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powderblueblood · 3 months

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

CHAPTER NINE — EDDIE the OBVIOUS and the LADY SPHINX

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summary: a tense dinner at rick lipton's place reveals some part of al munson's reason for returning to hawkins. your saturday morning detention is tense, and you and eddie both get more than you bargained for when you crash hellfire club to profile them for the school newspaper. content warnings: MINORS DNI AS ALWAYS warnings for smut, cunnilingus, dick-fondling, p in v, reference to drug usage, slight perv!eddie, silly teenagers having silly teenage fights that actually aren't so silly (kinda antagonistic ronance version!), reference to childhood physical abuse, al munson jumpscare, lacy's dad jumpscare, both lacy's real first name and surname is used in this chapter. no description of body type. just descriptions of a good time eye emoji eye emoji word count: 16.4k

Dear Lord,

Grant me the serenity to accept the shit I cannot change, the courage to change the shit I can, and the wisdom to seize a damn fine opportunity when I see one.

Amen.

When Al Munson cooks a spaghetti dinner, you know he means business.

Once a line cook with aspirations higher than diner fumes, always a line cook with aspirations higher than diner fumes.

He learned to cook on the grill, but perfected it in the joint. During one of his stints, a homecoming tour of the state of Kentucky, he fell in with this web of wiseguys who made him stagiaire in their makeshift kitchen, slicing ghostly slivers of garlic with a razorblade.

Al’s insisted on the method ever since. Even now, hunkered over in Rick Lipton’s kitchen, preparing a meal for which Eddie’s already lost his appetite.

Eddie had already given up on the whole there are a bunch of knives right there suggestion, knowing his father loves few things like he loves performing his whole Kiss the Cook bit. He plays it to the hilt, an exercise in tart, rich, floral smarm that beats out the complex flavoring of his tomato gravy by a country fucking mile. Down to that bullshit Serenity Prayer.

“Courage to change the shit you can? Man, you can barely change your underwear!” Rick heartily chuckles, heaping pasta onto his plate. The way the noodles slide against each other, thick and glistening like worms full of nefarious promise, makes Eddie want to ralph.

He hadn’t had much of an appetite for anything since he’d visited the nurse’s office.

He felt weird. Strung out. Guilty. And angry. Guilty like, what got into me, why’d I do that and angry like, why’d I leave you just standing there like that, and why’d you let me.

“C’mon, kid, you look famished,” Al pulls that anger-inducing Cheshire Cat face, placing a solely ornamental leaf of basil on top of the dish Rick passes. This fucking asshole. These fucking assholes. In cahoots together. “Wayne’s Hungry Man dinners ain’t hittin’ the way they used to, huh?”

Al’s smile doesn’t slice through the tension of the room nearly as clean as he wants it to. Eddie feels Wayne stiffen at his right elbow, sees Rick divert his eyes from across the table.

“Well, Dad,” Eddie says, forcibly stabbing and winding his fork through the spaghetti, “You know what coulda solved that?”

“What’s that, huh?”

“You staying out of lockup for longer than the duration of an MC5 song.”

Al doesn’t falter. Eddie bets he could open-palm slap him and that shiteater of a grin wouldn’t slide from his face.

“I’m here now, ain’t I?” his father clicks his tongue, digging right into his own dish, “You really gotta learn to live in the moment, kid.”

Eddie’s spaghetti-filled mouth starts to form around the indignant words, I’m not a kid! but Al beats him to the punch. Quite literally.

“Though, judgin’ by those scuffs on your knuckles, looks like you did somethin’ without thinkin’ it the whole way through first. Huh?” Al slurps his pasta noisily, and Eddie feels Wayne tense even more, if that’s possible. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

The sense memory of silver flashes colliding with Billy Hargrove’s face in the parking lot, the sense memory of you and your vicelike grip trying to pull him off before he killed him. The sense memory of bile blowing through his veins, stumbling upon those lowlifes talk to you like that. Rage blackout. Yadda yadda.

According to rumor, Hargrove was lucky that Eddie didn’t cave his entire cheek in. He still couldn’t totally see out of his right eye, the swelling was that gathered and insistent.

Eddie lets the question droop in the air, before eventually mumbling, “S’nothing. Just– shit at school.”

Wayne had been the first one to ask him, obviously, catching sight of his bandaged hand when he came upon Eddie staring a hole into–you guessed it–yet another Murder, She Wrote rerun, following your encounter on the examination table.

Eddie had given it the brush off so Wayne had given it the brush off. He was no stranger to his nephew bearing busted knuckles, even if it did make the old man’s blood chill every time he saw it. Those interactions always reeked of you poor kid, like Eddie was the perpetual victim. Got under Eddie’s skin a little.

But Al asks him like he knows something. And Rick won’t look at Eddie.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your lovely new neighbor, would it?” Other shoe, meet short, hard drop.

Eddie’s grip tightens around his fork, and in the back of his mind, he summons the spirit of the sharpest tongue he knows.

“Who?” He’s this close to prank calling people using his Lacy impression, that’s how good it’s gotten.

Al cradles his cheek against his palm. His eyes, the eyes that might as well have been scooped out and shoved into Eddie’s skull, they’re such iris perfect replicas, search his son for cracks in his composure. Al stabs, stabs, stabs aimlessly into his dinner.

“You’re a lot of things, Eddie Munson,” he says, “but you ain’t dumb.”

“Truly do not know what you’re yakkin’ about. Can I eat?”

“Come on, Eddie boy! You out there getting into scuffles over that little gold-plated piece’ah something?”

“Can I eat?”

“A little forbidden flame, maybe, two’ah you?”

“Can I eat?”

“Can’t say I blame ya. If I were… twenty years younger.... Or maybe she likes ‘em a little more mature. Think I got a shot?” Al’s teeth are starting to grit, spittle starting to fly. Frenzied in the way he’s trying to eek a reaction out of his kid. “Huh? Eddie?”

Al’s lecherous suggestion of you toed the line of too much for the Munson men, it seems. Eddie and Wayne’s voices overlap.

“Maybe we leave that girl out of this, Al–” “–can I eat, or what?”

SLAM! Al’s fist comes into direct contact with the hardwood of Rick’s dining room table, plates and cutlery and glasses clattering nervously. Rick jumps a little, groaning under his breath. Wayne drags a hand over his eyes.

“You can answer the goddamn question! Shit!”

Eddie, for his part, should probably feel a little scared, his dad raring up on him like that. Instead, he just lets his wound-up fork sag in a pile of spaghetti and leans back in his seat. The thing with Al Munson is this– his bark has always been way bigger than his bite. Especially when he’s as coked up as he is right now.

Ever since he’d roared into Rick’s driveway in that eyesore of a muscle car (alright, it was a little cool– but in, like, a lame Dukes of Hazzard kinda way), Al had been operating in sharp angles and backed-up nostrils.

Shit, Eddie would be shocked if there wasn’t residue on that razor blade he used to slice the garlic. That stupid, reckless, peacocking-as-a-father motherfucker.

He folds his arms, waiting for Al’s tone to pitch on down, for the tremor in his hand to act up, for him to say–

“Sorry. Sorry,” pressed through a line of grit teeth, “I just… Hmm.” It’s like Al is actively trying to plaster the mask of his charming grin back on his face but it keeps slipping out of his fingers. “She’s a real dime. Smart as hell too, huh? Shame about–”

“Al, what’re you gettin’ at with all this?” Wayne asks, and thank god he does. Eddie doesn’t know how much more dancing around the subject he can take, but he won’t be the one to bend first. “What did you bring us up here for? And don’t–” the eldest of all Munson holds a hand up, “--say you just wanted to get together. I don’t buy it. Eddie sure doesn’t buy it. And if Lipton here buys it, he’s a fool.”

Al shrinks, a snot-nosed kid under the magnifying glass his big brother holds to him. “Wayne–”

“You bring us up here to make us part of that goddamn stupid high school feud with that girl’s father? You really spin out that far?”

It’s not often that Wayne speaks up, but when he does, boy. Can that man dress a situation down.

Al falters. Wayne has that ability to knock him out at the knees, and Eddie makes a mental note to ask him how he does that.

“Listen. Alright. It’s not– alright,” Al clenches his hands in fists, a flex in and a flex out. A gesture Eddie notices, because he does it too. As if he’s trying to grasp the last threads of trust from them. “With that girl’s old man permanently benched so to speak, there’s an opportunity for another batter to step up. Okay? Jail sentences get doled out like Halloween candy–who knows that better than me, right?--but life goes on. There is… an opportunity here. Work still needs to get done. Work that I could’ve– that I can do.”

Eddie knows that his dad doesn’t realize he’s saying a lot of nothing, because Al’s always saying a lot of nothing. Vague promises with no real end to them. What catches him this time around is the glint in his eye, hidden behind the drug-induced one, and the glint of a gaudy ring on his finger. A green gem stamped in the middle, like a cat’s harvested eyeball. Huh.

“... let me make good on this, boys. For once. Let me take care of y’all.” Al huffs a faux-humble breath, glancing toward Rick for some kind of illustrative reassurance. “Y’know, seeing how it screwed up that little girl, seeing her big, upstanding daddy go to jail and all, I really–,” a swallow, for dramatic measure. Gunning for Best Actor here. “--felt it. Made me think, Eddie, of all the times when you were just a squirt… Made me wanna do right by you, is all.”

“How much of that doin’ right have you got up your nose, Dad?” Eddie sneers, putting two and two together. Of course this is what he’s back for; not to sell, couldn’t possibly be that simple in the convoluted world of Al Munson, but to supply. To get a suit fitted, pretend to be the big man. “Try before you buy isn’t exactly the most cost-effective policy.”

“Jesus, why, why have you got to make this so hard on me, kid?” Al is just about wringing his hands right now, scaling the apex of his desperation. “You have an in! You have the in!”

The in, of course, being Eddie’s connection to you, and by proxy, your dad. Al’s like a bloodhound that way, sniffing out the few good things that Eddie has going for him from miles off and tearing them right from his hands and acting like he’s doing Eddie a favor by making him his man on the inside.

“This whole town could be ours if you would just–”

That does it. Eddie leaps from the table, chair clattering to Rick’s warped wooden floor.

“I don’t want this whole town, are you fucking crazy?!” he yells, spittle flying, “And–and I certainly don’t want it if it’s anything to do with you!”

What the hell would make Al think that Eddie would hitch his wagon (which, granted, ain’t in too great a shape–he’s barely passing any classes, thanks to a pickup in business he guesses he can thank his dad for) to the living sunk cost fallacy that his father is? What the hell does Al Munson want with that kind of fantasy, one where he’s king bastard of the Hawkins cockwalk when he can’t even stick within county limits for more than a couple of weeks?

Well, Eddie actually has a pretty good idea, one that occurs to him like a lightning strike as Al struggles to keep his temper level. Let Eddie look like the tantrum-throwing brat.

Yeah. Exactly.

He’d wind Eddie into whatever scheme he was cooking up and ditch it, half-baked, leaving Eddie in a kitchen with all the smoke alarms going off. Elbow deep in an unsalvageable mess, because Al could never follow through on anything.

He’d have Eddie exploit your relationship for a couple of instances of, “That’s my boy.” Because Al still thought that trick worked; making him believe he’s loved, valuable, wringing every last drop of loyalty out of him because a boy needs his father… and a father needs his boy, y’know!

Fuck that.

“We should split.” It’s Wayne who says it, batting away the apologetic glance both the Munson men get from Rick– like he’s Al’s keeper or something, managing his moods. Like he isn’t raking in a cash cow from Al’s great Ray Doevski replacement theory.

“No, c’mon–” Al half-heartedly protests, like he could still save the evening but can’t really be bothered.

Wayne follows Eddie’s furious stalk out the door, tearing a cigarette from a soft pack as he hauls into the passenger side of the van.

Eddie, a tightening ball of rage, whacks the steering wheel with one good thump. He’d been stupid enough to entertain Al these past couple of days– out of confusion more than anything else. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were.

“The in,” Eddie mockingly mumbles as the van roars to life and he peels out against scattering gravel.

Wayne has his cigarette pinched between his thumb and index and lets that settle for a beat or two.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Fists flexing around the wheel, Eddie knows very well he’s been caught red-handed. There’s no way Wayne had gone this long without suspecting anything, even after he’d specifically warned him. More of a suggestion, actually; Wayne knows that Eddie will do whatever he wants, regardless.

Unfortunately, he’s like his father that way.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Eddie says, a shoulder shrug, a mirthless lilt in his tone. “She…”

Again, Wayne stays silent. Waiting for Eddie to tell on himself, like he always does.

“She doesn’t deserve to be in the middle of this,” Eddie arrives at, voice a little choked. “Whatever Dad’s planning on doing–”

“Neither do you,” Wayne reminds him. This is where Wayne and his stoicism pulls Eddie up short. Neither do you, and the only way you avoid the blowback is if you two avoid each other. But at that same time, Wayne always knows where Eddie’s heart is at. Knows that his heart is too big not to follow.

Even if Wayne hasn’t seen you two together, laughing ‘til you’re stupid like the kids that you are, can’t he see…

“Why can’t this be easy?” Eddie asks, his voice small. Echoes of a littler him, one that Wayne would pick up in the truck after school. Head hanging, backpack trailing, kicking pebbles and cursing the world.

Instead, through a sage swirl of smoke, Wayne’s hard stare seems to peel back some. He’s always known where Eddie’s heart is at. Eddie’s starting to think he wishes he knew less.

—

Jesus Christ, are you ever sick of learning your lesson. Of reflecting on what you’ve done.

It’s exhausting, and more to the point, pointless, and even more than that, boring.

Truth is, you’re beginning to second-guess your adoration of brilliant thinkers. Those motherfuckers knew too much, and in the past week, you’ve found yourself yearning for the days where you got by on knowing nothing but the good stuff! The juicy gossip, where the best parties were at, what lipstick could not stand up to what nail polish! When intellectualism was a bedtime story you’d read to yourself under the fucking covers and you didn’t have to decode the labyrinth of your own stupid feelings!

Sure, you felt like a husk most of the time, but you’d take that over this graceless stumbling shit!

You should be allowed to smash the windows out of Billy Hargrove’s car and no one should be able to say boo about it! God!

Instead, however, you’ve been caught up in an as-yet-unprecedented display of seething and sulking. People are still whispering about you, natch, glancing at your belly like you would’ve if that heinous spawnous prank was played on anyone else. At the very least, they still have the good sense to flinch when you match their stare.

Billy Hargrove’s two week suspension means you don’t have to worry about seeing his ugly face, but it also comes with the two week guarantee of not seeing Eddie.

And the probable delay of your Hellfire article. Which is paramount. Obviously.

Speaking of Eddie, there’s too much speaking of Eddie to do.

You keep replaying the sneak attack from Al Munson in your head, him sliding his aviators down his nose to get a look at you.

“What are you doing here?”

“Payin’ my respects. Your father, shit. Shame what happened to him. He was– well. I was gonna say he was a ‘good man’, but that sounds kinda funny, don’t it?”

It wasn’t about Eddie, except it was about Eddie, because every stupid thing is about Eddie.

Especially the fact that you’re sitting in your college-going beau’s chariot, about to slink into Saturday detention. If it weren’t for him…

“Lacy?” a voice calls from the driver’s seat. “You alright?”

You snap to, rearranging your face into something definitive and sharp and pleasing to the eye. Because you’re fine! You’d said as much when he snuck you into the basement of his parent’s house–why wasn’t he back in school yet–and said as much when he squirmed against you, asking you if you were okay in that weighted way that really meant can I put it in yet.

You’d gotten on all fours because it allowed you to roll your eyes when he was all, oh, woah! sliding it in from the back.

You’d reached around and teased your clit to attempt a climax. Trying to imitate that clumsy rhythm from the nurse’s office. It didn’t quite stick–paled in comparison, like a Simon and Garfunkel tribute act made up of people that didn’t secretly want to fuck each other.

And then he gave you a ride this morning. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to bore yourself out of misbehavior– but you’d told him that you had newspaper business to attend to.

“I’m fine,” you brightly declare for the fourth and final time, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. It was a weird gesture, but the shine had buffed off. He’s cute and all, but you two had gone to see Paris, Texas at the Hawk and he didn’t get it.

He didn’t get how much you clowned on him for not getting it afterwards either. You hadn’t been able to get it out of your head, the way he shrugged away from you at the diner as you ribbed him for his plodding misunderstanding of Harry Dean Stanton.

Coldly, you thought of the trade-off that you and Eddie had agreed on. Repo Man for Paris, Texas once it came out. You had to pretend you liked Repo Man a lot less than you actually did to swing that one, because Eddie wasn’t keen to lock in to some movie about a dude crying in the desert or whatever unless you angled in the fact that you owe me for making me sit through all that machismo.

“You love machismo. You wanted to nail that sweaty little punker, I saw you squeezin’ your knees together.”

“For Emilio Estevez? Please. I had my eye on the old guy. ‘Ordinary fuckin’ people, I hate ‘em’--that kind of shit really does it for me, Munson, you know that.”

“That why you’ve been entertaining the pleasure of my company for so long?”

“Down, dog.”

Anyway. Fuck.

“Listen, Lacy, I gotta tell you s–”

“Can’t right now! I’m already late and Fred is gonna have my head,” you chime, all saccharine, climbing out of the car. “Call me!” You pray that he doesn’t.

Slam. What an extraordinary waste of time.

As instructed, you make your way to the gym, which you think is a little weird. Detention usually denotes writing pointless, go-nowhere laments on how sorry you are for being such a bad kid, right? Think on your sins, yadda yadda yadda.

Typically enough, no one’s here on time. Everyone’s late. You’re perched on the bleachers like an asshole, sitting alone like an asshole. That’s the goddamn ticket, isn’t it? You’re alone in all of this. You always have been.

Like, for example. The Al Munson walk-on role into the surrealist tragi-comedy that is your fucking life. You can’t tell that to anybody. Not Eddie, naturally, not your mom, not Nancy because then you’d have to explain the continued and complicated Eddie of it all, not Ronnie because just because. And the ickiness of it hangs off your every move, and you can’t shake it, and no one can share it.

You’re beginning to wonder if that’s true of all the parts of you. The ickiness. It’s all a little heavy, isn’t it?

As if on cue, hearing ickiness called by name on the wind, Mr Kaminsky pushes open the gym’s double doors.

“Oh, what the fuck.”

“Had to see it for myself.” Your loathed History teacher says, full of glee.

“Sir, if this is some kind of elaborate courting ritual, I have to say, you’re not my type.”

“Careful up there, Doevski. There’s more detentions where this came from.”

“Freak accident. I can’t be caged.”

“Well, let me enjoy the exception to the rule!” Kaminsky claps, and you jerk at the echo.

You sigh so hard you almost unlatch something. “What elaborate torture have you got planned for me today? Want me to run laps or something? Because these shoes aren’t built for that.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lacy,” the teacher digs, “We’re still waiting on your comrades.”

“I’m late, I’m late, I know I’m late!” a familiar voice comes skidding right up behind Kaminsky, baseball hat askew, mud stains on the knees of her overalls. “Some goddamn lunatic tried to run me and my bike off the road–”

“Ronnie?”

“Hey, Lacy!” she calls brightly and breathlessly, slamming herself down on the bleachers beside you.

“Ron, what’re you–”

An unmistakable heel-click rounds its way into the gym, and in walks Nancy Wheeler with her face all pinched like a porcelain doll. She receives your big ol’ center-piece-missing jigsaw puzzle of a look with a knowingly arched eyebrow.

“You’re late, Wheeler,” Kaminsky tries, but Nancy’s already consulting her wristwatch.

“Detention starts at nine sharp, right?” she says, impenetrable as always. “It’s 8:58.”

“Then can I have my admission of lateness struck from the record, actually?” Ronnie asks and Kaminsky shoots her a withering one, consulting his clipboard.

“Alright, we got one more. Give it the goddamn two minutes, but then I’m bumping her to suspension. You wanna count it, Wheeler?” he scoffs. Wow, so he’s like a round the clock douchebag. To everybody.

At what you only can assume is 8:59, the mismatched gangle of Robin Buckley comes slinking over the waxed floor, looking half-awake and pissed off–more pissed off, you might argue, now that she registers her company. She perches on the furthest end of the bleachers, pointedly away from the loose gaggle of you, Ronnie and Nancy.

You shoot Ronnie a look like, what’s the sitch there? Thought you two were getting all bosomy.

Ronnie just shrugs.

“Alright!” Kaminsky claps the clipboard again, “So, this is a fun group. Bunch of smart girls who got caught doing idiot stuff. We’re gonna make you pay for that today. Sound good?”

The whole bad bunch of you just stare at him, slit-eyed.

Your collective punishment, as it turns out, comes in the form of scraping old, disgusting, errant gum and other mystery sticky bullshit from the bottom of the bleachers.

“Stupid is as stupid does,” Kaminsky sagely says, handing you each a tiny chisel from the art room, “And I understand that some of you are violent offenders,” that’s a pointed look at you and Ronnie, by the way, “but please. Don’t use this opportunity to take another girl’s eye out. Your community college acceptance is riding on it.”

Motherfucker. Everyone knows Ronnie Ecker is in the running for valedictorian.

He leaves the four of you to your own devices, promising to check up on you all in a solid forty-five.

“How many times you think he can beat off in forty-five minutes?” Ronnie immediately asks as the teacher disappears through the door.

“Depends. Is he doing it in the shameful privacy of his three-door rust bucket or the clandestine confines of the AV room?” you question.

Nancy makes a gagging sound but adds, “And is he using his imagination or Ms Kelley’s yearbook picture?”

Nasty Wheeler! That girl has truly endeared herself to you.

Robin, however, doesn’t weigh in at all. She just sort of glares and angles herself onto the nearest bleacher rung to start scraping the age-old mastication from the wood. Tension in the air.

“Buckley’s got the right idea,” you say, twirling the chisel in your fingers, “Sooner we get started, sooner we get the grossness over with…”

Ronnie sticks close by you, which is nice. You always like having her in proximity. Nancy, who’s nothing but work ethic in everything she does, starts furiously working on a corner a little ways away from you both– and Robin.

It doesn’t take long, maybe fifteen minutes of silent, resigned scraping, for you to get bored. And disgusted.

“At what point do we get to do the whole prison thing of what are you in for?” you say, sitting up and letting the blood rush back to your head.

“Well, yours goes without saying,” Ronnie chuckles, “going all batter on Hargrove’s car like that. Did you actually bust a window?”

“Just swung it around,” you say, driving your heel into the bench, “I may have inherited the felony misdemeanor gene, but I didn’t inherit getting caught. What about you?”

Ronnie flicks another gum wad off with her chisel, “Actually, you might wanna ask Wheeler about that.”

Your brow furrows. “Nance?” your voice rings down to the lower rungs, “Ronnie here says you were implicated in her detention-getting.”

“Yeah, um. Well, I heard about everything when you went–”

“--totally awesome psycho–”

“--in the parking lot and… I just. I wanted to clean up all that shit. From your locker. And then Nicole came by, smacking her stupid gum, and it kind of got ugly.”

Nicole. The irony of it, Nicole, gnashing out shittalk about you and Eddie in order to impress whatever unfortunate member of the wrestling squad she’d dug her press-ons into this week. Nicole, who’d already invaded Eddie’s territory, much to her apparent shame.

What a majorette of a bitch.

You would’ve given anything to be ringside for this, her versus Nancy.

“You toed up to Nicole Summers?” a little pause, your voice goes smaller, “For me?”

Nancy sits up, her perm clouding around her. She points her chisel Ecker-ward.

“Ronnie was the one who smacked all her books out of her hand.”

Ronnie pffts. “Like she hasn’t done that to me a million times. Eye for an eye.”

“Nicole wouldn’t even go near her on account of that one time she bit that one kid for catcalling her.”

“Oh, stop,” Ronnie’s gathering a blush, batting her hand all coquettish.

“Wait, that was real?” you say, eyes darting between them, “I thought that was just some freak rumor we came up with.”

Rabid Ecker was one of the less clever nicknames your group of crown ghouls had come up with, so it obviously didn’t stick too long.

“We?” Nancy scoffs, not mean.

“The royal ‘we’,” Robin Buckley drawls from her prostrate position on the bleachers. That sounds mean, the bite in her voice.

Your hackles can’t help but rise at that cold snap in her tone. Does she have a fucking problem, or something?

“And why are you here, Robin?” you call, hands knitting in your lap.

“I was with these bozos,” she says, a note-faithful mockery of your pointed voice, “For some godforsaken reason… and now I really wish I wasn’t.”

“Why’s that?” you press.

Nancy’s whole upper half tenses. “Robin–”

Robin’s chisel clatters on the bench, a toss made out of frustration. She looks to the three of you with pursed lips before letting loose.

“Steve found out,” Robin says, “About the pregnancy test thing. In like, the worst way he could possibly find out, which is so goddamn unfair, unfair in the first place because of Nancy not telling him–like, I get it, your choice or whatever but you guys have been together for, like, a really significant period of time and you know how he feels about you–”

You and Ronnie can’t even get a breath in before Nancy rises from her seat, fingernails digging into tiny little fists at her side. She’s all spit and fury, she’s on Robin.

“Oh yeah, the worst way he could find out, Robin, the worst way which is that you blabbed to him!” Nancy yells, ricocheting around the gym, “‘Oh, I couldn’t help it, he asked me what was wrong and it all just came out–’ Give me a break! I mean, are you really that co-dependent that no one can tell you anything in confidence without you running to tell Steve?”

Robin’s face seizes in a snarl. “Are you really that stupid that you forgot to use protection with your long term boyfriend?”

“What is your problem?” Nancy’s voice whistles through her teeth, sheer exasperation, “How is this any of your business?”

“Should we stop this?” Ronnie whispers, with no intention of moving.

You shake your head in tiny, tiny increments, gossip monger past getting the best of you. “I kinda wanna see where this goes.”

“He is my friend, Nancy! And you broke his heart, dumping him right after– after–!”

Both your and Ronnie’s mouths drop into an ‘o’. You’re kind of disappointed–a big Wheeler-Harrington bust up and you weren’t first on the call list?!

“Jesus, Robin!” Nancy spits, perm flying, stomping towards Robin, “Get a personality! Sublimating yourself onto Steve Harrington isn’t doing you any favors!”

“Why, Nancy? I thought you loved him.” What confusing wording.

“I–”

Okay, these two girls are walking right into shit you can’t take back territory. You and Ronnie rush the bleachers, breaking the negative space between them both.

“Ladies! Break it up!”

“You heard Kaminsky! We’re all holding chisels, this could get ugly fast!”

You look to Nancy and her eyes are glistening. Reddening with the heat of anger and frustration. Robin’s jaw has hardened into a tough clinch, arms bound around her chest. Ronnie, she just lingers awkwardly, not quite knowing where to look. Your hand goes out to Nancy’s elbow, and she jerks away from you at first.

“Let’s go. Come on.”

“We’re supposed to be chiseling,” Nancy seethes. Your eyes roll, no patience for this go-nowhere brat routine, and you lead her to the other end of the bleachers anyway. Saying something like, we’ll take one end, Ronnie and Robin take the other, we’ll get this shit cleared in no time.

Nancy starts working furiously, but that’s kind of not what you had in mind here.

“You broke up with Steve?�� you ask, point blank. Like she’d ask you.

She keeps chiseling for a few heavy, angry seconds. “I wasn’t gonna tell him, you know. I wasn’t gonna tell him, and we were gonna be fine. He could have lived without knowing. And then–fucking Buckley– and he had all these questions.”

“Like what?”

“Like why didn’t I tell him. And why was I so put out by the idea. Like, why didn’t I want to have his hypothetical baby at age seventeen… stupid shit like that.”

“He’s sensitive.”

“He’s a moron.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” as if you didn’t have irrefutable proof in her favor. But that was the old Steve Harrington, wasn’t it? He’s meant to be some soft-hearted do-gooder dream boy now, right?

“No, Lacy, he’s a moron,” Nancy hisses, spit flying again; you’ve never seen her like this. Blue eyes bold and frightening with conviction. “Why should I have to tell Steve about something like that if it’s just a big nothing? If I was never even actually pregnant or whatever? Why can’t I just have that to forget about myself? Why do I owe him part of every single goddamn decision I make about my life?”

This is a bigger conversation, isn’t it? What you’d once regarded as poor Nancy and her perfect boyfriend, boo-fucking-hoo is now poor Nancy and her perfect boyfriend, stifled by his redemption.

“At least if he was still an asshole, I wouldn’t feel bad about breaking up with him. After all this.”

“Now it’s just like you’ve kicked a puppy.”

“Exactly.”

“What total bullshit.”

Nancy shoots the tiniest smile up at you, a stiff little nod bobbing her neck forward.

There’s a long beat as your focus reframes around Nancy. All the two of you wanted were lives of your own. Existences not indebted to anybody, good or bad. Shit.

“I’m the sublimator, by the way. I know that,” Nancy whispers, great big eyeballs glittering at you, “It’s easy to… fold into someone like Steve when, y’know… you’re not exactly likeable on your own. I just. I wanted to hurt her. She doesn’t deserve it. But I wanted to.”

Her chisel gestures towards Robin, working alongside Ronnie in relative silence that Ronnie awkwardly tries to puncture.

You understand that. Wanting to hurt people after you feel like they’ve breached your trust. Even accidentally. And doing it. And the ugliness of the shame after, you’re familiar with that too.

You reach forward and brush a little lint off her collar. “Thanks for getting in trouble for me, by the way. With that stupid prank and everything.”

“What are you talking about?” she scoffs softly, “You covered for me. And you didn’t have to.”

“Hey,” you hold out your pinkie finger. It’s the least you can do. “Promise is a promise, right?”

—

The members of Hellfire Club gather in an awkward row, standing under the odd, warm glow of the drama room lights like a police lineup of suspects least likely to score a date to homecoming. Sorry, Ronnie.

“What do you think,” you say, swiveling your focus to Jonathan, who’s standing there twice as awkwardly with his camera slung around his neck, “Should we take ‘em outside, make ‘em do Abbey Road?”

In the middle of it all sits the man who can’t help but be of the hour, what with the throne and the glowering and the gravitational pull. Eddie, slumped into that wild set piece left over from god knows what drama club production of, like, Henry VI or Pirates of Penzance or whatever, is so beyond unhappy with what’s unfolding in front of him.

Good.

Ronnie clearly hadn’t even fluffed him into the idea. Which she offered to do, when you’d hitched a ride home on the back of her bike after the tension of Saturday detention dissipated. You’d firmly nixed the idea, the sneak attack being the whole point of this thing.

You’d also learned that a two week suspension was no way no how going to keep Eddie from sneaking in and running this Hellfire session, which meant your article wouldn’t be delayed after all.

So, nah. Good ol’ Ronnie, she just let you stalk in there with your notebook and your pen and your glasses and your Pentax-wielding Jonathan Byers, ready to entirely fuck up Eddie’s day, which gave him no opportunity to protest or call for embargo. Because if he did, it’d raise eyebrows of suspicion and everyone would be like, I thought you two were weird trailer park friends? Is something going on? Something emotionally incoherent and ambiguously erotic? Should we tell everyone? Should we call the Mayor?

“Capital idea,” Eddie says, not exactly to you, but to those in general attendance like he’s playing to the cheap seats, “Maybe I can mow them down in my van and save them from this torture.”

Your smile tightens and Eddie matches your expression, both your mouths straining against your skulls. Wisecracks will not save him. He should know that by now.

“Let’s get a couple of the maestro while I excavate the disciples’ brains,” come the instructions and a swift pat to Jonathan’s shoulder. He flashes you a bewildered kind of look.

“Wh– how do you… want him?”

Incredible phrasing. You glance at Eddie, but not really at him–not enough that he can register and sucker your gaze in. Bathed under the dramatic glow like he was born to sprawl all cock-kneed on a throne like that.

“Exsanguinated and hung on a meat hook, preferably,” you say to Jonathan, “But, I trust you. Do whatever.”

As you gather the rest of the Hellfire denizens at the end of the table to interview them talking head style, Jonathan Byers slinks towards Eddie.

Eddie shifts uncomfortably, less equipped to keep up that fuck you stormcloud persona when he’s at the other end of a focusing lens. Plus, Byers always kind of gave him the creeps. Not to be a dick, but. Here we are.

Byers, to Eddie’s complete and utter horror, clears his throat and attempts to scrounge up some semblance of conversation. But, of course, it’s Jonathan Byers so it’s not fucking small talk. Any other day of the week, Eddie could get behind the notion of eschewing such how about this weather we’ve been having type social norms but Byers decides to jump in with–

“So you guys are…” he trails, leading the witness. Snap goes his little aperture. That’s unfair. Means he caught Eddie’s immediate facial reaction which, hands up, he has never been good at hiding.

“Neighbors,” Eddie supplies in a rush, twisting on his throne again. “She can… hear me yelling about DnD from my trailer. S’why she’s here. To shut me up, I guess.”

Byers adjusts his stance, capturing Eddie from a lower angle– a little more badass looking, he hopes. Frame the fucking curls, for god’s sake.

“Gotcha journalism,” Byers quips. Byers quips.

Eddie’s mouth relaxes and he huffs out a little, “Exactly.”

Byers shifts yet again, clearly covering all wondrous angles with his dinky little thirty-five millimetre whatever the fuck.

It’s not that this whole sneak attack article for the Streak thing is getting under Eddie’s skin– Eddie didn’t even have a chance to acknowledge it getting under his skin. You just breezed in here and started sticking bamboo spikes under his fingernails, like the little warmongtrix you are.

And now you’re sitting at the end of the game table, ruby red end of your fountain pen pointing at Gareth, noting down everything he says without even the slightest hint of condescension. These dorks are looking at you in awe and fear, save for Ronnie who just looks smug, and you’re listening to them. Really listening to them. Your face fixed with that hard little glare that tells him you’re recording the minutiae of their answers.

Eddie digs the pad of his thumb into his lip. Why would you want to do this? Why aren’t you avoiding him at all human cost? What is your angle here?

“She’s cool, y’know.” Click, goes Byer’s camera again. “Lacy.”

Eddie’s voice comes out distant, his focus tugging away from you super, super slowly.

“I heard you blew it with her.”

Byers, caught off guard, lowers his lens. “She told you about that?”

Eddie shrugs, like it’s nothing. It’d be easier to pretend like the idea of you and Byers hanging out was nothing if Byers and Eddie weren’t both classified outsiders.

“Well, uh,” Byers fiddles with something on his camera, shrugging in turn, “It was weird, talking to Lacy back then. You know. She was kind of–”

“She’s different now.” Eddie answers too fast, springing to a defense that didn’t call for him. He sits up a little bit straighter, spine iron-rodding, and tries to recover. “I mean. She’s retired the whole icy Swatch rat bit. She’s not, like– pretending to be something.”

Jonathan gets this look on his face. One last click of the camera.

“I wouldn’t know. I blew it, remember?” But you didn’t, man.

Little does he know.

“Are we done?” Eddie says, launching himself from his chair and slapping palms on the table. His DM screen shakes. Byers steps back with a flared little danger zone! look tossed your way. “We’ve already lost–”

“--fifteen minutes of glorious game time?” you drawl, crossing a final ‘t’ in your notes. “Of course. My apologies. Tight schedule?”

Your eyebrow arches as you flash your eyes up at him. His jaw flares. You– you’re good. You’re vicious and you’re good.

“Theee tightest,” Eddie grits through the falsest of grins and jerks his head, waves flying and the rest of his little Hellfire sheepies following in motion to take their seats.

Ronnie takes her time, mumbling under her breath, “You sure this is a good idea?”

And she was right, with what she’d said before. You are using this as an excuse to get in his face–bolstered only by the fact that he had now gotten in your pants, and you weren’t letting him slink off that easy. Especially with the workplace cameo appearance from Al Munson that you had just been forced to live through.

You’d been looking over your shoulder ever since, expecting to see him leering at you over those sickening aviator sunglasses.

“Oh, I’m positive,” you assure her, turning to Jonathan. “I need, like, one or two shots of them playing then you can take off.”

“Waiwaiwaiwaiwaiwaiwait,” Eddie interrupts, an arm raising over his head to signal halt, “Okay, so first, you storm the castle with your little camera boy without my approval, now you think you’re going to stay for the game?” His ire is genuine. “It’s Hellfire Club, Lacy. Members only. We don’t need bleacher bunnies.”

“Oh, come on, Munson!” you lilt, situating yourself on an abandoned desk, away from the game table. “The people want to know how the Satanic sausage is made.”

“The people being?”

“Your critics and fans. What is this all for, if not to piss off Hawkins’ Presbyterian and garner a whole new legion of Hellfire acolytes, huh?”

“We don’t need any help from the press on that front.”

“Really?” You drag out your single-word answer, using the seconds to count the minimal amount of players in the room. Not even Ronnie could boast 100% attendance, with her marching band obligations clashing with Hellfire sessions. Eddie glares at you. Yeah, yeah.

“A–actually, Eddie… I think it’d be… pretty cool,” Gareth says, waver slowly fading out of his voice. “I mean, if we’re in the school paper, my Mom’ll be less suspicious that we’re like–”

“--doing k-bombs in the drama room…” you mutter, loud enough that only Jonathan can hear.

“--and stuff.”

Eddie exhales so hard his nostrils flare, his shoulders tense, he’s about to shit.

“And who else would like to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Gareth the Treacherous here?” he snarls, looking pointedly around the table, “Jeff? Dougie? Cyrus? Ecker?”

The dorks erupt in yapping agreement, totally swinging for Gareth’s angle.

“Shut up!” Eddie barks, throwing himself back onto his throne. Ringed fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But this, in the business, is what they call a mutiny. Don’t come cryin’ to me when you’re all gettin’ swirlies with half of the Weekly Streak stuffed in your goddamn mouths.”

That’s creative. He really could have had a fruitful career as a bully if he wasn’t so gooey in the middle.

“Munson, I promise you can ride circles around me on a motorbike on live TV if this all goes to shit.”

You make a fluttering hand motion that reads proceed, which he, naturally, hates. He stares at you, like white light white heat searing through stares at you. And then his eyes shut. He takes a deep breath.

What follows is… exactly what you should have expected, actually.

Eddie Munson transports the present-and-correct party of adventurers back into the eye of their campaign. Their mission? Infiltrate a cult of royal knights that have been bewitched by a high priest who is forcing them to sacrifice the kingdom’s innocents in order to fuel his dastardly arcane magic. The plot is… involved. You’d done a light touch of research on how exactly the dragons and the dungeons all worked, so to speak, but it didn’t really seep into the membrane. It’s something you could only really engage with if you saw it in action– you’d have to rely on Eddie and company to fill in the blanks that the extensive lore left. Like, how exactly did these mythical dice come into play? How does a character sheet set you up for success, or failure? What the fuck is a skill check and why does it read so complicated?

And fill in they… kind of did.

Aside from the technical aspects, you find yourself suckered into the story. Quite literally, gripping your seat as Ronnie’s character–a highly capable bard, from what you understand–attempts to escape the hateful royal sect and find her way back to her party. They’d taken her hostage, and she’s managed to escape her chains but they’re ruthless, on her like dogs. Eddie illustrates every sweaty, panicky movement as they close in on her, and your fine, painted fingernails are dug into every word.

Eddie weaves these stories like gossamer– both in the sense of delicate intricacy and destructive nature of that big red monster thing from Looney Tunes. Each plot twist is created to elicit a sense of true foreboding, embellishing how effective his storytelling is. It forces each and every person at the table to face fear head on, dig deep and use what they were given in order to prevail, even if they’re shaking in their boots while doing it– shit, this is good, you should be writing this down.

Blindly, you sketch the word gossamer into your journal, not tearing your eyes away from the table. You barely notice the flash going off to your immediate right– Jonathan Byers’ lens pointed right at you.

“Uh–” you start, Jonathan reaching to grab his jacket from behind you as the game goes on.

“I’m headin’ out– gotta pick Will up from…” he trails off, but you fill in the blank. Nancy had mentioned that Mike was hosting his friends for a DnD session tonight too, and the party naturally included the most junior Byers. You nod, checking the time– Jesus, where had the last three hours gone?

“Tell Nancy I said hey, if you see her,” you say, “and thank you.”

Jonathan shrinks into himself, bashful. “Don’t worry about it.” A beat. “I still want that Echo & the Bunnymen, though.”

Your face peels into a grin that says don’t worry, I”m good for it! and you wave him off. The Hellfire party don’t even notice his leaving, except for Eddie who, being judge, jury and executioner, notices everything.

“...and on that sweltering note, germies and Eckermen, we must bid each other good eventide. Until next time.”

An operatic groan of disapproval goes up from the players, and you realize this must be a regular thing. Eddie always leaving them wanting more. Tease.

“I know, I know, if you had it your way, you’d be locked in here, pissing in buckets and the show would go on all night,” Eddie jeers, rising from his seat to start collecting his stuff, “but I wouldn’t inflict that on the janitorial staff. ‘kay? Scat. Outta my sight.”

With great indignation that swiftly turns into backslaps of appreciation, the Hellfire Club moves out of the drama room one by one. You stay put, and Eddie avoids your eyes completely.

Folding shit back into that madly overstuffed DM folder, he throws a strained-casual, “Need a ride?” to Ronnie, the last straggler.

She shakes her head, smile barely contained. “Uh-uh! Two wheeled my way here and I’ll two wheel my way back– you, uh, have fun though.”

“Bye, Ronnie,” you call after her, voice properly piercing through the air for the first time in hours. Eddie reacts like he’d completely forgotten you were there. Which, impossible. It’s also impossible for him to keep up the whole punk-ass overlord act when it’s just the two of you. As it is now.

Alone, together. Again.

There’s a charge between you, as if that even needs pointing out. Like the electric fences surrounding McCorkle’s farm.

You and the wagonful of your one-time buddies, Carol and Tommy and Tina et al, used to drive out there more than a little under the influence. Your favorite trespassing activity was reaching out for the electric fence, hooking your fingers around it to feel the darting shock permeating your skin.

“What the fuck are you doing? Can’t that, like, fry your brain?” Carol’d ask you, slugging back the last of her beer as Tommy and Steve Harrington attempted to tip a cow in the background somewhere.

“Try it, Care,” you’d giggled, half drunk and half coursing with adrenaline, half alive and half dead, “It feels weird. It feels good!”

You’d woken up the next morning in your plush bedroom in Loch Nora, two little blisters on your fingers, smarting from all that pleasure seeking. Did you regret it? Or did it just make you want to do it again?

Eddie still doesn’t look at you as he speaks from the opposite end of the table.

“Get everything you need?”

“No,” you answer, short. “Missing my key interview.”

Now he looks. Now he has the nerve to. And irises lock on irises, Eddie frozen in place. He knows he’s not getting out of this.

What’s more, you don’t think he really wants to.

“Pretty controversial subject matter,” he says, tone a whole shade softer than the commanding voice of God he’d used through the duration of the session. A little higher. Nervous. “What with the panic, and all.”

“Me and controversy are bedfellows,” your shoulder darts up, “I’m the big spoon.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod; your tone is as marble-solid as ever, eyes trained and undarting, “Like when I implied the Tigers were straddling a generation-defining line of bold faced failure. I got in a lot of trouble for that.”

The corners of Eddie’s mouth twitch a little. “Define ‘a lot of trouble’ by your standards.”

“They made me print a retraction!” You’re genuinely incensed by the memory, hitching forward in your seat, “I mean, how insane? ‘Bad for school spirit,’ they said. Like I’m some kind of pep exorcist.”

Eddie tongue folds in between his teeth and he turns his head a split second too late. You can see him biting back a snicker, or something, and point to Lacy and yadda yadda yadda—but you smile, and the tension feels like it’s waning. Thank god, because it is suffocating you. You take your in and up you get, moving to the seat closest to his right-hand side.

“Can we get started?” The fountain pen is uncapped, the notebook cracked, your legs crossing. Eddie sinks back into the throne, his face warming up under the yellow stage lights.

“Okay. Hit me with your best shot.” Fire away.

You’re quick with it. “Why this?”

“Really? That’s your first question?” Eddie looks bemused.

“It’s the least rudimentary of all the Ws,” you explain nice and plainly, plucking up fingers to illustrate your points, “People know who you are–against their will, mostly. People can glean what the game is–or will, once I put a fine point on the… everything that just happened there. What people don’t get is why. Why indulge yourself in this?”

His fingers knit together in his lap, nearly shy.

“Because it’s fun.”

“Nope, too vague.”

“Vague?”

You physically knock the notion with a waving hand, leaning closer over the table, errant miniatures and spare pencils still scattered there.

“Basketball is fun. Chess club is fun. Throwing rocks into a rusted can of SpaghettiOs is fun if you can make a case for it. Too vague. Didn’t come here for the everyman answer.”

“What did you come here for?” That’s loaded. The way he’s daring himself to look at you is loaded. How soft his voice turns is loaded.

“The Munson answer.” It hangs in the air like someone dropped off the gallows. “Dig for me.”

A long, metastasizing beat. Resistance is futile, as it is and ever will be with you. Eddie hitches his arms across his chest, hiding a smile in the heel of his palm. Flattery works with him. Even if you'd never call this flattery.

“Escape,” he eventually tells you.

“Go on,” you press.

“There is this… insatiability when it comes to fantasy. To stories like this, the kind with big, thriving worldscapes. Reading ‘em, even writing ‘em– it’s good, but it isn’t enough sometimes. Sometimes you want to wrap yourself up in the reality of elsewhere. Travel to a world where things are different.”

“But not idyllic.”

Eddie’s eyebrows pull together.

“No. If these campaigns were just… the bad guys are defeated by a mighty sword that you and you alone always happen to have on you, that’s not a campaign. That’s a circle jerk.”

“The idea is to be challenged. To fight for something.”

“Right. To adventure. Beat the odds.”

“And you can’t do that alone.”

“Well, you can. I think that’s called, like, writing a book.”

“Ohh-kay, Eddie…”

“No, no, no, I mean,” Eddie shakes his head, planting his elbows on the table top, “Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the thrill of the unknown? Of not knowing what the other characters are gonna do, or what sick twist the dastardly, brilliant DM is gonna pull out next?”

He’s on one now, so you don’t stop him. Eddie’s eye takes on that mercurial shine, the same one he had while he was cruise directing the campaign. You wonder when he got like this—got bit by the God complex bug. Here, he could dare people to defy him when he’d been the defiant one his whole life.

You think about a littler him, yearning for escape.

“It also doesn’t work if everyone wants to be a hero. Too many heroes spoil the stew, okay, so you need to find other, y’know, likeminded weirdos who fall into different alignments. Those alignments only work when they’re played off other characters. Your merry band of outlaws or pirates or underdogs or whoever. You work together, or you betray each other, or you come back together because of some mighty sworn oath and you see your mission through. It’s not about winning or losing, y’know? Whatever happens out there,” he gestures to beyond the barricade of the drama room doors, “doesn’t matter. Whether life’s beating the shit out of them or not, my little acolytes, as you call ‘em, sit at this table and they’re part of something bigger. Something thrilling. Magical. Alchemic. They’re part of–”

“--a team.” You think about a littler him, yearning for people to escape with.

Eddie flaps his ever-animated hands. “Not my phrasing. But.”

“That thread runs through it all,” you say, drawing a line down the center of your notes with the inactive end of your pen, “Teamwork. Belonging. Victory– an escape from the mundane to victory, especially when you can’t find it elsewhere.”

Eddie’s chin rests on the back of his hand as he squints at you. “Sounding a little sportsmanlike there, Lacy.”

“And?”

“Thought you weren’t pulling for the everyman answer.”

“A hook’s a hook’s a hook,” you quirk your eyebrows, “–and, when you put it that way—”

“When you put it that way.”

“—what really makes you any different from, say, the Tigers?”

“Besides the cult of personality surrounding all jocks–”

“As if you don’t court your own little cult of personality—“

“—we actually win our campaigns.”

You start to retort, then stop. Letting that sink in.

“Oh. Oh, that’s good,” you say, sketching it down.

“I foresee letters to the editor in your future,” Eddie says, and he’s smug about it. Anything to aggregate the status quo, no matter what the blowback might be.

No one in their right mind here behaves like him. He just… does whatever he wants.

You find yourself wanting to touch the fence.

And maybe it’s that you stare at him a beat or so too long, but Eddie shifts his gaze down to the wood grain, flexing his hand. Scabs still marring his knuckles and all.

“It wasn’t broken or anything, then?” you ask, gesturing to his hand.

Eddie looks back up with a drag. You can feel what’s coming.

“Oh no, it was shattered,” he tells you, eyes-wide earnest and lying through his teeth, “My bones just heal super fast. My mom, she ate a shit ton of canned spinach when I was in ute.”

“Right, the calcium—”

“Nah. Rare botulism side effect,” he shrugs like, whaddaya gonna do!

Dumbass.

“Rare Botulism Side Effect is a good album title.”

“I’ll tell the guys.”

Silence falls again, and if you reach around, there’s something close to normalcy in there. Among the spikes and confusion.

“Um,” Eddie’s face contorts into a tiny cringe, “I found out what the… what the prank was, by the way. I obviously wasn’t here to witness the whole masterpiece theater of it all but– but Ronnie told me.”

A tight and ugly feeling constricts your chest. You look away, nodding through a grimace. You’d opened your locker with the practiced caution of someone diffusing a bomb since that whole incident, which sucks as someone who derives real joy from slamming metal doors.

“Pretty creative bit, huh?” is all you offer.

“Almost too creative for Hargrove,” Eddie counters, uprighting a fallen miniature with one finger.

“Are you trying to say I was being hysteric, jumping on his car?” It sounds like you’re offended, but.

“No,” Eddie meets you right where you’re at with this sparkle framing his stare, “I’m saying it was probably a collaborative effort. You could go seek even more batshit revenge, if you wanted to.”

“And would you be there to stop me before I cut Carol Perkins’ breaks?”

You can see Eddie biting his tongue between his teeth oh-so-lightly… Saliva catching in the low light. It’s warm in here. Stuffy.

“Prob–”

“I miss you.”

You cut him off in such a harsh, unforgiving way that Eddie feels his words rammed back down his throat. He blinks a couple of times, tempted to shake his head to make sure he heard you right. But there you are, your sight line running clean through him. You couldn’t be talking to anybody else.

“You do?” His voice is so small that his lips barely move. His lips, teased by his tongue, wetting them.

“Don’t act brand new. Everything’s harder without you. You have to know that.”

He gets snagged on the angles in your voice. By without you, he can only imagine you mean since he started giving you the cold shoulder and you started hitching rides in that college dork’s Ford Cortina. And by everything, he can only imagine…

“Lace…”

This is hard. This is horrible. This is uncomfortable and risky and as exposed as you have ever been, but it’s necessary.

“I can’t stand the tension of not being around you,” you say, breath feeling harsher as it speeds past your molars, “And I can’t stand the tension when I’m with you either, with you and wanting to–... so what do I do, Eddie?”

You focus on him, adjusting as if you were looking through the viewfinder of Jonathan’s Pentax. Eddie’s face, bewildered and angelic, with his parted mouth and his honorific glow of the stage lights haloing the frizz in his hair. He looks like something you want to commit to memory, as if to say see?! How could you deny this?

You rise from your seat, ever the investigator, and bear over him with hands on the table. Cards on the table, too. A genuine question smarts in your mouth, too sour candy you have to spit out.

“What do I do, Eddie?”

Eddie inhales with a sharp touch as you stand up, inspecting, demanding. He goes to tell you I don’t know… in the meekest of tones but the arch in your eyebrows says don’t you goddamn dare. You terrify him, and you make him dig.

“Forget it. Forget about all of it,” he breathes, almost tasting your perfume, “We can reset. Blank slate. Pretend like we don’t know each other. Pretend like none of this ever happened. It’d be better. Safer. Easy. Right? We could totally do that. We’ve fooled everybody so far. Even ourselves, into thinking this was… we could...”

“Fuck you,” you say in a soft rush.

Eddie only realizes that you’re both smiling when you kiss him. It’s clumsy at first, teeth knocking and everything, your hands winding around his collar and your frigid fingertips finding his neck. The shock of your skin on his, the matchstick crack of your mouth on his propels Eddie onto his motherfucking feet. He leans over you, knocking you into the table as your tongue works its way deep into his mouth.

You give him an, “Mm,” and if feels like an ascent to heaven.

Sparkles in the static makes the stuffiness evaporate, makes the room come alive. Your legs part to invite him closer to you, your hands faster and more insistent than his are. You pull at the hem of his Hellfire shirt and yank your head back, a string of saliva married between your mouths.

Fingers are more bold than they were in the nurse’s office, weaving the leather out of Eddie’s belt buckle. A deep ridge etches between Eddie’s eyebrows and his hands are propped in a mid-air surrender. Your eyes, your everything fucking eyes, are weighted with want. And challenge. Because you always do have to get one up on him.

“Reset this.” You tug at his zipper. “Tell me to stop.”

“Lacy…” Eddie whispers, watching you pull at the waistband of his boxers with his mouth agape. He’d dreamt about this. Thought about this. His cock about jumps into your hand like you’re Snow White and it’s a goddamned hummingbird. Pen marks on your fingers. “Jesus, y–...”

Eddie’s arms angle up behind his head, like a strung-up marionette, fabric of his shirt ghosting against his nipples in the stretch. This only makes him angle his hips further into you, eyelids flickering and his blood breaking the speed limit on its descent. Fuck, and then you fucking touch him– fingertips along the length of him, featherlight and goading.

Eddie’s groan is broken, half-caught in his nose. You’re looking at him like he’s a bad puppy, like you’re teaching him a lesson in scolding masking adoration. You’re beautiful and he wants to tell you so, but it all comes out in a whimper. Your hand closes around his cock, thumb brushing rii-iii-iight along the ridge of his head.

“Tell me to stop,” you echo yourself, and you’re fascinated that it comes out sounding like you know what you’re doing. You don’t. You’ve never been thrust into a net of feeling like this, never had anyone look at you the way Eddie is now– like he’d throw himself on a bed of open flames for you, so long as you kept touching him. It’s drunkard-making. It’s a full headrush. The gradual glisten of his reddening head looks delicious to you.

“Tell me to s–”

Grip tightens around him and Eddie moans from right in his sternum, his arms dropping to cradle around your head. He can’t believe he’s doing this, he can’t believe he’s fucking doing this but–

“Stop,” he gasps, fingers winding in your hair. His entire spinal cord is begging him to buck into your hand, your mouth, your anything, but he steels himself. “Stopstopstop, Lacy. Fuck– fuck.”

Your eyes widen, cheek in his palm. “Really?” Said in the most painful, the most misread did I do something? lilted tone. Your hand doesn’t exactly go slack right away.

“Yeah. Yes,” Eddie murmurs, eyes screwing closed and opening again, the most manual effort ever put behind a blink. “I c–I didn’t do this right, the first time. This is stupid. This is so stupid.”

And so your hands go, and you feel the anchor of your heart slowly dropping… But Eddie drops his face right down to yours.

“You deserve… so much more than giving me a handy on school property,” he tells you, and feels almost coherent about it. “Hot as it is. Right out of my… nastiest dreams as it is.”

Oh. Oh. The corners of your mouth pick up as Eddie presses his forehead to yours, just about evening out his breathing.

“Had a premonition about this, didja?” The pressure of his face on yours, his breath on yours, his skin on yours. It’s nice.

“Came to me in a vision,” he grins, crooked. Slides his thumbs along your cheeks and kisses you, slowly and noisily. “I’m a prognosticator.” Tongue half in, half out your mouth. Your heartbeat sinks between your legs. In a good way. “Been known to prognosticate.”

“Five dollar vocab word,” you mumble into his mouth, can’t help but push your body against him like a cat begging for attention. Eddie’s lips latch to the space right below your ear, a place where his mouth makes you feel like cymbals are clashing in your stomach.

“Come home with me,” he says, the note of pleading in his voice making your legs go numb. His nose and his lips dragging against the side of your neck, begging you to focus on the details and not the bigger picture. “Please.” A swallow. A beat. A ragged whisper. “... I missed you. Too. Y’know?”

“I do…” you sigh into his curls, readjusting his boxers, “actually need a ride… so.”

—

The van ride back to Forest Hills is tight with a tension that makes you both laugh, your mouth still buzzing from the kiss Eddie’d laid on you right before he’d helped you into the passenger seat. Even after he’d insisted you not touch him from the drama room to the parking lot, insisted because, “This thing,” he’d gestured to his crotch, his hard-on painfully zipped into submission, “this thing is gonna get me hauled over by the cops!”

“Don’t laugh!” you scold, mouth straining around the gleaming smile you’re suppressing, body all giddy. Voice ringing clear and high even over the cranked radio. Sabbath, naturally, Vol. 4. Wheels of Confusion sounds like treacle to you, mixed in with his laugh.

“I’m no-oo-oht!” Eddie says, syllables punctuated with chuckles, “I just– I am expressly escorting you back to my place! To, like, have sex with me!” His hands beat against the wheel, teeth sunk into that pretty bottom lip, giddy-upping so hard he actually does swerve the van a little.

“Woah!” you yelp, “Eddie, the road! You should’ve let me drive, you’re feral!”

Eddie moon eyes at you, reaching over to pinch your chin. “Lace, please don’t get all sore about this, but I will never trust you behind the wheel of this van. She’s a delicate piece of machinery and you would drive her like it’s the demolition derby.”

Narrowed eyes and all, you kind of have to concede. You’ve never been the best behind the wheel, a road rageaholic, and if you were to add feeling as frisky as you do now on top of that sundae… you press Eddie’s DM binder into your lap a little harder. Down, girl. He doesn’t help, thumb stroking your chin and everything.

“This is suh-rreal.”

“Stop zooming out so hard or I’m not gonna have sex with you!” You’re kidding. You’re so completely kidding. If he doesn’t touch you someplace lower than your neck soon, you’re going to disintegrate.

But Eddie pauses. “Like, you don’t. Have to.” Panicky, freezy. Hastily pulling on his good guy hat. “You don’t– by the way. It’s whatever you want. Call timeout at any time. I know I’ve been kinda–”

“Eddie.”

“...you still want to though, right?”

The giggling dies down as you edge closer and closer to your respective trailers, darkness washed over them like a swathe of dark blue paint. The lights in both trailers are out. Nobody home. Wayne, something about the weekend, something about overtime. Your mom… who knew. She’d been moving around in shadows more so than usual lately.

Everything out there is dimmed, except you two. Eddie doesn’t waste a second once the motor shuts off and the radio is silenced; he slams the driver door shut but the teensiest knot of hesitation tightens in your stomach before he reaches the passenger door.

And then he reaches the passenger door, gathering you out of it and pushing you up against the side of the van. Snapping you out of it instantaneously using the bare force of his mouth against yours.

“Eddie…” mumbled, your lips barely unstuck.

“Sorry. Shit, sorry. I just really like kissing you.”

Something pops in your chest; he’s… Jesus, he’s so sweet. Coal-eyed and excitable and lovely, kissing you with nothing left to spare.

“Hey. Redirect,” you shiver, his fingertips pressing into your waist. “Come to my place.”

Eddie casts a wide glance back toward your double-wide. The forbidden castle. “Your… y–are you sure?”

“Sure that my bedsheets are cleaner than yours, yes.”

He murmurs, “Bedsheets,” with a darkened gaze and a grunt. Bedsheets. You wanted him in your bedsheets. “Get your key. Get your key. Get your key before me and my dick have a shared brain hemorrhage.”

That new lock doesn’t stick at all, thank god.

Eddie, ordinarily, would nosily register all of his surroundings– he had an extremely barebones idea of your place, cast mostly in darkness like this, from that first night he’d driven you back from the fallout at Harrington’s. But he’s too busy nosily exploring your throat with his tongue, recording and archiving every breathy sound you make as you tug him toward your bedroom.

Cardboard boxes still trip you up a couple times. Did you ever unpack, or what?

You break from his heady kiss, vision doubling, taking in a lungful of air as you push Eddie through the door. Spine flattens against it as it shuts, the noise drawing a little bit of sobriety into the room. You reach to hit the floor lamp on and your bedroom is illuminated in a soft, orange glow, a scarf thrown over the bulb to diffuse light. A half-effort to make you forget where you were sometimes. It works; the edges of everything softens, which is such a contrast to the definitive presence that he is.

Eddie’s chest is heaving. He attempts to get his bearings but he can barely get his eyes off of you, squirming ever-so-slightly, ever-so-sexily against the door. Like you’d captured him.

Lips swollen, watching you watch him from the door, he turns a little shy and turns to look at the ephemera around him instead.

He’s standing in your bedroom.

You’re far more cluttered than he expected you to be.

He expected pressed sheets and a pristine dressing table, like a prison cell designed by a set dresser from Dynasty.

Well, that’s wrong, actually. He expected that of the Lacy people thought you were.

On the walls are a couple of tear-outs from the Rolling Stones he’d helped you liberate from your porch in Loch Nora, a mission you’d bought him breakfast for but didn’t have to. But mostly, every surface in the room is covered in piles. Piles of books, records, tapes, pens, jewelry, nail polish. And the clothes. They hung from everywhere, bursting out of your tiny closet space like bodies trying to escape.

It’s confused in here; feels like someone who has unearthed parts of herself that she hasn’t been able to organize yet. Eddie wants to comb through it like a collector at a rarities market, he thinks, running a finger along the spine of a porcelain cat that sits on your dresser.

“Place is filthy, cheerleader.”

“You’d know about mess, freak.”

The only really neat, clear space is, fortunate for tonight’s entertainment purposes, the bed.

As he’s sliding his jacket (jackets, plural) off, Eddie’s eye travels to the window.

“Did you fix your blinds?” he asks, pivoting back and forth on his heel.

“My blinds?” you parrot. The blinds that had been broken when you moved in. The ones that sure were shuttered now. You’d made a point to fix them with whatever was left out of your first paycheck from the Bookstore. “How’d you know about my blinds?”

He could’ve lied, if he caught himself quicker. If he didn’t straighten up his back like someone had snapped him to attention. “Uuh.”

It dawns on you like a flashlight in the eyeballs. “Were you… watching me, Munson?”

Not spying, mind. Not peeping. Watching. Eddie sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, because whether or not he’s ever going to get to be here again kind of hangs in the balance right now.

“That. Dep…ends. What do you,” Please don’t kick him out. Please don’t kick him out. Look at the line of your fucking body as you round on him, staring him down like you want him for dinner. Christ, he hopes you want him for dinner.

Eddie swallows roughly, tone bumpy, face a dime store Halloween mask of nonchalance. Paper thin. “What do you think about that?”

Fact is, he’d subsisted on a couple of very guilty glimpses of you. Catching sight of the lines of your bare back and taught shoulders would keep him in jerk-off material for a week, just thinking about kneading out your knots and undoing your bra clasp with his teeth.

Eddie felt positively Victorian about it. Maybe you’d flash an ankle at him next and he’d be institutionalized for hysterics.

You look at him with the same pinpoint as you did earlier. Like you’re studying him. And then you edge closer, closer, nudging his knees apart. Echoes of the nurse’s office.

But this isn’t the goddamn nurse’s office. You’re not straining to adapt to the element of surprise. You know that the breath Eddie takes, shuddering and wondrous as you tilt his chin up to look at you, is a sound you want on repeat for as long as you can bear to hear sounds.

“They’ve blinded men for that, y’know? Before.”

Eddie can’t answer. Just let out a huh! as your fingers trace his jaw, thumb brushes his lip. His hands squeeze the curve of your ass, fingers beg into your thighs as he watches you, dumbstruck. His tongue unconsciously presses to the tip of your thumb and he hears your breath hitch.

A sustained shock travels up your neck.

“I mean, was it worth it?”

“Was it w… Lacy.” Eddie’s hands have breached the hem of your skirt and with a groan, his face burrows into the silken fabric of your shirt, like he’s trying to nudge it off with his nose or his mouth. Fingers are working mindlessly to loosen some article of clothing from your body and it makes you feel buzzy and trancelike. “Don’t ask stupid questions. I might have fuckin’ carpal tunnel because of you.”

Jesus. He makes you feel so…

Desired. Needed. You’ve never felt that way before, and you don’t quite know how to navigate it. So your buttons start coming undone with the work of one hand, the other shoving Eddie by the shoulder to lean back on your bed.

Eddie, here, among all your things. Disparate in your shabby little dollhouse, looking at you like you just swallowed the sun.

Your shirt comes off, and Eddie, in a game of match point, tugs his off too. Pause comes over the both of you. You’d seen him shirtless before; shower-bare in his trailer when the first security breach happened, a crack in the containment whatever you were pretending your relationship to each other was–affable enemies, irritated acquaintances. He’d looked at you like an animal cornered, tendons tense under his tattooed skin and you’d wanted to drag a finger or two down the center of his chest.

You didn’t, though. You’d sniped, asked where the cigarettes were.

This is all one big case of making up for lost time.

You’ve been looking at him so long, bra strap slipping off your shoulder, that Eddie leans forward. As if to come get you.

Remember me? I’m real. You can touch me. Touch me, please.

His warm arms pull you to him, pull you onto the bed, pull you against his lips. It’s gentler there; not as furtive. It says, hi, I’m here. Your arms, tugging him closer as he eases you beneath him say, good, I’ve been waiting. Eddie brushes his nose against yours, you laid down with your hair fanned out on the plush comforter.

Both your pulses must have stuttered at the same time.

His smile is serene but you can feel his forearms trembling. “I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack.”

“Don’t,” you tell him, very quietly while his hand nervously tries to find the zipper on your skirt, “I just got you back.”

Your hips lift to help him and you’re wiggling the thing off and you’re wiggling your tights off and he’s thrashing his jeans off only to land back between your parted legs with bouncing recoil from the mattress. Laughter biting in one another’s mouths. The nerves are teeming off him in waves and it makes you want to kiss him all over.

The feeling housed in your body is different; not jittery, but struck somehow. This doesn’t feel like the way it usually feels, the way it does when you disappear into spare rooms at parties or the shadow of Skull Rock or hitch your leg up against the center console of someone’s shitty car. It doesn’t feel rote, like you’re doing it to stack up experience points– that is a Dungeons and Dragons term you found particularly interesting. How many bad tongue kisses had you accepted just to feel like you’re progressing, instead of waiting for someone who wants to taste you like Eddie does?

Your bodies caged together, you feel the eager, hard, tragically clothed line of him rub against your center. Eddie manages to free your bra clasp on the first try, which you almost goadingly applaud him for–but he cuts you short with a bewitched stare, his lovely, hot mouth laving over your nipple as he slips the fabric away. It tears the first real moan from you, your back arching into his kneading fingers as his tongue curves over your tightening bud.

Eddie can’t believe what he’s hearing. He can barely see straight, but he’s trying to commit every second of this to a glorious Technicolor memory, sound and image capturing working overtime. The sound that comes from your beautiful, balmy mouth sounds fresh out the packet–like you’d never made it for anyone before. The look of suppressed surprise on your face confirms as much and Eddie feels like he might explode.

He, too, has no idea what he’s doing but he can’t help his hips from jerking into you as he plays on. Playing with your nipples, remembering that making them glisten with his spit will make you whimper, and so will kissing the center of your sternum. He’s watching wide-eyed and fascinated as your brow furrows and your legs tighten around him. He’s a wonderful student, when he wants to be.

Eddie is throbbing, and there’s too much cotton and lace between you.

There’s also this other thing, and it comes out of him like word upchuck as you try to tease his boxers down around his hips using only your feet.

“I oughta tell you,” Eddie whispers, voice all raspy, all boyish with his hair tickling your collarbone, “I’m, uh. I’m not good at this.”

“At what?” He��s got one hand roaming over your chest, the other making indents in the meat of your thigh. It feels like he’s holding your breath right in his hands.

A new shade of pink rises high in Eddie’s already straining cheeks. He really doesn’t want to have to use his words to spell it out. “Thiii-iiss.”

Oh. A rivulet of cold realization runs through you. Nicole. Cass. Girls daring themselves to get near to him. Experience points. The great freak experiment project.

“This isn’t that.” Your hands hold his chin, perhaps a little roughly, to make sure he’s listening. And Eddie is, breath baited. You press your forehead to his like he pressed his forehead to yours. “It’s not.”

He’s really about to ask you, what is it, then? but that feels like something you can work out later. Eddie lets you tug at his lips and you let him tug at your panties, arching up so you can wiggle them down your legs. His eyes cast to the downy hair at your mound, and it’d usually occur to you to apologize for your unshaven legs, as if it mattered.

But the way he regards you doesn’t call for that; it calls for you to open up for him. Spread.

A rough pad of a finger runs along your slit, feeling the generous drip that’s gathered, and Eddie moans as your breath hitches into an animalistic, “hahh!”-- he’s edging down your body to bury his face there. He wants to feel you, smell you, taste you. You tense at the sudden contact of his palms pressing your thighs open, his nose against your clit and he feels it. A jolt of worry passes through him. Did you not want that? “Sorry–”

“Don’t– no, Eddie, don’t stop,” you strain, laugh a little, “You just… surprised me. Keep– keep surprising me. Please.”

Shockwaves break through you as he gingerly offers his tongue. And more, and more, until he’s lapping at you with a vigor and no real direction. You dig against him, made speechless by the building ache in your core.

In your fantasies, you hadn’t anticipated him being so giving–so eager to please and explore. Like all things, this moment projected itself in your head with the hard edges of some imagined cockiness, Eddie telling you to spread your legs and you, nymphlike and fluid and still somehow holding all the indiscriminate ‘power’, doing so.

But this? This is soft and messy and spitty and real. Eddie is drooling and babbling into your pussy with the uncalculated effect of someone who has improvised his whole life and it’s tearing you at the seams. A satisfying little rip, every keen movement he makes.

You know when you’re close to climax, that familiar feeling of your cunt suckling at nothing, but it doesn’t feel as jagged as the first time he brought you there. Urgently, you tug at his hair, claw at his shoulders, begging for his attention.

“Eddie,” you gasp and his hands flex around your thighs at the sound of his name in your mouth. It’s yours, he wants to tell you, rutting heedlessly into the mattress from his position between your legs, keep it! Please! “Eddie, Eddie– come here, come to me.”

Your velveteen voice summons him, his face glistening from the exploration of you. Embarrassment threatens to ping at you, but it flames into want, seeing how wet and obscene he looks. That’s all from you?

Eddie does as he’s told, heart pounding– and the sensation of fabric dragging against the raw tip of his cock nearly makes him pass out.

“Fuck! Fuck, you–” he stammers as your hand pulls his heavy length free, balls tightening under your firm touch, “N-not fuck you, obvi-ously, but–hunh–okay, kinda fuck you…”

Eddie’s lips fold against yours as he attempts, with shuddering arms, to brace himself over you. He whines at your dexterity, swiping his head against your entrance. The wetness from him, the wetness from you– the sheer impact of sensation slices clean through him. It’s not a tactic, you’re not teasing; you’re angling to get him inside you. You need to get him inside you, your entire body is begging for it.

“Baby, please, please, I’m not gonna last–”

“Who said you had to?” you ask, voice a drop of dark syrup. Just for him. “Who said you had to?”

The earnestness in your eyes gives Eddie pause– for all of a pulsating second.

“I want you… inside. Don’t you want to feel me?” you ask with real conviction, thumb swiping over his moistened head in a way that makes his vision go galactic.

Eddie yanks your hand away, kissing roughly it, nailing it beside your head as he tries to ease into you.

“Want? It’s all I want–fuck, it’s all I fucking think about, Lacy–huhh–”

His first attempt results in a gasp of pain– the sting, the stretch, it’s a little much a little fast. The sharpness has you wincing and has Eddie searching your face with an arrested kind of guilt.

“Y–shit, baby, are you–”

“I’m okay,” you recover, hand steadying on his flushed cheek. “Just–slower. Ease it in. You’re– you’re pretty remarkable, Eddie.”

“Remarkable?” he mumbles against your cheek, focused and slowly lining his head against your entrance. “Really?”

“Prodigiou—ss, uhh–fuck!” Whispered swears come streaming from you as he sinks right into the velvety constraints of your cunt.

Your eyes roll right back, mouth tipping open and the grip of you arresting around him makes him cry out into your chest.

Eddie’s cock is long and heavy and thick, constricted to the point where you can nearly feel every ridge of him. It hurts, the stretch of him aches, but it’s delicious–pinned and sweetly painful.

“Prodigious–is a five dollar–fuckin’--vocab word–” he strains, lifting his hips ever so slightly– you’re clutched onto him so tight that you move with him. Eddie open-mouth groans against your neck. “Lacy, Jesus, you’re so tight–you feel so good–how the fuck do you feel so good? Who invented you?!”

There’s a tinge of a giggle in your moaning, which doesn’t let up. Eddie’s voice rings out like a church bell, making one slow stroke inside you, then another. Then another, then another, picking up speed, groans chorusing into the hollow of your neck around the lewd sound of his flesh slapping against yours. The sound alone brings you close to cumming. “Oh, pleasepleaseplease, fuck, Lace, I’m g– fuck, I’m–”

The way Eddie’s hands are carving permanent marks into your hips, the way his movements are halting, you get the idea that… “You holding out on me?” you ask him, short of breath around your panting but demanding still, “Don’t you dare–don’t you dare.”

“Lacy, uhh– please, ’mgonnafucking–”

“Cum for me? Are you?”

Your fingers tug at his curls so you can look at him as his face tenses. Eddie’s hair is flattened across his head, face glimmering with exertion. You drag your lips against his forehead, the salty flavor of sweat breaking across your tastebuds.

“For you, for you, shit, only for you–only for you, only fucking ever–fuck–”

His dark eyes have been blown out since he pulled you to the mattress, eyelids flickering over his irises as he pistons into you with speed that hurts but you love it.

You barely hear yourself beginning a prayer of dirty little succors, but there it is, easing him through his orgasm as he shudders a load between your legs. “You feel like nothing on this fucking earth, you know that, you’re so good for me...” The tension breaks with one final rasping cry, his expression dissolving into a softness as he exhales a lungful, neck stretching to lean into your touch.

A couple of half-cracked dry sobs escape him.

Looking up at you, cradled against your shoulder, Eddie’s cursing himself for every second he’s wasted not doing this with you.

And you, looking down, are stroking his damp curls from his forehead and cursing yourself. You’re going to burn the world down for this boy.

“Lacy. You–”

And then, y’know, the fucking front door of the trailer clicks.

Little too much deja vu for your liking these days!

Immediately, you seize upwards, jolting a confused Eddie with you– which breaks your heart, in a way, seeing him darty-eyed and shocked out of his bliss so fast.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.” These are not like your prior ‘fucks’, he can register through the haze of his post-nut state. These are bad fucks. So he responds in turn, “Fuck?”

“My mom!” You hiss, naked and scrambling. Panic crests on you like a wave, a wave that should have been an orgasm mind fucking you, and your fingernails tear at the comforter beneath you.

“Under, under, gogogo!”

Because if there’s one thing your mother, in all her former-center-of-attention glory, loves to do? It’s enter a room uninvited.

Case in fucking point–

“Lacy?” A perfunctory knuckle rap from the other side of the door, just as you manage to hide Eddie by shoving him behind you and tenting the comforter around you both. You’re praying to anything with a little more gusto than God that it works. And then, enter your mother and her cloud of Shalimar.

Soon as she opens the door, you can tell something is terribly off.

She’s smiling, face as serene as the Virgin Mary. Usually she’s got a sharpened dagger of a glare, just for you. Two of you haven’t been spending much quality time lately, see.

“Lacy! What–” your mom’s brow knits, but it’s a look of amusement. Which freaks you out. She’s looking at your just-fucked-by-Eddie-Munson hair, isn’t she? The mascara that’s surely streaking down your face? Does she know? Can she sense he’s in this very room? “--what are you doing?”

“Napping. Crying. What does it look like?” you snap, hiking the comforter up a little further and begging that she doesn’t notice Eddie’s incriminating clothes strewn across the floor.

Eddie, for his part, is not breathing. He’s crouched behind your bare ass, a position he’s in no rush to get out of, arms caged around your thighs like a petrified child. This is almost funny–or would be, if he wasn’t scared shitless of everything your mom would definitely do to him if she discovered him buck ass naked in your bed.

Dreamily, Eddie reminds himself that he’s buck ass naked, in your bed. He smiles into one of your cheeks and considers how biteable it is.

“Well. Wrap it up,” your mom says, tone still light, and you twinge at the irony. At least you’re on the pill. “I have a surprise.”

Slam. Door shuts. Your lamp wobbles with the force of it and Eddie emerges from behind you, like a freshly-fucked groundhog.

“She sounds happy,” he mumbles, arms sliding up around your waist.

You want to kiss the mirth out his mouth but you have to shove him back behind you first– cue your mom, doubling back through the door. Jesus!

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” you say, shortly and breathily because Eddie nips at your fucking ass cheek back there. “Just–you sound happy, mom!”

She shakes her head at you, a smile curving her tulip colored lips, like a mom from a detergent commercial. Y’know, were it not for the whole Italian widow getup she’s alway sporting.

“Get on with it already.”

You count to a full five before you even let out a breath, snapping your attention back to reality and the fact that Eddie Munson is very naked in your very bed.

“You gotta get out of here,” you tell him, and you want to kill yourself about it.

The both of you balance on your knees. Eddie tugs you into him with shining, begging eyes. Standing almost at full attention again, already.

“Jesus, that thing’s impressive.”

Eddie’s fingers wind around the hair at the nape of your neck. Despite the brief jolt of fear from your little interruption just now, he’s all romance–totally suckered, rose-colored glasses, the whole bit. Thoughts not exactly creating a straight line just yet, but he doesn’t care. He’s had his hands all over you for the better part of an evening now, and he doesn’t want to let up just yet. It might kill him. It might kill him.

There’s no unringing this bell between the two of you, and he knows that.

And you knew it first, because you know everything first.

“You sure?” he hums into your sweet lips, “You absolutely positive? Because I could be real, real quiet…”

Eddie’s also thrilled by the fact that he seems to know instinctively what to do to turn you on.

“What if I don’t want you to be real, real quiet?”

You kiss him back, sighing and sliding a single finger down the length of his cock.

“Lace…” he whimpers to you, his commandant fantasy of being dominant in the bedroom officially, officially escorted out back and shot. He wants to please you too badly. Be the jester in your court that makes you cackle and makes you cum.

“Lacy!” a shrill yell comes from the hall. Your eyes snap open, Eddie’s dancing with amusement and yours heaving with alarm.

“Fuck, okay, go! Window!”

Another scramble, you tossing jeans and socks and the rest of Eddie’s uniform at him while you clean yourself off, try to pull a robe around yourself. A stray thought occurs to you as you watch him trip over himself, ripping the hole in his jeans a little further–you hate what he wears, but you love it on him. And off him. And…

You yank up those blinds and unlatch the window with a faint smile. Nothing about you two makes any conceivable sense–

Eddie starts out the window, shirt barely pulled down his torso and his shoes in his hands, then turns to hook you to him by the elbow. Smiling with the full blush of his mouth, he kisses you. Firm and knowing and whole.

–except that. That makes sense.

The pad of his finger clears a lock of rumpled hair from your forehead.

“To be continued?” Eddie searches your face, with those crazy dark brimming universes of eyes.

Your heart is leaping in your ribcage. You nod sharply, gleaming back at him.

“I’m comin’ back for you, Lacy Doevksi,” he tells you with all the brazen confidence he can muster. “And I am gonna go down on you until I drown. On pain of death, I swear it.”

“Go!” you command, and regret it as soon as he drops out of your bedroom window. Eddie starts a cant toward his trailer across the way.

“Faster!” you hiss, just as an excuse to watch him.

He pivots mid-jog, hair swinging wildly, his hand grabbing at his crotch.

“You try runnin’ with a hard on! Witch!”

It’s far, far, far too quiet once he’s escaped through the front door of his trailer.

It's not fair, you think. You should be basking in some kind of afterglow, sharing a stupid cliché cigarette, you feel like you should be... celebrating this.

You shouldn't have to keep running away from each other.

The warmth the two of you had created, through mere physical friction or just how much you… you like each other, rapidly dissipated into a chill as you advance through your bedroom door, to deal with the other thing.

Surprise, you thought, What kind of goddamn surprise could mother o'mine have for me? Did she boost a bank? Did she win the Indiana Sweepstakes? I don’t want to know about any g–

“Lorelei.”

The universe has a way of shoving you back in place when you get ahead of yourself.

You don’t just stop in your tracks, you’re repelled a half-step backwards. The centrifugal force urging you away, telling you there’s an immediate threat in the heart of your home.

No one uses that name anymore. Not even him. Not since you were fourteen.

“Daddy.”

Your father sits at the shabby dinette that you and your mother don’t even share meals at, sits there in the suit he was sentenced in. A rich navy pinstripe, chosen because gray would have been too flashy and black would admit defeat. “Of course!” your mother had said, marveling at his ingenuity. But the pantomime of his defense was wearing real thin on you; whispering at school had started growing louder and louder and you were finding more and more chips in the porcelain of your father’s worldly facade.

“Why not compromise. Wear charcoal,” you’d said, leaning against the kitchen counter in Loch Nora, drinking orange juice from your parents’ wedding crystal as the movers taped up your boxes, “You can plead guilty and still look smug about it.”

Your father had smacked the flute from your hand and it shattered in forty thousand pieces on the ground. You didn’t move, didn’t breathe, because you knew if you did, you’d be next.

Navy it was. And navy it is. He sits at that dinette like he’s expecting white jacket service. You swear even more gray has started glimmering through his hair. Flashy.

“Should I ask how you’re here?” you say, stiff and scared. Your mother, standing at your father’s shoulder, tuts and sighs. Can’t you just enjoy this? she silently bemoans.

“Good behavior,” Ray smiles, “Can’t say the same for you. Can I, Lorelei?”

“Principal Higgins called,” your mom chimes in, “Or rather, that odious little secretary called. You think you could get a Saturday detention and they just wouldn’t tell us?”

“That’s why he’s here?” You laugh a little, inwardly. “With all due respect, Daddy, that’s a terrible reason to break out of prison.”

To your surprise, your father chuckles too. Makes your blood run cold, obviously.

“Y’know, I really didn’t anticipate this for my homecoming, I gotta tell you,” he says, shifting in his seat and plucking a cigarillo from his jacket pocket. “I mean, honestly. I thought, a nice bottle of Beaujolais–”

“We’re fresh out,” you gesture to your cringing mother.

“--a dinner at, Christ, Enzo’s, since that’s where our budget is at now,” his lighter flicks and ignites the end, “But no. I have to sit here and cross-examine my daughter about… fraternizing with the lowest of criminal elements.”

The lack of self awareness here is off the fucking charts. It makes your blood pressure spike.

“Take a seat, Lacy,” your father so gallantly gestures to the vinyl backed kitchen chair in front of him, “and tell me all about Eddie Munson.”

Chair drags aggressively against the linoleum. You sit, and swear that the next time you’re caught off guard by anyone’s father, it’d better be God himself.

This bit is getting old.

author's notes: so i'm not fucking around when i say i need to hear everyone's thoughts on what just happened immediately. i really do think that happenings-wise, this was my favourite chapter to write thus far. felt cathartic, from the al munson to the hellfire article of it all. anyway. onto the good stuff - like i feel like everyone who reads this series will have clocked this but of course i lifted the garlic slicing right out of goodfellas. i just think it's a perfect al munson attribute to have - al munson kicking out the jams instead of picking up his kid i know that's right - our dukes of hazzard ref is a tribute to my own personal al munson fancast - not that paris, texas but this paris, texas. (and you know when lacy eventually gets eddie to watch it he CRIES. they both cry) - i should probably put the repo man trailer in here as well - speaking of another fancast! the manager of forest hills trailer park is, of course, to me, in my heart, carl rodd. - the best song off of abbey road by the beatles, fight with the wall - SHOULD WE CALL THE MAYOR - lacy promising eddie that he can ride circles around her on a motor bike is a reference to hunter s thompson being ambushed on canadian television by one of the hells angels he wrote about in his book. dude rolls onto set on his hog. it's crazy. - eddie is kinda gossamer coded - cow tipping? at mccorkle's? anybody? our love is god - god wheels of confusion is kinda horny sounding huh i think that this might be the shortest references recap so far in the series?? one of them anyway. probably because i wrote 4k words of FILTH. anyway, thank you all so much for continuing to read this fucking thing. we're almost at the end of this part of the story which is wild to me. now let me get on your ass and remind you that REBLOGGING FICS IS ESSENTIAL TO YOUR FIC WRITERS HEALTH. SO ARE COMMENTS AND SO ARE ASKS so send those pls :) love you hellcats. be well, cats

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

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jjongsdingleberry · 2 years

Text

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙙𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙠𝙞𝙢 𝙟𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙝𝙮𝙪𝙣 (𝗦)

reader is gn, mild smut, lots and LOTS of fluff and aftercare, pet nicknames (such as baby, bubba, etc)

—

Content warning and disclaimer:

This story contains smut. If you’re under the age of 18 or/and is uncomfortable with these kind of stories, kindly click off. Before you intend to send me an angry paragraph, please note that this is NOT made for malicious intent at all. This was made for those who’s coping in a way that is more leaning towards the “horny” end of the spectrum. This story shouldn’t make people feel alone or discomfort, rather it should help them go though such difficult times or allow them to guide through their sexuality without feeling ashamed.

Let’s get on with the story, shall we?

—

“Hey.” He finally spoke to you after he saw your head peek out of the covers as he sat down at the corner of the bed.

“I heard that you haven’t been feeling good. Is everything alright?” And with that, you finally closed the laptop that was on your thighs and went to hug him. Tears poured down your eyes as you felt your cold, squishy boyfriend after what it felt like weeks.

“I… I miss you…” You quietly muffled since your head was on his chest.

“Hm?” He replied. “I can’t hear you, baby. Can you speak up a little more?”

You wanted to burst out and scream, but you didn’t want to worry Jonghyun too much. Although he knew about bits of it and reassured you that he would love you no matter what, this thing would be the only thing you would keep from him. You felt embarrassed, disgusted and horrified at the same time. You wanted to do something about it, but that something shouldn’t mean talking to Jonghyun about it.

“It’s fine, bubba. I’ll make you tea before you sleep.* You got out of the bed to go down to the kitchen - hoping that you could leave him and try to reflect on the very thing that was bothering you. You couldn’t itch your head about it, which it almost made you want to scratch so much that you puke. Every time you relive it, you would feel a tingling sensation in your head. Soon, it would turn worse to the point where you could feel your brain making those squiggles that you would do at secondary school. Your face was about to puff up like a tomato, your eyes were swirling like you was dancing in a ball with the same person who caused you stress and the slow, but an unsettling fluctuation into darkness.

The next time Jonghyun would see you was on the very floor with the kettle just finished its little click to confirm its termination and your phone was still on. Your eyes were still frozen shut, so he used your phone to call an ambulance.

Throughout the whole ride, you was still unconscious - and all you had was Jonghyun holding your weak, unresponsive hands and warming it up with his. His tears falls to his cheeks as he chats to you that you’ll be fine and that you’ll come home with his arms always around you the entire time.

After about 2 hours, you finally woke up. Luckily, nothing bad happened. It was just your blood pressure going up.

“Ohhh…” You groaned. “W-where am I?”

“You’re at the hospital.” Jonghyun replied. “But you seem fine so we may go the same day.”

“B-but- I’m not sick-” You whined out of fear. You had always been scared of going to the doctors. Since you was very young, you had always think that doctors would hurt you and take you away from everyone you knew and loved if you stayed long enough.

“Baby… you’re not sick, but the doctors are here to check if you’re ok, honey. You’ll be fine, I promise.” Jonghyun held your hand again, and you took your other hand with his. “I promise they don’t hurt you, baby. If they do, please let me know, but I doubt they would anyways. They’re very sweet people with lots of experiences and training.”

“B-but- the knives- they’re going to cut my mouth so I can’t speak to anyone anymore…” You shivered in fear as you watched Jonghyun lose it at that very moment. He knows that you wanted to leave straight away, but he wasn’t told that yet. The weakness in your eyes can indicate that you was exhausted, the red, bloodshot eyes also indicated that you had been up all night again.

“Y-y/n… is it that again…?” He looked at you firm in your eyes, trying not to cry.

Then, you bursted into tears and buried your head onto his chest. He pat your head as he strokes from your hair roots to your neck. He was massaging you so well, that you almost forgot what you was crying about. You looked at him with tears still on your eyes, but everything has been paused. You knew what you did and now Jonghyun knew. You felt awful for him to know, almost felt like you should of broken up with him.

As soon as you started facing away from Jonghyun, a tingle of pain arose. He felt all the pain you had to go through, and it was horrific.

“I shouldn’t even be around you.” You said with a cold frown on your face.

“Me? But what did I do?” Jonghyun panicked. This went on for the whole night, even when you was in bed together with him. Him wanting to make you feel better, he tried hugging you from behind. With that, you immediately pulled him away as you clutch the blanket more on your side as you slowly took Jonghyun’s side off him. Your blanket cocoon was the last thing you cared about and Jonghyun doing his hardest to please you. He was a sweetheart, and he wouldn’t take anything bad at all. He made you hot chocolate with marshmallows - which you left to cool for hours with barely no signs of consumption. He made your favourite sandwich alongside with your favourite snacks, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy you. He tried to make out with you, but that wasn’t it either. It seemed like you wanted to be away from him.

At this point, Jonghyun had enough and was worried for you. His beloved partner has been ignoring him for 4 hours and he needed to get to the bottom of this. He didn’t want you to be miserable like this, and so he tried to get you to the nearest GP at the nearest morning whilst you was groaning and refusing to help him out.

“I-I DON’T WANNA GO BACK!” You screamed out of fear once the word “doctor” was mentioned.

“Well then why haven’t you spoken to me, my love?” Jonghyun has always had this soft voice he would speak in, but it has gotten much firmer over the course of about 10 hours. He was losing his patience, but he surprisedly kept it in and calmly spoke to you.

“Listen Y/N. You either speak to me, or this is for your own good.” He went. “Do you understand me?”

You nodded and Jonghyun continued. “So, what’s it gonna be?”

Finally after few hours, you wrapped your arms around Jonghyun and cried on him. The sigh of relief could be heard as he smiled at you whilst soothingly stroking your back to make you feel comfortable again. His soft heart couldn’t take how vulnerable you was and so he began kissing you to see how you would react. You finally looked up after the 3rd time and did a little peck on his lips.

“You’re alright now?” He asked you.

“Yeah… I’m alright now. I’m sorry…”

“No no no.” He said as he shushed you with one of his finger. “It’s alright. I know you had been going through a lot.”

In what felt like days, you finally kissed Jonghyun and thankfully for him, it turned quite streamy. He carried you to a kitchen counter and began kissing you in different area of your body as he stripped you off your clothes after you finally allowed him to.

“Hey… do you want to go to the bedroom?” He asked as you jumped off the counter. You nodded at him and you both went hand to hand to your bedroom to continue the scene.

—

You laid in bed nude with Jonghyun as he gave small smooches on your cheeks. Every single kiss felt like a warm tickle as you would feel a slight tingle on your body. You enjoy being pampered by your boyfriend as he gives you all the love you didn’t think you needed this entire time.

And he was the only person you’d love to spend all of your time with.

—

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

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dxkk1104 · 2 years

Text

part one:

(⁃childhood friends to lovers, with drama

⁃angst

⁃non-massacre au

⁃tw: emotional abuse, mature content, domestic abuse)

Dinners at Sasuke's house were always enjoyable.

Mikoto was in charge of preparing the food, assisted by Sakura. Sasuke laid out the cutlery, while Naruto ran around the table with Shisui.

Only Itachi and his father were sitting on the couch, watching TV. Sasuke's brother had

been having a lot of coughing fits lately and couldn't strain himself, and Fugaku was spending all day at work.

"Will you finally calm down?" Sakura heard Sasuke's angry voice.

He was clearly fed up with Naruto interfering with his duties.

"Oi, don't be so indignant anymore, Teme."

Stirring the salad, out of the corner of her eye she noticed the same expression on Sasuke's face that said: One more word and you're dead. She laughed in spirit.

Recently, Sakura noticed that her friend had a problem expressing his emotions. The pressure his father was putting on him, and as a result, he began to as well, was too much. Sasuke complained that he was insufficient, and treated every failure as a curse. Outbursts of aggression or silence were caused by his father's inability to express his own

feelings, as well as Sasuke’s mother, who always tried to justify his father and his frequent recent absence.

"Sakura, please put this platter on the table."

"Okay, Auntie."

Having placed the dish in the center of the countertop, Sakura returned to the kitchen. They quickly tackled the rest of the food and after just a moment, the table could be seated.

Pumpkin soup was served by Shisui with the help of Naruto. Next came the main course brought by Sasuke, and finally dessert.

They ate appetizers, putting tomatoes, olives and other snacks on their plates.

"Do you think if we fail the mission again, Kakashi will suspend us?" asked Naruto with his mouth full.

Sakura turned her head to the left to look at Sasuke. Uchiha made a disgusted face.

"Me and Sakura didn't do anything wrong. You're the one who fucked up."

They felt Mikoto's burning gaze. Sakura sent the woman a fake smile, trying to control the situation. Mikoto shied away from cursing at home.

"It was an accident!"

"You are an accident."

"Sasuke-kun.", she hissed.

The boys looked at each other disdainfully. Sakura had long since grown accustomed to their disputes. She cut off a piece of salmon for her plate, deeming the discussion closed.

She handed a quarter of the fish to Sasuke. Sakura enjoyed sharing the food she prepared herself. Uchiha scooped a piece onto a fork. Before he put it in his mouth, he spoke to Fugaku, who had only been talking to Itachi and Shisui since lunch began.

"I was the best of the group last time, father," he waited a moment. Fugaku took his eyes off his eldest son and waved the hand.

"Congratulations." Sasuke squeezed his fork tighter, "And you didn't have trouble with one mission recently?"

Sakura noticed how his hand began to tremble slightly. Sasuke did not answer his father. Tense with anger, he looked down at the plate. Sakura grabbed his thighs, adding support. The boy's muscles relaxed, but after a moment, as if realizing what he had allowed his friend to do, he moved his leg away.

"It could be saltier." he said deliberately, wanting to defuse the anger he got from his father's attitude, but not paying attention to who he was hurting.

Sakura went back to eating with a heavier heart.

…

It was a hot afternoon. Sun was shining fully, providing not a bit of shade. Sakura had finished her day at the hospital and was heading home.

Stomach admonished her for missing a meal. Sakura turned right, finally deciding on ramen. In the distance, she spotted Sasuke with Naruto. They stood and talked, and the blond laughed, patting his friend on the shoulder.

"Are you finished yet?" she asked, appearing right next to them.

"Aa."

"Great!" Sakura clapped her hands "I was going to go for ramen alone, but since you two are free now we can walk together."

Naruto threw his arm around Sasuke's neck and looked at Sakura with amusement.

"I'm sorry, Sakura-chan, but I'm the only one who can go. Teme is meeting a girl."

Sakura's heart froze. Sasuke had never been the type of person to go out somewhere with others, much less girls.

"I'm only supposed to help her." he rolled his eyes "You make a big deal out of it."

"You rarely help anyone." Naruto commented.

He laughed at his friend’s irritated face. Sakura, for her part, stood and couldn't gather her thoughts. Naruto was right, Sasuke practically never does favors for others. Not once, at least, did he help her.

"Maybe you would also like to help me? I've been having a little problem lately" she fired out. Out of jealousy? Did she want to see if he would agree? Why did she do that?

Sakura felt herself blushing. After all, she didn't even have a problem with anything.

"I'm out of time this week."

"Ah, yes. It’s okey."

Her stomach rumbled again. "Then shall we go?" Naruto poked Sakura in the side.

"Yes, yes," she smiled sadly at Sasuke. Oh stop making an idiot of yourself, she scolded herself in her mind, "In that case, I'll see you on my birthday."

"Aa." he mumbled and set them down alone. Naruto took Sakura's hand.

"Do you know that I'm just laughing at him? If Sasuke were to be with anyone, it would be you, Sakura-chan."

"You've been telling me that for almost six years."

Naruto didn't speak up. They walked three blocks, silently heading to the restaurant. Suddenly, a boy ran out from around the corner. He bumped into Sakura, scattering cards on the ground.

"I'm so sorry." he raised the head, and blue eyes bore into her green ones.

"It's all right." she said kindly. The gray-haired man picked up the cards and, apologizing once again, ran on.

…

There was barely room on the table. Chips, drinks, jelly beans and crisps took up the entire countertop. In the kitchen, Sakura had set out alcohol and pizza.

Naruto and Ino arrived early and helped her open the door for guests. Sakura didn't invite many people. She wanted her 18th birthday party to be held in quiet company.

The guest list included Sasuke along with his brother and cousin, as well as the rest of the people from Konoha's eleven.

"Where should I put it, Sakura?" Itachi appeared in the kitchen

He carried two nets with, of course, food from his mother. Mikoto took too much care of everything. Sakura would have to return the favor by stopping by for dinner after her birthday.

"Here." she pointed to the vacant kitchen counter "And where is Sasuke?"

"He'll be here in a minute. He was still getting ready when we left."

Shisui suddenly ran into the room. In his arms rested a large pink teddy bear. He hugged Sakura, handing her the gift.

"I thought of you when I saw this," he said. "Am I still a child to you?" she laughed.

"That's a silly question. You will always be that twelve-year-old Sakura-chan to me." he stroked her head, mussing her hair.

The doorbell sounded in the apartment. Sakura looked at Itachi, and when he nodded, she moved to open it herself this time.

Sasuke looked nice in a black shirt and belted pants. He combed his hair back, though a few strands still fell over his face. He handed Sakura a small box.

"Thank you." she opened the contents and a beautiful gold necklace appeared before her eyes. From the chain dangled a small daffodil "It is.... beautiful."

"I'll tell my mother you liked it." Sakura only now noticed the second package held by Sasuke, "It's from me."

She put the box down on the table next to her and picked up a small bag. A bottle of alcohol, a new pair of gloves and a greeting card - 'Happy Birthday, Sakura' - lay at the bottom.

"Thank you." she put down the gift "There is food and drink. Help yourself."

Sasuke directed his steps to the kitchen. Sakura felt a small sting in her heart. When had he changed so much? She had known Sasuke for a long time, and until she was sixteen, he had always been a much more open person toward her, despite the difficult relationship at home.

They were friends, and as friends do, he often told Sakura things he wouldn't reveal to anyone else.

So what changed their relationship?

"Show me how you move that good ass of yours, Sakura!" shouted Ino, who from a distance could be seen that she was already a little drunk.

The girl spun to the rhythm of the music, and with her the rest. Only Itachi and Sasuke were sitting in the kitchen. Sakura wasted no time, she let herself be swept up in the fun.

Alcohol was pouring, music was ringing in the ears, singing was drowning out the tunes.

It was approaching three in the morning. Three people had left Sakura's apartment, heading to bed before tomorrow's work. Itachi was among them. Two others had gone to sleep in the guest room, while Ino and Shikamaru had disappeared somewhere. Shisui, for his part, sat over a vomiting Naruto.

Sakura, sipping the last of her drink, sat on the countertop. Sasuke was standing next to her. He was wandering somewhere with his thoughts.

"What are you thinking about, Sasuke-kun?" she didn't know what had tempted her to ask the question.

"About Itachi," he replied automatically. Sakura then took the conversation further.

"He's somehow been more pale lately. What's wrong with him?"

Itachi's illness was not a taboo subject, but the boy's deteriorating condition was conspicuous.

"He's dying." Sasuke drank sake all at once "And I can't do anything about it. No one can."

"I can. In two months, I'll finish training with Lady Tsunade, and I'll be able to take care of Itachi. I will keep him alive as long as I can, I promise."

Sakura jumped down from the countertop, grabbed the sake bottle in her hand and poured herself and Sasuke a full one. They shouldn't drink any more. Their speech was slowly becoming difficult to understand, and their gait was becoming more and more twisted.

She laughed, sipping. Even on Sasuke's face dawned a gentle, barely visible smile. His face had not been so relaxed in a long time.

"It's late. There's a spare room upstairs." Sakura drank the sake all at once, croaking.

Sasuke did not resist, just followed the girl. They entered the room, the air thickened.

They knew they would regret it. It was as if they could intuitively predict the future.

#sasusaku #sakura haruno #sakura uchiha #sasuke x sakura #uchihasasuke

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randomshyperson · 3 years

Text

Wanda Maximoff/Reader - The One Where You Punch Tony Stark - Part II

Part 1 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Read on AO3 (Complete Work)

Thanks to @gingerbreadcookieforlife for letting me know i did not upload the entire work here.

Summary: When the rumors that you punched Tony Stark in the face spread around your school, some interesting events unfolded. Or enemies to Lovers in high School.

Warnings: 18+; Enemies to Lovers; Angry Sex; Underage Sex; High School AU; Violence; Fights; Inappropriate language; Fluff and Smut; minor mentions of Reader x Carol and Reader x Jessica Jones.

Notes: This work was already finished on AO3, but i forgot to continue this on Tumblr. I hope everyone who thought that was a one shot, enjoy the rest of it.

//-//

Sometimes is just a kiss

The news that Steve Rogers and Tony Stark kissed behind the bleachers spread quickly through the school. And it was only 10 o'clock on a Monday morning.

You had no idea who had spread the rumor around the campus, but knowing your luck, you were just waiting for the bomb to drop in your lap.

Besides, you hadn't spoken to Wanda since you gave her an orgasm against the walls of a locker room. You saw her briefly in the hallway between history and biology class, but she looked away quickly, and you rolled your eyes without patience.

It had been good sex, and you repeated that it was just that. Sex. That it shouldn't have happened, mainly because you were incompatible, and there were too many social barriers between you.

You should have known that Wanda would not break the expectations they had of her, to stay as someone as broken as you.

Closing the locker with more force than necessary, you walked out toward the history room.

Taking your place in the last chair by the window, you sit down as you wait for the class to begin. You have about five minutes of peace before an angry Tony Stark enters the room and walks toward you pointing his finger in your face in a threatening manner.

- I told you to mind your own business.

- What have I done to deserve this, Lord. - You grumble without patience, ignoring Stark completely. He lets out an angry exclamation and punches the table, making you jump with surprise.

- You'll pay for this, bitch. I'm going to-

You cut off his speech by pulling his hair and forcing his head against the table in a blow that makes a loud noise. He staggers back, shocked that he has been hit again. The room erupts in a hubbub and someone holds Tony back to stop him from jumping on you.

You stand up, gathering your notebooks, seeing that the history teacher was already signaling for you to talk to the counselor.

- You never learn, Stark. - You sneer, taking one last look at the boy's bloody nose before you leave the room, most of your classmates laughing.

- I'm so angry with you right now. - said your mother as soon as you both left the school. You didn't respond, walking with your hands in your pockets to the car. She started mumbling to herself, and only when you had been in the car a few minutes did she speak to you again.

- And the worst of it is that you hit my boss's son!

You let out a wry laugh as you looked out the car window at the view.

- I doubt very much that Howard Stark knows any of his employees, Mother.

- It doesn't matter. - she retorted, turning the wheel. You watched the landscape change as you turned the corner.

- At least I didn't get expelled. - You commented, your mother let out a wry laugh.

- Suspension is not a good thing! - she replies in an irritated tone. - And I even had to miss my shift to come get you. I honestly didn't raise you for that.

- That's the point, isn't it? - You retorted angrily, finally turning to face your mother. - Did you ever raise me? Last time I checked, I've been raising myself for a long time.

Your mother assumes a disapproving expression, denying it with her head. You throw yourself back on the seat with your arms crossed.

- You've always been so unfair, you know. - She begins. - Who's picking you up from school now, huh? And who puts a roof over your head? Food on your plate? You raised yourself, that's a joke.

She grumbles again, but you just ignore it, shutting yourself off from your surroundings.

You barely register when the car pulls up in front of your house, startled when your mother slams the car door as you get out. You take off your seat belt, and step out.

- You are grounded, three months. - she says, and you just nod. It's not as if she was present enough to know where you were going anyway. - And you are going to help your aunt in the store while you are suspended.

You let out a protesting grunt.

- Really, there's nothing worse for me to do? - You ask, throwing yourself on the sofa in the living room, your mother giggles.

- Weren't you the one who was thinking that suspension is better than expulsion? Well, you're not going to be sitting around this week. - She said as she left her purse on the kitchen table, and walked towards the small office table in the corner of the room. - Now go to your room, I'm working from home today.

You roll your eyes, getting up. Dragging your feet to your room, you slam the door as you enter, throwing yourself against your bed.

You hope Tony Stark's nose is hurting.

You are very surprised to see Natasha Romanoff enter your aunt's mercenary, shortly after school hours. She smiles at you with amusement, walking over to the counter.

- Wow, interesting look. - She jokes, commenting on the blue uniform combined with a sailor's hat that your aunt makes her three employees wear. You laugh at Nat.

- How can I help you, ma'am? - You asked in an amused tone, she leaned her arms on the counter.

- I'm looking for a fighting dog. Do you sell these here?

You laugh at the insinuation. And then a customer enters the store, Nat moves aside for you to attend to a lady buying tomato sauce and noodles, and then as you check out, she speaks again.

- You caused a fuss at school with your fight. - She remarks, and you just grumble, counting the money. - By the way, how did you find out about Rogers and Stark's secret affair?

You shrug, smiling. - I saw them kissing the night of the game. Stark freaked out, by the way, typical.

Nat laughed, and began to look around the store. - It is nice here. I didn't know you worked.

- It's my aunt's. - You say, finally finishing counting the money in the cash register. - And I worked at the junkyard on Avenue Two until last year.

- Aren't you going to tell me that you were fired for fighting? - Nat teased, making you laugh.

- No, I asked to quit. - So you say. - I wanted a quiet senior year.

Nat nods, and walks around the store, stopping at the magazine section. You see three more customers before she returns.

- I have to get home before my mother freaks out. - She announced as soon as she reached the counter. You nodded. - But I want to know if you want to do something with me?

- I thought you had a boyfriend. - You joked, and Nat rolled her eyes humorously.

- Don't be a smartass.

You laugh.

- I will be helping out in the store during this week. - You say. - Because of the suspension. I leave at seven.

Nat nodded, assuming a contemplative expression for a moment.

- Do you know where Avengers' Bar is? Three blocks past the municipal hospital?

You nod, smiling.

- Sure, Nat. - You say. - I've already driven past it.

- Why haven't you ever gone inside? I'm always there.

- I wasn't in that area to drink. - You remark with a suggestive smile, and Nat just laughs and rolls her eyes.

- Well, I'll be there on Wednesday. Some colleagues from State are playing there. - She says, and writes down a phone number on one of the papers on the counter. - Text me if you're going to show up.

- Are you sure it's not a date? - You joke and Nat just winks at you before you leave. You keep her number in your uniform pocket.

Even from outside, you could hear the music from the bar muffled against the windows.

Avengers's Bar was a popular place in town, but only for a certain kind of people. Mainly frequented by punks, bikers, and artists, it was exactly the kind of place you liked but should avoid. With its history of fights, it wasn't exactly the kind of place you went to anymore.

A dark-haired girl in metal-working attire smiled at you from the doorway, looking at you mischievously as you walked through the door. You just nodded slightly.

Inside, you looked around for Natasha and her friends, but with the amount of people in the bar, it wasn't so easy to find them.

- Y/N! - shouted Thor when he spotted you in the crowd. You smiled, walking over to where he was standing. - We're on the top floor, Nat got a table. Come on, I just came to get some drinks.

You followed him to the bar, and helped him carry the drinks for the others. You didn't recognize any of the drinks they were making there, so you decided to just drink from everyone's glass, which made Thor laugh.

- Look who I found. - announced Thor as soon as you two arrived at the table. The group smiled when they saw you, and you greeted everyone with a kiss on the cheek and sat down next to Nat.

- We heard that you were suspended. - commented Clint, but he seemed almost proud. You shrugged awkwardly.

- She wasn't content to just punch Stark, she also slammed the bastard's head against the table! - Said Natasha excitedly, and the group laughed. You laughed half embarrassed, as you took a sip of the pink drink Nat had ordered.

They started talking about some scandal that happened at the federal school, and you did your best to react to it, not really knowing who the people they were talking about were. And then Valkyrie let out an exclamation, as if she had spotted someone, and stood up. A very pretty girl approached, smiling and hugging Valkyrie.

- I'm glad you could make it, Carol. - Valkyrie said the girl who waved to everyone. When you looked closely, you finally recognized her. Carol Danvers was an ex-student of your high school, having graduated last year. She used to be very popular, and you noticed the military silver necklace around her neck.

Carol sat down next to Valkyrie, and the two of them seemed so close that you thought maybe they were dating.

When the show started, everyone exclaimed with excitement, quickly getting up and walking to the stage area. You smiled as Nat dragged you by the hand, liking the feeling of having friends.

The band was surprisingly good, and you danced with excitement, feeling the alcohol make you lively and loose. You were surprised when Carol began to dance with you, her hands on your waist.

She was very attractive, so you didn't mind her kissing you. And you pushed away the feeling that she wasn't the person you wanted. When she pulled you into the bathroom, her hands roaming over you as she tugged off your clothes, you ignored every part of your body screaming that this was wrong. When she made you cum, you bit your lip to keep yourself from screaming Wanda's name.

Your suspension was finally over, and you gave the key to the store back to your aunt before you went to school.

You tried not to think about it too much, about how many college opportunities you had missed with that stain on your record. But if you were honest, you didn't even know if you wanted to go to college anymore. Every day the possibility of buying a motorcycle and traveling aimlessly getting closer to your real calling.

Many people stared at you when you arrived at school. The vast majority didn't even bother to look away. You rolled your eyes impatiently, reaching into your jacket pockets as you walked through the main doors.

You were slightly startled when Jessica Jones approached you in your locker, but you smiled awkwardly, taking off your headphones.

- Girl, you are a legend! - she said excitedly, pushing you lightly by the shoulders against the lockers. She stood close, and you thought maybe that was flirting. - By the way, I didn't have your number to text you.

She took a pen from her bag, and grabbed your hand, writing down her own number while flashing you a mischievous smile.

- Text me, let's do something this week. - She says as she lets go of your hand. You blink slightly, and nod, a little awkwardly. Jessica doesn't seem to notice, and smiles, leaving afterwards.

You hear a whistle, and Nat looks at you with curiosity.

- You are stealing hearts, huh. - She teases, and you feel your face heat up, still surprised by the whole interaction. - By the way, are you and Carol on a real thing?

- What? - you ask in surprise. - No, I don't think so. It was just sex in a concert restroom, Natasha. I don't think she even knew my name. - You remark as you turn toward the redhead. She laughs, finishing putting her books away.

- Actually she asked me for your number. - She says, and you look at her in surprise. - But then I see you with Jones, and I have to admit, it's a tough choice. - Nat teases, making you laugh. You start walking down the hall together, walking towards the classrooms. You think Nat has said something about the show, but your attention is elsewhere. As you walk past Wanda and Peter Maximoff, everything seems to slow down, you notice the slight flush on Wanda's cheeks when her gaze meets yours, and you both hold your breath as you walk past each other. But the next second everything is as it was before, and you sigh, focusing your attention on Nat.

When you arrive in the literature room, you are happy to know that Nat sits next to you.

You hate the cafeterias. So when Nat invites you to join her at the outside tables you think it's the best lunch you have ever had.

The outside courtyard is relatively less crowded than the other places in the school, and you are in the middle of a discussion about the new TV series that launched over the weekend, when Nat signals to something behind you.

Coming out of the school, and heading towards the table where you were standing, was Sharon Carter, accompanied by her pet friend, Pepper Potts. And you really thought you could have a quiet lunch.

- To what do I owe the honor, Carter? - you asked ironically as they reached your table.

- You stay away from my boyfriend. - She spoke in a serious tone, and before you could say anything, she tipped the glass of soda she held over your head.

You felt your whole body boil with irritation and you stood up abruptly, seeing red. But Natasha tugged on your forearm, whispering something about your suspension. Sharon and Pepper seemed to be slightly startled by your posture, but they let out a wry chuckle and went back inside the school.

You tugged on Nat's arm, then left the courtyard and headed for the changing rooms. You needed a cold shower to calm yourself down, or you would do something that would surely cause your expulsion.

Since the athletic games period had not yet started, the gym locker room was empty. You sighed with relief as you found your spare change of clothes in your locker.

Walking toward the bathroom stalls, you quickly undressed, and stepped into the shower, letting the cold water wash all the soda and anger from your body.

Leaning your head against the wall, you let out a sigh, thinking about all the shit that was going on in your life in less than two weeks. And then your mind went back to Wanda, and you let out a breathless groan, laughing humorlessly. The cold water didn't help to chill the new heat that settled under your stomach. You turned off the shower, then stepped out to put on your clothes.

On your way out of the locker room, you saw something you would rather not have seen. The universe seemed to be testing your anger today.

Wanda was being pressed against the wall of the indoor bleachers, which at that time was empty and perfect for those who wanted to make out in a secluded spot. It was a tall boy, but you couldn't see his face, which was buried in Wanda's neck, kissing her. And then she opened her eyes, and looked straight at you. You saw him pull down his pants and enter her, and she moaned with her mouth ajar, without taking her eyes off you. She had a gleam in her eyes that made your whole body tremble.

You gripped the strap of your purse tightly, controlling the impulse to go over and beat the boy until he passed out, and spun on your feet, walking out the back door.

Fucking day, you thought as you walked back to school.

Eventually, you thanked Nat for keeping you from hitting Sharon. She shrugged, saying that she didn't want you to be expelled now that you were becoming friends, and you tried not to be too happy about it.

On Wednesday, Carol Danvers showed up at the door of the school on a motorcycle. This is sure to be a long-lasting gossip, you thought as you and Nat greeted her on the way out. Several students looked at you, many of them impressed by Carol's motorcycle, others impressed to see her back at school, but the vast majority trying to ask how you knew her.

- What's up, Danvers? - You say to her with a slight nod. Carol looks at you as if she wants to undress you right there, but you have your gaze on her motorcycle, attentive to the details of the vehicle.

- Hey, pretty girl. - She answers while leaning against the vehicle.

- Jesus, you are not even seeing me. - Nat teases and Carol just laughs, giving her a kiss on the cheek. - Tell me, what brings you back to your beloved school?

- I came to say hello. - says Carol. - And to invite you both to a concert on Saturday.

- And you didn't text me because you missed me. - Nat rebuts in a provocative tone, Carol smiles, and then looks at you, before confirming. You don't really know what to say.

- If the music is good, I'm in. - You joke and Nat agrees. Carol takes two tickets out of her pocket and hands them to you.

- I'll pick you up, okay? - She offers it to you. You think about refusing, without really knowing why. But you nod in agreement before you can think about it too much.

- Okay, lovebirds. I'll leave you two alone because I'm starting to get the urge to puke. - Nat jokes one last time, before heading out toward the parking lot. You imagine that she will use the break time to smoke a bit.

You shift your weight between your feet before turning your gaze back to Carol.

- I was surprised to hear that you asked Nat for my number. - You comment, and Carol smiles.

- I like to talk to pretty girls. - She says, and you roll your eyes humorously at the flirtation. She laughs, biting her lips, and you allow her to rest her hands on your waist, perhaps too low.

- Are you looking for something serious, Danvers? - you ask with a slight irony. Carol looks at you in mild surprise.

- You don't think it has anything to do with me, do you?

- Sorry, the motorcycle and the leather jacket gave you away. - You respond humorously. - I get it, because it's my game.

Carol laughs.

- I'm enjoying our time together. - she confesses. - But I'll be back at the station in a few weeks. I can't make any promises.

You nod, without really being bothered by it. Carol is not the one you wanted to be with. And to push those thoughts away, you kiss her. She smiles, deepening the kiss slightly. You think she squeezed your ass, but you're not really paying attention.

And then you break apart, and she smiles at you.

- I'll see you Saturday, right? - she asks, and you nod, letting her kiss you one last time.

When she finally starts the motorcycle and drives away, you notice the mischievous and suggestive looks you receive.

And you try not to let your anger peak, but then you notice Stark's group in the corner of the school, laughing openly. You'll need to walk past them to get inside, and you really hope that none of them will test your patience.

- Hey weirdo, who was your girlfriend? - shouts Tony Stark. You know, you really think maybe he is brain damaged. His friends laugh at the joke, and you think you will ignore it, but then he shouts again. - I'm talking to you, dyke!

He throws something at you, missing you by inches. You watch the red liquid run down in front of your feet.

You think, this is it. This is how I'm going to get expelled. By sticking a straw in Tony Stark's eye. You wondered if prison life was worth it.

But then the laughter died down in the next second, and you watched Tony turn pale.

- Mr. Stark, please come with me. - A male voice sounded behind you. The school principal was a scary man, and he was hardly ever seen outside his classroom. He never witnessed his students' conflicts, and Fury never bothered him with such matters. Tony's paleness was understandable.

- P-Professor Thanos, I don't...

- Now. - says the man finally, and Tony stiffens his jaw as he follows him. He gave you an angry look before leaving.

The buzz started as soon as they entered the school, but you didn't really pay attention to anyone. Ignoring the middle finger Steve Rogers threw at you, you went back inside the school.

Tony Stark was punished with detention. You rolled your eyes when the rumor reached you. They had also said that his father refused to pick him up and that the driver was the one who talked to Fury. You would have sympathy for Stark if he wasn't a complete imbecile.

You had chemistry again, and you really weren't in the mood to see Wanda, but you had no choice.

And then Professor Agatha was feeling particularly inspired today, and decided to switch lab partners. You ended up on the same bench as Darcy Lewis and Pietro Maximoff, you being the only trio due to the odd number of students. You sighed against your bad luck.

The experiment that Mrs. Harkness performed was not difficult, but it could be dangerous if you didn't pay attention. So you just listened to Darcy's instructions, and everything was working out fine. Then Pietro Maximoff decided that his attention was better placed on a girl sitting behind him, and started flirting. Darcy rolled her eyes, smiling at you.

In the blink of an eye, you heard a scream of pain. Pietro had forgotten the limits of the counter itself, and stretching his arms most likely to impress the girl behind you, he slammed his hand against the chemical glass jar behind him. Darcy stepped back to avoid being hit, but you were quick to help Pietro, pulling his arm into the sink on the counter, turning on the faucet as you hurried to get as much of the acidic liquid off his skin as possible.

Pietro sighed with relief, probably feeling the pain disappear as you rubbed the soap into his skin. He was extremely surprised, as was the rest of the room.

- Very efficient reaction, Miss Y/L/N. - commented Ms. Harkness as she approached you, holding a cloth to dry Pietro. - I'll add an extra point to your average for that. Mr. Maximoff, please go to the infirmary.

Pietro wrapped the cloth around his injured hand, and looked at you with a mixture of hesitation and confusion in his eyes, but he nodded in thanks.

Harkness asked someone to call the janitor to clean up the shards, and then continued the class. You found it hard to concentrate when you noticed Wanda's gaze on you.

Jessica Jones kisses you against the wall of the second floor locker room.

You exchanged a few messages, mostly innocent jokes. And then Jessica said she had something amazing to show you, and when you met her after third period, in the not-so-isolated locker room, she pushed you up against the wall and kissed you on the mouth.

Jessica tasted like coke and something sweet, and she likes to bite.You had to remind yourself that you were kissing someone while you were doing it, not feeling connected to her really.

And then two girls came into the bathroom giggling and she let you go.

- Sorry for the scare. - She joked, her lips swollen. You shrugged, smiling slightly.

- What inspired you to do this? - you teased, putting your hands on her waist.

- You of course. Punching assholes and saving people. It's hot. - She says and then she checks her cell phone. - Damn, I have chemistry now. I can't be late.

She steals a kiss from you and quickly leaves. You blink, not really understanding what has happened.

As you go downstairs, you realize that the cheerleading squad is coming out of the locker room, and Sharon and Potts give you a death stare as you walk past them. And then, as you pass through the door to the women's dressing room, you hesitate. All your logic tells you to go on your way, but then your feet are turning and you walk into the dressing room, looking around.

You let out a sigh as you find who you were looking for. Wanda is changing clothes, wearing only her cheer skirt, and a bra. Your intimacy pulsates with the image. Wanda lets out a surprised exclamation at seeing you there, but then she lets out a mischievous smile, and continues undressing.

Slowly, she lets the skirt slide down her thighs. You bite your lower lip hard as it falls to the floor.

And then two other cheerleaders come out of one of the aisles behind you, and the giggles die down when they see you. One of the girls turns to Wanda:

- Is this girl bothering you, Wandy? - she asks in a honeyed voice.

- And what are you, a watchdog? - You retort before Wanda can answer. The girl gives you a death glare. - Mind your own business, nosy.

The other girl approaches you, looking at you with disdain. - We don't like street trash here. Why don't you go back to your junkyard?

You swallowed dryly, trying to control your anger. The smaller girl giggled, and you looked at Wanda, who looked in shock, before you stormed out of the dressing room slamming the door.

You knew you shouldn't do that, but your feet dragged you out into the field of trailers.

You walked a long way until you arrived. And when you entered the courtyards, many of the residents looked at you with a frown. But you ignore them, as you walk between the houses. You knock hard on the door of one of the trailers farthest away. It takes a moment before a tall, muscular boy answers it.

He lets out a wry laugh when he sees you.

- Visiting old friends? - He teases, you don't smile.

- I need to break something, Erik. - You say simply, and he sighs. And then he closes the door, and you walk together in the opposite direction, out of the trailer park.

You have known Erik Killmonger since kindergarten. His life wasn't exactly the easiest. You used to hang out together in high school, but then Erik started getting into a lot of fights, and it was rumored that he joined a gang. He didn't tell you anything, and when you asked, he told you to mind your own business. And then, in the second year, he was expelled for breaking the jaw of Johann Schmidt, one of the seniors at the school. You remember never seeing Erik so angry. But you never knew the reason for the fight. And then he drifted away, and even though you missed him, you didn't push him.

- Here it is. - Erik said as you reached an abandoned area a few feet beyond the trailers. He handed you a wooden stick, and you took a deep breath before you started smashing through the abandoned objects there, most of them junk.

- Fuck that fucking school. - You shouted as you hit a bottle, the glass splattering through the air. Erik just stood at a safe distance, his hands in his pockets. - Fuck Tony Stark. - You shouted, a wooden box shattering with the blow of your bat. And then you noticed a tall dead tree trunk a few yards away, and you stepped forward, aggressively slamming your bat several times against the tree. - Fuck Wanda Maximoff. - And the staff shattered with the force of your blow. You let out a sigh, throwing the object to the ground, as you sat down down on the grass.

Erik walked over to you, and he said nothing about the tears streaming down your face.

- Do you want to talk about it? - he asked as he sat down beside you. You nodded in denial.

- I want you to tell me something about yourself. - You said, wiping your face.

- Um, let me think. - He says, putting his arms behind him and leaning back, he looks relaxed. - My mother is in town.

You turn your head to him in surprise. He smiles.

- Yes, I know, that's nice. - He comments. - But I won't get my hopes up. She could leave at any moment.

- I hope she stays. - You say.

- So do I.

You stand there in silence for a moment, then Erik stands up, then offers his hand to help you stand. You sigh and accept.

- Let's get something to eat, you're paying. - He says, causing you to smile ironically.

You end up at one of the dinner stands across the main road from the trailer park. You buy Erik a hamburger and fries, but you decide to just have a milkshake.

- This is all about a girl, isn't it? - he asks after a while, and you almost deny it. But you just shrug your shoulders in agreement, taking a sip of your milkshake. - Is it someone I know?

- Maybe. - you say, and Erik frowns humorously. He eats some chips, assuming a thoughtful expression.

- That's hard, I've never seen you paying attention to anyone at school. - he says. - What about that redheaded girl in the locker next to yours?

You laugh and nod your head in denial. Erik smiles, thinking again.

- What about that girl in your chemistry class? The one you said was smart?

- Darcy? - You ask and he confirms, you just smile. - No, I wish. Darcy would be less complicated.

Erik laughs, and then pushes the rest of the potatoes to you.

- Why don't you just tell me? - he asks, but his tone is not accusatory, just provocative.

- Because I don't want to admit it. - You confess, accepting the potatoes. It takes a moment, and then you speak. - I think I'm falling in love with Wanda Maximoff.

You don't look at Erik, fearing his reaction. But then he lets out a sigh, and drags his hand across the table, offering it to you. You accept, and he holds your hand warmly.

- You, my friend, are totally screwed. - He teases, making you laugh. - But keep calm. Passions go away as fast as they come.

You nod, squeezing his hand before letting go. You eat in silence, and you can't help but think how much you missed him.

Debates test your patience. And as if that weren't irritating enough, you still share this class with Wanda.

You don't look at her when you enter the room, but you feel her gaze on you. Throwing yourself on the last chair in the room, you stand with your headphones on and sink your head into your arms on the desk, wishing for the school year to end soon.

When Professor Hill enters the room, you are surprised that one of your classmates nudges you to warn you, and you smile in appreciation as you straighten your posture and put your cell phone away.

- I hope you have read the book I asked for, children. - She announces as she puts her bag on the table, and walks to the front of the cabinet, leaning against the wood as she looks around the room. - We will discuss it in class today.

The room lets out a chorus of displeasure, but the teacher lets out a chuckle. Her debates were famous for ending up in heated discussions, plus they made up about fifty percent of the grade. If you didn't say anything, you had to write a report of the discussions.

The teacher took a copy of the book from her purse, and held it with both hands.

- "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man, possessing a good fortune, must be in need of a wife." - She read, walking around the room. - Who can tell me what the line implies about women?

- It's the old-fashioned way of saying that women prefer rich guys. - Steve Rogers sneered, drawing giggles from his teammates in the room. Mrs. Hill, however, just sighed with disappointment.

- No, Mr. Rogers. - she said, cutting off the laughter immediately. - If you have no intention of participating seriously in the debate, I suggest you remain silent.

Steve let out a lame laugh, shrugged, and whispered something to his tablemate. You rolled your eyes impatiently, resting your face in your hand. And then you watched Wanda Maximoff raise her arm up.

- Yes, Wanda? - nodded Mrs. Hill waiting for the answer.

- I think it's about a reaffirmation of the status of the man. As if the woman is a trophy to prove his status and position. - She says. - It objectifies women completely.

You blinked, slightly impressed. Wanda was always smart, after all. But then the boys in class giggled, and the redhead seemed to shrug her shoulders. Professor Hill, however, smiled at her.

- Interesting position, Miss Maximoff. - she said, and walked back around the room. - Let's talk a little about the main romance of the book. - She says, and looks reproachfully quickly at two boys who are whispering, and they fall silent. - I'd like to know what you think about Elizabeth and Darcy's relationship, and how we can bring the book's issues into our current society. Do you believe that the same prejudices are faced today?

The room explodes into excitement, and you feel like going home. Mrs. Hill looks around, and waves to calm the students.

- Please, class. Raise your hand who believes that Elizabeth and Darcy would easily marry today?

The vast majority of the students raise their hands. And someone makes a comment that they would get laid on the first date, and many laugh. You play with your pencil, twirling it on your finger, and then feel a light elbow on your arm. Your classmate nods her head forward, and you blink in confusion, realizing that Ms. Hill has called your attention.

- I'm sorry, Mrs. Hill. What is it? - you ask, straightening your posture. She smiles tenderly.

- I asked why you didn't raise your hand. - She repeats. - Could you share with the class your position?

You let out a sigh, thinking about it. And then you lean back in your chair, putting your hands in your pockets, and trying not to get intimate with the stares in the room.

- I really don't understand how everyone here can say that we no longer have social rules for relationships. - You say. - If Darcy and Elizabeth were from the present day, the prejudices portrayed in the books would only be different, but they would still be there. We have many ways of forbidding people to relate to each other, even in this school.

- Interesting. Please continue. - the teacher said, leaning back against her desk. You let out a sigh, trying to organize your opinion into words.

- I can give an example of how we divide the social groups around here. - you say. - It's not like the jocks are seen hanging out with the kids in the theater. Elizabeth would definitely be one of the smart girls, and Darcy would be the dumb brat. Sort of like a Tony Stark.

The room erupted in giggles, and you watched Steve Rogers lock his jaw, commenting something to his classmate. Professor Hill gave you a warning look, beckoning the class to be quiet.

- So you believe that Darcy and Elizabeth would not be together in the present days? - she asks you, and you shrug.

- I don't think Darcy would break the expectations people have of him for Elizabeth. - You state. - And besides, she can do better than that.

Some students laughed at your comment, and Mrs. Hill smiled at you. And then she asked if anyone had a different opinion, and you were slightly surprised to see Wanda raise her hand again.

- I think they would end up together. - She says. - They are really in love, and just like in the book, I think Darcy just needs time to understand everything, and to build up some courage.

- And Elizabeth should expect him to have some guts, then? - You cut Wanda off. The room looks at you in surprise, and Wanda turns in her chair, a look of mixed defiance and surprise, but you don't back away. - While he decides whether she is worth it, should she just wait around?

- Elizabeth needs to understand that Darcy also has his own issues. - Wanda retorts. - That it's not easy to let go of all the expectations people place on you.

You laugh lightly with irony.

- Of course Darcy would be quite comfortable keeping Elizabeth waiting. - You say with mild irritation. - Besides, Elizabeth is also going through a lot. She deserves to have someone who chooses her.

- That's not what we're arguing about. - Wanda replies. - No one is questioning Elizabeth's worth. I'm saying that they would be together, but that they need time.

- And I'm saying that Darcy has to stop being such a gutless pussy and make a decision soon. Elizabeth is not going to pause her life just to wait for him.

- She would do that if she really liked Darcy. - Retorts the redhead, you blink in disbelief.

You think the room held its breath with your debate with Wanda, and you would have continued if the teacher hadn't interrupted.

- Okay, I think we're getting a little nervous. - She cut in, and you blinked awkwardly, stopping to look at Wanda. The room murmured quietly again as Wanda turned back to face the front. - Thank you for your opinions, ladies. Now let's move on, who can offer a reflection on marriage in the book?

The class continued for a while, but you completely disconnected. Your heart was racing and you realized that the discussion you had was not about Darcy or Elizabeth. Wanda was asking you to wait for her. And you felt a strong urge to punch something. And then you focused your attention completely on the literature report, ignoring the debate completely.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #wandaxreader #wandaxyou #wandamaximoffxreader #wandavision #wanda #wandamaximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x dom!reader #The One Where You Punch Tony Stark #enemies to lovers #high school

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baepop · 4 years

Text

Muse

You meet a quiet painter that helps you manage your anger.

Word Count: 4.7k

Pairing: You x Taehyung

Genre: Slight fluff, slight angst, Smut

A/N: I couldn’t get this idea out of my head, so I had to sit down and write it out this afternoon. I hope you guys like it 🥺

What are you thinking?

The pinkish hue of your cheeks had long subsided now, though the heaving in your chest still remained albeit at a minimal level. The part in your lips prevailed as well, if only to huff the stray hairs falling over your face occasionally.

The rest of your hair was sprawled across the back of his couch like wild seaweed. Your favorite necklace rested in the crook of your collarbone as the dainty chain tickled your sensitive neck. Goosebumps broke out across your arms as they, too, were strewn across the couch. Your pose wasn’t ideal, but you knew it was exactly how he wanted you, so you wouldn’t get up to close the window letting in a cold draft.

His apartment was quaint, a studio on the upper west side that resided above a bodega and a taqueria. You’ve had many opportunities to take it all in, yet somehow there was always something new to discover whenever your eyes wandered.

You pondered if this was all a big metaphor with some grand artistic meaning about how it somehow represented his mental state. How he, such a quiet and minimal person could be happy in such a cluttered apartment on one of the busiest streets in the city was beyond you. You peered at the ostentatious wallpaper juxtaposed with the exposed brick behind him. Paintings lent up against the walls on the ground, stacked against each other, even in the kitchen. Only one word came to mind: loud.

Your eyes eventually came back to him, and when they did, the pink hue returned except this time it was in the form of a blush. He had been eyeing you carefully, waiting to make eye contact with you. When you did, he shot you that lopsided smirk you knew so well before he returned to his canvas. It was his way of telling you to stop moving your head so much.

You leaned your head against the back of the couch again and didn’t move until he finally put his brush down. He stood and backed away from his painting to gain some perspective, deciding if he was truly finished or not.

You’d once heard that paintings are truly never finished, it was just a matter of when the artist was willing to stop. Since then, you’d always wondered when Taehyung would deem it acceptable to put the brush down, when he’d feel that he had done everything he could to capture your essence. You knew there had to be something to it, since every time you’d gaze at the finished product it’d take your breath away.

He was always able to capture your inner feelings with eerie accuracy, which was something that endlessly amazed you.

So many afternoons spent in his apartment, you venting about the latest thing that got your blood to boil while he focused on his artwork. And each time, as you’d emptied your brain of all its toxic contents, he’d make magic happen on the paper.

You watched Taehyung shake his head then return to his seat and pick up the brush again. Some days it was harder for him to decide when to stop.

As you laid naked on the upholstery basking in the afternoon sun that was now filtering in through the window, you began to reminisce about the first time you had posed for him. Your face had been the color of a tomato from complaining about a rude bus driver and your hair was a matted mess after waking up late for work that morning. You didn’t understand how you could possibly be anyone’s muse, especially that day.

You had been in no mood to sit around for hours in a strange apartment, but you had given Taehyung your word after he kindly texted you asking for you to be his model earlier that week. You both happened to take a recreational art class downtown together a year ago when he had tapped you on the shoulder two hours into the lesson and extended his phone to you for your number. You had tagged along with a friend that day to see what their art class was like, and you were glad you did when you saw how cute the shy guy across the room was up close. You were flattered, to say the least, especially when he had later texted asking you to be his personal model. After all, the class had been about learning to paint the human anatomy, so the proposition hadn’t come from left field.

But when the day finally came, you just weren’t in the mood. You showed up and took your clothes off in a huff, taking a seat in front of him and attempting the breathing exercises your anger management counselor had taught you.

As the hours went by, you realized you probably weren’t making such a good model, and your annoyance turned into shame as he moved away from his painting. When you were just about done getting redressed, he turned the easel towards you and took your breath away just like that.

He was an amazing artist, but more than that he was exceptionally observant. What you expected to be a painting of you being petulant and looking anywhere but at him, was instead of a girl that looked very unsure of herself. He’d even used a cool toned palette exclusively to convey those feelings perfectly. You could only look at him in awe, feeling more vulnerable than you had been with your clothes off a minute ago.

After that, he texted you to come over on a weekly basis, and each time you came and did much of the same. You’d take your clothes off and pose anywhere in front of where his easel stood ready and waiting. And each time, he’d reveal a part of you on the paper that you never cared to show anyone.

You were ashamed to admit that you were always angry stepping into his apartment, but each time he turned the easel towards you, a different girl stared back at you. Sometimes she was scared, sometimes she was hopeful.

A few sessions later, you felt as though you could trust Taehyung, partly because he seemed to be in tune with parts of you that you hadn’t even known existed deep under the many levels of anger and hatred that bubbled noisily at your surface. He made you want to express yourself, which was something that was tough for you to do, even with your therapist. But it wasn’t like there was anything else to fill the silence with during those quiet hours anyway. So every week you’d come over expose yourself to him in more ways than one.

You couldn’t exactly call it talking, though.

You’d tell him about what happened that day to make you mad, and sometimes what made you feel particularly murderous. Few times, you’d express something that made you happy, because those really came few and far between. And whenever you did, you felt oddly childlike, as if expressing happiness was somehow attributed to being young while expressing grievances was adult-like. Or maybe it was the way Taehyung’s eyes brightened whenever you talked about something positive. It made you want to look for more things to be happy about, and that in itself, was childlike, you supposed.

But it was all one sided. After a long time of posing for him, you began to wonder if that was the deal: you’d express yourself for him while he’d express himself on paper. You figured it wasn’t a terrible trade, but as time went by you found it increasingly frustrating not to have any reciprocation on the same level. His artwork was always a reflection of you, and it left a huge mystery about who Taehyung really was inside.

Of course, you were never one to accept things as they were if you weren’t content with them, so you slowly learned how to better communicate with someone who was mute.

At first it annoyed you that he’d never answer your questions, no matter how simple or complex they were. Occasionally, if you asked him something that warranted an obvious “yes”, he’d look up from the canvas and smile with his eyes before returning to the task at hand. Those small notions were enough to hold you over until the next question arose. And it wasn’t as if you weren’t being heard, or seen, for that matter. His paintings of you proved quite the opposite.

Your painting sessions became like therapy, in a way. You always felt alleviated after posing for him, and over time, you came to depend on them. What started off as you warily stepping into his place with your bag clutched around your shoulder checking for hidden cameras and other red flags turned into you bursting in with two coffees in your hand already starting a story about your bitch of a boss. Taehyung found your workplace gossip hilarious, though you’d never know why. And overtime, his chuckle was also something you felt was like a small yet precious gift to you, another facet of the elusive painter who was still inspired by your body countless artworks later.

Taehyung and his cluttered studio.

They started off as something you didn’t want but definitely needed. You found it quite a drag to commute to his side of town regularly especially when you were in a foul mood most days. You often kicked yourself for agreeing to go.

Yet these days, it was quite the opposite. You had managed to make some serious headway with your anger management over the past few months, partly thanks to Taehyung for giving you a space to safely and comfortably talk through your turbulent thoughts and emotions. But now, you looked forward to paying him visits, not because you needed to vent, but because you wanted to see him. You wanted to find more peculiar things in his apartment, to notice something else about his personality that you hadn’t before, to be in his calming presence. Because just as he had plenty of time to stare at every inch of your body’s anatomy, you did so too. And boy, did you take advantage.

You had already been compiling a mental list of things about Taehyung you had noticed over time, intimate details that somehow set the cosmic scoreboard even for how intimately he was getting to know your naked body.

For example, he had a crinkle between his eyebrows when he focused on painting a particular part of you that was giving him trouble to grasp. When he was really focused, he’d jut his tongue out a bit and swipe his bottom lip. He often liked to run his fingers through his hair when leaning away from his portrait to gain some perspective. He always pursed his lips before smiling, as if showing amusement was somehow forbidden. And when he gave way to a smirk, it almost always bloomed into the widest boxiest smile you’d ever seen. His hair had more highlights in it than you cared to count, and he had a weird aversion to coasters. Dried rings on countertops all over his apartment served as unquestionable proof of.

You felt like you were finally starting to grasp what kind of person he was, though it still felt as if you were outside looking in. You wanted to know him like he knew you, but you weren’t sure it was possible to be let into someone’s heart that you’d never had a proper conversation with. It proved to be a very difficult thing. But when your efforts came to fruition, the recompence you felt was beyond words.

It was during a particularly shitty day, not because anything made you mad, but because the weather was god awful. Nonstop rain mixed in with cold weather and persistent winds made for a troublesome commute. And because of it, it took way longer to get to Taehyung’s place than normal. When he opened the door for you an hour after your agreed meetup time, his eyebrows shot up in surprise but nonetheless let you in. His hair was damp and his TV was on, two things you’d never seen before.

You had dropped your bag, coat and wet shoes at the door, hugging yourself and rubbing your arms as you walked further in. His heater was on, so you immediately went to go sit by it. You hadn’t realized your teeth were chattering until he brought you a steaming cup of coffee with a sympathetic look to boot. You took it from his hands gratefully and fixed your trembling fingers over the smooth ceramic, blowing the steam away before taking a tentative sip. Mmm, dark roast.

Taehyung looked over at his art supplies, his fingers twitching when his eyes landed on his recently cleaned brush, poised and ready on the lip of the easel. But when he looked back at you, he decided it was probably best not to have you take your clothes off right away. So he brought a blanket over to you and draped it over your shoulders before returning to his seat on the couch. He was watching a horror movie, which made you all the more curious about this strange boy that never talks. What kind of person watches horror movies alone?

The coffee, blanket and heater warmed you up rather quickly, and soon you had removed your socks and your sweater before settling in to watch the climax of the spooky film. You wanted to wait for him to suggest he still wanted to paint you, feeling perfectly content to just hang out like this. For the next half hour, you both took turns glancing at each other but missing eye contact as if this was a game of tag. You started smiling to yourself, wondering why today felt so different when you had already been meeting for months now.

You bit the inside of your cheek in contemplation before decidedly moving to sit next to him on the couch. He moved over to give you plenty of room before returning your smile politely, though there was an amused glint in his eyes that you hadn’t missed before he turned to give the television his undivided attention. You wondered if this sudden electricity between you both was all in your head. It’s not like you could ask him directly, or if you wanted to for that matter. It’d be embarrassing if he hadn’t developed a crush on you over these past few months as you had with him.

Yet as you sat on the same couch you had lounged in for months, you couldn’t help but wonder what if?

You swallowed thickly and your pulse quickened as you realized how close his hand was to you. It laid in between you both, flat against the cushion. You never noticed how pretty his hands were before now, taking in the light vans that ran up his arms stemming from his slender fingers, Your own fingers twitched before you slowly inched your hand forward nand placed it over his. Your eyes flitted towards him, regarding him warily. He had been watching the movie with his head leaning on his palm, and when your skin made contact, his eyes moved sideways, first taking in the intimate gesture then looking at you briefly before turning back to the television in what looked to be a bored expression.

Your bravery crumbled and you began moving your hand away, but he caught it in his before you could get away and then laced your fingers together. Your eyebrows shot up and you tried to hold back the huge smile on your face as you finished watching the movie with your hands joined in between you both. Taehyung couldn’t help but look over at you a few more times and grinning at the blush on your face, finding it cute how shy you were when it came to making a move.

When the movie had ended, you both sat quietly, playing with each other’s fingers, you giggling girlishly and him enjoying the sight of you being so flustered. Eventually the flashing of his phone screen from across the room caught his attention and he dropped your hand, much to your disappointment. You figured that was as much as you were going to get out of him today, so you began stripping as he busied himself typing away. When he returned to you, he was surprised to see you naked and posed, ready to be his muse again. You furrowed your brow and gestured toward the easel to which he shook his head slowly. Ah, I guess he doesn’t want to paint any more today.

“Sorry, I figured we were still doing that. Should I just go and come back next week?” Taehyung thought for a moment then shook his head again, coming to sit by you once more. “Then… what? You want to sit here and hold hands all day?” Taehyung quirked his brow at you, his lips pursing as he held back a smile. “You’re so frustrating sometimes you know.” This time he smiled and scratched the top of his head while looking at the floor, not offering any semblance of what his plans were.

It’d been a while before something miniscule got you worked up and angry like it used to, so you were surprised when the way his eyes seemed to roll away from you caused a switch inside of you to click. You were growing angrier by the second and you couldn’t seem to stop it.

You huffed as you yanked your top from the floor and pulled it on over your head. You reached for your underwear and kicked your legs through the holes as Taehyung sat and watched you with patient eyes.

“I mean, you could text me or something and let me know not to come over next time. I don’t live close by you know.” You huffed as you stood up to get your sweater that still laid serenely by the radiator. You weren’t looking forward to braving the wet and cold just after you had dried and warmed up.

But before you could march over to it, Taehyung firmly took hold of your wrist, causing you to spin on your heel.

“I’m sorry, don’t go.”

You ogled at him, looking at his lips for a while to see if they’d move again. You couldn’t believe he just talked aloud. When they didn’t, you looked up at his eyes in confusion. His expression was urgent, his pupils deep pools of sincerity that you could swim in forever. He was genuinely apologizing, though you felt there was no need. You already knew you were throwing a fit needlessly.

“…I…”

Taehyung slowly smiled, realizing it was your turn to be speechless. He tugged at your wrist, guiding you to sit on his lap. Your heart raced at the newfound proximity. You were now close enough to smell his bodywash which was enough to make your head swim if it wasn’t for the fact that Taehyung just spoke in the most rich and velvety voice you’d ever heard.

“I thought…you were mute.”

“Selective.” Taehyung held your gaze for a minute as his fingers brushed against the soft skin under your wrist, feeling your pulse thump furiously. You looked into his eyes with uneven breath as the realization hit. He was finally letting you in.

Suddenly you were leaning in, craving to experience the full extent of his emotions. And so he met you halfway, molding his soft lips around yours in a deep kiss that made your heart stop altogether.

His large hands took hold of your sides and held you tightly against him as he leaned in to savor your taste. His tongue swiped curiously against your lip so you parted your mouth, allowing him full access to it. You leaned back the more he leaned in, and eventually you were both laying down on the couch with him positioned on top of you, making out intensely. When he broke away panting, his lips were swollen and his eyes full of lusty haze. You didn’t get a chance to take his demeanor in fully, because his lips were back on you again except kissing at the skin of your neck instead, leaving marks along their journey to your collar bone. Each bruise was a paragraph of text written on your paper skin, each lick a compliment he longed to give you since the first time you took your clothes off for him.

It seemed as though for all that he lacked verbally, he more than compensated with touch and emotion.

His hands sneaked underneath your shirt and pulled it off of you before he gazed at your chest. You blushed, because although he’d seen your breasts countless times before, he’d never looked at them the way he was now. You felt like a clay statue he was breathing life into as his lips latched onto your buds, causing your back to lift off of the cushions. He was as good with his mouth as he was with his brush strokes.

You made quick work of his shirt, feeling all too eager to feel his burning skin on yours. His touch was setting you ablaze, and you found the dull ache in between your legs increasingly harder to ignore. You carded your fingers through his hair as he took his pants off impatiently. You’d have taken the opportunity to take your own underwear off, but something told you you’d enjoy it a lot more if he did it for you.

Taehyung leaned back on his heels, his eyes shooting downwards as you opened your legs tentatively. He furrowed his brow in concentration as he hooked his fingers around the waistband of your panties and slowly peeled them off of you as if he was opening a present. He licked his lips as he spread your legs wide before him, taking in your glistening sex from his vantage point. Suddenly he bit his lip and stood up, disappearing behind the couch momentarily. He returned with a condom and tore into the packet as you both looked at each other eagerly.

Finally, he sat in between your legs again, brushing his thumb against your reddened clit as he licked his lips. You didn’t want to wait for him anymore, so you sat up and took hold of his lips with yours again, guiding him down onto you and wrapping your legs around his waist. When he plunged inside of you, your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

He rocked his hips slowly at first and continued peppering your body with kisses and bites. Your nails dug into his back while he balanced himself on his elbows, his hands pushing away the hair from your face. When he kissed your lips again, your tongues swirled wildly, causing him to lose control and pick up the pace. You hissed and moaned, your hips coming up to meet him stroke for stroke.

And as his movements got increasingly rougher and more urgent, you lost yourself in them over and over again because now it was his turn to express himself.

Your sweaty bodies writhed against each other all afternoon, each moan of yours an appreciation of his affection towards you and each grown of his conveying a wordless confession.

Making love to Taehyung was like him having a conversation with your body. He knew all the right places to touch and when. He’d get so wrapped up and passionate during your afternoons spent together that he’d hardly seem like the same quiet man sitting across from you staring at a canvas for hours. He was rough yet gentle, persistent yet patient, truly in keeping with the enigma that he had always been to you.

And now, as you sat on the very same couch you both had made love on the first time and many times afterward, you found yourself eyeing him mischievously. It had been 20 minutes after he decided his painting wasn’t quite finished yet, and you were getting antsy.

He’d caught your look, and though a reaction didn’t register on his face, the growing bulge sitting pretty in between his legs was enough for you.

Your nipples were quickly hardening in the frigid air entering through the open window, though the reason for that wasn’t entirely attributed to the col temperature. Normally you were patient enough to wait until he was done, but today was stressful and you wanted so badly for him to help you relieve some of that stress.

So you didn’t bother holding back your joy when he finally stood up from his spot in the corner and sauntered over to you, giving you a disapproving look. You looked back at him apologetically, though you weren’t sure it translated well as you bit your lip lustfully at his approaching figure. He sighed, flicking one of your hardened nipples roughly. You let out a shaky breath to which he snickered as he pulled his shirt off over his head. This time it was his turn to bite his lips as you purposely spread your legs, giving him a full view of what he was capable of doing to you without so much as touching you.

He growled as he crawled onto the couch, groping your curves and dips as he contemplated how to punish you for being a fidgety model. You awaited eagerly with a shallow breath then squealed as he abruptly scooped you into his arms and off the couch. He brought you over to the windowsill and sat you down before kneeling in front of you and spreading your legs again. Your breath hitched in your throat at the first stroke of his tongue on your clit. Your hands gripped the edge of the windowsill as you scooted closer to the edge to give him better access to you. You made a mental note to interrupt his painting sessions more often.

“A-ah….Taehyung…” You moaned softly as he sucked lightly on your clit. His eyes watched you carefully as his tongue navigated your slick folds expertly. When you threw your head back as his tongue got closer to your entrance, he pushed the wet muscle inside and fucked you with his face, causing you to buck your hips onto him. Your head snapped back down, and your fingers latched onto his hair, guiding him in and out of you as you fucked his face. You were so close to cumming, but you needed a bit more. That’s when Taehyung replaced his tongue with two fingers, plunging them inside you and curling them upwards as he milked the orgasm from you. You hunched over, holding onto his head tightly as you came all over his mouth and fingers.

“Fuck…that was…” You panted and let go of him, allowing him to stand back up as he wiped the side of his mouth with his thumb. He smiled at you brightly, all semblance of disapproval gone from his angelic features. You brough him towards you and kissed him passionately, only then feeling the cold wind licking at your backside. You shivered, so he took your hand and led you off the windowsill.

He embraced you as you wrapped your arms around his midsection, holding you in silence for a few moments. Eventually, he tipped your chin up to stare into your eyes and gauge the rest of your sentence from what your eyes could give away. You looked back at him and smiled, feeling brave enough to ask him something that didn’t have a simple yes or no answer for once.

“What are you thinking?”

Taehyung looked down for a moment then took your hand in his. He brought you over to his easel and placed you in front of today’s painting, looking at your reaction carefully. You had expected to see yourself staring at the center of the page looking horny as ever.

But as you gazed at the painting, you saw a girl who was very much in love.

Your chest tightened and your eyes glistened. Turning towards Taehyung, you looked up at his wary eyes. He held his breath as his thumb stroked your knuckles, conveying more than you had ever expected him to be able to. And for once, you were glad there were no words.

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ricebowl-san · 3 years

Text

Reciprocation of Love

Rosa noticed how since they were little that Luke would be the one to do things in her favour. Be it tutoring her for that certain subject that she had a problem with, enhancing her home security or even helping her with some of her work, he would always be there to assist her. She knew Luke was not expecting anything out of her and that he was content just by being there for her but Rosa felt like she couldn’t keep this up forever. For once, she also wanted to shower Luke with affection.

Thus, she planned a day full of activities to make memories out of. Rosa had sternly told Luke not to bring anything and just come to her parents’ house. Once he reached there, he was welcomed with her opening the door, a huge grin on her face. “Welcome, Luke!” she greeted the stunned man and ushered him to the living room.

Luke thought he was there for another casual hangout where they just replayed some of their old time childhood memories while ordering takeout but instead, he was greeted with the sight of a wonderfully decorated room. The curtains were drawn close and fairy lights hung down from the top, there were home cooked meals still piping on the coffee table and ready to play Sherlock Holmes movie on the television. Not only that, the sofa was stacked with pillows and fleece blankets as well as a small cake with a candle on the table as well. ‘What is happening?’ He pondered but he did not get to ask out loud when Rosa gently pushed him to sit down in front of the coffee table.

Rosa had invited him during lunch to come over, making it the perfect time for them to start munching on their meal. She pushed him a plate of tomato omelette, pleased when he took a bite and saying how tasty it was. “I tried asking Granny Jones to teach me the recipe so I can make one for you. Remember when you used to cook me a plate when we were solving the first mystery for Sphynx? I want you to taste my cooking for the omelette, Luke.”

After practically wolfed down half of the food, Luke turned to her. “Why are you doing this? What’s the occasion? Did I miss something Rosa? God, I’m such an idiot. I totally did, didn’t I? I’m sorry for forgetting it.”

There it came, Luke’s self blaming.

He continued to ramble some more, saying that Rosa should not have done this, that he should not be the one on the receiving end and such before she put a finger on his mouth and he immediately shut up. He gulped, wondering if the woman had gotten angry over his rambling.

Rosa cradled his face between her hands, feeling the man leaned into her touch. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, savouring it before snapping it wide open, remembering that he should not feel that way. She felt like pinching his cheeks for that. This wonderful man, always thinking of her, never once thinks of himself. “Luke,” she gently said, eyes soft in adoration for the man, “you are not forgetting anything. There is no anniversary to celebrate.”

“Then why—”

“I just want you to be on the receiving end, Luke. You always shower me with affection, whether it’s tangible or not. I know you’re not expecting anything from me and that I am also not obligated to return anything for you because we are not having a contractual relationship. We’re both a couple, but because we’re both a couple I want you to feel my love for you as well.

I want to do something for you, as a thank you for all you’ve done for me. I want you to see that just as how much you love me, I also love you the same—even more maybe. I want to be the mirror for your love, to show you that this is the amount of love and happiness you have given me for as long as we both can remember.” Rosa smiled, seeing the eyes of the man she loves faltered at her words, his mouth trembled. He clearly was not expecting this. ‘How much of a lovable idiot can he be?’ she bit back a laugh.

Rosa rested her forehead against his, breathing his sunshine scent in. Her favourite scent, the one that eases her whenever she feels anxious. The one she found herself reaching for whenever she feels forlorn. The one she loves because it's the scent of the man she loves.

“I love you, Luke Pearce. I love you so much. Thank you for all the things you’ve done for me. Will you accept these things I have prepared for you?”

She heard a sob escaping from his mouth and Rosa chuckled a bit. Luke Pearce, a highly trained special agent for NSB, who would’ve thought he would be reduced to a crying mess. Certainly no one.

No one but her.

Because you see, as much as he had cared for her throughout their lifetime, Rosa too, cared for him as well in her own way. She noticed every single thing about him, regardless whether it was big or small. Whether it’s insignificant or not. She too noticed everything about Luke.

Luke was trying to hold back his tears. He did not realise up till now that what she had done for him would make him this happy. He thought just by being by her side, helping and assisting her with anything is enough for him. He thought that her happiness mattered the most but Rosa proved him wrong, of course. She had always proved him wrong for the things he thought was right since they were young and this was no exception.

It was not only her happiness that mattered.

It was their happiness together that mattered.

He realised by then that as much as he loves showering her, the woman also loves showering him as well. So he welcomed the affection she was giving. Nodding repeatedly, he said, “Yes, yes Rosa. I would love to. Thank you.” He smiled at her, the smile that could rival that of the sun. “Thank you, Rosa.”

He let her kiss his forehead. He let her serve him with love and attention. He let her whisper her love to him every one in a while, listing out all the traits of him that she loves. For once, Luke got to be in Rosa’s place and she got to be in his.

And at the time, he thought, being in love with Rosa was a miracle of its own.

#luke pearce #tot luke #tears of themis luke #xia yan #tot #tears of themis #I just want Luke to know that he is loved #is this fluff? can this be considered as fluff?#Luke tears of Themis #lukerosa #Luke deserves the world for real #rice bowl fic

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willow-salix · 3 years

Text

All I can say is sorry for this...

She was tired, so very tired, but still she paced the floor, trying to soothe the ear piercing wails that rattled the walls. How could something so small make so much noise and manage to rule an entire household? This was not something they ever told you when you were pushing your baby dolls around in their strollers and feeding them water that they would pee out later. That was an idyllic fantasy, one where you could stuff the baby in a toy box as soon as you got bored or were done playing and forget about it. She’d never had this trouble with the other two, but this one…

She bounced him gently in her arms, trying every trick she knew, everything she had learned while bringing up her babies, but nothing was working. Her husband, that despicable scumbag who had dared, DARED, to not be here when she needed him, was tucked away safely in space, leaving her to handle everything as she tried to cope with a 5 year old, a two year old and a teething five month old that just refused to be soothed or to sleep because his precious nightlight had broken.

She looked up to the dark ceiling, devoid of the swirling constellations that usually calmed him. He was one of the most lively, inquisitive and alert babies she had ever met, his eyes constantly on the move, always watching, taking in everything that was going on around him.

He was usually a dream, quiet, calm and more than happy to be put down while she sorted breakfast or got one of his brothers dressed, unlike the other two. She’d lost count of the times she had come in to check on him in the night to find him wide awake, watching the little pinpricks of light projected above him, not having uttered a sound, perfectly content with whatever was playing in his own little head. Which was why she was having such a hard time now, she didn’t know what to do, she’d never had this trouble with him before.

“Please, baby,” she whispered, cradling him against her chest, feeling his angry little fists smacking at her shoulder as his body stiffened, going silent for a second as he sucked in another deep breath, ready to scream anew.

“Mommy?” a small voice called to her from down the hall. “Baby OK?”

“He’s fine, darling,” she called back, “just a little grumpy, try to go back to sleep.”

The baby screamed again, almost deafening her and once more.

“I can’t sleep, he’s too noisy.”

“Just try your hardest,” she called back, raising her voice to be heard over the wailing. To her surprise the baby actually quietened down, just a little. She looked at him in shock, would drowning him out actually work?

She looked around for inspiration but the nursery contained nothing of the noisy variety, the baby not being fond of those sort of toys. She glared at the broken nightlight, the cause of all the trouble. The sight of it triggered something at the back of her mind, a long forgotten memory of a TV show she had watched with her Grandfather.

Desperate now she started to hum, finding that the tune was just as familiar now as it had been all those years ago. The baby lifted his head, staring at her as if she were crazy, but his wailing slowly faded into gulping sobs and then a quiet whimpering as he rubbed his tired eyes, his reddened, sore cheeks wet with tears.

The more she hummed the more came back to her and she found herself singing little snippets of the lyrics, the words growing clearer in her head as she repeated them over and over. She paced as she sung, moving from a bouncing rocking into a gentle swaying. The baby's head swayed with her, his eyes starting to droop.

I wish I was a spaceman.

The fastest guy alive.

I'd fly you round the universe,

In Fireball XL-5.

Way out in space together,

Conquerors of the sky,

My heart would be a fireball,

A fireball,

Every time I gazed into your starry eyes.

The baby’s head came to rest on her shoulder, his damp little face nuzzling into her neck, his hitching breaths having calmed into the soft, gentle breathing that she was used to.

We'd take the path to Jupiter,

And maybe very soon.

We'd cruise along the Milky Way,

And land upon the moon.

To our wonderland of stardust,

We'll zoom our way to Mars,

My heart would be a fireball,

A fireball,

If you would be my Venus of the stars.

The little body in her arms grew heavier as he finally gave in to the lure of sleep. She continued her gentle rocking, lulling him into a deeper slumber, singing for another ten minutes before her arms began to ache and she thought it might be safe to put him down.

Carefully, inch by inch she lowered the sleepy bundle into his crib, covering him with the light blanket and tiptoed to the door. Now to check on the other two and then the large glass of wine that was awaiting her.

She was halfway down the hall when the peel of the doorbell echoed through the house. Who could that be at this time of night? She broke out into a run, sprinting down the stairs, skidding in the hall as she grabbed for the door handle, desperate to stop whoever was outside from ringing again and shattering her hard earned peace.

“Mrs Tracy?” the delivery driver asked, squinting in the light that poured from the house.

“Yes?”

“Package for you, sign here.”

She scribbled her name on the screen he held out and took the offered package, thanked him and shut the door.

Curious, because she hadn’t ordered anything, she carefully opened the box, pushing aside the packing paper. Nestled inside was a brand new replacement for the broken nightlight.

“I take it back,” she whispered to the quiet of the house, “you aren’t that bad a husband, after all.”

She crept back into the baby’s room and unplugged the broken one, swapping it out for the new. A press of a button and once again the ceiling lit up with twinkling, swirling pinpricks of light.

She brushed a gentle hand over the soft mop of red hair that topped his head.

“Look, Johnny, Daddy sent you a present.”

-x-

“It’s OK, Allie, it’ll be alright,” Scott soothed, jiggling his baby brother in his arms as the toddler continued to wail as if his heart was breaking, which was pretty close to the truth. “It’s gonna be OK, just please, settle down.”

He’d been walking the little boy up and down for the past hour and nothing, but nothing, was working to settle him. He was still crying, a tired, wailing scream that tugged at the heartstrings and pierced the ears at the same time and honestly, Scott was only just resisting the urge to join him.

How were they supposed to cope on their own? How were they supposed to go on without the person that mopped up their tears and kissed their pain away? How were they supposed to go on when the pain they were feeling was because she wasn’t there?

“Please, Allie,” he whispered, “please go to sleep, I don’t know what you want, I don’t know what to do.”

His brother declined to answer him, his face as red as a tomato as he sobbed, his little legs kicking as he tried to break free of Scott’s hold.

“I know,” Scott sighed, “I know you don’t want me, you want her, I do too. I wish she was here, I wish-”

“Let me try,” a soft voice offered.

Scott turned to see his middle brother standing in the doorway, the light from the hall painting his tired, drawn face with stark shadows.

“You forgot his nightlight,” John murmured as he crossed over to switch on the little glowing orb that would project its blanket of stars onto the ceiling, although there was no accusation in his tone, just the same weary acceptance as Scott’s.

Alan’s sobs stopped abruptly, his eyes drawn to the ceiling and the gently revolving lights that made up a galaxy above their heads. Wordlessly Scott handed over the toddler.

Instead of standing with him John settled himself in the nursing chair that their mother always used. Scott swallowed the lump in his throat at the sight of someone else sitting there, in her spot, taking her place.

It hurt, more than he could put into words. This shouldn’t be happening, they shouldn’t be going through this, she should be there with them.

Scott turned for the door, unable to keep standing there, unable to watch as his brother attempted to fill a tiny part of the gaping void that had opened up in their lives.

He pushed the door closed, leaning his head against the door frame as the soft, low sound of his brother’s voice floated on the air.

I wish I was a spaceman, the fastest guy alive...

#thunderbirds #thunderbirdsarego #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderwhump #John Tracy #Scott Tracy

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light-yaers · 3 years

Text

No Saints: Chapter Four

This content is explicit and is 18+

Warnings: Graphic sexual content, violence, implied effects of PTSD, death and explicit language.

Read on Ao3 here | Fic Masterpost

Word Count - 5.6k

Chapter Four

“You’re angry,” Mando said plainly. He stood in the shop, door closed and obviously locked, a week later. You stood behind your work desk, glaring up at his chrome visor and saying absolutely nothing.

You pointed to the collection of credits on the desktop. Mando followed your finger, seeing what the supposed problem was.

“You’re angry because I gave you my last pay?” He questioned, stepping closer to you at the desk.

“I said I don’t want your credits,” You told him bluntly. “Your money is your money—,”

“That was before you saved my life,” He interrupted, coming to lean down on the desk opposite you. You inhaled deeply, feeling a subtle rush of excitement in your gut at his closeness, despite the scolding you wanted to give him.

“I don’t want your money, Mando,” You stated, staring straight into his visor. “It’s not fair,”

“It is fair,” He retorted. “I haven’t needed information for a while. You’ve given me whiskey, bread, company—,”

“I don’t do that because I want to be paid, Mando!” You erupted. Stars, was this your first fight? God forbid.

He stepped back subtly, almost as if he was trying to figure out your emotions. You could imagine the furrowed brow beneath his helmet, the look of confusion and trying to understand what you fully meant.

“Then hear this,” He began. You heard the tone of his voice as he became sterner, as he’d figured out his words for definite. “If you go bankrupt, what happens then?”

You couldn’t help it, you had to roll your eyes at him. “That’s not your responsibility—,”

He interrupted you with a muffled groan, but instead of a seething anger, you felt... butterflies. When before it had simply been you admitting to your silly wants or desires, he’d finally cracked—he’d finally admitted that something was affecting him. “Without you on this planet, what will I do each time I return?”

You stood up slowly, involuntarily dropping your mouth open from this fucking realisation. Was Mando giving you credits to keep you in business? So he’d still have you to return to between jobs?

You couldn’t help it. All of your anger dissipated into thin air, replaced by the intense longing to fucking hug him, or laugh in his face about being the vulnerable one this time, or take off his helmet with your eyes closed and kiss his actual lips.

None of which you actually did—

Well, apart from the laughter. Soft chuckles escaped your lips, making Mando step back even further. It wasn’t often you were the one laughing at him, but this time was different.

“What?” He let out. You could hear the rising anger in his tone, but you couldn’t stop yourself from chortling. “What?” He repeated, stepping forward to approach you at the desk. You looked up into his visor, cheeks a soft shade of pink, smile shoved all over your face.

You allowed yourself a few seconds to breathe, to calm down, before you finally cleared your throat, getting in close to his visor. “You like me,” You whispered, followed by cascades of laughter once more. You had to grip onto the desk for support, otherwise you were sure you’d drop to the floor, clutching your stomach as your abs started to hurt.

Mando didn’t move, he only looked at you—stars, he was good at looking at you. Stare unwavering, body unmoving, but eyes racing behind his visor as he fought to soak up the entire image of you in front of him.

He let you have your fun, laughing solely at his expense, or maybe just to stop yourself from body slamming him to the floor in a fit of absolute arousal. When you’d slowed to subtle hiccups of laughter, he reached out, grabbing your neck and pulling your face closer to his helmet—

Stars, you ceased to breathe. You flicked your gaze over his visor, from left to right and back again, hoping that maybe you were hitting his eyes beneath. Fuck, what you’d do to see those eyes. You craved to know the colour, the warmth, the looks that Mando actually sent you. You wanted to see him clamp them shut with absolute pleasure, you wanted to see them crinkle when he laughed.

“Annoying,” Was all he said, but you didn’t feel hurt from it. You knew he was fucking deflecting—because you did that often. You settled on sending him a slight smirk in return, but all levels of composure went out of the window—when your name trickled from his lips—

Your name. The one you’d blurted out last week, before he’d fucking put you to bed. You went to move back immediately, but Mando’s grip on your neck only increased. He brought his other hand to settle on the other side, keeping you stuck right in front of him.

“There it is,” He whispered, letting out a few amused modulated breaths. “That blush,”

Stars—you wanted to simultaneously kill him and snog him.

“That blush makes your annoyance tolerable,” You raised your brows suddenly as your gut coiled uncontrollably. His voice was nothing more than a low growl, disguising itself as subtle anger; but you knew the difference. You’d heard Mando be angry, you’d heard him be soft and gentle, but you’d also heard him when he was fucking gagging for it—gagging to put his hands on your body, gagging to have you wrapped in his embrace.

“Does it, now?” You trickled out, the rising feeling of warmth fluttering through your body. It started in your stomach and spiralled outwards, hitting your chest, your arms, your shoulders and your pussy. When it hit that, your brain all but shut down, replaced with only the need—the need to hear him moan again. “What else makes it tolerable?”

Mando immediately started shaking it head. “No. I have to meet with Karga,”

You pouted at him, sticking out your lower lip and sending him a sad frown. You started sniffling overdramatically, wondering if this blatant fake act would actually work on him. He only shook his head again, faster this time, as if he was trying to convince himself not to go there. “Karga may have fallen for it, but I won’t,”

Your face dropped into an actual frown as you sighed. Mando removed his grip from your neck, picking up his satchel and slinging it over his shoulder like always. You walked round from behind your desk, trying not to get sad about how short his visit had been this week—he was a busy man, especially after the lateness of last week. He was probably trying to build up trust with Karga again.

You stood in front of him as he stared down at you, small frown still on your lips and the blush still plastered on your cheeks. “Short visit,” He stated, but it made you smile slightly. At least you weren’t the only one thinking it. “Do you still have that communicator I gave you?”

Stars, if you’d been blushing before, you were fucking red now. Your hand instinctively went to your wrist, where the comm had been since he’d put it on you last week. You hadn’t taken it off. Fuck. This is embarrassing.

Mando noticed your awkwardness, looking down to your hands and seeing that you still had it. For once, he didn’t let out a chuckle, but you figured it was as a kindness to your tomato face. “Good. Keep it,” He demanded softly. “It means I can talk to you as soon as I land,”

You tried not to let out a squeal. Mando hadn’t just admitted to wanting to keep you on Nevarro, for his sake, he’d also just made it incredibly clear that he, maybe, missed you. Missed you enough while he was off collecting quarries to want to speak to you as soon as he landed on Nevarro once again.

This man—this man of steel and metal and cold, of violence, who could definitely snap you in half in the blink of an eye, was one of the most gentle and kind beings you’d ever come across. The Mandalorian.

Maybe that wasn’t saying much, considering the people you’d been surrounded with for your entire life; but you felt the good in him. You felt his kindness, his warmth, his want to be there for you, next to you, with you. Fuck—don’t fall for him completely. Don’t you fucking dare.

If only he’d fuck you soon. That would be the cherry on of everything.

But there was something so quenching and satisfying about the build-up—the tension, the stares, the wonder of what part of your body he’d touch this time round, of which part of himself he’d reveal to you next. Stars, you loved it.

Mando nodded at you once, going to leave the shop, but you stepped forward abruptly.

“I’ll... see you next week?” You let it out in a rush, afraid that he’d dip through the door too fast for you to say a goodbye. No—it wasn’t a goodbye. It was a “see you later”.

Mando strolled back to you slowly, silently, as every step hit you like a brick. He let out a sigh, or a moan, or a whatever—it sounded half-way between pained and lost for words. Before you could figure out its meaning, he wrapped two Beskar clad arms around your shoulders, bringing a gloved hand to the back of your head and pushing you forward to rest upon his chest.

You gasped at his initial touch, not yet being used to this intimacy with him. Stars, you’d wrapped your legs around him before you’d wrapped your arms around him? It was enough to make you laugh, but all you felt in that moment was a softness that almost made you cry. It was an embrace that you hadn’t felt in years; a simple hug.

You’d forgotten all that could be fixed with one simple gesture of arms wrapped around your body. You’d forgotten the feeling of a chest rising and falling, of hearing a subtle heartbeat as your ear rested right over it. Mando’s was no different—it was a soft badum, over and over again beneath his Beskar.

You closed your eyes, guiltily realising that you didn’t want to let go, not anytime soon. But that time was cut exceptionally short, when Mando pulled himself away first. He gently peeled you from his body, extending you to be an arms-length away before dropping his arms.

“See you next week,” He said lowly. And then he was really gone, gently shutting your door from outside and leaving you to stand in the Mando-less silence of your shop.

Stars. This fucking sucks.

The more time you spent with the Mandalorian, the less you wanted him to leave. With every passing, it was becoming more of a battle on your emotions. Get it together. You berated yourself incessantly, telling yourself to get over it, to keep going forward, but with the passing time without him, you realised—

You were thinking more and more about your past.

And that was something that you never liked to do.

Despite the years, the change of perspective, the countless hours of repression and years of work to get yourself away from it, it was becoming impossible. You saw flashes while you worked, when you shot in the firing range, before you slept. It haunted you, seeping into your bones, as if you’d never fucking left it all behind.

Debilitating was a whole different ballpark, but this was debilitating. When you looked in the mirror, you couldn’t differentiate between your older and younger self anymore—behind your eyes, you still saw her; cut-throat, unremorseful, naïve.

What you always seemed to forget were your morals; you’d never wanted to do what you’d done. You’d never wanted to become what they made you, but it was all you knew, all you had, until you’d managed to get yourself out of there.

Maybe you’d picked Nevarro to settle as eternal punishment for your actions. Maybe you’d picked it because the danger, the griminess, the dirt and blood reminded you of the only home you could remember as a child.

You stifled a gasp as you dragged your hand down to your boot, sticking your fingers under the leather to feel the jagged, scarred skin on your right ankle—the mark they’d given you. The mark of your abilities, your absence of mercy, your creed.

Only when you got older did you realise it was never a creed—it was a cult, a gang—and you’d simply been one of many children trafficked to work for their ranks. If you hadn’t grown such a tough skin, you would have died alongside the ones that didn’t make it. So, you grew, you trained until you couldn’t stand, until your stomach ejected its contents, until the agony of the hits you were taking turned to a numbness that you’d learned to expect and persist through.

Fuck. Stop thinking about it. Stop.

You endured. You continued your work, you refused smiles from customers and repaired blaster after blaster, sometimes stopping to stare at the communicator on your wrist that only served as a reminder that he was gone. Stars, don’t get soft now.

It was a week later when his voice rang through the band on your arm. He said your name, and dank farrik, you freaked the fuck out. You shot out of bed, half asleep, afraid that they’d found you—that they’d scoured the universe to find you, to capture you, to torture you for your desertion—

You flailed wildly, picking up your blaster as a reflex and squinting into the darkness of your room. You were alone. “Did I wake you?” His modulated drawl spoke up again. Fuck—it’s just Mando. You clutched your heart painfully, feeling the rapid pulse of its beat throbbing throughout your entire body.

“No,” You replied breathily, trying to calm yourself down. “Where are you?”

Mando groaned on the other end of the line, but it wasn’t a noise of his that you’d ever heard before. It wasn’t strained from arousal, it wasn’t the hungriness you knew he could possess, it was pain. “Outside the city,” He replied, only confirming that something had happened.

“What’s wrong?” You bleated through the comms. “Are you hurt?”

Mando chuckled once, before letting out a colossal groan in agony. Now, you were panicking. It’s not that you thought he was indestructible, but he’d never wavered with his strength, and with all that armour you’d never know how someone could actually strike him where it hurt.

“Do you have any Bacta shots?” He asked, groaning even more. You clambered up immediately, going to check your first aid supplies. You shuffled through them all, throwing gauze and bandaids and surgical tape behind you before letting out a frustrated huff.

“No, I—I don’t have any,” You stuttered, still overcome with the adrenaline you woke up to.

“Sewing kit?” He persisted. You nodded quickly to yourself, before you realised he couldn’t fucking see you.

“Yes, I have one,” You shuffled through the cupboards beneath your work desk quickly, finding the small sewing kit that you rarely used. Weapon repairs didn’t use thread.

“Can you—,” He groaned between words. “Bring it— to the Razor Crest?”

You were already slipping on your sweats and a light jacket, nodding to yourself feverishly, before you managed to stutter out a response. “I’m on the way—be there soon—,”

“Be careful,” Mando forced out. “Sending you my coordinates,”

You followed his coordinates to the outside of the city. You’d never walked around Nevarro after dark much and for absolute good reason. It was grimy and mysterious, with dark alleys and even darker individuals. You had a constant grip on the blaster clipped to your waist as an understandable precaution, grasping it all the way to the outer sections of the city.

When you saw his ship in the distance, you broke into a run. You pumped your arms like you had no other agenda, embracing the adrenaline coursing through your blood and using it to your advantage.

“I’m outside your ship,” You breathed down the comms. His answer was opening up the hatch of the Razor Crest. You jumped in before it reached the floor, looking on the walls to close it right back up again. You stamped the controls and the ramp began to close once more, but you weren’t interested in it—

You were interested in the mound of Beskar on the floor that you recognised as Mando’s chest, shoulder and arm plates. You scanned the darkness of his ship, catching your eye on the subtle light reflection of his chrome helmet.

You rushed forward to see him crumpled on a rickety medical bed, slumped and breathing harshly. “Fuck—Mando,” You let out, approaching him quickly. You placed your hands on his armour-less forearms, but it only made him flinch in pain.

“S’okay, just a stab wound,” He whispered out coarsely.

It’s okay? This fucking idiot.

You looked at him in a panic, knowing that he most certainly wasn’t okay. He was putting on a front, maybe for your sake, or for his. You could tell he was worried; otherwise he wouldn’t have contacted you to meet him on his ship.

“Did you—bring the kit?” He stuttered out. You fumbled with the kit, pulling it from the pocket of your jacket. He only nodded, lying back onto the bed in flinches and staggered movements until only his legs dangled off the end, the rest of him laid down. “Stitches. Needs stitches,”

You stood up straight immediately, spotting a storage box by the cockpit ladder and grabbing it swiftly. You dropped it by the side of the bed, slamming yourself down on top of it and ignoring the shake in your fingers as you flicked your eyes over his body.

He’d taken off all of the Beskar on his chest, leaving on the leg armour. His undershirt was black and thick, but even that didn’t stop you from seeing the unmistakable slick of blood, gushing from beneath a spot on his stomach. Tentatively, you curled your fingers beneath the shirt, pulling it up his chest slowly, exposing the wound—

Stars, it was deep.

It was deep and gushing with red, as every breath Mando took only accelerated his blood loss. You were surprised he hadn’t passed out from the loss yet, let alone still been able to talk and just about move.

“Stars, Mando—I—,” You stuttered out, clutching the sewing kit in your fingers and wondering what the fuck you were meant to do. You weren’t a seamstress, and fuck, you’d never given anyone stitches before.

“I trust you,” The words trickled from beneath his helmet. You only indulged in his confession for a second, before tearing open the sewing kit. You spotted Mando’s first aid kit on the floor by the bed, taking a bundle of gauze and wipes as you fought to stop yourself from shaking.

You wiped down his wound, clenching your jaw as you saw the agonising way he tensed his entire body as you cleaned his flesh, ridding it of all of the blood you could. You picked up a needle then, choosing the biggest and most curved of the bunch, and threading it through with the strongest stuff in the pack. You had no idea if this would hold, but it would have to do until he started to heal, or until he could find a Bacta shot on Nevarro.

“I’m sorry,” You breathed out. “It’s going to hurt, Mando,”

He fucking laughed, spluttering out an agonising groan afterwards. You wanted to kick him, to shout at him to stop fucking doing that. “I know. Just do it,” He let out. You could tell it was through clenched teeth. He was preparing himself for immense pain.

With every groan he let out, you wanted to cry. With every stab of the needle next to the wound, you were sure he was going to slap you; you wouldn’t have blamed him, honestly. You saw the way his entire body was shaking, was going into shock slowly and agonisingly. Yet he stayed awake. You saw the subtle twitch of his fingers with every pull of the thread, with every pent-up breath you let out after another successful stitch was added to the wound.

You alternated with wiping the wound of excess blood and pushing the needle through his skin, making sure to keep it as clean as fucking possible with what you had. God forbid, infection set in afterwards. He would have been better off without you in that sense.

You were sweating profusely by the time you pulled the last stitch through, sealing up the wound as tightly as you could against his painful moans.

“Okay—okay, almost done. Hold on, Mando,” You didn’t let yourself celebrate just yet. You dropped the bloody needle and thread to the floor, picking up the roll of gauze. Stars—you needed him to sit up for you to wrap it around his torso.

Mando knew what you needed before you’d ever said it, as he tilted his helmet in your direction. Stars, you didn’t want him to see you like this. Sweating, on the brink of fucking tears, his blood beneath your fingernails.

“Up?” He let out, but you heard the regained strength in his voice. You nodded at him morbidly, but nevertheless, he did it. It was a fucking struggle; you had to give him your arm and stars, he was fucking strong. He gripped onto your arm and bit through the agony as he hoisted himself up to a sitting position. You didn’t take your eyes off the wound, too afraid that it would suddenly burst, but it held.

His shirt fluttered down his torso, covering the wound when he’d finally made it to sitting. There was no way in hell he’d be able to hold it up himself, not with the core strength it would take him to do it in his exhausted state.

You placed the gauze between his legs, curling your fingers beneath his shirt once more. “I need to take it off,” You gulped. If this was any other occasion, you’d be blushing. Seeing Mando’s hands was one thing, but seeing his chest, the gleam of his sweat, the tan of his skin and the subtle scarring from past battles—you wanted to place your hands all over it.

Fucking hell. He’s wounded. Stop it.

Mando obeyed, helping you slightly to lift the shirt over his helmet. You would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so tense; it got caught over his visor, leaving you with the image of him with his shirt stuck over his head, arms up and chest bare. God—it was sort of funny. You’d definitely laugh about it later, if he didn’t fucking pass out before you were done patching him up.

“This is not—,” He groaned. “How I imagined being—half-naked— in front of you,” The softness of his voice, despite the fucking pain, the agony, the panic that he obviously felt, filled you with a warmth that steadied you for the first time since entering his ship.

He was trying to make you feel better. Trying to calm you down, despite him being the one who should be worrying immensely. You ignored the tiny amount of blush that you felt on your cheeks, picking up the gauze and placing it over his wound gently.

You wrapped it around him several times, having to stand up and over him to wrap it behind him. You wrapped it around him four times, before you felt his fingers find your waist. You gasped slightly, but didn’t stop coiling gauze around him up. Only when his head dropped onto your chest did you stop—

You looked down at him, gauze still in your hands, just to savour this image. You were stood in front of him, while he sat beneath you, utterly encased in the protection of your body. His fingers were gripped onto your jacket tightly, feeling the fabric between his fingers and allowing his thumbs to gently fumble around your waist. His head on your chest was new altogether—the helmet was heavier than you’d ever thought it would be, and stars, you had to stop yourself from imagining his face beneath—

Eyes closed, mouth ajar as he took in gentle, calming breaths, feeling the comfort that the sound of your heartbeat offered him beneath your ribs.

You smiled to yourself, ignoring the pooled sweat that sat atop your cheeks and above your brow. Wrapping the gauze around him once more, you tucked the end back in and tied it securely, testing to see if it would budge easily. You were satisfied.

“Done,” You spoke, letting all of your panic flood away with that single word, before you slumped yourself down on the storage box next to the bed, after Mando removed his grip from you.

Fuck. You felt dizzy.

You felt utterly spent, overcome by the rapid heartbeat in your ears and the feeling of your blood beneath your skin and flesh. All you could feel was the anxiety that riddled your body, despite knowing that you were done, finished, that Mando would be okay with some rest and a few changes of gauze over the next few weeks.

You looked at your trembling fingers, seeing every little spot of dried blood that had turned to a muddied brown. All you could feel was his writhing body, his pain, his groans—

But that stopped as soon as Mando placed his hand on your cheek.

You looked up at him, flittering your eyes over his helmet and travelling them down to his, now mostly gauze covered, chest. God, that chest. You couldn’t believe you’d just touched his chest freely, but not for the reasons that you’d ever wanted to before. Stars, you never wanted to see him wounded like this again, let alone have to sew up his skin a second time.

“I was right to trust you,” He said softly, circling his thumb rhythmically over your warm cheeks. You let out an abrupt scoff, needing to find comedy in this situation before you utterly exploded into tears and cries.

“Stupid decision. You’re just lucky that I’m good under pressure,” Good under pressure. What a blatant fucking lie, evidently.

“No,” He spoke up. “You’re good in general,”

Stars. If only he knew all that you’d done in your life. He would be a saint in comparison.

You allowed yourself to let go, to feel only the touch of his fingers upon your cheek. Those hands, you loved the roughness, the coarseness, the gentleness of the ridges between his fingers and his palm. It was enough to calm you down tenfold, sucking away the anxiety and the fear that had settled within you over the past week.

“It’s late,” You spoke, sending him a small smile. “I should get back before dawn,”

Mando went stiff, so abruptly that you thought something had happened with his wound. You frowned, reaching out to the gauze, but he kept you in place by swivelling himself round on the bed to face you fully. You gasped when he raised his other hand to your face, holding your head in his hands and staring directly into your goddamn soul.

“You could stay,” He whispered it, allowing his voice to penetrate the entire space around you, filtering through your ears and travelling down your spine, causing you to involuntarily shiver. “Till morning, when it’s safe to go back into town,”

Safe. On Nevarro? That didn’t exist. But he was right—daytime in the city is better than the dark.

You tried not to visibly squirm. This was new, this was... unexpected. When before, Mando had been so quick to turn down staying at your shop, he was suddenly offering you the same on a silver platter. But this was different—both of you knew nothing could happen that evening, not with his wound, not with your exhaustion.

The thought of sleeping on the floor of a ship had never appealed to you before, until you factored in the fact that Mando would be there, too. Whether he stayed on the sad excuse for a bed with his legs dangling off the end, or whether he joined you on the floor, you’d be next to him.

It was an offer that you, unapologetically, weren’t going to say no to. But you also didn’t want to reveal just how much his offer had set you alight. You felt it in the tips of your fingers, electricity shooting its way up your arms and out from your chest, igniting all the senses in your body until your hairs stood on end at the mere thought of being this close to him for a night.

When before, you’d stolen time with him between his jobs, lucky to get a few hours with the hunter a week before he had to leave and you were left with the wondering worries of his safety; now? This was a different level. He’d invited you to stay.

And you said the only answer you could think of—

“Okay,”

Before you had the chance to move, you heard something from behind you—it didn’t sound like a person, it sounded like... gurgling? It made you jump out of your skin, forgetting about the comforting touch of the Mandalorian before you. You saw Mando’s head drop in defeat, but you didn’t know what for.

“Click that button,” He said lowly, pointing to a control pad beside a built-in closet space in the hull. You got up tentatively, standing before the doors of the closet, before pressing the button Mando had gestured to—

What met you were the biggest eyes you’d ever seen. Black, deep, and absolutely adorable. Its ears were something else. Huge, compared to the tiny body it possessed, covered in a potato sack of a robe that was far too big for it.

“Stars...” Was all you managed to let out. “What—what is it?” Your brain was struggling to determine whether or not it was cute or ugly, but when it let out the most adorable of gurgles, you ultimately landed on cute—cute as fuck.

“Baby,” Mando replied, as if it was obvious.

“A baby?” You let out in disbelief. “Mando—why the kriff do you have a baby in your closet?” You turned back to him, acknowledging the way he didn’t even seem bothered about the little green, hairy, monster baby in his ship.

You shot your gaze back to the kid when he blurted out a confused laugh, almost as if he was asking who’s this?

“I need rest,” He replied. “I’ll... explain in the morning,”

The morning. Stars, you’d get to see him in the morning. And you’d get to see... his baby. As much as you wanted to object, to know everything right that second, you were also fighting off your own exhaustion. You couldn’t imagine the physical strain that Mando was feeling, and that was enough to get you to stop with the questioning.

You strolled back to his bedside, picking up his bloodied shirt on the way and folding it up, before placing it on the floor by the medical bed. “You take the bed—,” He began, but you cut him off immediately.

“No way, you’re the one with fourteen new stitches,” You scoffed. You looked around the ship, spotting a bundled blanket by some open floor space on the hull. “I’m fine on the floor,”

“Just—,” He went to protest, but you placed a finger over where you assumed his mouth would be on his helmet.

“Don’t fight with me now, Mando. Not after I’ve given you stitches and met your son,”

Maybe he wanted to object further, but at that moment he simply accepted your word. He laid back on the bed, stretching his long torso out until most of his body was being supported by the rickety mattress. He turned his helmet towards the closet, staring at the kid. “Be good. We have a guest,” You ignored the violent blush of your cheeks at his parenting voice. Stars, why was this sexy? “Can you... shut the door...” Mando’s voice trailed off, as you realised the exhaustion and shock was full taking over his body.

You did as he asked, carrying the blanket you saw earlier while you approached the kid once more. You gave him another once over, not being able to help the small smile that appeared on your lips—god, he was cute. He was green and hairy and had wrinkles, but fuck, he was cute. You couldn’t wait to hear this story.

With the click on the control panel, the door was sealed again once more, keeping the kid safe and sound for the night. You settled yourself on the floor of the hull, spreading out the blanket and lying yourself out on it, before wrapping the excess around you like a sleeping bag. Honestly, you’d slept in worse places, and knowing that Mando was mere meters away from you meant you didn’t give a shit.

“Goodnight, Mando,” You whispered, knowing he wouldn’t hear you at all. The sound of subtle snores was already trickling from his modulator.

You knew then, as you settled onto the cold, metal hull of the Razor Crest, that for the first time all week, you weren’t thinking about your past. As you shut your eyes and sleep began to take you, instead of that naïve girl for seven years ago meeting you on the other side—

It was Mando; asking you to stay forever.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #star wars #star wars fic #fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #ao3 #wattpad #smut and angst #smut and fluff #no saints #no saints fic #update

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oumaheroes · 3 years

Text

Character Study P.2

Summary:

A character study of the softer moments between England and France. Part 2: France is followed home by an overworked England.

Word Count: 4589

Characters: France, England, (FrUK)

Previous part can be found here.

.......

Despite the busy crowds and how tired he was, it did not take France long to realise that he was being followed home.

It was early evening. He had just left the hotel they were using as a location (battleground) for the latest UN meetings and was hoping to catch his favourite farmers’ market before they packed up and closed for the day. There were some things he’d been eyeing up for dinner that, now he’d set his mind on it, he knew he would be loath to change and if there was something France would never compromise on, it was ingredients. So, as soon as the last meeting of the day had ended, he packed up his things, bade his assistant and president a tired farewell, and hurried out of the door before anyone could grab him and ask him for something.

The meetings themselves were nothing fancy, just long national security and trade talks with government officials and other such persons, but which were thankfully being hosted in Paris. France did not like travelling about much these days, he’d done quite enough of that in previous centuries and he wasn’t afraid to admit that he was happy to enjoy a more relaxed lifestyle at a polite distance from politics. England might call it lazy, but France knew that his northern neighbour was just as old and content to stay at home in his own lands, left to his own devices and away from the angry, irritating buzz of politicians.

‘It’s not the same!’ England had lamented to him once only a decade ago, too drunk on good wine that was wasted on him for how quickly he drank it, ‘We don’t even really get to give our opinion anymore; we just sit there and then help do all the bloody admin whilst they argue about this that and the other. What’s the point? If they don’t want to listen to our advice or let us make decisions, leave us the fuck out of it.’

France had sighed at him and shook his head; not because he disagreed, but because when England felt like he was being patronised he’d puff up in a ruffled indignation that France found too funny not to risk his person provoking. England had sworn at him, as France knew he would, and the evening had ended up with them sprawled on top of each other at the bottom of France’s vineyards.

Thinking with a bitter happiness that there was only one more day of this tedium to go, France made great strides in removing himself from the premise, ducking and weaving his way through the pedestrian traffic and losing himself in the flow and thrum of his people as they made their way across town.

He hadn’t got very far, only managed to cross a road and turn down a right-hand street, when he noticed that he had acquired a shadow.

Many centuries of existence had given him a sixth sense for this sort of thing- a keen awareness of people who followed for too long, a feeling for eyes watching the back of his head. Even in peacetime his mind was sharp, alert for tiny movements that could indicate a potential threat and hooking his attention to make him zero in on certain behaviours, regardless of whether he wanted this additional mental fatigue or not. Such things were second nature to their kind. He hadn’t survived for this long by relaxing and blindly trusting those around him, after all. Nations could be brutal things, humans just as much, and the complacent among them never remained for long.

But this presence was familiar, a known gait and step that France had learnt to recognise the fastest, out of necessity as much as from repeated encounters.

France smiled to himself and slowed his pace.

England wasn’t trying to hide himself; Lord knew that when the man wanted to, he could simply disappear into a crowd and never been seen again. If England wanted to follow someone without them knowing, they simply wouldn’t know about it. MI6 didn’t have the reputation it did for nothing and England enjoyed, with a smug superiority that France often couldn’t stand, putting whatever talents and skills he’d worked out with them to use when the mood took him; presence undetected, footsteps light and soft, manner and bearing disguised and changed as quickly as if he were shedding clothes.

No, England wasn’t hiding himself or trying to remain unseen, but that didn’t mean that he would appreciate France drawing attention to the fact that he’d noticed him so soon. Let him think France was frequently oblivious, it always made for fun later.

Besides, France didn’t think now was the best time to push him.

He’d noticed that England had grown quieter the last few days, withdrawing more and more into tense silence as the week went on. There was something happening at home, he’d heard through his own ministers, something brewing that kept England working later and later, pushing himself more and more. He hadn’t had the chance to talk to England about it himself, hadn’t had the chance to talk to Arthur at all, but France had seen him grow steadily more stressed and taut, like a tightly wound string.

An impatient man anyway, England grew snappy when stressed, biting and prickly and quick to shout and vent his temper at whatever poor unsuspecting victim fumbled the small task he’d given them. After this though, if nothing changed, England would turn into a muted white noise, all tension wrapped and bound and condensed until you could feel it pulsating from him in palpable waves. All of his energy would go towards surviving what was happening and finishing whatever it was, and he’d go and go and go until either the source of the stress went away, or he’d collapse somewhere- a boneless puppet with cut strings.

The way things had been going, France wouldn’t be surprised if he were nearing the latter of the two and he’d been expecting England to seek him out eventually, for one reason or another.

France stopped at a crossing just as the light for pedestrians turned red, and he felt, rather than saw, England close the distance and approach him from behind. ‘You’ve left earlier than I expected.’ He said to him over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the cars. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be out for another few hours at least, the way you’ve been working these last couple of days.’

England grunted but said nothing further, shuffling to stand closer to France to avoid an old lady and her grandchildren when they stepped too near to him.

France turned to look at him and, up this close, noticed the slight flush to his cheeks and the paleness to his face, eyes tired and drawn as they regardless the traffic. The day was not a terribly cold one, but England had burrowed himself deep into his coat, collar turned up high to cover his neck and hands tucked into his pockets.

France hmm’d and hooked an arm through England’s, pulling him closer. He didn’t shrug it off. ‘I’m going to the market before I go home.’ France informed him, because he knew that that was what England was planning on doing- follow France home and expect to be fed. (He would be, he always was).

He felt England shrug, a slight upward twitch to his shoulder. ‘That’s fine.’

The lights changed and the crowd around them moved forward, taking France and England with it. They followed the rush along for a while before France tugged them down an alleyway to break onto another street, smaller with cars parked on the pavements and less people around. They stuck to the side streets from then on, winding their way through the back alleys of Paris in a comfortable silence with France leading the way.

The market itself, when they eventually arrived, was a small one, tucked in a small cluster on the cobbles of a square, but the produce was fantastic and it was a local secret. France, as a local to all in his lands, adored it. ‘I was thinking of cassoulet for dinner’ he told England as he slipped his arm free to approach a stall for vegetables and other farm produce, eyeing up the selection of carrots. ‘You like that, yes?’ There was no answer, and France turned around to find him staring vacantly off at the next display. ‘Arthur.’

England blinked, coming back to himself, and turned to him. ‘What? Sorry…’ he frowned, ‘did you ask me something?’

France tutted at him. ‘Yes, but no matter, you weren’t going to get a choice anyway.’

England said nothing but turned away to stare at the table display again, a selection of cheeses France could tell he wasn’t really paying any attention to. France pursed his lips but let him go, purchasing the necessary onions, carrots, and tomatoes that he needed before hurrying England off to the next vendor, handing him the bag of vegetables to carry which he accepted without complaint.

After the butchers for sausages and mutton, France handed England the purchases and taking out his notebook from his pocket, checking that there was nothing else he needed whilst he was here. ‘Do you need anything?’ He asked, turning to England.

England shook his head and shivered, rearranging the bags on his arm. ‘No, thank you.’

France reached to take one from him, freeing up an arm, and drifted his hand down England’s coat to hold England’s own, buried in his pocket. He was displeased at how cold he found it and squeezed it tightly, pressing the pad of his thumb over England’s knuckles. There was a slight squeeze back, the smallest increase in pressure, but there was something, at least, and France let it go.

‘Come on then, before you lose one of my bags somewhere.’

.......

Back at home, France unlocked the door and pushed England inside first, closing the door behind them. ‘Go and take a shower, I’ll start dinner.’

England frowned at him, confused. ‘I don’t need a shower.’ He turned to make his way to the kitchen, bags in hand, but France caught him by the elbow and took them from him before stepping forwards and pressing a kiss to his temple. His skin there was just a touch too warm, but the rest of him felt chilled. ‘Go, you’re cold and it’ll help you relax.’

‘I don’t need to relax.’

France looked at him, unimpressed. ‘You need to relax; you’ve overworked yourself stupid again.’ He nudged him with his elbow. ‘I’ll not start cooking until you do.’

England managed a weak scowl at him but didn’t protest and shrugged off his coat before hanging it by the door. ‘Fine. If it makes you feel better.’

‘It will.’ France slipped his shoes off and rolled his eyes when England nudged them with his foot so that they sat straighter against the wall. ‘Go.’

After England had safely moved away in the direction of the bathroom and France could hear the comforting sound of his shower in use, he walked through his flat to the kitchen and set about getting things ready for dinner, collecting his knives (always the best quality, always sharp) and washing the vegetables before chopping them as needed. Before too long, he heard the hot water turn off and the bathroom door open, the one to his bedroom closing shortly after that. A while later, England emerged in the kitchen, slightly damp and dressed in some of France’s old clothes: baggy, large things that France couldn’t bear to throw away, even though he hardly ever wore them. Kept for times like this, maybe. For either one of them when they were needed.

Evidently, the shower had revived enough of England’s energy to allow him to dig about in the depths France’s wardrobe and drawers; he’d pulled on an old woollen jumper that he’d left behind the last time he’d visited France’s Paris flat, a frumpy looking thing with bobbled thread and stretched sleeves that fell past his hands to graze his fingertips.

‘What state have you left my bedroom in?’ France asked. He uncovered the white beans that he had left soaking the day before and regarded them seriously. They looked ready.

England moved past him to sit at the table, slow and sluggish, before leaning forward to bury his head in his arms, cheek cradled in the crook of his elbow. He sighed and shut his eyes. ‘It’s fine.’

‘I’m sure it is not, I tried to bury that hideous thing at the very bottom so it couldn’t be seen; every time I opened my wardrobe it quite ruined the overall look when I caught sight of it.’

England didn’t answer him. France filled the kettle up with water and flicked it on before grabbing a mug- a bulbous, large bottomed monstrosity that England had got him a few years ago to spite him for something or other. It was incredibly tacky but France found that it was growing on him most annoyingly.

He didn’t need to ask if England wanted tea, this would have been a pointless, silly question, and nor did he ask if England wanted the honey instead of sugar that he put in it. His voice had sounded ever so slightly hoarse, maybe from talking all week for hours on end, maybe not. Either way, England would not ask for anything that hinted or implied that he had some sort of physical weakness and France had learnt, over many frustrating years, that the best way to handle England like this was to simply not say anything and give him what he needed anyway. Asking whether he was feeling well would imply that you had noticed signs he was not, and would, for reasons France still did not even try to understand, make him more stubborn in pretending that there was nothing wrong at all.

Roundabout methods for a roundabout man.

‘I don’t know how you can possibly believe you have the right to insult Wales on his clothes when you own something like that; you’re lucky I didn’t mistake it for rags and throw it away.’

England made a sound that could have been a laugh. ‘This one is Scotland’s, actually.’ (1)

‘Well, all the more reason to be lucky, then. You should be grateful that I didn’t throw you to his ire.’

‘Yes, I do plenty enough of that myself without your assistance.’

England sounded almost fond and France allowed a smile, keeping his head turned away to focus on cubing the mutton. England’s relationship with his brothers has always been much like his own with England: stormy, rough, and quick to change but long lasting and durable, nonetheless. Some bonds do not need frequent, pretty words and kind acts to keep them strong. Sometimes, seeing someone fester at their ugly worst and choosing to keep them your life anyway was a greater sign of affection than anything else. What are sweet words and acts, to ones who live as long as they? Fleeting things, whispers that fade quickly into the long yawn of time. Years do not remember the small niceties; after centuries and millennia, you remembered who stayed, who came back, who didn’t take the shot that would have hurt the most. The ones who did take it, and then helped put you back together.

Sometimes, that was enough.

The kettle clicked itself off and France put the knife down, washing and drying his hands quickly before pouring the water in the mug and leaving the tea to steep. He glanced at the table. England was still hunched over, a curl of bent elbows and downturned eyes, and was wearing a slight frown as he squinted into his forearm. France couldn’t tell whether he was falling asleep or not, but he was very aware that England would not appreciate staying there if he was.

‘Your hair is still wet.’ He told him, pointedly.

England made an unhappy noise.

‘I won’t be looking after you, if you make yourself worse.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I’m sure you think so.’ France stirred the tea, squeezing the tea bag against the side of the mug with a spoon before removing it. Adding the milk, he stirred it again and took it to the table, setting it down in front of England who looked up, finally. ‘But like I said, I’ll be leaving you here to die of the consequences regardless.’

‘Leave it.’ England’s voice was firm but his eyes were soft; a foolish contradiction.

He sat up and reached out to cup the terrible mug in both hands, letting the warmth bleed into them. He took a sip and, very briefly, his face opened to show small, innocent pleasure. France always loved to catch the fleeting instances England let softer emotions shine through- a bark of laughter when a joke caught him off guard, the times he looked at his younger family members when they were turned the other way, the mornings he sang to himself when he thought no one could hear.

England was often pointy lines and sharp smiles, hard looks and careful study; cold emotions cut into him with intentional strokes and built there as a wall to hide whatever was bubbling underneath. There were few occasions, few people, that could peel him away so completely that nationhood and age would melt away and that for a second, just one second, he could be anyone at all.

France tucked this moment away carefully in his mind, committing it to memory, and clicked on the stove.

.....

Dinner was mostly a one-sided affair. France watched England pick at the food, pushing bits of it around his plate and taking small, tentative bites.

France kept up the conversation the whole time, happy to fill the noise. Regardless of what he said to contrary, England enjoyed the sounds of something happening, of life continuing, just as much as he enjoyed silence and solitude. France had always felt that, when England was in less-than-ideal moods, maybe noise and distraction allowed his mind to finally switch off and tune out, to fade away in the buzz.

Maybe the silence prompted him to think too much.

After they’d finished eating, (or, France had finished eating and it became apparent that England had given up), France permitted England to pack up the leftovers into Tupperware before prodding him to the living room, where he pushed him down on the sofa and ignored his protests about how the dishes needed soaking.

‘Leave it for tonight, they’ll be fine.’

‘But-‘

France sat on one end of the sofa against the armrest and reached out to grab England around the waist, causing him to stop speaking in surprise. France pulled and twisted him close to sit flush against his chest, head coming to rest by France’s collarbone. ‘You are being a very bad guest, my dear, to not listen to the wishes of your host.’

England muttered something about France being a terrible host who didn’t deserve to be listened to in the first place, but stopped struggling to escape and leant against him, heavy. If anything, this quick concession to something France wanted him to do, especially when that something involved leaving a job half finished, was more alarming than comforting, and France reached up to bring a hand to feel his forehead, pushing back his fringe.

‘Look what you’ve done to yourself.’ He chided him, feeling stronger heat than before. Pushing England upright again, France felt under his sofa for the blanket he had thrown there the other day and grabbed it, before straightening back up to lay it across England and pull him down again. One he was settled, France tucked it up around his neck, making sure that he was fully covered, and burrowed his arms underneath to join him.

England rearranged himself slightly to fit more comfortably, slightly on his side with his head turned to rest on a cheek and nudging one of France’s knees to fit better against him, and let out a deep breath through his nose, slipping his eyes shut. Under the blanket, France felt him begin to run a cold hand over one of France’s arms that was resting on his middle, fingers brushing gently over his skin. ‘Thank you for dinner.’

France hmm’d, burying his nose in England’s now dry hair. He could smell his own shampoo that England had stolen but, underneath that, the familiar smell of England himself- an unnameable mix of things that could belong to no one else. ‘How strange to hear gratitude from your lips.’

England stopped stroking his arm to pinch it and France chuckled into his hair. ‘And now abuse of the host; my, how terrible.’ England huffed at him but resumed the less violent ministrations to his arm. France extracted the one currently at liberty to bring up to England’s head and card his fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the roots.

‘So, what has caused all of this?’

‘Caused all of what?’

‘You know full well what I’m talking about.’ The long hours, the bags under his eyes, the compressed strain that radiated from him in the way he held himself.

England was silent for a moment and France wondered, briefly, whether he shouldn’t have asked. But there were few things England was shy to talk about and few instances when talking about something didn’t help him, whether he was consciously aware of it or not.

England opened his eyes. ‘Nothing too disastrous, initially. Fraudulent claims have recently been made against a standing MP, but he’s involved in a lot of charity organisations and political campaigns.’ He shuffled to rest himself higher against France, tucking his forehead to lay more into the hollow of his neck. ‘The other day it all came to light at once and now things are quickly unravelling; everyone’s digging about to see how deep it all goes and how big the fall out is going to be.’

France made a sympathetic noise. ‘The joys of damage control.’

England hmm’d and brought out a hand to rub at his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. ‘Of course, I know the most about all of them, so I’m being hounded from all sides for information: contact names, dates, expense amounts, sources of income. Who else was involved, what else he’d been involved in, how many sectors are affected…’ He trailed off, weary, and France felt him shake his head. ‘And slap bang in the middle of UN talks about national security.’

‘You do have impeccable timing, as always.’

England tutted and fell silent. France avoided thinking about the specifics of what he’d said too much and instead forced himself to keep quiet. It was all too easy for his ears to prick up at that sort of thing and apply it to himself with cold, analytical detachment. How will this affect my economy? Was this man involved in anything that could influence French interests and policies? Will this fallout affect me? It was all too easy to demand a name from England and begin research into this himself. The urge to sift through French banking and trade agreements, international policies and French government ministers was strong- very strong. The numbers were right there behind his eyes, words caught on the tip of his tongue whilst national agreements bubbled in his chest. But he swallowed them back.

France liked to think of himself as very capable of detaching that part of himself, choosing to think of it as a job he could turn off and on, a choice he could make. He was always France, would always be France first and foremost, regardless of anything else. But also wanted to be Francis, just Francis, sometimes.

England ducked his head down to stifle a sneeze into his elbow.

France blessed him. ‘I cannot let you go to work tomorrow, you know, now that you’ve got to this point.’

England lifted his head up and put it once more against France, who resumed playing with his hair. ‘I’ve got to worse points.’

‘Just because you’re previously done something foolish, does not mean that you need to continue to do so.’ France countered.

‘There is only one day left.’

‘Ah yes, but it is the worst one. Russia is speaking, and you know full well how that’ll go.’

England, presumably thinking of how America would no doubt behave, groaned and twisted to lay more on his front. France rearranged the blanket around him. ‘I can’t leave my Prime Minister there to deal with it all, they need me to be there.’

‘They’re all grown-ups, they can handle themselves. Come on,’ France cajoled, lifting a hand to pick at a particularly large loose thread on Scotland’s missing jumper, upturned against England’s neck, ‘you’ve skipped meetings before. If I remember correctly, in the 1600’s you didn’t turn up to a single one that you were supposed to have with me.’

‘I was at sea.’ England replied, a smile in his voice.

‘You were, and if I remember more correctly, you were requested to return many times.’

England snorted and lifted his head up a little before letting it fall back on France’s chest with a soft thud. ‘That’s different.’

France continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘You missed so many meetings with me and my Kings that it was very hard to convince them that it wasn’t an intentional slight against them.’

‘It wasn’t, it was a slight against you.’

‘Well then,’ France bent forwards to kiss his forehead, ‘as you have already demonstrated that you have no qualms about missing meetings with me, that means you are quite capable of missing a meeting that I am hosting.’

England frowned, caught by his own logic. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Who says so? I, who is the host, might I remind you, is actively encouraging your bad behaviour.’

England lifted his head to better look at him, shifting his weight onto a pointy elbow that was thankfully not pressing into France’s sternum. ‘So, you admit that it’s bad behaviour?’

‘Do you think it’s good behaviour to go to a meeting feverish?’ France countered easily.

‘I am hardly feverish.’

France reached out to press the back of his free hand against England’s too warm cheek and made only an unconvinced noise in response.

England moved his head and brought an arm out from under the blanket to bat France’s away from him. ‘I am hardly bedridden.’ He corrected, sounding somewhat petulant.

‘Is bedridden your standard for when to finally look after yourself?’

England ducked his head again and stifled another sneeze in reply.

‘Arthur.’

‘No, Francis.’

France pursed his lips. ‘Very well. I cannot stop you from making a stupid decision. As host, however, I am duty bound to inform the other attendees of your condition to ensure that they remain healthy.’

England sat up properly and turned to scowl at him, worst nightmare being threatened. People knowing. ‘You wouldn’t.’

France merely raised an eyebrow and gave a sly smile. They looked at each other for a moment, England searching for a bluff. Finding none, he shook his head and lay down again, arms coming to wind around and behind France’s back. ‘I’ll decide in the morning.’ He said, muffled against France’s chest.

France, extremely content that he’d won, tightened his arms around him. ‘Of course.’

....

AN:

I feel like I’m gonna be a busy bee for a while, so have something I wrote a while ago to tide me over whilst I potter about doing real life things.

The first part is a mirror to this second part, so to get the full effect I recommend going to read part one!

You all know I like my FrUK bitter and snarky and full of domestic banter, but I also really adore moments like this when they’re soft and let themselves show how they truly feel about each other. Theirs is a relationship that often needs no words and I love exploring about showing that quiet, consistent side to them, something hidden and tucked away behind a pat on the back or the brush of a hand.

I could go on and on and ON about my love for this pairing and these characters, but for now I shall leave it as this, my sappy ode to them both.

(1) I have the personal headcanon that England has quite an impressive collection of large jumpers that are not actually his. He has one of France’s too, an ugly thing that he bought in the 60’s and thought he threw away. It’s bright yellow.

Thanks for reading!

#aph england #aph france #aph fruk #fruk #hws england #hws france #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy #hetalia #hws fruk #APH #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia fanfic #my writing #i like my boys SOFT and EXPECTANT #they know the other is there. no matter what #their relationship is long and old and reliable #despite their ups and downs

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babbushka · 4 years

Text

Make Good

Flip Zimmerman x Reader

(Young!Flip from the Flip & His Darling Jewish Wife AU)

2k ; Content Warnings: Implied/Referenced abuse, abusive family; emotional hurt/comfort; angst & fluff [sometimes we just need to write what we need]

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

He’d been having a shitty enough day as it was, before he got your call. Work was tough with the weather shifting to cold and wet, rain coming down in sheets. Wasn’t good to leave wood out in the rain, and he had to oversee too many people trying to move too many logs in the low visibility of the slate grey skies.

So when he came home and two steps in the door his Ma handed him the telephone with worry set deep in her brow, and mouthed your name, he had feared for the worst and his pulse spiked hard in his chest.

Especially when he held the receiver up to his ear and heard the crack in your voice when you hoarsely whispered, “Phil…”

He knew that tone, the one that meant you’d been crying for a while, the hush that scrapes the back of your throat so that no one can hear you when you speak. He knew what put it there too, and he nearly went blind with anger before quickly responding,

“I’m on my way.”

By the time Flip gets to your house, the sun has long set. The rain carries on, steady and heavy as ever, a thick curtain of freezing cold drops that splash and flood the pavement around his tires. He knows he can’t park outside otherwise your parents will know he’s there, and neither of you can have that. You’ll be in even more distress, and that’s the last fucking thing he wants to cause you.

So, bundling up, he leaves his car parked down a block or two at a neighbor’s house who happens to know him and like him, and he tugs his coat on as tight as he can so no water chills him, and he makes a sprint for your window.

The light is off, which makes things a little more difficult than it needs to be – but he knows that you can’t have it on. They’d be mad if they knew you were up this late, even though it wasn’t late at all, not really. The light may be off, but you’re there, standing right against the window. You’ve pulled your curtains back and slid the right side open, waiting for him.

He can’t begin to describe the love that fills his chest when he sees you smile, realizing he’s come. He wants to call to you, but he can’t, not now, not at this hour. So instead he gets his footing together and begins to climb up the side of your house, using the garden trellis to work his way up.

The trellis is slippery though, and he accidentally misses a step and sucks in a deep breath as he tries to catch himself and keep himself from falling.

“Be careful!” You gasp, before clapping a hand over your mouth and shaking your head, knowing that any noise is a danger.

It only takes two more big climbs and then your hands are on him, looping around his arms and helping to pull him in through your window, his soaking wet feet landing on a towel you’ve placed right there on the floor for him.

It takes two seconds after that, for you to cry.

“Hey, c’mere.” Flip automatically pulls you into his arms, tight against his chest as he pets down your hair and soothes you with a gentle, “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t even think about how his clothes are freezing cold and wet, he doesn’t think about anything other than the rush of rage that thrums through him at how your body shakes against him from the force of your tears. You’ve buried your face into his neck to sob and he wants to scream, wants to kill something, because you’re so wonderful, so kind and tolerant – christ you tolerate too much – and you don’t deserve to be treated the way that they do.

“I don’t even know what I did wrong this time.” Your voice is muffled against his skin but he hears you clearly just the same, and he has to blink away the spots of anger that cloud his vision.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He speaks firmly but without any hint of anger, because he knows you’d misconstrue it as him being angry with you, and he’s not. Never in a million years.

He is angry, angry that they’ve gotten you so worked up like this, angry that they’re brainwashed you and gaslit you into thinking that you should be punished for simply existing. He gets angrier with them when your wet eyes shine wide in the moonlight and you shake your head.

“Yes I did! I had to have, otherwise they – she – it wouldn’t be this way.” You falter, forgetting to breathe in that way that you sometimes do when you’re too overwhelmed.

“No, ketsl,” Flip cups your cheeks in his hands and holds you steady, grounds you the way he will always ground you when you start to get too in your own head, “You didn’t.”

You stare at him for a while, before taking in that deep breath that you need, and letting your shoulders slump. Nodding slowly, you hold his hand like a tether and reach around him to shut the window with your free hand.

“I’ve got warm clothes for you.” You whisper, giving him a sad tired smile.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened, him climbing through your window like this. Your parents were…difficult, was a good way to describe it. Probably the only fucking way Flip would be able to politely describe it, anyway. They weren’t both bad, but one of them well…one of them made you cry so often that Flip was gearing up to lose his fucking mind about it.

He had a fleeting thought once before, that maybe he’d join the police academy, come haul them away so they can’t hurt you anymore. He’s thinking it again, thinking that it doesn’t sound so impossible now, the way it did when he was gangly. Flip had filled out, he could do it.

If it meant keeping you safe and happy, he would.

“What happened this time?” Flip hazards to ask as you rifle through your closet for clothes you’ve got hidden away.

You hand them to him and don’t bother to avert your eyes when he starts stripping down, leaving his wet clothes in a heap on that towel he’s still standing on. You’ve been Flip’s girlfriend for a year now, you’ve seen every inch of him and there’s no reason for him to hide himself away.

“Nothing.” You reply with a sigh, and Flip frowns, hands stilling as he lifts the soft and warm t-shirt over his head.

“Nothing?” He steps into the boxers too, and before you reply, you take him by the hand to your twin bed.

It’s small, you’ve had it since you were moved out of a crib and it’s barely enough room for you now, but you’re clinging to Flip and he has you tucked against his chest, his strong arms wrapped around you as thunder and lightning crash outside with the rain.

“Nothing.” You whisper.

Oh, he thinks as anger flares up again.

That was the worst, the silence. They pretended like you didn’t exist sometimes, when you were being punished for a crime you didn’t commit. You would say good morning and they’d ignore you, you’d be in the room and they wouldn’t look at you, you’d be doing their dishes or their laundry and they wouldn’t say thank you. You were a ghost to them sometimes, and today must have been one of those times.

“One day I’m gonna build you a house.” Flip says, apropos of nothing. He smooths his hands over your back and kisses the top of your head, “You hear me? I’m gonna build it with my own two fuckin’ hands if I have to.”

It’s not a lie, you both know. Flip’s been working hard, so hard, has been working to save up enough that he can make good on these words. Didn’t bother going to college, went right to work after graduation with every intention of putting all of it towards building his life with you.

“I’ll buy the lumber from the mill and get us a piece of the mountain and we’ll have tulips in every room and tomatoes in the garden and you’ll never have to tiptoe through the kitchen again.” He begins to card his fingers through your hair, the very same way that you do for him when his days are bad.

“When?” You ask, and that makes Flip hopeful, because if you’re talking that means you’re listening to him, which means you’re not listening to the voices in your head that they’ve poisoned you with.

“Soon as you’re finished with school.” Flip says easily, because that’s the plan, that’s always been the plan. “You get that diploma and we’re outta here, I promise. I promise you, ketsl. You won’t even have to work, just finish that degree and we’ll go away.”

He’s going to marry you too, he knows. He doesn’t have to say it, you know that too. So instead he asks, “How many rooms do you want?”

“How many can I have?” You huff a very small laugh against his chest and shrug with one shoulder.

You shuffle yourself further up onto his chest, your body lying on top of his. He’s got his knees bent and spread so that your body can fit between them easily, your hands folded under your chin as your eyes glitter, tears clung to your lashes. You’re not crying anymore, not right now anyway, and that’s a good sign.

“How many do you want?” Flip brushes across your cheek with his thumb, “Tell me what you want.”

You sigh and turn your head towards the window. Despite the rain, the clouds have steered clear of the moon, and the silvery light outlines you in an ethereal way that Flip can’t stop staring at.

“I want an eat in kitchen. I want a formal dining table and I want us to have a sit down dinner together every night. I want a big living room with a fireplace, and a small den with a fireplace too, one for entertaining and the other just for us.” You say softly. It’s all the things you have now, but in this future world you’ll be able to enjoy them.

“Keep going.” Flip encourages, fingers in your hair against your scalp.

“I want an office where I can do work, and a library where I can read through it. I want a big bedroom and a soaking tub that I can fit all of my leg into.” Your voice grows softer and softer, and Flip can feel your breathing even out as you begin to drift to sleep.

“What else?” He whispers.

“I want a nursery – ”

“Just one?” Flip interrupts, making you chuckle softly, sleepily against him.

“They can share the nursery before growing up enough to have their own rooms.” You reason, and Flip grins even though you can’t see it, “And I want playrooms – one for them, and one for us. With a big billiards table and a marble chess set like grandpa used to have.”

“Okay.” Flip nods, letting his eyes close.

“You’ll remember all that?” You mumble, more asleep than you are awake, your hand nudging against his and linking your fingers together.

“I got it all up here ketsl.” Flip kisses the top of your head, “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

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That had been what seems like a million years ago, that night.

And as the two of you lie awake in the king sized mattress that you picked out, surrounded by wallpaper you helped put up, in the bedroom he gave you in the house he built you just like he said he would, as you’re beaming at one another because you’re so in love, that diamond ring on your finger glinting in the lamp-light, the little ones asleep in their bedrooms all tucked in for the night, he can’t help but think he really did make good on his promise.

Just like he always will.

#flip zimmerman #flip zimmerman x reader #flip zimmerman/reader #flip zimmerman x you #flip zimmerman/you #blackkklansman #flip zimmerman fanfiction #adam driver character #adam driver fanfiction #adcu #my writing

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spookybias · 4 years

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ᝰ a favor | choi beomgyu ˎˊ˗

genre: fluff

type: drabble / twoshot

description: choi beomgyu was in desperate need of someone to do his homework, and you were in desperate need of his affection.

contents: beomgyu being egotistical and taking advantage of you, you being bold.

prompts ↓

"please don't make me wait any longer."

"maybe i'll do it if you let me kiss you."

read the second part here

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐎𝐌𝐆𝐘𝐔 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌. You sighed in annoyance. It was unfortunate that you packed up your belongings at the pace of a snail, because Beomgyu was able to catch you before you could escape.

Despite having a major crush on him, you were often aggravated by his existence. While other people admired him from afar, you were very open about your crush on him. To you, it wasn’t that serious. It was just a high school crush that would soon pass -at least that’s what you constantly told yourself. But to Beomgyu, it meant everything.

He could easily use it against you or to take advantage of you, whatever suited the moment best. When he needed a favor and you refused, he would quickly pull the “crush” card, guilt tripping you and making you believe that if you did whatever he asked of you, your chances with him would increase. And that’s the tactic he was using today.

“___, I need a favor,” Beomgyu said in a sweet and syrupy voice. He gave you one of his famous smiles, the one reserved for when he didn’t really mean it. “I need you to do Mr. Kim’s assignment for me.” He placed his hands on your shoulders into an attempt to soften you up.

Though you believed your crush on Beomgyu meant nothing, you often found yourself committing to his tasks to make him happy. When Beomgyu handed you money and waved you off to the vending machine because he was too lazy to go himself, you had no problem going for him. When he handed you a towel and expected you to wipe his sweat after dance practice and gym, there was no problem. But this? This was too much.

It was no secret that you were the top student in your class. You never participated on your own, but when a teacher called on you, you always had the right answer. Your test scores were always the highest in the class, and people often asked to copy your homework. You always turned them down, never willing to throw your morals and reputation away to please someone who was too lazy to do the work themselves. Beomgyu knew this, but thought that by being your crush, he could get you to let it slide just this once. And possibly many more times in the future, just for him.

That made you angry.

“It’s a no from me.”

“Please, ___.” Beomgyu had no shame in begging. After all, he knew that as a top student, you wouldn’t give in too easily, but luckily he had a magic trick that always worked on you. “Just this one time. For me?”

“Uh, nope.” You wouldn’t give in this time, not for nothing. “Why don’t you go ask someone else?”

Because you were secretly the only person Beomgyu trusted enough to ask for favors. He wouldn’t let anyone else bring him snacks from the vending machine, ‘cause he only wanted you to know what he liked. He wouldn’t let anyone else close enough to dab at his neck with a towel, ‘cause only you weren’t crazed enough to try to kiss him. Beomgyu couldn’t just say that, though. “Because I know you’re the only one smart enough to help me out.”

“And why’s that?”

“___,” Beomgyu looked at you with pouted lips and furrowed eyebrows, “I thought you liked me.”

You were quick to respond. “So because I like you I should risk my reputation and my good grades to do your bidding? It’s a no from me still.”

“Come on!” Beomgyu threw away the innocent act. “If you like me so much and want to date me, you should be willing to help me out!”

“Assisting you with the project would be helping you out. Doing it for you is cheating.” You crossed your arms. You promised yourself that you wouldn’t give in. “And who said I wanted to date you?”

“Please.”

“No.”

Beomgyu was at his breaking point. This was the first time you had said no to him. He began whining about how tired he would be when he came home from the academy, how he had to clean his room and had two other projects, (which was a lie), so he was too busy to do Mr. Kim's.

“For me?”

“No way.”

“Please, I’ll do anything.”

“Maybe I’ll do it if you let me kiss you.” You weren’t sure where the sudden burst of confidence came from, but you figured he wouldn’t say yes and would give up instead. You had come to the realization that your chances with Beomgyu were nonexistent, and you were just his servant at times. Beomgyu, however, thought differently, but had too much fun bossing you around to take you out on an actual date. A small part of you hoped that he would let you kiss him. Then maybe all the times you favored to him would actually be worth something.

His ears were as red as a tomato as he stuttered out his answer to your suggestion. “Who - who do you think y-you are making demands like that?”

“Fine. Then no homework.” Oh yeah, you were pretty bold. You slid out the doorway.

“Wait!” Beomgyu grabbed your elbow and you stopped your movements. This was the first time he touched you. He couldn’t let you hurt his pride. “Fine, but I’m the one who gets to initiate the kisses around here.”

The two of you stood in front of each other. You uncrossed your arms and stayed still, worried that any excess movement could make him change his mind. As Beomgyu leaned down, you kept your eyes open, partially believing that this was all some sort of prank.

He stopped right in front of your face. You looked so cute, and secretly, he wished you had made him kiss you back when he asked for something the first time.

“Please don’t make me wait any longer,” was all you could say as the both of you stood stiffly outside your classroom. Beomgyu figured you were referring to how long he was taking to plant one on you, but your words held a deeper meaning.

When he placed his lips on yours it was for no more than three seconds. It felt longer, though, as it was your first kiss, and your first kiss shared with Beomgyu. Beomgyu pulled away, biting his lip, wanting to gather the taste of yours before it disappeared.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Beomgyu pulled a folder out of his backpack and waved it in your face as your tried to compose yourself. “Make sure your handwriting is neat when you do my assignment. I’ve seen your penmanship, and it’s not the best.”

You were instantly reminded of your relationship with Beomgyu as you took the folder.

As Beomgyu strutted off to meet Kai and Taehyun outside the school, he touched his lips and hoped to get another chance to kiss you. Maybe that’ll be his next request, and for you to say yes when he asks you out.

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the-stray-dogs-system · 3 years

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Advice For Fakeclaimers

Hi fakeclaimers! Now, I hate what you're doing, I really do, however, you could do it better! Better as in make it more laughable for us systems who get a good chuckle out of it.

Step 1: put the name of a d34d relative in your bio

Step 2: take a selfie from with the camera angled below your chin, like old people usually do, and make it your pfp!

Step 3: make sure you have some content on your page, and make it very specific! For example: only post about beans, only duet attractive women creepily, only post kpop fancams, only post fakeclaiming content. Just make sure there's something there!!

Step 4: I know all of you already do this, but for beginners, make sure you have no idea what DID or OSDD is!! oh, and make sure to watch "Split", because fakeclaimers treat it like the DID diagnostic criteria for some god awful reason

Step 5: only fakeclaim systems on posts where they weren't even talking about being part of a system! it really shows us that you're a big fan and have watched our content and thus boosted our reach and views!

Step 6: get angry, like tomato red angry, it makes it funny!

Step 7: always ask a system if you can speak to a prosecutor or protector, it helps the conversation go smoothly!

Step 8: have no fun! this shouldn't be fun for you, this shouldn't be a game for you, but since you all clearly think it is, we have to make it like a little game for us

- Clementine

#i hate fakeclaimers so much #fakeclaimers shut up challenge #fakeclaim #fakeclaiming #did #osdd #did system #straydogssystem #tiktok fakeclaimers are like a comedy show #stray dogs system

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randomshyperson · 3 years

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Wanda Maximoff/Reader - HighSchool AU “Sometimes is just a kiss”- ChapterTwo.

Gif is not mine.

Read on AO3 too

Summary: When the rumors that you punched Tony Stark in the face spread around your school, some interesting events unfolded. Or enemies to Lovers in high School.

Warnings: 18+; Enemies to Lovers/ Angry Sex/ Underage Sex/ High School AU/ Violence/ Fights/ Inappropriate language; Fluff

Yes, I turned this into a short fic, simply because there were so many positive comments that I felt very inspired to continue. And I hope nobody will be disappointed haha But here it is, have a good read.

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