now, eat up so we'll have enough time to get ready. Our first thing is a group class at nine o'clock, and we wouldn't want to be late for those adorable preschoolers, would we?"

"You...? Preschoolers? You want me to observe preschoolers?"

"Best way to start the day," says Beth-Anne. "Watching a bunch of cute four year olds wobble around for half an hour is an amazing stress reliever. We can watch Ginger and Stan do their thing after that, and then Brett's ice time is at eleven. That'll be your real assignment. You know, 'your mission, should you choose to accept it' and all that."

"Okay," Nikolai says, doing his best to sound more sure of himself than he feels. "Mission accepted."

#writing #the art of redemption #theartofredemption #nikolai pavlenko #beth-anne jones #tw sucide mention #stargazersims

[harringroveera]

“Are you listening to me, Heather?”

“Yes, I am,” Heather said, rolling her eyes as she pressed the handset to her ear. “I’m listening to how much you blabber about your pretty boy, Billy. He’s so gorgeous. He’s so adorable! Have you seen him in his sailor costume!”

Billy snickered, his voice echoing through the phone. “Do I talk about him that much?”

“Only during work, after work, and before work.” She shrugged, brushing the nail file against the freshly painted nails. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I did this to myself, honestly,” she said, sighing softly. “I got you two together, now I’m suffering the consequences.” 

“Heather!” her mom’s voice echoed from inside the kitchen, and Heather looked up.

“What, Mom?” 

“Heather!” 

“I gotta go,” Heather said. “My mom is playing the game where she’ll keep calling my name until I come in to see her.”

“Want to go to the mall with me and Chris later?” Billy asked. “You don’t have a shift today, right?” 

“No.” She pursed her lips, pushing up to her feet. “Okay, yeah, sure. Maybe we can catch a movie.” 

“Cool. I’m picking you up in an hour.” 

She let out an approving hum, hanging up the phone and dropping the nail file to the couch before she strutted into the kitchen, where her mom was busy pouring orange juice into a thermos while she hummed to a song.

“Heather—”

“I’m here! God, Mom,” she said, stopping short before the kitchen counter with a forced smile on her lips. “What do you need?” 

“Okay, I need you to bring this lunch box to your dad,” her mom said. “It’s late now, but if you drive there, it’ll be faster. Your dad doesn’t like it when I don’t bring it on time.” 

“Why can’t he bring his own lunch in the morning when he goes to work like any capable person would?” 

“Don’t speak that way, darling.” 

Heather rolled her eyes, gazing at the brown lunch box on the counter. “I thought you always brought it to him, Mom.” 

“Oh, yes, but I have a spa appointment with Dorothy, Terese, and Karen. I won’t be back until later.”

“Why do you need to go to a spa?” 

“I’m going to the pool tomorrow!” 

Of course. Heather’s lips curled downward, but she didn’t say anything. Billy had a shift tomorrow, and that explained it.

“Don’t hang around with Karen Wheeler and her friends too much, Mom,” she said, turning around to grab a brown bag from the cabinet.

Her mom seemed surprised, though, as her eyes slightly widened when Heather came to put the lunch box and the thermos in the bag.

“Why would you say such a thing, darling?” 

She shrugged. “It’s just a general observation thing,” she said, taking the bag into her hand. “I’m going. And I won’t be back for lunch.” 

“Why—”

“I’m going out with Chrissy.” 

She left the kitchen without saying another word, going through the back door to the garage. It wasn’t that far from their house to the Hawkins Post, and afterwards she could head to Billy’s house, picking him up instead. Just one conversation with her mom had ruined the mood. She needed to get her mind off it for a while.

The mixtape Billy had put in the other day was still in the stereo, and Heather let it blast loudly on the way there, finding herself tapping on the steering wheel before she came to a stop before the building. 

Heather walked through the door, putting on a smile at the lady at the front desk. “Hi, Doris.” 

“Oh, Miss Holloway! Hello!” the lady said. “Are you looking for your dad?” 

“There’s quite literally no one else I’d be looking for here, Doris,” she said, holding up the brown bag in her hand. “I brought my dad his lunch, because he’s a grown man who still makes his wife bring his own food to his mouth.” 

Doris swallowed, the smile on her face twitching for a second. “He’s in the meeting room, sweetheart. But he’s already asked his assistant to get him lunch.” 

“Of course he has.” She sighed. “He has an assistant?”

“Oh, I mean the intern girl here, darling.” 

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but she gave Doris another smile and walked to the meeting room, her good mood souring even more the second she saw the group of men in the meeting room. 

She pushed the door in, and her dad’s head jerked up in surprise. “Heather! What are you doing here?” 

“Brought you lunch, Dad,” she said, stepping into the room and scrunching up her nose at the smell of cigarettes. “Mom has something else to do.” 

“Such a sweet daughter you are, Heather,” the man sitting next to her dad said. 

“Thanks, honey, but I’ve already asked someone to get the food for all of us.” 

“Well, I already drove here to give you your lunch, so you’re eating it, Dad,” she said, dropping the bag to the table and standing next to him. “Mom cooked all of that, and you’re going to absolutely neglect the effort she did for you?” 

Her dad pressed his lips together, and Heather smiled, patting his shoulder. “I think she made your favorite, Dad.” 

“That may be better than hamburgers.”

“Of course it is,” she said.

“You’re growing to be a beautiful woman, Heather,” Phil said, taking a drag of his cigarette, his eyes roaming over her body blatantly even with her dad’s presence here.

“Thanks. How’s that receding hairline of yours? Is it still growing, or are you going to be bald soon?”

Phil’s smile dropped, and her dad clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Heather, don’t disrespect them.”

“Tell your employees to stop staring at my ass then. I’m not even eighteen yet, I can get them arrested, you know,” she said, and all their eyes darted away from her body, which was a relief.

“Oh, here’s Nancy Drew with the food,” another man said, a hand resting on his stomach. His name was Robert, maybe. She could never be bothered to remember the names of these men. 

Her eyes flitted up to the person walking in through the door, and she wouldn’t say she wasn’t surprised to see Nancy Wheeler entering the room. She didn’t know Wheeler was working here, but again, they weren’t friends. 

Heather didn’t have the fondest of feelings towards any member of the Wheeler family, but that might have been spurred up just because of Karen Wheeler. And, well, that was enough of a reason already. 

Nancy seemed surprised to see her too, halting in her steps for a mere second before she resumed handing out the packed hamburgers from the brown bag she held against her chest.

“Where were we?” her dad said, tapping the pen in his hand against the table. “Yeah, we still need something good. We’ve been slacking these days.”

“How about a piece on Iran?” a man on the other end of the table said.

“I want something local.”

“I hear there's a beauty pageant at the fair this year,” Bruce said. 

He was the worst one here, and everyone knew it. Even Nancy, as she shot the man a look before she walked past Heather with hurried steps.

“Excuse me,” she whispered softly, and Heather stepped aside, letting her go around the table and giving the men their food like she was feeding a bunch of pigs in the hogpen. 

“Yeah, I'm looking for above the fold here, Bruce.”

“Then clearly you haven’t seen Lucy Lebrock, because I’m not sure she’ll fit above the fold!” The man held his hands over his chest, barking out a loud and unrefined laugh as Heather’s lips twitched.

How annoying it would be if she had agreed to work for her dad in the summer. She would have quit on the first day.

“Fellas! In six hours, we go to print. I need something real,” her dad said, rubbing a hand over his temple.

“Oh, I think they’re real.”

The men laughed, because, of course, that was the kind of thing they would laugh at. Heather sighed, clutching her car keys in her hand and patting her dad’s shoulder. She had to leave before she decided to say more things that would ‘embarrass’ her dad in front of his colleagues.

“What about Starcourt?” Wheeler began, stopping abruptly in front of the door, blocking Heather’s path.

Everyone in the room turned to look at her, including Heather, and Wheeler's throat bobbed, her eyes darting around as the anxious look painted her face.

“I—I was just…thinking,” she continued, shaking her head. “I mean, I know everyone loves the mall, but how many small businesses have closed since it opened?”

Her voice turned firmer as she went on. Heather could see that Wheeler wanted to be a journalist from the passion that filled her every word. And at least she could come up with a better article to talk about than any of these men here.

“Like, five on Main, at least. It's changing the fabric of our town in a way—” 

“The Death of Small-Town America,” Bruce said, and Wheeler nodded eagerly, seeking validation, seemingly the only validation she had gotten since she worked here. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

“But I think I've got something even spicier,” he continued. “It’s about the missing mustard on my hamburger.” 

Heather rolled her eyes, watching as a hint of dejection flashed across Wheeler’s face while the rest of the men burst into laughter like it was the funniest thing they had ever heard.

“You think you can follow the clues and solve the case of the missing condiment, Nancy Drew?” Bruce said, and Wheeler nodded, coming forward to take the hamburger back from his hand.

“Sorry.”

“Look out, Phil, she might be after your job!”

Wheeler turned around, grabbing the door handle and yanking it open, and Heather heaved a sigh, shaking her head.

“Can’t you just eat it without the mustard?” Heather decided to speak up, hearing the laughter die out in the room as she folded her arms over her chest. “What’s gonna happen if you don’t eat mustard? Will you die?” 

“I just don’t like my food without mustard,” Bruce replied, while she felt Wheeler’s stare from the corner of her eyes.

“Shame, I was hoping for the latter to be true.” She gave him a smile, turning to Wheeler with her hand stretched out. “Give me that.” 

Wheeler looked at her, eyes wide with confusion, before she put the hamburger in her hand. Heather tossed it in the middle of the table, wiping her hands together.

“You either eat it, or starve.”

“Heather,” her dad said. “Watch your language.” 

“Are you gonna sit there and let these imbeciles insult her? Would you have wanted them to say the same things to me, Dad?” she said, looking back at the men. “She’s an employee here, she’s not your assistant or your unfortunate wife. If you want one, get one, and get them to fetch your food instead.” 

“That’s her job,” Bruce said.

“Her job is to work on articles, like the one she just talked about, which, by the way, is much better than what you just proposed,” she retorted. “So, eat your burger with no mustard, or don’t eat at all. You could lose a few pounds, you know, before your wife realizes how much of a halfwit man you are. The only thing you’re good for is money, and you don’t even make that much.” 

Heather inhaled softly as she finished, flashing them a smile one last time, and it was her dad who spoke up first.

“You can have mine. It got mustard. I’ll have the lunch my wife made me.”

“God, you men and your goddamn mustard. It’s such a big problem!” she exclaimed with a deadpan look. “People are losing jobs out there!” 

She gave her dad a final look and pulled the door open. “I’m leaving, Dad,” she said without looking back, and she stepped out of the meeting room.

The last time she was here was Take Your Child to Work Day, which was four years ago, and she left with the same amount of annoyance as she did back then. It was insufferable to stay in a closed space with those men without losing her mind.

She waved at the ladies outside, getting into her car as fast as she could to drive to Billy's house. He wouldn’t mind that she was early.

“Jesus—” Heather kicked at the brake as Wheeler stopped in front of her car. She rolled down her window, poking her head out. “Do you have a death wish? I mean, I get that working here makes you feel like it, but don’t jump in front of my car.” 

Wheeler marched to the opened window, glancing at the empty street before crouching down to meet her gaze. “Sorry.” 

“Okay,” she said. “Is there anything else?”

“Oh, uh,” Wheeler began, resting her hands on the window, and Heather looked at her confusedly. “I want to say something.”

“Are you going to say it any time soon? Because I have somewhere to go.” 

“Yeah, I—” She exhaled sharply, her throat working and her shoulder stiff with tension. “Thank you.” 

“Is that all?” Heather said. “That’s what got you looking like you’re about to tell me you have an undying love for me? A thank you?” 

Wheeler’s face fell, and she stammered, “Well, I mean, you helped me in there, so I thought—”

“I didn’t do it for you.” She tapped the steering wheel impatiently. “I did it because those men were irritating me.” 

“Oh.” 

“And I don’t need your thanks, Wheeler,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s useless.”

Wheeler seemed taken aback, her lips parting. She uttered, “Well, still. I still want to say that. Actually, you’re the first person to ever stand up for me, and I—”

“Not for you.”

“Right, yeah, not for me.” She nodded. “It got them to shut up for once, and I felt like I needed to tell you that.” 

“It wasn’t necessary.” 

“But could you just accept it?” 

“Why do I have to accept it? I didn’t stand up to those men for you, Wheeler.” 

“I still want to say thank you—”

“What’s your problem with insisting on making me accept this?”

“What’s your problem with refusing to accept this? It’s just a thank you, Holloway.”

“And I told you it wasn’t necessary. Words are useless. I don’t need your ‘sorry’ or your ‘thank you’,” Heather said. “Now, would you please let me leave? The longer I stay here, the sooner I feel like the stench from those men is going to get to me.”

Wheeler furrowed her eyebrows, and she said, “Words are useless to you.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you accept other than words?” 

“My god, Wheeler, what’s with you and this need to please everybody?” she groaned. “If I just take your words, will you let me go?” 

“No, because I know it’s not genuine.” 

Heather blew an exasperated breath, chewing on the inside of her cheek, before she nodded. “Okay. Scoops Ahoy. Ask Robin for my favorite flavors.” 

“What?”

“Two scoops of chocolate pudding, one scoop of U.S.S butterscotch. Extra cherries on top. I work tomorrow at one. So bring it to the pool half an hour before my shift.”

“You want me to bring ice cream to the pool for you?”

“That’s what you’re insisting on,” Heather said. “Now, can I leave?” 

Wheeler blinked, straightening her back and taking a step back. “Okay, um, I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” 

“Thank you, again,” she said. “And sorry. Again.”

Heather eyed her expression, her gaze roaming over Wheeler’s face, her wide brown eyes, and her rosy lips. She seemed grateful. Genuinely grateful.

She lifted her hand and wiped the smudge of lipstick against the line of Wheeler's lips, startling her. Her pupils dilated, but she didn’t recoil from her touch.

“You have a voice, use it. They’re men, not monsters, though it’s pretty close,” she said, cradling the side of her face. “Speak up, Nancy Drew. You usually have a much smarter mouth than this.”

“You’ve been looking at my mouth?” Wheeler asked, and a faint blush appeared on her cheeks.

She smiled. “Don’t be late, Wheeler,” she said, patting Wheeler’s cheek before she withdrew her hand and drove away into the vacant street.

Wheeler was still standing frozen on the spot when Heather checked her side view mirror, seemingly taking the time to process everything.

The smile was plastered on her face even as she hung out with her friends, and they might have both guessed that she did, in fact, stand up for Nancy Wheeler. So maybe she did, and maybe she thought Wheeler wasn't bad like her mom, not to mention that she was much prettier than Karen, but Wheeler didn't have to know all that.

#a wheelerway fic because i realized there's no fic that centered them? #insane really im changing that #it's so rare im eating this ship raw #wheelerway #nancy wheeler #heather holloway #heather x nancy #heather holloway x nancy wheeler #pre-relationship i guess #there's more but idk if i'll continue it #side harringrove #billy hargrove #harringroveera #my writing #my fic #nancy x heather #wheelerway fic #wheelerway au #wheelerway headcanon #nancy wheeler au #heather holloway au #st rarepairs #long post

[peachy-panic]

‘ lay back down. ’ for Jaime

WARNINGS: heavily implied noncon, BBU “training,” punishment, maybe considered mouth whump?

Handler Smith drags him down the hallway by his hair. Frantic apologies spill from Jaime, along with tears that blur the other handlers and trainees—prisoners—passing by. None of them spare a look his way. Here, everyone is contained in their own special hell with no room for anyone’s suffering but their own.

They come to a stop outside one of the specialty rooms at the end of the block. Panic floods his system. “No,” Jaime cries, pulling against the hold despite the sharp sting in his scalp. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Handler Smith yanks him forward and Jaime crumbles to his knees, the fear and adrenaline and hunger turning his limbs to jelly. The moment the door scans open, he is tossed inside, barely saving his face from a collision with the concrete floor.

“On the table.” The hand is in his hair again before he can recover his balance, forcing him along. Jaime begs the entire way, desperate to apparel to some sliver of humanity he knows doesn’t exist.

“Please. I’ll do it. I’ll do it, I’m sorry.”

“Get on the fucking table.” His back slams against cold steel. Jaime can’t help but kick out when he hears the jingle of metal. He’s been on this table, at the mercy of these restraints, enough times to know that nothing good ever happens in this room.

His resistance is beyond futile. In the end, Jaime knows it will only anger him further, and his muscles are the weakest they have ever been, but terror is at the helm now and fighting like a drowning man. When Handler Smith gathers his wrists in one hand and pushes them to the head of the table, Jaime lurches upward, throwing all of weight into escape. He manages to pull one arm free, but before he can maneuver away, a hand around his throat flattens him back down.

“Lay back down,” Smith growls, inches from his face. Stars dance in Jaime’s vision as the fingers close in, tighter and tighter. His vision goes spotty, then black, for just a second. But it’s just enough to get the drop on him. When he can draw a full breath again, his hands are already cuffed above his head.

Jaime submits to crying quietly as his ankles are secured at both corners. He follows the heavy thud of the Handler’s boots across the room to a large double-door cabinet, his stomach pooling with cold, liquid dread. He can’t make out what he’s holding from this angle.

“Please,” he tries one more time in earnest, his voice barely a whisper.

Handler Smith grabs him by the jaw, forcing Jaime’s eyes to his. “Too late for that, kiddo.”

He brings it into view then: a bottle of liquid dish soap. Jaime screams behind sealed lips, jerking his head from side to side. Fingers bite into the hollows of his cheeks until his lips crack apart, and it’s all the opening Handler Smith needs to shove the tip of the bottle between his teeth and squeeze.

The bitterness is sharper than he could have prepared for, overwhelming his senses on impact. He chokes and sputters, trying to keep the soap from trickling down his throat, but Smith keeps one hand on his jaw, holding him down.

The pour goes on forever, although it’s only just enough to coat the top of his tongue. The second he’s released, Jaime turns his head, trying to expel the already foaming liquid from his mouth, but Handler Smith is faster. Jaime doesn’t even see the gag coming, only feels it when it’s forced between his teeth.

He wants to fight this, too, but all his efforts are focused now on not choking.

“Don’t worry; it’s non-toxic,” Handler Smith says, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. “Maybe you’ll have an easier time swallowing this.”

Jaime barely feels the tears tracking down his temples as he watches his Handler retreat from the room, the door sealing shut behind him.

The hour spent on this table will feel like an eternity. The official mark in his file will be recorded as a punishment for offensive language toward a Handler, but he will know better.

#do no harm: jaime & sebastian #whump #bbu #like bbu adjacent? #whump writing #whumplr #noncon cw

[oohnotvery]

Throwing Good After Bad (Chapter 2)

Mulder 

After they’re dismissed, the four agents linger outside the door to Kersh’s office, staring at each other. Agent Hartman, with his hulky frame and too-tight polo shirt, reaches for Scully’s hand in introduction, but Mulder blocks the move by stepping in between them.

“We gotta run,” he explains hastily, yanking Scully’s bicep forward. “Catch you at camp!”

Scully lobs protests at him as he flies down the hallway and towards an empty conference room, shoving her inside and shutting the door behind them.

“Mulder, what has gotten into you?” she snaps, brushing the sleeve of her jacket where it’s been bunched up from his grip.

He gapes at her openly. “Did you even hear the same thing that I just heard, Scully?”

She rolls her eyes so exaggeratedly he thinks she’s broken a world record. Flopping down into an open chair, she glares up at him. “Mulder, the other agents are going to think you’re crazy if you keep acting like this.”

But he’s not even listening. He’s pacing the room, up and down and up and down and up and down, hands on his hips in indignation. They’re being separated? Like this?

After a while, he hears Scully sigh and glances over to see her resting her head between her hands, an irritable scowl on her lips. “Mulder, just calm down and take a seat. You’re putting me on edge.”

How is she not also outraged by this? He slams a fist into an empty filing cabinet and it rattles so loudly that Scully flinches.

“Kersh is doing this to punish us, Scully,” he tells her angrily, stealing a look at her. Her sigh is long-suffering and she shakes her head.

“Mulder, you don’t know that,” she starts calmly. “It could be—it could be that he doesn’t want any distractions out in the field. This sounds like an incredibly serious investigation, and you and I don’t have the cleanest reputation for following the rules. Maybe he thinks Joseph and Lydia will keep us in line.”

“If he can’t trust us together, why send us at all?” he rages.

Scully sucks in her cheeks. “I don’t know, Mulder. Maybe we were among the only available agents, or maybe we have the right look for an undercover operation—”

“Oh, stop,” he says, swerving on her. He braces his arms on the back of a chair and stares pointedly at her. “So, you’re just fine with this, then? You’re going to be bedding down with Joe Schmo for two weeks and that’s all well and good with you?”

Her expression sours immediately. “Mulder, I will not be bedding down anyone—”

“You’re sharing a cabin with him!”

“And you’re sharing one with Lydia!” she shoots back.

He sags, his head dropping to his chest. He’s been so focused on the idea of Scully sleeping with Agent Hartman that he’s completely forgotten that he’ll have to deal with Agent Scarboro.

He pulls himself up to his full height and points at her. “This is going to be a disaster,” he warns her. “Mark my words.”

With another larger-than-life eyeroll, she stands and crosses to him, squeezing his bicep tightly. Her nonchalance irks him and he jerks away.

“Get a hold of yourself, Mulder,” she begs, her eyebrows creasing plaintively. “It’s just two weeks. You can do anything for two weeks.”

He stares at her in disbelief. “How are you so calm about this?”

Her eyes dance mischievously and her lips curl into a tiny, private smile. “I’m just excited I get to bed down with Joe Schmo.”

She’s out the door before he can ask her if she’s being serious.

#msr #msr fanfic #txf #mulder x scully #dana scully #x files #the x files #fox mulder #x files fanfic #xfiles fanfic

[redroses07]

Detention//Mike Wheeler

Mike Wheeler x Fem!reader fluff

Summary: Reader gets detention and her boyfriend joins her in attempts to make it more bearable.

Content warning: None

Word count: 1k

A/N: I can't tell if I love or hate this, but I can say there is a ton of fluff (My favorite thing) at the end. So, if you like fluff (which who doesn't) you've come to the right place. Enjoy 💖

You traipsed down the hallway looking infuriated, it wasn't your fault you wound up in detention. Stacy was the one who wouldn't quit taunting you.

You could hear her agitating high pitched voice quite clearly now, calling you a freak, a loser. It's not like you hadn't been called these things before, but today, for some reason, you decided to dish out an extra dose of rage.

"Could you shut the hell up" you replayed the moment in your mind. The entire class had gone silent, and it was certainly out of shock. You were the infamous, mysterious quiet girl. Since when did you publicly tell people off?

You let out an audible sigh as you turned the corner. The door to the detention room stared you down from the end of the hallway, giving the same look as a disappointed mother may give their child.

You were halfway down the dimly lit hallway when you heard someone call your name. You spun around, seeing your boyfriend running towards you. He looked frazzled and out of breath, and it made you wonder how far he had run to get to you.

"Mike, what are you doing here? You know I have detention right?" You say, sounding puzzled.

"Max told me what happened, and well I didn't want you to suffer through detention alone so...here I am." He tells you, giving his signature dorky smile.

You roll your eyes, a laugh escaping your lips. "Thank you, but you really don't have to." you exclaim.

"Of course I do," He replies. He takes your hand, the comfort of his touch washing over you. The hallway suddenly felt much smaller.

"Now let's go." Mike says as he pulls you down the hall.

You had never been in the detention room before, it was a mess. Each corner of the room was occupied with a filing cabinet, which were all overflowing with paperwork. There was a line of desks in the center of the room, which were also stacked with papers. The teacher, an older man who you had never seen before sat at a desk in the front of the room. There were only two other students in the room, both of whom sat at a desk sorting through papers.

"I assume you two lovebirds are here for detention?" The old man asked, pointing to your interlocked hands. This ought to be lovely, you thought sarcastically.

You gave the teacher your names and he ordered you to begin sorting the endless stacks of paper that filled the small classroom.

You weeded through the mess for about an hour. You and Mike occasionally exchanged silly, flirty glances considering you weren't supposed to be talking. Eventually you heard a loud snoring noise coming from the teachers desk. God, you didn't know a person could sound like an electric pencil sharpener.

"Hey." You whispered, nudging Mike and pointing at the snoozing old man.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Mike smirked, raising his eyebrows. The look on his face made your stomach twist into a knot.

"God yes, I'm so sick of looking at these papers." You say quietly, as you reach for your backpack.

Mike's face lights up as he grabs his things, then your hand, and you two quietly exit the classroom.

The sun outside was beginning to sink below the skyline, making the heavens above a beautiful shade of pink. The late September was chillier than you expected, making you shiver in your short sleeved T-shirt.

"Babe are you cold?" Mike asked as he placed his hand on your shoulder.

"Yeah, a little but I'll be okay." you replied.

"No, here, take my jacket." He said, quickly slipping his jacket off and draping it around your shoulders. It was soft, fluffy, and smelled just like him, instantly it warmed you up.

"But I don't want you to be cold." You say frowning.

Even in the twilight you could see every detail of Mike's face. The blush creeping up his cheeks, the freckles that dotted his skin, the way the edges of his eyes crinkled up when looked down at you smiling.

Mike wrapped his arm around your shoulders, "See, I won't be." He exclaimed.

You giggled and looked down at the sidewalk.

"What?" You heard Mike say playfully.

He brought his hand underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards. His brown eyes intricately surveyed your face, making you an anxious mess.

"Nothing, nothing, you're just-" You decided that actions spoke louder than words and locked your lips together, his touch warming you up more than any jacket could. You leaned into him, hoping that he couldn't hear how fast your heart was racing.

"Come on, let's go home." You said after the two of you broke apart.

The walk to your house was short but having Mike by your side made it feel even shorter, and when you reached your residence you could feel your heart sink.

"Well, I guess this is where we part ways." You sigh, turning to face him on your doorstep.

"Don't worry, you'll see me tomorrow, and the day after that, and the one after that..." He reassured you, placing his hands on the railing of steps and leaning over you.

"That won't stop me from missing you." You pout, kissing him on both cheeks and then his lips.

Mike envelopes you in a hug, and squeezes you tightly.

"Hopefully this will be enough to hold you over." He whispers into your ear, causing your heart to explode. You rested your head on his chest while he held you. You let yourself fall into him as you had never felt safer.

Mike pressed a short but sweet kiss to your forehead, and unraveled your arms from his.

"Goodnight, sweetheart." Mike mumbled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Goodnight." you reply, turning the doorknob.

As soon as you entered your house you raced to your room, tossed your things on the floor, and collapsed onto your bed.

You were so glad you had gotten detention.

#stranger things x y/n #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4 #stranger things #stranger things x you #mike wheeler imagine #mike wheeler x y/n #mike wheeler x reader #mike wheeler x you #mike wheeler #finn wolfhard #stranger things one shot #stranger things s4 #stranger things mike #st4 #st4v2 #mike wheeler fluff #mike wheeler fic #stranger things season four #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #mike wheeler headcanons #stranger things headcanons #stranger things fluff

[factorialsotherfandoms]

A follow up to the declawing torture, 9 and a bit years later.

XCOM2 au, references to, well, torture. And mutilation. And various other terrible things. Also Felps being a manipulative little guy making Cellbit look after himself.

The archive is rarely the warmest room on the ship. With cheap ink and home-made paper, they keep it cool and dark in an attempt to preserve the papers as long as possible. The humidity is drained, too, though that can be said of the entire ship. It was Philza's first, but it's Cellbit's now; they both have a desk here, but only one is commonly used.

There's a stack of papers on Cellbit's desk, ones he is doing his best to work through. He's looking, he's looking - somewhere in this mess he knows is the answer, he knows there's something about the missing civilians to be found here. He's pulled out the whole drawer from the filing cabinet - one draw for each problem, with colour-coded labels for shelf-stored items, those are the rules from long before Cellbit came to the Avenger - and he has so many pieces they just... Don't fit together.

His finishes reading the page - looking at the patterns, he can see why Max is convinced his partner's disappearance fifteen years ago is related despite being pre-invasion - and reaches for another.

His fingers seize up, refusing to bend and grab it.

Cellbit looks at them, and sighs, and uses the still functioning hand to rummage around in a drawer. He grabs a heat pack, snaps it, and lays it over his screaming knuckles.

There has been trouble with his hands ever since... that, but cold tends to make it worse. A minute or two and it will be fine - sore, but fine - he just needs to wait.

Cellbit hates waiting.

But he's good at it.

He sits there, gently flexing his fingers and waiting for full movement to return. They almost bend far enough to continue working, when the door slips open.

"Hey Cellbo."

Felps sounds more than half asleep already, wandering in and towards his favourite corner. There's a few old, spare cushions there, placed down purely because of Felps' habit of sleeping anywhere his friends are. Cellbit has caught Tubbo napping there before, too, though in all matters it's usually Felps.

"Heya Felps," he waves to his best friend, forgetting the hot pack for a moment.

It slips from his hand, to the desk, to the floor.

Cellbit curses, and reaches for it, and as he does he hits his suffering hand against a drawer handle.

"Fuck!" he yells, louder than before, immediately moving to cradle the hand against his chest. "Motherfucking bastard drawer."

He kicks it for good measure, and then Felps is there - significantly more awake, and holding the hot pack out to them.

"Cellbit?"

He reminds himself to breathe, "I'm fine, Felps. It just surprised me; feel free to rest."

But Felps doesn't. Instead he takes Cellbit's hand, pulling it out and exposing it. He hums as he rubs circles into the hurting muscles, noticible even through Cellbit's gloves.

Cellbit tenses, and Felps frowns.

The humming stops dead.

"I'm going to check it, okay?" Felps asks, fingers shifting to Cellbit's gloves.

"There's no need," Cellbit promises. "I just caught myself badly, that's all."

Felps /looks/ at him, and Cellbit... Cellbit could say no, he promises he could, but it's late and he's cold and for all he never wanted Felps to know, hiding it would be more suspicious.

If he's lucky, Felps won't be able to tell.

"Alright," he concedes - because it's Felps, it's always Felps, and what wouldn't he give for his first and closest friend?

"Alright," Felps replies, a little too serious for either of their likings.

Felps is so careful as he removes the glove, making sure not to tug or pull at the skin beneath. It's his left hand - the hand with the neater scars - but they are still immediately obvious.

But Felps doesn't say anything, not yet, just... Looks at them.

Cups Cellbit's hand between his own, and gently massages the skin.

Their eyes meet, and they know - they both know.

Cellbit doesn't stop him as he takes his other hand, gently removing the glove there too.

They both look down - five more scars, three neat, one messy, one carving down the length of his hand.

"Cellbit..." Felps starts.

"Don't," Cellbit whispers back, voice cracking. "Please, don't."

And Felps doesn't say anything, but he breaks Cellbit anyway - a kiss to every scar, and then pulling Cellbit into a hug.

He can feel the questions, he can sense them burning on Felps' tongue - Cellbit trembles in the hold, and it's nine years ago again. There's a scalpel to his knuckles and Cucurucho is smiling eerily down at him and the surgeon's eyes are laughing as he carves away his bones, his skin. There's no pain but there's blood and then he could meet their eyes but how because he's terrified, terrified, terrified and they /took his claws/ and cut open his bands and his bones have never been right, not since and not again.

His trembling grows to a shaking, and drives them both down to the metal floor. Still Felps keeps holding him, wrapping an arm across his back and another tangling into his hair and he's started humming again - one of his stupid, cheerful songs.

And Cellbit - Cellbit cannot cry, he has no regrets, but it hurts and it hurts and it's been nine long years and his claws were only the start. He cannot cry, but he cannot stay silent, so he laughs as he sits on the archive floor, Felps wrapped tightly around him.

Felps, Felps, Felps - finally, finally, his best friend is safe. His best friend is safe, and here, and Cellbit would destroy countries if Felps only needed him to.

"Has a doctor looked at it?" is the question Felps asks, once Cellbit quietens down.

He's still playing with one of Cellbit's hands, moving the fingers and poking the joints, treating it with the curiosity of any other new, strange thing.

Cellbit laughs again, and it's bitter, and it's dry. "A doctor did it."

Felps pauses - looks to Cellbit's face, then back to the hand. "They're a shitty doctor then. Has a real doctor seen it?"

"I think Fed doctors count as real doctors, just about."

The words slip out, and Cellbit has said too much; Felps freezes, glazes over, then comes back with something determined in his spine.

"We're going to see Doctor Ruiz."

"Felps..." is all the objection that Cellbit can quite manage. Anyone else he would fight, but Felps...

Felps squeezes his hand, "it'll be okay - I'm here. You don't need to be scared."

---

The infirmary is thankfully quiet for once, everyone injured well enough to be up and about the ship, only needing to check in every so often to check healing process. The doctor is at the computer, updating notes on... Cellbit's pretty sure those are Foolish's notes.

"Hey doc." Felps greets her like a friend. Given how often he has to come by, given his condition, she may as well be.

"Felps," she spins her chair around to face them. "And... Cell? What has he done this time?"

"Cellbit," he corrects her, flinching a little at the name.

"Cellbit has old injuries that need checking," Felps says. "It's not me this time."

The doctor doesn't seem convinced, but does bring up Cellbit's notes - first on the computer, then transferring them to her tablet, "how can I help you, then?"

"It's really nothing," Cellbit tries to say, even as Felps tugs his right hand - his worse hand, but not the one troubling him today - towards the woman.

She looks at the scars, then her tablet, then squints at Cellbit.

"Cat hybrid...?" she hesitates a little.

Cellbit dies a bit inside, but nods; Felps squeezes his arm in reassurance.

"How long ago did this happen?"

Cellbit glances at Felps, and knows he won't like the answer - he knows Felps is going to destroy himself over it, but he also knows he has no way out of this situation.

"Nine years."

As expected, Felps flinches, and he clings harder.

Cellbit takes back his hand, and uses it to hold Felps tight.

"Does it cause you trouble?" she asks.

"Nothing a few minutes with a heat pack fails to solve."

"Pain?"

There Cellbit hesitates. Because, yes, constantly. But admitting that, saying that, confessing that he's been in constant pain for nine years, with fluctuating functionality, while Felps is right here and his best friend is intelligent enough to /know/ why this happened...

"I see," the doctor says, noting something down. "Have you ever received treatment for it?"

That makes Cellbit laugh - the day after he was declawed the stitches tore, and he had to fucking replace them himself. The idea of having any proper treatment... "Fuckers didn't even stitch them properly."

He can almost /feel/ Felps go pale - he certainly feels him freeze up against his side.

He glances to him.

"Do you want Felps to leave?" the doctor asks.

And... Yes, but no. Cellbit doesn't want Felps to hear this, doesn't want a single secret of it whispered even to the doctor, let alone to the person for whom the sacrifice was made. He doesn't want Felps to know, he doesn't want the guilt, or the pity - he made his choice and, fuck it, it was worth it. He doesn't regret a thing - not the pain, not the stiffness, not the agony. There's not a single thing he would not have given for Felps, and now he has him back...

Now he has him back, Cellbit thinks if he's not there, he's going to lie to the doctor just to escape.

If Felps isn't there, and he's being forced to remember this... Cellbit doesn't think he'll be able to stay present.

"No," he answers, and it tastes like ash - to condemn his best friend to guilt, just so he doesn't have a panic attack in the doctor's office. "No, he- Felps stays."

His fingers clamp tighter on Felps' shoulder, keeping him close.

Felps does nothing.

Doctor Ruiz hesitates, but carries on.

"Can you tell me about how it happened?"

Cellbit shrugs. "I was undercover in the Federation. On orientation day, I was taken to a Cucurucho's office, where a surgeon was waiting. Dental anesthetic in both hands, metal cuffs to keep them still, had my ears pinned while it kicked in and then the bastards cut out my claws."

"Follow up care?"

"I passed out and woke up in blood soaked bandages, and had to deal with it myself."

Against his side, Felps whines. Cellbit clutches to him tighter, putting his fear into his body that he might keep his mind clear.

Felps already knows something is wrong - if he can get through the doctor's appointment, it will comfort him. Cellbit doesn't care about pain, but Felps cares about him being in pain, so...

So he'll try.

He'll try, because for some stupid reason Felps loves him, and Cellbit has to deal with that.

"Any infection?" she asks. "Other complications?"

"I don't remember well," he confesses. "It was nine years ago, and I was busy."

Neither Felps nor the Doctor like that answer.

The Doctor flicks something on her tablet, quickly reading. Then she flicks back, and looks at him again. "Laser?"

"Scalpels."

Under his arm, Cellbit can hear Felps whispering a combination of half-formed prayers and curse words. He shifts, holds him closer, whispers an apology in his ear.

It breaks the chain; Felps slaps his thigh, and goes quiet.

"Did you receive other injuries during your time there?"

Cellbit nods, "there's also scarring on my back and shoulders. And Cucurucho," he gestures at his head. "I was in one of their departments."

He glances at Felps; the Doctor sees the look, and doesn't press. Instead she moves on, eyes promising to discuss the other scars some other time.

"This is not an area I'm much familiar with," the Doctor confesses. "But would you mind an x-ray? Sometimes it causes damage to the remaining bone, which will worsen over time."

Cellbit does mind, but Felps looks at him and... And he agrees.

Doctor Ruiz has to do everything in the infirmary, except occasionally when Aypierre helps. After a really bad mission Philza or Bad might help triage, but that's about it.

It saves time, though; the x-ray machine is just the other side of the room. Felps has to let go of Cellbit while it happens, waiting back by the computer and far from the radiation.

The Doctor tries to flatten Cellbit's hands, preparing them for a clear picture.

It takes everything Cellbit has not to scream.

He swears instead, and she frowns, but finds a pillow to place them on - allows him to keep his knuckles bent, if only because they cannot flatten at all.

The x-ray does not take enough time for the pain to fade, though the doctor does not call him back immediately. He's allowed to sit there gathering himself as she reviews the pictures.

She also has to take more from other angles - that might be why.

Eventually, when the sharp pain has faded and everything has levelled out, she comes over and sits on the x-ray table.

"The good news is there are no loose bone fragments," she says. "I'd like a full CT scan of your hands, but it's awaiting repairs - once it's fixed, I would like you back here so I can assess the muscle damage. Some is obvious, but I'm not sure of the extent."

Cellbit hates that, but he can see how Felps is, so... so he nods in acquisition.

"For now, you said heat helps?"

"I have some heat packs - the camping ones - I grabbed from a sports store," he says.

"I'll requisition more with the medical supplies," she says. "It won't be a reliable supply, but it's fewer questions. Do you take anything for the pain?"

Cellbit shifts, "it doesn't do much, so I don't tend to bother."

And it must be bad, it has to be worse than he thought, because she hands him a bag of boxes of tablets.

"Please take something when it gets bad, at least," and she sounds so tired, like she's said this at least twenty times before. "Do I need to explain how long term pain fucks your body up, or are you going to behave?"

He takes the tablets.

"I'll... try," he says.

"You'd better," she sighs. "Side effects are on the leaflets, come back if there's problems. Once the CT scanner is fixed we'll look at your hands in more detail, and I'll do some research; physio could probably help, but the joints seem unstable."

He... doesn't really like the sound of that, but he nods, and he takes it, because he knows that he has to - there's a doctor sat near him, and he has to do what he's told.

Felps deems himself no longer banished, coming and sitting in Cellbit's lap.

The pressure throws his brain a second. He wraps an arm around Felps' waist, and remembers how to breathe.

"Thank you," he says, because all he wants is to escape.

"I'd tell you to stop pushing them, but I know a loosing battle," the doctor says. "Chief Tubbo said the parts should be ready tomorrow; I'll see you in a week?"

Felps is here, and will hold Cellbit to that; he nods anyway.

It fades into an awkward quiet, until eventually Felps pulls Cellbit away.

---

They end up back in the archive - Cellbit and Felps both sat on the cushion pile. Cellbit has coffee, and water, and Felps forced one of the painkillers on him.

Felps has some sort of fruit juice, and given the colour Cellbit is a little afraid to ask.

They drink quietly, Felps leaning on Cellbit's arm and Cellbit leaning back. It's quiet, and it's still, and it isn't working but Cellbit is struggling to hold his glass.

The mug is fine, with the handle to loop his fingers through. The glass...

Well, he abandons the water just as soon as the pill is taken.

"Why did you do it?" Felps eventually asks, voice too quiet.

"I had to," Cellbit says. "They did this shit to all the hybrids in the department. There was this one woman-" she's dead now, or at least Cellbit hopes she's dead. "- never got her name. The office called her Junior. Fish-hybrid. They carved off all her scales, and used skin graphs to stop them growing back. The air con caused her gills to get infected. Didn't see her again after that."

Felps shakes his head, leaning closer, "did you?"

"Yes." Cellbit says, because there were no other paths he could have taken.

Felps takes one of his hands, and holds it close. His fingers are back, tracing over and over the scars on his skin.

"There's always an option," Felps says.

"They took you," Cellbit replies. "I couldn't let them keep you."

Felps holds the hand tight, and leans against Cellbit's side, "you could have."

Cellbit uses his free hand to turn Felps' face towards him. "No. I couldn't have. It was worth it, Felps. I found you, didn't I? You're safe now - we're both safe now."

Cellbit begs Felps to understand, to realise the cost was worth it - his claws, his hands, it would have been worth even his life. More than his life! Felps is his best friend, and Cellbit is a selfish man. If it had cost other people their lives to get him back then, well, what would he have cared? Felps would have been safe, and that has always been the first thing to matter.

"You'll stay safe?" Felps asks. "You promise?"

"As safe as I can," Cellbit replies.

"No more sacrifices."

... And Cellbit cannot promise him that, so he holds Felps closer and they both fall onto the cushions, curled up in the warmest part of the archives.

"Cellbit." Felps says. "No more sacrifices."

"... I can't give you that," Cellbit says. "But I promise I'll always bring my family home."

"And you'll come with them?"

"If I can."

"Cellbit."

He can't promise it, he can't, he can't - there's so many variables, so many things that can go wrong. He can't stay away from the missions, not always, not when there's secrets that just loot and recordings will never fully capture, not when Pac and Mike go out so often, and Felps might be his best friend, but they're his family too.

And hell, Roier - Roier is out there so often, and Roier isn't Felps' family yet, but Cellbit knows that the cute spider hybrid is his own. His heart, his heart...

It's a terrible thing, to have family.

To have people you are afraid to loose.

"Cellbit. Please."

And Felps is begging, his family is calling for him, and Cellbit is a weak and mortal man.

He closes his eyes and turns his head, tucking it into the small of Felps neck.

"I'll come home to you," he promises. "No matter how long it takes, I will not leave you. Not if you're taken, not if I'm taken; I promise I'll always find you."

Felps relaxes, finally, and smiles, and laughs, and pretends he hasn't just torn the heart from Cellbit's throat as he picks up the hand and begins to massage it once again.

"Does this help?" he asks. "It's kind of fun. Your hands are all squishy."

"I have no idea," and Cellbit doesn't, because his head is full of doctors and surgeons and scalpels, and he's hyperaware of his hands.

He cannot stop thinking about them, cannot stop feeling them, but now Felps is touching them and...

And he thinks of Felps, not of scalpels and blood.

"We'll try, then," Felps says, and it feels like he means more than just massaging Cellbit's knuckles.

And what can Cellbit do but try?

#qsmp x xcom #qsmp fanfic #qsmp cellbit #qsmp felps

[fakesurprise]

“You don’t know how you ended up outside our office?” Fish asked.

“Perhaps I was hooked,” Aeosi said after a look as Fish as if noticing him for the first time.

The kid didn’t even blink. “The office door is right there. I am certain you’ll be fine finding ID, paying for anything and suffering the fate of most things from the twilight realms that remained here? Every stories of faerie is cruel: think of the worst thing that could happen to one of your kind bereft of magic, and multiply it by a factor of two. The boss can be an ass, but you have nothing to stand on to be one in turn.”

Aeosi stared at Fish, then at me, and then slumped back into the chair. “I am a prince of two kingdoms,” he whispered. “I have the Twinned Honour, I have done things and been things that there is no understanding of in this realm. And here, I have no way home. The air is thick and the world too heavy to move.” He licked his lips. “I am very afraid, and I am not used to being afraid, and never to admitting it. I need shelter. I need protection. I need allies and understanding.”

“We can help, in theory. At the least we can offer shelter and protection to a point,” I said.

“I – yes. I will owe you a favour. I swear in my name and my titles both to pay back what is given in the fullness of my power.” “You don’t have to do this,” I said, cutting in.

The fae prince stared at me, his face tight, and continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “I swear to aid and serve until my debt to you is paid, and I swear this by by every name I have or will, and by every title I claim. The winds forsake me, the Lady forget me. Honour break me and the deep darkness take me: this oath I swear, this favour I bind. Power forsake me and honour desert me if I should fail both grace and heart in this.”

The air popped in my ears.

Fish put both hands over his ears with a gasp, eyes wide.

“There are,” I said as I stood up unsteadily, “other oaths you could have sworn. Are you insane?” “I must be, for I am here.” And he burst into tears then, in ways princes did not do in any realm. He still looked beautiful, but his beauty wasn’t that of elfs that remained perfect despite anything. He looked lost and scared and despite airs and titles far too young to have have been sent anywhere far from his home.

Fish poured him a stiff drink from the one filing cabinet that had no filing in it.

Aeosi gulped it back in a single chug.

#writing #prose #nano 2023 #nanowrimo #conspiracy of truth

[c-c-cherry]

Tell me about that reigen and ritsu thing on the backburner, I'm curious!

(In exchange, have a picture of Scrungly Lola, my gecko.)

Chef!! It’s been awhile!! Thank you very much for the Lola. She’s very lovely and sweet. I have many many thoughts and fics in the back of my mind right now, but here is my little half-baked Reigen and Ritsu idea that I've been chewing on:

(General warning for talk/mention of suicide in the context of miscommunication/misunderstanding)

Alright alright alright. For those who have seen the OVA (the train OVA, my beloved OVA, the OVA where we get a smidge of Reigen canonically suffering), you know that Reigen is trapped in this spiritual dimensional cursed version of the train in his sleep. As the episode goes on, he becomes more desperate and hopeless and blah blah blah you’ve seen the episode you know what happens. 

But there’s a moment where Reigen writes a note. And when the other espers come in to save him, Reigen tries to hide that note. I wasn’t really sure what it said, but weeeeeks ago @cryran88 sent me an English translation and if you haven’t seen it already, it is SAD. 

Now…post-train OVA. This could be as post-canon as I see fit. Ritsu is helping out in the office for whatever reason (mob is sick, studying, some event, literally any reason) and Reigen asks him to grab something out of the filing cabinet where they keep the info on previous jobs. When Ritsu opens it, a shit ton of files fall out because its way too unorganized, which he picks up with help from his powers. 

A specific folder catches his eye, though: the one from the hot spring trip, filled with spilling papers and an under-the-table receipt and every other document that had to do with the case. He’s sorting it all back into its folder with his psychic abilities when a little glimmer makes him stop. He pulls out one of the papers, trip itinerary on one side and blank on the other…until he looks closer. With his powers aiding him, some kind of writing appears on the blank side, almost like invisible ink. 

Key words stick out to Ritsu as he floats it into his hands and reads it. “Sorry,” “useless,” “gone” ...as he reads closer, he recognizes it to be Reigen’s handwriting. What is this? Why does he have this in here? 

“Have you got it yet?”

Ritsu jumps as he hears Reigen’s voice across the room. In a panic, he shoves everything back in the cabinet, taking the one slip of paper and slipping it in his back pocket.

“Yeah—yeah. I’ve got it.”

He reads it again when he gets home, at night, when he’s sure he won’t be interrupted. He concludes it's a suicide note. He isn’t sure how Reigen did this or how he concealed it without powers of his own, but it has to be one. 

After that, Ritsu becomes completely obsessed with Reigen—monitoring him, making sure he’s okay, obsessively looking into details in the note to try and undo the damage he thinks has been done. He feels responsible. No one else knows about it, and the guilt and worry of being the only one to know drives him up the wall. Did he do something to make him feel this way? Ritsu never really hated Reigen. He thought Reigen was happy where he was. He didn’t want him gone. 

There are more unspoken details with other characters and moments and build-up I would write in between of course, but the fic would essentially peak with Reigen catching on and finding out that the note he wrote on the train somehow transferred over to become visible in this realm due to psychic interference. And now it’s in Ritsu’s hands, and it’s really, really not what it looks like.

At first, there's the age-old lesson of "you're a kid, you're not responsible for adults and how they feel," and "you can always talk to me," and "I promise I'm not feeling that way, and if I was, you shouldn't burden yourself with issues I should be working out with help from other adults."

But then there's another issue. To convince Ritsu that he really is alright and doesn’t plan on leaving them like that anytime soon, he would have to explain why he really wrote it. He can no longer sugarcoat his experience on the train. He doesn’t want the kid to have to know about this terrible stuff he went through, but he realizes he has no choice, no other way to convince him. He has to tell the truth.

Juicy, hurty, comforting in the end, you get the gist. I’m not sure what other characters I would bring in and what roles they would play just yet, but Ritsu walks out with more of an empathetic lens towards someone he initially kind of resented, and Reigen is forced to be weak. Those are two things I just love.

Thank you for listening to my ramblings!! I don’t even know if there would be an audience for this type of fic, but I think it would be fun to write regardless! Anyone else got any juicy ideas? I always love to hear them.

#reigen arakata #mp100 #ritsu kageyama #prompts #fic prompt #story ideas #mob psycho 100 #cw suicidal themes #hurt/comfort #fanfic