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#I get really sluggish in summer
sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 2 months
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The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.
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Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.
Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)
Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.
A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!
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The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.
A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre. 
I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp. 
Seems like the sort of place for him.
Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?” 
Or somethin’ along those lines. 
For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?
Whatever.
If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark. 
If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in. 
With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice. 
I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor. 
“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.
I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned. 
I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone. 
Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”
I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice. 
He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up. 
There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick. 
Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.
And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.
Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep. 
A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression. 
“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly. 
He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.
“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain. 
My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread. 
Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me. 
I sigh. I ask him.
My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose. 
Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it. 
There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.
He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be. 
It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.
The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.  
Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?
“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.  
“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”  
I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”
“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.  
White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.   
Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.
Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.
There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.
His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it. 
“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile. 
He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”
Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.
I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him. 
His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.
He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.
“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.
I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.
I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”
Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”
“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”
Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.
“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”
I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.
Christ.
Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?
“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.
Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.
He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”
The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.
“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.
I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?
He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.
The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.
“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”
While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.
I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”
Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.
“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”
Asshole.
I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”
He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”
“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.
He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”
I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.
He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.
“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”
“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.
I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.
I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”
God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else. 
Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me. 
I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”
He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?” 
Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.
“No,” I reply. 
“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”
Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.
“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.” 
He tilts his head away in dismissal. 
I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”
For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.
I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.  
He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest. 
“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”
“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.
“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.
He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight. 
Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too. 
“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”
In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.
He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”
“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?
I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”
He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?” 
I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”
And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits. 
A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!” 
“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.  
As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”
“You’re part of the people,” I argue.  
He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”
“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”  
He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices. 
“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.  
I thought that everything meant fuck-all?
For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate. 
Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow. 
My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.
I want – my breath trembles with it.
“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”
He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”
I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”
“I will.”
His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up. 
“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me. 
Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down. 
“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .  
My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work. 
When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.  
I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”
A pause. 
Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought. 
Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen;   Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night. 
I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes. 
When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.
Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter. 
I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger. 
Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.  
I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.
He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.
I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.  
“No,” he contradicts.
“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”  
He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”
“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it. 
I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.
He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.  
And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face. 
“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.
He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.
Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.
I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin. 
But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.  
“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”
“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”
I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.  
“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”
He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.
“I can feel you against my leg.” 
He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing. 
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently. 
Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving. 
Give me strength. Give me strength. 
That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe. 
Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly. 
I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.
Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.
Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.
My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me. 
Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.
His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact. 
He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive. 
But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation. 
My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?” 
I can feel him swallow.
“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace. 
“Kiss me again, then.” 
And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth. 
I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second. 
The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.
Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid. 
This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own. 
A switch in his brain must flick on. 
It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt. 
I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable. 
He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt. 
“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.
My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return. 
“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?” 
He kisses the hollow of my neck. 
His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter. 
Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this. 
A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me. 
I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.
Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.  
Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”
I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.” 
I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”
How unlike him. 
A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.” 
His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton. 
I sigh, try not to squirm. 
“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing. 
I nod. “Yeah.” 
Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.
As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering. 
His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips. 
Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back. 
I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world. 
Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine. 
I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra. 
His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.
My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut. 
“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip. 
He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.
“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper. 
He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead. 
After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl. 
I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.
Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point. 
Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.
As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else. 
“Lie back, girl,” he tells me. 
My cunt flexes. 
I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.” 
Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.
“Said lie back, didn’t I?” 
Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager. 
“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter. 
I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.
“Can—?”
“Yes.” 
He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.  
“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.   
“Lie back.”  
He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.
I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.
Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.
Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth. 
Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger. 
Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit.  My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.
I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.
I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.
Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse. 
He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.
He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers. 
We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.
I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.
When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.
So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.
Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.
Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.
His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here. 
Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away. 
For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see. 
In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.
I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him. 
His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders. 
Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him. 
I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.
Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside. 
I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.
His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound. 
I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out. 
“It’s okay,” I reply. 
He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver. 
Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.
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seriouslysnape · 2 months
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Morning Shift
Dad! Severus Snape x Mom! Fem! Reader x Baby Tags: Fluff. Sev being a good dad. Reader getting rest she deserves <3. Baby being a cutie. Word Count: 2.0k "I didn't mean to oversleep."
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It was quite rare for you to have the chance to sleep in.
Even before the baby was born, you were pretty much up and going by dawn every day. It made you feel more productive to get up early and get the day started before the sun even had the chance to fully rise.
An occasional Saturday or Sunday would roll around where neither you nor Severus were in any rush to get up and moving. Those were during the slower weeks of the year, usually during the summer when Severus wasn't teaching and your work wasn't as demanding.
But after the baby was born, those occasional lazy weekend days had become pretty much obsolete. The mornings and nights had become less hectic as your newborn transitioned into an infant, and she was on somewhat of a sleeping schedule. However, when the baby was up, so were you.
Severus gave his fair share of helping out with the baby at all times of the day, but typically, Severus tended to her the most in the evenings. Severus usually fed her dinner, bathed her, and prepared her for her early bedtime.
It wasn't intentional really, but the two of you fell into a routine where you handled the mornings, the two of you rotated off during the day, and Severus handled the evenings/nights. Severus would help anytime when needed, but for the most part, that was the best arrangement.
On one particular weekend morning, however, the routine was different.
Severus awoke to a quiet house. There wasn't the sound of his wife stirring in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for him and the baby who would no doubt be babbling for her breakfast.
He felt a presence in the bed next to him, a gentle warmth coming from it as well. He was surprised to see you were still asleep, bundled up in the covers as comfortable as could be.
The warm glow of the newly risen sun beamed through the windows of the bedroom, spilling over your back that was facing the glass. He watched you only for a moment, pushing some stray hairs from your eyes and pulling the covers higher on you to keep you toasty.
It made his heart swell to see you getting some extra rest on your day off, and he made it his mission to let you sleep as long as possible. He was more than happy to be on baby duty that morning and a change of routine was a bit exciting.
The clock on his bedside table read 7:12 a.m. which did alarm him briefly. It was twelve minutes past the baby's usual wake up time, which meant either she was getting some extra sleep as well, or she was storming mad that no one had come to pick her up to begin her day.
Severus was quiet as he crept out of bed, his footfalls quiet as he exited your bedroom to enter the baby's room just next door. Severus always left the baby's nursery door slightly cracked in the event the baby needed something during the night or woke up earlier than usual.
He pushed the door open gently, a burst of sunlight painting the hallway. The room was perfectly warm for a January morning, a vast difference from the bitter cold on the outside.
He glanced at the crib, seeing some movement in the crib. She was squirming excitedly, happy that someone was finally coming to get her up for the day.
She was awake, but not agitated in the slightest that no one had come to get her yet. She was content to lie in her crib for a little while, the charmed mobile above her crib keeping her entertained. She couldn't have been awake for very long, considering it was only a few minutes after her usual wake up time.
Severus approached her crib with a gentleness that few knew he possessed. His dark eyes, so often narrowed with sternness, softened when they gazed upon his child.
"Good morning, darling." He smiled, reaching down to pick up the cooing baby.
His daughter smiled back at him with a sleepy grin and sluggish eyes, but held an expression of confusion as to why her mother wasn't there to wake her like usual.
"Not expecting me this morning, hm?" He asked, which only returned a yawn from his daughter. "We'll let Mum sleep in this morning. She deserves it."
The eight-month-old only babbled in response, mouthing at Severus' shoulder through his T-shirt. You and Severus were pretty sure she had some teeth coming in based on the fact that she wanted to chew on everything.
Usually you dressed the baby as the first step of her morning routine, but it was the weekend so she would more than likely be home for the majority of the day. Severus opted to leave her in her pajamas for now, which she had no protests with.
She was rather clingy today, her tiny hands grabbing for him to pick her up again once she was dressed. She knew that if anyone in the world would pick her up whenever she wished, I was Severus.
Severus struggled with leaving her when she wanted to be picked up. You had been telling Severus for the last month or so that it is indeed okay to let her sit on her own as long as she's being supervised. She was beginning to work towards crawling, and you knew the only way she was ever going to learn to crawl was if she had the chance to be on the ground.
But Severus couldn't resist his daughter's grabby hands and beaming eyes. He spoiled the little girl, and he just couldn't tell her no.
He whisked her down the stairs, smiling at her giggles when he pressed a kiss to her temple.
Severus knew it was time for breakfast, and he knew that she was going to get fussy if he didn't get her fed soon. He slipped her into her highchair, her legs wiggling as she squirmed with anticipation.
"What would you like for breakfast, princess?" He asked, only receiving an interested stare in response. "I know you like eggs...and I think Mum picked up some fruit yesterday."
Severus turned and surveyed the inside of the fridge, studying its contents to make a decision. She was getting impatient, whining and babbling for Severus to hurry up. She was on a specific schedule, and her late wake up time had her about fifteen minutes behind.
Severus went with his suggestion on the premise that eggs and fruit were a safe option. She wasn't terribly picky, but since this wasn't her usual routine, he figured giving her something that he knew she liked was best.
Severus selected a few eggs from the fridge, deciding to cook them all and divide the portion appropriately between himself, you, and the baby. He knew it wouldn't be long before you were up, so he got started on getting a pot of coffee brewed as well.
With a wave of his wand, the stove ignited and began cooking the eggs in a pan while he worked on getting some fruit mashed up for her.
"Strawberries or a banana?" He asked her, who was more interested in dancing in her chair than picking which fruit she wanted.
Severus was certain that she hadn't eaten strawberries before. He took a chance and went with the strawberries, retrieving a few and getting them smushed enough to be suitable for baby consumption. He plated the eggs once they were cooked,
He pulled up a chair to her highchair, holding the tiny baby spoon and bowl in his hand to begin feeding her baby spoonfuls of her breakfast.
She made a noise of approval with the strawberries, barely even swallowing before motioning for more. For an eight-month-old, she was a fantastic eater and would try nearly anything.
Your daughter giggled, her eyes sparkling with the sight of her dad in front of her. Severus couldn't help but feel a tug at his heartstrings. This was a side of him that no one else got to see, a side reserved only for his precious little one.
He felt so incredibly lucky to have a child. He felt even more blessed to raise her and love her in the ways he never was. He wasn't a perfect father by any means, but he made it his personal mission to never give her a reason to think of him as a bad father.
When her noises slowed and she hesitated to take any more bites of food, Severus stopped feeding her and began cleaning up. Slowly but surely, she was fed to satisfaction -- and Severus managed to fill himself up by getting bites in between feeding her.
Her face and shirt was painted with stains of sticky red from the strawberries, but she was happy as a clam and not at all concerned about the fact that she would most certainly need a bath.
Severus stood at the sink, letting her entertain herself while he arranged the dishes to be washed. When she gave a particularly joyous squeal, he knew that she had spotted something that she liked.
You were up now, standing in the doorway of the kitchen just freshly awake.
"Good morning, you two." You spoke gently, still clad in your sleepwear from the night before.
Severus turned, grinning at you with a small pink tint in his cheeks.
"Good morning, darling. We've just had breakfast." He smiled at you, his wife who he adored so dearly.
"I see that. You should've woke me up," You said. "I didn't mean to oversleep."
"Nonsense, darling. You needed the rest, and I am perfectly capable of taking on breakfast," He said. "I...assumed eggs and fruit were a safe choice."
"Oh, yeah. That's perfect," You approached the highchair, using your fingers to swipe some of her bed head hair to the side. "Looks like the strawberries were a hit." You laughed, noting the stains of red on her pink pajama shirt.
"Yes...sorry about that, my love." He blushed.
"I needed to do laundry today anyways," You smiled, not irritated in the slightest. "She'll be grown out of it soon."
A slight pang in Severus' chest made him go quiet for a moment. She was growing so fast that he couldn't even believe it. In four short months, she was going to be a year old. To think that it had been almost a year since she was born completely blew his mind. Next thing he knew, she would be starting her first day at Hogwarts and getting sorted into her House.
For now, he was enjoying her infant stage of life. Just as he had cherished the newborn phase, and how he would the toddler stage and beyond.
"I say it's time for a bath." You lifted her from her highchair, laughing again at how sticky she was.
"I can handle it," Severus said, turning the sink faucet off. "Might as well finish her morning routine."
"Are you sure?" You asked, feeling a bit guilty that he was taking on your usual morning duties.
"Absolutely," He grinned, taking her from you and turning his attention to her. "Mum will read you your bedtime story and put you to bed tonight. Does that work?"
She only hummed, clearly content with the arrangement they had going on today.
"Thank you, Sev." You said, thanking him for being so attentive and letting you sleep in for a bit.
"Oh, darling, it was nothing," He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Why don't you have breakfast and coffee while I get her ready for the day?"
Sure enough, Severus had a plate and a cup of coffee ready to go for you, a charm casted to keep the coffee hot and the food warm.
"The day where we have nothing planned?" You grinned, and Severus chuckled.
"Exactly."
And to Severus, a Saturday with nothing to do was perfect. In a lot of ways, nothing was everything when you and the baby were around.
His family (albeit small) was everything he ever needed.
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THE BULLET IN THE BOY or
THE BOY WITH WHITE HAIR
(It’s a work in progress. Names are hard.)
Tim’s senses came back slowly. When was the last time he slept? Well, aside from passing out. When was the last time he slept voluntarily? He tried to breathe evenly and pretend he was asleep, but his mind was racing. What was he doing? He couldn’t remember anything after he went on patrol. How long ago was that?? The summer air had cooled down significantly, so it had to have been a few hours. Obviously something had gone wrong. He needed to come up with a plan before whoever had him realized that he was awake.
The first thing to note was the frigid cold against his back. He was laying on a hard, smooth floor. He assumed concrete. Water dripped somewhere and echoed loudly as it hit a puddle. So it was a big empty-ish room. Probably a warehouse. Judging by the stuffy, stale, and metallic smell, it was most likely abandoned. With blood. A sharp burning pain emanating from his left shoulder meant the blood was probably his.
If Tim hadn’t been paying attention, he wouldn’t have heard the very very shallow breathing directly above him. Until extremely cold fingers wrapped something around his shoulder, jostling it. Tim reflexively took a small intake of breath at the sharp pain. It was quiet, barely noticeable but it was enough for the fingers to stop moving.
“Oh shit, you’re awake.” The voice was distinctly male, definitely young, probably a teenager.
No use in pretending now. Tim opened his eyes, surprised at how heavy they felt. Yup. He was in a warehouse. It was dark with no windows except for a few skylights on the ceiling. He was laying in the light coming from one of them with the boy sitting at his side. Moonlight outlined the boy from the skylight above. Tim couldn’t feel a breeze, yet the boy’s stark white hair moved like strong winds pulled at it. He couldn’t see a face as the boy was focused on Tim’s shoulder. Pain radiated along his arm and across his chest.
Tim attempted to sit up but found all of his limbs were heavy. What was happening? His mind felt alert, but his body was sluggish. The boy stopped what he was doing, grabbed Tim’s other shoulder and pressed down firmly on his chest. His hands were freezing. “Stop trying to move! If you start bleeding again it’s your own damn fault. I’m almost done wrapping your shoulder.”
“What did you do to me?” Tim whispered as the boy worked on winding the gauze around his upper arm.
“I didn’t do anything but you just proved my theory.” The boy huffed as he clasped two metal bandage clips on the gauze to keep it in place before sitting back.
“What’s your theory?” He had to keep the boy talking until backup arrived.
“You’re a fucking idiot.” Tim blinked. That was not the answer he expected. Maybe he did need more sleep.
“Ookayy. How did I prove that?”
“You were so focused on following that black haired kid, not to mention sleep deprived, seriously when was the last time you slept?! I thought I was bad. I sleep more than you and I’m dead.” He chuckled as if he had said something completely normal, and not something that was the equivalent of saying the sky was green. “Anyway, you were so focused on m-on him you didn’t notice you were being followed.” He slowly put his makeshift medical supplies into a backpack that had seen better days. Tim filed away the information for later. Better to keep the boy talking.
“I knew I was being followed.” At this, the boy stopped what he was doing and scoffed at him.
“Oh, really? Two guys attack you, you fight back. Not bad. You’re a better fighter than I am. Six more join and you get yourself shot in the shoulder. So I grabbed you and flew ran like hell. Hence you’re an idiot.” He gently pulled Tim up into a sitting position and propped him up with a crate. Tim’s eyes were now adjusted to the dark and he could see more. He studied him. The boy was extremely thin but surprisingly strong. He was very pale too. How old was this kid? Tim guessed younger than him. Where were his parents? Was he living on the street?
“They shot you in the deltoid.” The boy continued. Hmm, so he knows anatomy. That’s a class Tim was taking. They might be closer in age than he thought. “It wouldn’t stop bleeding so I brought you here, got the bullet out, and patched you up. It was covered in a weird substance. Probably a paralytic of some sort since you’re having a hard time moving. You obviously didn’t call for backup or they would be here already. So you’re a fucking idiot.” He zipped up his backpack.
“Why were you there?” Tim slowly and with great effort reached for his insignia. If he could just communicate with his team, he might be able to help the boy too.
“Nope, sorry. This isn’t Jeopardy. That is not a question you’re getting an answer to. Also, have you seen what you’re wearing?” At this, Tim froze. He was wearing his Red Robin uniform. He couldn’t feel his face from the drug. Was his mask still on?
Almost as if the boy could hear his thoughts, he quickly said “Your mask is on your face. And I didn’t look. I understand the importance of a secret identity. You could say I was reborn with one. Or that I have a split personality.” He laughed. Tim felt relief, but the boys words provided more questions than answers.
“Anyways, we’re just going to pretend I didn’t see you and you didn’t see me.”
“Why would we do that?” Tim continued to slowly reach for his insignia.
“We both have identities to protect.” At this, the boy crouched down to eye level with Tim. Oh shit, he’s cute. The boy’s face was surprisingly clean, with scrapes on his gaunt cheeks, and a bruise forming under his right eye. The boy was beautiful. But something was familiar about him. Before Tim had time to process what it could be the boy slowly waved his hand across Tim’s face. “You don’t need to investigate me. I’m not the boy you’re looking for.” His eyes flashed a bright glowing green. The color was eerily familiar and definitely not normal for a human. The boy had to be a meta. A meta who’d seen too many movies.
“Did- did you just try to do a Jedi mind trick on me?!”
“Depends. Did it work?” The boy smiled a half smile and Tim had to remember how to breathe.
“No.”
“Damn. Well, in any case, you won’t say anything yet. I disabled your communication device.” He pointed to the insignia. “And your tracker. Can’t have your friends follow me. Or have my enemies find me. Especially while you’re incapacitated.” The boy stood up. Tim realized he was wearing a suit too. It was all black with a white collar, belt, and cuffs. He wore white gloves and white boots. It reminded Tim of a haz-mat suit, except for the weird logo that looked like a ‘D’ and a ‘P’ combined on his chest. Despite cleaning Tim’s shoulder, his white gloves were pristine.
“Enemies?”
“My sister says I’ve gone too soft. She says I need to take care of myself first and it’s not my job to protect everyone. I know she’s looking out for me, trying to protect me like she always does. But you need to know.” He took a deep breath and looked Tim in the eyes again. The green pupils glowed and Tim could see the green swirling, like a pool of bright, sickly green. Lazarus waters. That’s what his eyes reminded Tim of. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop looking.” The boy said in a low voice. “Lives will be in danger if you don’t. Mine, my sister, my friends, your brother’s, and the boy you followed.”
“What? Which brother? Who’s after you? Who are you?”
“The dead one. The GIW. And I don’t care how good your hacker is, don’t look them up. Matter of fact, don’t even breathe in their direction. They’ll know and your dead brother will die again, except this time he’ll die a much slower, much more painful, and permanent death. If it traces back to me and hurts who I hold dear, you’ll have a much bigger, and infinitely more destructive problem on your hands.” The boy slung his backpack on and started to walk away.
“How did you know he died?” Tim asked quietly.
“Phantom.”
“What?” The boy, Phantom, turned to look at him.
“My name. It’s Phantom.” His eyes started to glow brighter, with green flames extending outward, and a smile that showed too many teeth. Tim held his breath, unable to look away. The white hair moved unnaturally with a faint bright green crown floating above his head. And Tim knew that Phantom wasn’t just a name. He wasn’t sure if he was even a meta. The boy was different. Otherworldly. A being that could and would destroy the earth if provoked. Tim knew they were no match for him and judging by the look in Phantom’s eyes, he knew it too. They stared at each other for several moments, until a faint, barely discernible noise made Phantom jerk his head away. He stopped smiling, the power he so openly displayed almost folding back into himself as he said, “Your friends are here.”
Batman and Robin emerged from the shadows. Tim was sure Red Hood was also there, along with Nightwing. Waiting in the shadows or securing the perimeter. Phantom was surrounded. Tim felt almost sad for the boy. No good deed goes unpunished, huh. But they needed to know what was going on. He had more questions. Questions that needed answers. From Batman’s stance, Tim assumed he’d heard the last part of their conversation. Saw what Phantom did. If Jason was in danger, they needed to know. They needed to stop the threat.
Phantom started laughing. His legs slowly melded together until they became a tail floating a few feet off the ground. “Aaand that’s all the time we have for today kids! Don’t forget to light a candle for your friendly neighborhood ghosts and stay away from the Guys In White. See you never!” At this, Phantom did a fake salute to Batman, bowed to Tim, and vanished into thin air before their eyes.
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malibusaint2014 · 20 days
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Glow up tips ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆
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Basically what helped me glow up. It involves both physical and more abstract practices, hope it helps ✿︎
Disclaimer: what worked for me may not work for you but feel free to try
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Getting into a beauty frequency: basically I started surrounding myself with beauty contents (makeup artists, hair stylists, glow up content creators on all platforms) and beauty in general. It helped me getting into that same frequency I want to embody, and it actually made it easier for me to achieve my beauty goals.
Keeping track of my new habits: whether before I would follow my routine very inconsistently, now I keep track of all my progresses and habits. I use this app called Finch, and it's kinda like a tamagochi that you help grow up by respecting your schedule. It's fun, very sweet and actually helps you so try it out!
Stopped listening to sad music: this was so hard as I LOVE sad songs. I love Mitski, the Smiths, songs about heartbreaks... but they make me feel so low. Of course I still do have times when I listen to them and have a good cry, but listening to sexy/ upbeat songs 90% of the time helped me a have a better mindset as someone who listens to music all the time and is easily influenced by it. I love high frequency music, Kali Uchis is a great example of that. Try also listening to high frequency vibrations.
Chopping my hair off : of course if you already have long, stunning healthy hair you may want to avoid this, but if you have damaged hair this could be the right thing to do. You may lose some confidence at first, but believe me that you're hair will grow healthier, prettier and longer. Moreover hair holds energy, and if you're coming out of a very sluggish period chopping your hair could help you restart fresh. Remember to use hair oils and to minimize heat use to protect your scalp!
Subliminals: whether it's placebo or not, they actually worked for me. It's all in your mindset. I've used subliminals for a really long time, and I kid you not my life did a 180° turnover. Everything I say manifests, and my looks have been improving constantly, so why not give it a chance?
Glitter glitter glitter : I swear by this. Whether it's just eyeshadow, nail polish, hair tinsel or whatever, glitter just puts you in the spotlight and draws attention to you + makes you feel more glamorous and fairy-like.
Have a "girlrotting day" every once in a while : trying to glow up can be very very draining, so every once in a while I have a resting day where I just rot in bed, binge watch contents and do nothing all day. You can even skip shower and skincare if you're feeling too drained. I feel like this is the best way to handle it mentally for me.
Removing facial hair: removing your facial hair helps your skin absorb skincare products better and makes your base so so so smooth, plus it gives a certain glow to your face. Also, always do some aftercare when you're done.
Superdri: okay, if you're a sweaty person you might want to try this out. It's basically a perspirant deodorant that makes you stop sweating. It is so useful especially in summer, it's one of my holy grails and actually works (this doesn't mean that you can stop showering ಠ_ಠ ).
Oil pulling: just grab a spoonful of virgin coconut oil and swish it around your mouth for 20 minutes. It kills the bacteria inside your mouth, whitens your teeth and prevents bad breath. It's a very ancient practice but it works like crazy! You just have to be consistent.
Skin icing: another practice I swear by. It makes my skin so smooth, tightens my skin, minimizes my pores and gives me energy. My skin has never felt so good and all it takes is 5 minutes in the morning. Also: if you're scared of how cold it, it is only hard the first few times but you get used to it, I promise.
Layer scents to create your own : I personally love to smell sweet, but not in a sugary way. I love vanilla and honey, so what I do is I use a vanilla scented bodywash, then the victoria's secret bare vanilla body cream/ glitter bodyspray combo and then I spray Kim K's Pure Honey perfume all over. Lasts all day and people give me so many compliments. This is my personal combo, but ofc that was just an example.
Every community has their own beauty secrets : this is probably the most important one, but I love to get beauty tips from all over the world and from different communities. Look at chinese makeup, korean skincare, african body care, indian haircare... take inspiration from everywhere around you HOWEVER not everything is meant for you, so please get enough information before you do a certain thing!! For example, turmeric masks only work for people with darker skin tones, because if done on pale skin they can stain it. So before you do anything, dig deep. I personally adore following chinese makeup artists and drag queens because they have a lot of useful and smart makeup tricks that help you feminize your face!
That's all bbys, if you have other tips share them. Love ya ♥︎☯︎
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mc-i-r · 7 months
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Disposable Heroes
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four Ao3
A/N: Guys, I’m so sorry for the late update! Life has been crazy for me the past couple weeks but I hope that I can get back to writing more regularly. This chapter is the well-awaited Eddie pov, as well as a ton of backstory for him that I didn’t really plan on but it just kinda came out. This chapter is kinda rushed, I’m gonna be honest, but I wanted to get it out to you guys as soon as possible since its been awhile. There are gonna be some major warnings here so I’ll post them below. Take care of yourselves and stay safe, now enjoy!
Tw: homophobia, homophobic language, child abuse, domestic violence, referenced drug use, Eddie being incredibly gay
———
It’s a muggy Sunday morning, the summer sun burning through the last vestiges of chilled night air and frosted dewdrops as it rises from its slumber. Like the sun, Eddie rises as well. However, it’s with much less fanfare and grace due to the obnoxious pounding at his front door.
He groans dramatically, shoving his face in his pillow and willing whoever the fuck decided to bother him at—he glances at his alarm clock on the other side of the room, squinting to read the numbers—nine in the morning to go away. His wish must have pissed off some universal god because the knocking only gets louder, making the window above his desk rattle with every shake of the door.
With a sigh big enough to rival the windy intro of “Holy Diver”, he pulls himself to the door in a zombie-like state. Movements sluggish from his interrupted sleep, he misses the doorknob twice before finally turning it, throwing it open with newfound strength to find one Robin Buckley in all her glory. Her fist is raised and ready to knock again, her face the epitome of righteous fury as she glares at him.
“Uh, hey Buck. Whatcha doi—“ he begins, only to be interrupted by Robin shoving past him and barging into the trailer. He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and pulling on his hair slightly before shutting the door.
Kids and their manners nowadays.
“Yeah, sure, come on in. Totally fine. I wasn’t sleeping or anything, noooo,” he says to himself before turning to face his intruder. Whatever Buckley is upset about seems serious, and from the icy look she’s giving him it also seems like it’s his fault. Her hands are on her hips like she’s in a Steve Harrington impersonation contest and plans on taking home a first place prize. Something in him squirms at the thought.
But, he is nothing if not a performer. So, of course, he puts on a show.
“Lady Buckley,” he declares in a posh British accent, bowing deeply with a flourish on his arm. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine morning?”
He’s expecting a fond eye roll, or a laugh, or huff, or something. He gets silence.
“Cut the bullshit, Eddie. We need to talk about Steve,” she demands.
Steve… Now isn’t that an interesting subject?
Now, Eddie has always been different. He was loud, and jumpy, and fidgety, and the other kids never wanted to be friends with him because they were scared. He was always covered in dirt, always barefoot because he either forgot to put on shoes or the ones he had were too small for his ever-changing feet. He would talk to himself, mutter little reminders under his breath or work through the questions plaguing his mind aloud because he just functioned better that way.
Then, at eleven, he found out just how different he really was. He was outside during recess when he fell off the monkey bars and scraped his hands and knees. He huddled on the ground, tears falling down his small cheeks because it hurt and his wounds felt like they were throbbing. Then a boy, James, ran up to him and asked him if he was okay. James had stark blond hair, a face full of freckles, and bright green eyes. He looked so concerned for Eddie, and was gentle when he picked up one of his hands to inspect the cuts littered there. It was that gentle touch that elicited a flutter of butterflies in his stomach, and ever since then Eddie knew.
When he had gotten home to the trailer that day, he felt confused. Other people in his class were constantly talking about who they “liked”; boys liking girls and girls liking boys. About how they would get all nervous around their crushes, and Eddie realized he had never felt that before. All of the girls in his class were just… girls to him. They never gave him that fluttery feeling James had. But… no one ever talked about boys liking boys. No one ever said if it was okay, so Eddie thought it must not be. That boys liking boys wasn’t okay. That he wasn’t okay.
It took awhile, but he finally confessed to Wayne that he liked boys, that he got all the little butterflies that boys were supposed to get about girls. Wayne shook his head and told him that he could feel butterflies for anyone he pleased, as long as they made him happy. They both cried that night, and ended up in a hug so tight they nearly fused together.
Since then, Eddie’s come to accept the fact that he’s gay. Has added it to his whole anti-conformist persona, even. So when high school hit he let himself finally be free. He joined Hellfire club, made friends with the upperclassmen who ran it, and learned all the intricacies of D&D that he never imagined he would. After two years, he met Gareth and Jeff who joined Hellfire much in the way he did. Then, Grant joined halfway through Eddie’s junior year and he quickly recruited him as well. He found his friends, his people, and he finally let himself be himself around them.
He told them he was gay after a long session of lazily practicing in Gareth’s garage and smoking, the weed having loosened both his limbs and his lips. They were all extremely chill with it, even after the weed had worn off. That, however, didn’t exempt them from making fun of him though.
Eddie was loitering in the hallway after school, waiting on Gareth to finish up a quiz he missed the week prior, when none other than Steve Harrington walked out of the pool room in nothing but those little speedos that leave zero to the imagination. Seriously, all those girls were right, holy shit. After he picked his jaw up off the floor, he noticed Steve was looking at him with that adorable little confused puppy look before a god damned smirk fell across his face. Eddie’s face, he knew, had to rival that of a Victorian nobleman fawning over a sliver of pale skin shown by a lady across the room with her face hidden by an elaborate fan because he was literally drooling for the man in front of him.
It got considerably worse when Steve leaned down to drink from a nearby water fountain, making Eddie’s mouth go completely dry with this blatant offering of ass right in his face. In hindsight, it might not have been an offering, per say, but it was definitely there and Eddie was definitely staring. So it really wasn’t a surprise that he jumped when Gareth tapped his shoulder, Eddie having not heard him come up behind him, and he turned on his heel so fast he’s surprised he didn’t get whiplash.
“Dude, you good?” Gareth asked. Eddie opened his mouth, squeaked out, “I’m fine” and immediately felt his face go up in flames. Gareth glanced over Eddie’s shoulder and he could see in slow motion the series of thoughts that crossed his mind. Gareth went from concerned to confused to understanding to smug so fast it was almost comical. When their eyes met, Eddie’s went wide.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” he hissed, and the smug look only intensified.
Once they got to his van, Gareth immediately rounded on him.
“Seriously? Steve Harrington?” Gareth teased. “Of all people, it had to be that douche?”
Eddie groaned and clenched his eyes shut. “I know, Garebear, now shut up before I push you out of the van.”
Of course, news about his little crush spread around his friend group like wildfire, and soon enough he was being teased by them relentlessly. Eddie knew his crush wouldn’t get very far, Steve was very clearly straight and in a happy relationship with Nancy Wheeler of all people. Still, Eddie couldn’t stop thinking about that smirk.
Just as his crush began to fade away, Steve showed up to school with a busted face and eye bags deep enough to rival shitty vampire Halloween make-up from a toddlers costume contest. Feelings came rushing back, the intense need to protect, to find out what happened and get justice for that pretty face.
Then it kept happening, and Steve showed up to school with a beat up face yet again. However, judging by his stumbling and droopy eyes, it came with a concussion this time. Just when Eddie was trying to figure out who did it, Billy Hargrove came stalking through the empty halls and all attention was focused on his scabbed knuckles. On the hungry glare he sent Steve’s way. On the way Steve shrank back a little on instinct.
And Eddie… Eddie just couldn’t leave well enough alone, now could he?
He walked up to Steve, brows furrowed. “Harrington?”
Harrington didn’t turn, eyes still focused on the spot where Billy had been before. Eddie tapped his shoulder. “Steve?”
He jumped that time, like Eddie had actually hit him, and spun to face him. Up close, his face looked a hell of a lot worse and Eddie had to suppress a wince just looking at him. Steve looked at him confused, though it was hard to tell between the swelling and assortment of bandages on his face.
“…Munson?” Steve began. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come up.”
He said it flippantly, with a wave of his hand towards his left ear like that explained everything. It didn’t, but Eddie felt like it wasn’t his place to push.
“You good, man? You look like you got in a fight with a dump truck and lost,” Eddie said. “Badly.”
He expected Steve to scoff and roll his eyes, push past him and hit his shoulder too hard to be an accident. He expected him to spit some barb and walk away, to leave Eddie there in the hallway alone. None of that happened, though.
Instead, Steve smiled. A little self-deprecating, but a smile nonetheless. He huffed a laugh.
“Make it a supercharged dump truck and you’ve got it right,” Steve joked at his own expense. It resulted in a shocked laugh bursting from Eddie’s lips, which he immediately stopped by smacking a hand over his mouth.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his hand away. “That’s not funny. I mean… your joke was, just not,”—he gestured to Steve’s… everything—“this.”
“It’s okay man, I know what you meant,” Steve said sincerely and Eddie doubted why he was ever called King Steve. The person who stood in front of him was the furthest thing from what those jocks supposedly worshiped that Eddie had to hide another bubble of laughter.
“Seriously, dude, did you even go to a doctor?” Eddie asked, and at Steve’s wince he knew the answer. He rolled his eyes and slung an arm around his shoulders, careful not to land too hard in case he was bruised there too, and led him down the hallway towards the nurse’s station.
“Uh,” Steve began. “Where are we going?”
“The nurse,” he explained. “Figured a look wouldn’t hurt, right?”
Steve’s shoulders relaxed a little under his arm, and Eddie decided to focus on him during their walk down the empty hallway. He noticed the way his hair bounced a little with every step, how a couple strands were threatening to fall from their perfectly coiffed positions. He noticed his moles and freckles, how he had a smattering of faint ones all over his face from time in the sun. He noticed how his nose was a little crooked now, with a bump on the bridge that wasn’t there before the weekend. He noticed how pretty his eyes were, with at least three different shades of brown all swirled together like melted chocolate with flecks of forest green nestled in the folds.
He noticed that Steve was looking at him.
They had come to a stop in front of the nurse, yet Eddie’s arm was still over his shoulders. He quickly retracted it, but Steve didn’t move away and neither did he.
“Well, this is your stop,” Eddie nearly whispered out. Steve smiled, just a small quirk of his lips, and his eyes flitted across Eddie’s face.
“Thanks, Eddie,” he started. Steve took a step backwards toward the station and did a little wave with his fingers that had no right being as endearing as it was. “See you around.”
With that, he disappeared behind the thick mahogany door and Eddie was left there alone, face full of flames and smiling like he was in fucking love with the guy.
Fuck, maybe he was a little bit in love with the guy.
That feeling didn’t waver, not even after seeing him in a skimpy sailor uniform as he scooped overpriced ice cream for toddlers in the Mall. Or, when he was pinning him to the rickety wall of the boathouse he was hiding in after seeing Chrissy murdered in front of him by some freaky wizard from an alternate dimension with a broken bottle to his beautifully freckled throat.
That feeling greatly intensified when he saw Steve take an honest to god bite out of a demonic bat and spit the flesh and blood out on the dried lakebed in the previously mentioned alternate dimension.
And, really, you can’t blame him for falling all the way when he found out exactly who dragged his half-dead body out of hell and saved his life.
So yeah, Steve was a very interesting subject indeed.
“Is… Is he okay?” Eddie questions as he straightens from his hunched position, head tilting to the side and making his bangs fall in his eyes. Robin throws her hands up with a mighty huff and a frustrated groan.
“Obviously not!” She exclaims. She starts pacing around his living room, back and forth in front of the coffee table. “He’s obviously not okay because you’ve been avoiding him and making him feel like shit for months and I’m actually really worried about him ‘cause he’s been doing stupid shit that can get him killed and I don’t know how much longer he can go on like this before it completely ruins him.”
As Robin rambles, her face turns a bright shade of pink. She finishes her speech, sucking in a deep breath as if she ran out of air. Eddie’s brows furrow.
“I haven’t been avoiding Steve,” he defends weakly. He hasn’t, not really. He just… he doesn’t want to get hurt.
Okay yes, Eddie is practically in love with the guy, but that doesn’t mean Steve feels the same about him. They’re friends, that’s it. Steve is going to find some beautiful girl and get married and have the houseful of kids he’s always wanted and Eddie will be here, still pining from afar. He knows it would be easier to just forget about him, and forget about the feelings clutching his heart like a starved hawk with its first fulfilling catch in months. That’s why he’s been slowly letting go over the past few weeks, trying—and failing—to get that stupid pretty boy out of his head. Of course, it’s not working, and every day he spends not talking to Steve feels like hell.
So no, he’s not avoiding Steve. He just doesn’t think he could survive it if he confesses and Steve rejects him completely. Staying away means he won’t accidentally reveal his feelings for the man, and judging by how much he’s feeling, it wouldn’t be very hard for that scraggly cat to come clawing and screeching out of the proverbial bag.
Robin, however, thinks the opposite because according to the look she’s giving him, she says he absolutely fucking has.
Eddie sighs. “Okay, maybe I have just a little bit but it’s not—“
Eddie freezes, stomach plummeting as Robin's rambling words take purchase in his mind. She said Steve was doing something stupid, something that could kill him. Flashes of a night now a distant memory play in his mind, one filled with panicked breaths, stilted tears, and a bloody bat with nails.
“Robin… What do you mean by ‘stupid shit’?” Eddie asks tentatively. Part of him wants to know the answer, while part of him fears the idea of ever finding out. Robin only gives him a confused look and crosses her arms.
“Eddie, that’s totally not the point of this conversation and you know it—“ Eddie cuts her off by waving his hands.
“Robin! Just…” he trails off. Should he tell her about Steve? He promised he wouldn’t but…
“Okay, I have to tell you something about Steve but please please don’t tell him I told you because I promised him I wouldn’t but if you also know something about him then I think you should know about this too,” he rushes out, words tumbling fast out of his mouth as his lungs scream for air. Robin’s icy glare has melted a bit, turning into one of anxiety and caution.
He sighs and flops down on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks down at his hands. He feels more than sees Robin sit next to him and he knows he has her attention.
“What happened, Eddie?” She prompts, and he takes it as a sign to continue.
“I had a visit from Steve awhile back, around four or five days ago,” he begins. “It was early in the morning and I couldn’t sleep so I was writing notes for a new campaign idea in the living room. I could feel that something was… off, so I looked out the window and there he was.”
He ran a hand over his face, pushing his bangs back and pulling on the ends. He glances over at Robin to find her looking at him. He squeezes his eyes closed for a moment before looking back at her.
“He wasn’t all there, Robin. Like… like he was trapped in his mind or something. I thought,” he huffs a deprecating laugh, “for a moment there, I thought he was cursed.”
He doesn’t mention that the image found its way in his head and can’t seem to find its way out, like a stubborn housefly who keeps banging against the glass hoping to be freed. The thought of Steve floating—eyes rolled back in his head while his lids flutter and his limbs shudder and break one by one—has kept him awake on more nights than he can count. The thought of him being subjected to his worst nightmares given life, all the lies that he tells himself turned to truth. The thought of Eddie being completely helpless, watching him die in agony in front of him.
He doesn’t mention that every night since then, he’s called Steve. He needed to hear his voice, to know he was okay. To know he was alive. He never got a call back.
“I got him to come inside but he didn’t stay long. Something spooked him, I think, I just… I don’t know, it was really weird. Like…” he trails off, unable to find the words.
“Like he was in fight or flight mode?” Robin suggests, and he nods.
“Pure instinct.”
Robin groans. “Shit, this is worse than I thought.”
“Wait, did he tell you?” He asks. Steve was so insistent on Eddie not telling her—made him promise, in fact—so why…?
“Well… after a very long, very emotional, and very vulnerable conversation, yes. He told me on his own terms though, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she supplies. “He… He didn’t tell me a ton of details, though. Not… Not like that.”
There’s a pause as Robin clenches her eyes closed and looks away from him.
“I didn’t know it was that bad,” her voice comes out just barely above a whisper, something he wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t right next to her. Eddie stays silent, unwilling to break the solemn mood. Robin, however, misses that message entirely as she smacks his arm.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, doofus?!” She accuses, giving him a half-hearted glare that is no less threatening. Eddie holds his hands up in surrender, unable to hide the exasperated look on his face.
“He made me promise!!” Eddie defends. “Plus he gave me those damn puppy dog eyes and I couldn’t say no.”
“He is really good at that, especially when he wants something. He says he has no clue but I bet you he does,” Robin whispers, almost conspiratory as if they’re sharing a terrible secret. Eddie can’t help but smile and shake his head. Screw Harrington and his stupid pretty eyes.
“Did he say anything else while he was here?” Robin asks after a moment of silence.
“No, that was the only thing he said really, other than an absent ‘I’m fine’ before he bolted out the door. It was a very uh… one-sided conversation,” Eddie explains. “He mostly gave only one or two word answers before he panicked and ran.”
“I’m gonna assume he didn’t tell you why he left?” She asks, and at the shake of his head she curses. “Fuck.”
“Fuck indeed.”
Robin shifts beside him, raising her hand to mindlessly chew on her thumbnail. He thinks the conversation is over. Or, rather, wishes it were over.
That universal god must really hate Eddie today because Robin roughly shakes her head and waves her hands around, letting out a huff.
“Okay, one problem at a time. That was totally not the point of this little talk and you know it, Munson,” she admonishes. “Why. Are. You. Avoiding. Steve?”
She punctuates each word with a, quite literal, punch to the arm. Eddie reels back, dramatically clutching his bruised arm and gives her a fake glare.
“Ow!!” He rubs his arm. For her incredibly bony arms, she really can pack a punch. He’s only half joking that it hurts.
“Answer the question!”
“Fine fine…” he takes a deep breath, knee bouncing with building anxiety before he stands up, unable to quell the urge to move. He paces twice in front of the coffee table before he has the nerve to look at her waiting gaze.
“So, as you know, I am a raging homosexual,” he states, and at his pause, she nods. “And I miiiiiight have a teeny weeny, itsy bitsy, enormous crush on him.”
The end of his sentence is rushed out, words jumbled together as he screws his eyes closed and waits for… whatever Robin’s response is going to be. He waits for five seconds. Then ten. Then twenty-five because yes he’s counting. If he knows one thing about Robin Buckley it’s that she doesn’t know when to stop talking so silence is a very rare occurrence for her and now its been a whole minute and something must be wrong so he opens his eyes to find her—
The only word that even remotely comes close to encompassing the expression on her face is seething.
He instinctively takes a step back.
“Edward Lee Munson you better explain yourself right fucking now or I swear to every god out there that I will rip out your spleen and feed it to the neighborhood dogs before you take a step out that door,” Robin all but growls out, eyes icy and cold as they stare through him. He’s quick to explain because he really quite values his spleen, thank you very much.
“Okay, okay, geez I get it! Fine,” he huffs. “I’ve been avoiding Steve because it’s hard to be around him.”
Robin only raises an eyebrow. Eddie groans. He really wishes he didn’t have to explain his big, fat, gay love this early in the morning.
“It’s hard because he’s so…. So Steve all the time. He’s so kind and caring and hot— god, Birdie, he’s so fucking hot—“
“Okay, yeah, I didn’t need to know that,” Robin interrupts.
“Sorry,” he says, a bit sheepish. “Every little smile he gives me feels like a swarm of butterflies are fighting horde-style to get out of my stomach. I just…
“I think I’m in love with him,” Eddie confesses. The way her eyes blow wide is comical, and he’s half expecting them to pop and burst like they do in cartoons.
“But I know better,” he gives her a sad smile. “I know that I’m not special, he doesn’t mean it like that. Like I want it to. And…. And I know he never will.
“I thought that distancing myself would make the feelings go away, make it… I don’t know, hurt less? But not seeing Steve at all… fuck, it hurts worse than dying and I know what that feels like. Now I don’t even have him as a friend,” he scoffs at himself, shakes his head a little and focuses on a framed picture of him, Steve, Robin, and Dustin from graduation on the wall. Focuses on how Steve’s arm is wrapped around his shoulders, hand gripping his upper arm as he smiles shyly at the camera. How Eddie himself is leaning into his side, tucked under his arm as if he belongs there. As if he’ll ever belong there. He looks back at Robin.
“But this is what’s best. I can’t have my stupid heart feeling things my brain knows it shouldn’t,” Eddie ends his little speech by flopping back down on the couch. Part of him regrets telling her, but another small, itty bitty part is almost grateful.
Eddie’s always had a way of caring too much, even from a young age. Wayne could tell you better than anyone that Eddie has always had a soft side. He could tell you that Eddie refused to let him kill any of the bugs that got into the trailer when the weather turned cold and insisted that they be put outside under the trailer where it was at least a little warmer. He could tell you that every time Eddie would see another person cry, he would too.
He’s just always been like that, so carrying this around with him everyday? It was becoming too much to bear, having to put on a face around everyone so no one could tell. So no one could see how it was breaking him inside. Wearing him down to the bone. Slowly, slowly killing him.
Robin sighs beside him and he had almost forgotten she was there. Her voice is quiet and strangely gentle as she speaks.
“Why do you think that, Eddie?”
What?
“What?” He asks incredulously and knows his face is in a similar state to his voice.
“Why do you think Steve wouldn’t like you like that? Has he said anything to make you think he wouldn’t?” She clarifies, which really doesn’t clarify anything at all for him because what?
“Um… are we talking about the same Steve? You know, Steve Harrington, Hawkins’ resident ladies man? Why the fuck would you think I’d have a shot?” He explains. “He’s so painfully straight and I am so painfully not, Robin.”
Robin just looks at him like she’s trying to read his mind. Or, rather, push a thought into his mind. Waiting for something to click. It doesn’t. Eddie rolls his eyes.
“Besides, Steve never tried to talk to me about the whole distance thing, so I just—“
“You know what happens when people assume things, Eddie,” Robin interrupts.
“—figured that he didn’t mind,” Eddie finishes with a glare. Robin closes her eyes and takes a breath as if calming herself. She pinches her nose, right between her eyes like Steve always does when he’s frustrated or tired, and turns to him. She takes his hands in hers, and her face is only a mere mask of calm, the tumbling waves of anger rolling just under the surface.
“Eddie,” she begins. “Have you ever thought of the possibility that Steve doesn’t talk about his feelings? That he would keep it all bottled up inside like he does with literally everything else?”
Well, when she puts it like that…
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Robin agrees. “I only found out about this whole… thing two days ago and that was only because I just so happened to catch him falling asleep at work. He wouldn’t have told me if I didn’t ask him, I know that for sure. He… Eddie, he honestly believes that this is all his fault. That he’s the one that fucked everything up between you and he kids.”
Eddie’s brain screeches to a halt. “Wait, what do the kids have to do with this?”
“You haven’t told them anything?” Robin asks, eyes going a little wide.
“Have I told a bunch of teenagers—whose opinions I regretfully respect—that I have a crush on their babysitter? No, I have not.”
“Okay, yeah that was a stupid question, sorry,” she amends. “Just… the kids are avoiding Steve and I can’t think of a reason why.”
“They’re what!? Wait, why haven’t I heard of this until now?” Eddie exclaims. Robin gives him a look that makes him deflate a little. “Let me guess, you only found out two days ago?”
“Bingo, we have a winner!” Robin fake cheers, raising her arms in a mock-celebratory fashion. She drops them with a huff. “They haven’t talked to him in weeks, Eddie, and I think it’s because you have been avoiding him.”
Her tone isn’t accusatory, but it still makes him feel like shit.
“They must have picked up the sense that something was going on between you two and assumed they should be avoiding him too,” she suggests. Eddie leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I don’t get how they could think that, though. I mean, Steve has been nothing but good to them for years now.”
“I know,” Robin agrees. “But they’re kids. Stupid, dumb, ungrateful kids, but they’re still kids.”
Eddie drops his head in his hands, pressing hard on his eyes until spots form behind his eyelids.
“I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” He asks it rhetorically, but Robin gives a noise of agreement anyway. “How do I fix this, Birdie?”
“You could start by talking to him,” Robin suggests.
Now isn’t that a terrifying thought?
Because knowing you have feelings for someone is one thing, but telling them? That’s something so far out of the realm of possibility for him that he’s never even thought about considering it.
“Have you lost your fucking mind, Buckley?” Eddie exclaims, looking over at her with wide eyes. “I’d like to keep all my teeth if you don’t mind. I mean, I know I’m not your type and everything but some poor schmuck would probably like to look at this face one more time before it's beat all black and blue.”
Robin only rolls her eyes at his rambling—which is rather hypocritical of her if you ask him, since she seems to treat rambling as an Olympic sport she plans on winning every time she opens her mouth. She grabs his face between her hands and honest to god shakes him.
“I can’t tell you everything, but I’m telling you to trust me and talk to him,” she practically demands, giving him a pointed look much like the one from before. Except he still doesn’t know what it means, as that final piece has yet to click into place.
He nods in her hold, partially afraid of her now, and she releases him.
“We need to fix this. Now,” Eddie insists. He looks over at her. “We need to talk to the kids.”
Eddie stands up, running to his room and groaning at the mess he left. Tossing his sheets and blankets back on the bed, he reaches under his bed for the walkie he knows he last saw under there three days ago. Except, it’s not there. He stands up, scrunches his eyebrows, and thinks.
Let’s see… it was next to the keychain that was on top of the VHS sitting on the books on the corner of the desk, then he moved it when he had to answer one of Lucas’ questions which he did while he walked around the trailer and he laid it down when he finished to get some cheese from the fridge, meaning—
Eddie runs back to the kitchen, finding the walkie on top of the fridge, right where he thought it would be.
“Got ya!” He grabs it and runs back to the living room where Robin is waiting very impatiently.
“Where even was that?” She asks but he ignores her, electing to set the frequency so he can talk to the kids all at once instead of answering her. He presses the button.
“This is Eddie the Banished calling an emergency Hellfire meeting pronto,” he orders into the speaker. “I repeat, emergency Hellfire meeting.”
He waits for a response. One minute. Two minutes. Three—
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Eddie mumbles, pressing the button again. “Over.”
Immediately, Dustin responds. “Hear you loud and clear, Eddie. Is this a code red situation? Over.”
“Nope, not a code red. More of a uh…” he glances over at Robin who shrugs. “Code yellow? I think. Over.”
“What the hell is ‘code yellow’? We don’t even have one of those,” comes Erica’s, as always, sarcastic remark. Eddie can faintly hear Lucas yelling in the background.
“Munson, you better not be shitting with us.”
“I promise you, Red, I wouldn’t. Not about this.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, people! You’re supposed to say ‘over’ when you’re done talking! Over.”
“Shove it, Dustybuns, the adults are talking.”
Eddie has to hold the walkie away from him at Dustin’s responding shriek. He presses a hand over his eyes. These kids are going to kill him one day.
“Guys, this is serious. Just get your asses over to my trailer as soon as possible. Robin’s already here, does someone have Little Byers and Supergirl?”
“I’ve got them. Over and out,” Mike responds.
“Erica and I are on our way. Over and out,” Lucas says.
“Be there in fifteen. Over and out,” Dustin declares. Eddie glances at Robin, sharing equally nervous and worried looks. This is not going to be fun.
Thirty minutes later, all of the kids are cramped in Eddie’s living room. Lucas, Max, El, and Mike are scrunched together on the couch, while Will and Dustin sit on the floor in front of them. Erica claimed Wayne’s recliner as soon as her and Lucas got there, refusing to move for the older teens.
Robin is standing next to him, hands on her hips again—really driving home the whole “Steve is my platonic soulmate” bit—as he stands there with his arms crossed. The two of them remind Eddie of disappointed parents about to tell off their kids, which, in reality, isn't too far off.
“Okay, what the hell?” Dustin asks, still breathless from the trek there. “I literally just got home an hour ago. Why did you call us and make us bike all the way here in the heat?”
“Because you deserve it for being shitheads,” Eddie defends and rolls his eyes. He’s met with a cacophony of dweeby teen voices as they retaliate.
“What did we do this time?”
“What?! We didn’t do anything!”
“What did Dustin do, now?”
“Me? Why am I the one being blamed? I wasn’t even here!”
“Because you’re too damn nosey, dude.”
“Ouch, Lucas. Ouch.”
“Hey!” Eddie yells, clapping his hands to get their attention. It startles them all enough to quit talking over each other and look back up at him. “Okay, I’m just going to get to the point. Why are you all avoiding Steve?”
Mike gives him a confused look and crosses his arms, his expression the epitome of teenage angst.
“We thought you hated Steve, dude. You would always leave the room whenever he was around with some shitty excuse so we just decided to do the same,” Mike answers. Dustin nods from his spot on the floor.
“Yeah, we all thought he did something or said something to you since every time we brought him up, you’d shut the conversation down somehow. It just… naturally progressed from not talking about him to not talking to him either,” Dustin explains.
“Steve stopped showing up to things, too. He used to help me practice but he’s not shown up in weeks,” Lucas adds.
“Mom’s gotten really worried about him. He’s not shown up to dinner in a while, either,” Dustin chimes in. He shrugs. “We just thought the feeling was mutual.”
Eddie clenches his eyes closed and throws his head back. Fuck, this is worse than he thought. He hears Robin shift beside him, and knows firsthand the look she’s giving them right now.
“Have any of you even considered asking Steve about this?” Robin asks accusatively. “Or even talking to him about anything other than rides or movie nights?”
Silence falls over the room, so thick and suffocating that Eddie briefly prefers the air of the Upside Down to this. He pulls his hair, scrunching down on the floor and balancing on the pads of his feet.
“This is all my fault,” he groans, twisting strands of hair frustratedly.
“It is,” Robin agrees and ignores the glare Eddie sends her way for that. “But we can still fix this.”
“Wait, what’s going on?” Mike asks.
“Why does Eddie look three seconds away from strangling himself with his hair?” Max hesitates, sounding the most cautious he’s ever heard her. Eddie groans and avoids eye contact with the group.
“The reason I’m avoiding Steve isn’t because I hate him. It’s uh… quite the opposite, actually,” he explains, nervously fidgeting with his rings and pulling a thick strand of hair to hide his face. He glances at Robin, who gives him an overly enthusiastic thumbs up, and he rolls his eyes.
Max and Erica give him equally smug smirks while Will looks at him with wide, understanding eyes. The rest of the group, however, look confused.
“Wait, then why are you avoiding him?” Dustin asks.
“Dude, that makes zero sense,” Mike counteracts. El just looks lost, almost like she’s trying to read his mind. Which… he really wouldn’t be surprised if she could at this point. Eddie sighs.
“That’s not the point,” Eddie redirects. “The point is that an issue with me and Steve shouldn’t affect you guys’ relationship with him.”
“Yeah,” Robin agrees, and he deftly ignores the pointed look she sends his way. “Steve has been there for all of you for years.
“Dustin, wasn’t it Steve who helped you catch D’art when he escaped from your cellar? He bought pounds of meat for you to lure a demodog away with, then fought a pack of them by himself to keep you safe. Steve put himself in the line of fire again against said demodogs in the tunnels after he was beaten unconscious by Billy, then sacrificed himself to Russians just so you and Erica could make it out alive a year later.”
Dustin clamps his mouth shut from its gaping position—likely from him wanting to defend himself from the truth—and has the decency to look sheepish. Eddie turns his gaze to Lucas.
“Lucas, wasn’t it Steve who helped you train for basketball when you started to show an interest in it? He practiced with you every week, even after a long shift at work or when he felt like shit, just because you asked. Steve protected you against Billy because it was the right thing to do, and took a beating so you wouldn’t. Not many people can say they’d do that for someone else, especially not against anyone as vicious as Hargrove,” Eddie adds. Lucas drops his head in his hands, knee bouncing from his place on the couch.
“Max,” Robin begins. “Steve checked up on you every day after Billy died. He would bring you food or ice cream or a distraction, but he was always there. He would drive you to the arcade just to cheer you up, let you beat him at Dig Doug and Pinball just to see you smile. Steve was terrified to let you be the bait for Vecna, he… he kept telling me that he wished it was him instead. That he should be the sacrifice, not you.”
Robin wipes her eyes where they begin to tear up, and Eddie uses the pause to look at Mike. He still has his arms crossed, but the smartass look on his face has dwindled a little.
“Mike, I know you don’t like Steve because of him and Nancy, but you can’t hold onto that grudge forever. What happened between them had nothing to do with you, so there's no need to be mad at him for it,” Eddie states. Mike isn’t looking at him now, and something tells Eddie that the kid just needs a reality check. Hopefully, this will work. “Steve has been protecting you from the beginning, even when you were more than hostile to him. You’ve at least got to give him credit for that.”
Eddie looks around, sees the morose expressions on the kids’ faces.
“Steve has picked you all up countless times from Hellfire, waiting the entire session out in the parking lot while wasting away in his car. He was there rain or shine, snow or sleet, and he never missed a day. Not once,” he states.
Eddie first found Steve’s presence after Hellfire to be confusing, an anomaly. He didn’t know that the Steve the kids talked about was the same Steve he had a debilitating crush on in high school, not until he saw him waiting outside after the first session the kids attended, leaning against his maroon BMW like a Calvin Klein model. A ball of anxiety formed in his stomach at the sight, because one thing about Steve Harrington was that he’s unpredictable. Eddie just didn’t know if it was good or bad yet.
“You know, usually when people graduate they tend to stay away from high school, not willingly come back,” Eddie teased.
His words seemed to spark some life into Steve, as he jolted from his relaxed position against the hood to stand firmly beside his car. Steve ran a hand through his hair, and looked Eddie up and down.
“You’d probably know more about that if you managed to actually graduate, Munson,” Steve quipped, but it wasn’t mean. He had a smile on his face, and the air around him was friendly. Some of the anxiety churning in Eddie’s gut eased at the sight.
“Besides, who says I’m here willingly?” Steve asked rhetorically, as Dustin made his appearance by running up to him and immediately began talking his ears off about the new campaign. Steve turned his full attention on the boy, nodding along to certain comments even when Eddie knew for sure Steve didn’t know what the hell Henderson was talking about. The other kids soon crowded around the former jock, all talking so incredibly fast that Eddie was surprised the sound barrier survived their cracking voices.
Eddie watched as Steve glanced at him over the kids’ heads, giving him a loose smile and a shrug as if saying, ‘what can ya do?’
Soon, all the gremlins piled into Steve’s fancy car, still talking and gesturing wildly with their hands. Eddie had a passing thought that he should get Steve some earplugs or something to at least help drown out the noise. He immediately shook his head at the thought and jumped in his old, beat up van, driving home to an empty trailer and trying desperately to forget Steve Harrington existed.
“He always waits until the excitement starts to wear off before he takes you all home, letting you talk to each other for nearly an hour after each session despite the fact he never has a clue what you’re talking about. He always listens to you guys, no matter what,” Eddie supplies. “Did you guys know he has mixtapes for each of you?”
At the question, they all look at him with varying degrees of confusion and an all-too-late realization. Eddie huffs, while Robin mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like, ‘of course they didn’t.’
“There’s one for each of you, filled with songs you like or mentioned liking at some point despite some of them not being his own taste. He listens to you, all of you, and it fucking hurts to know you don’t see that,” he exposes, and part of him regrets letting a bit of his anger out. Though, the kids need to know this is serious, that you can’t go through life assuming the worst in people, so if being angry is what it takes then so be it.
The kids have various emotions on their faces, ashamed and regretful being the two most prominent. Dustin clears his throat and looks up at Eddie, flicks his eyes to Robin, and returns them to his lap.
“I… I didn’t realize he did so much for us,” Dustin quietly admits, and a small part of Eddie cheers at finally teaching the kid a thing or two about humility.
“We’ve been taking advantage of him for… for so long,” Lucas breathes out. Max nods morosely beside him, and Will raises a shaky hand to cover his mouth.
Mike rolls his eyes, still petulantly crossing his arms. “Why should we even care about him? All he’s probably doing is wallowing in his fancy house or something.”
He says it with a layer of snark so thick, all the kids turn to him with varying levels of bitchy glares. Eddie, however, can tell his attitude is a mask, a way for him to hide how he’s truly feeling to prevent from being too vulnerable. From being too open. Eddie knows a lot about that.
It started when Eddie was four and he scraped his knee on the harsh gravel outside his parents’ run-down home in Kentucky. Tears rolled down his chubby cheeks as he ran inside to tell his mom, who he knew would take care of him. She told him to play outside, and not come in until she told him so, but his knee really hurt and he was scared they would have to cut it off if it bled too much. At least, that’s what Charlie—a kid who lived two streets over—said they would do.
When he stepped over the threshold, something felt off. The house was quiet, more so than normal, and it set him on edge. The TV was filled with static that grated on his little ears, and he covered them with his hands as he made his way over to turn it off. He picked up the antenna off the floor, wondering how it got knocked off the top of the TV in the first place. He looked around the living room, finding it in a similar state of disarray. He followed the trail of broken things before him; the overturned coffee table, a spilled ashtray, a stray pillow, and the chair his dad always sat on, pushed far out of its normal place. He questioned who could have messed up his house like this, leaving a big mess behind.
He found his answer when he ventured into the kitchen, just a few short steps from the living room, and found his mother laying on the floor. She was on her stomach, arms splayed out as if she tried to catch her fall and head turned to look at the doorway where little Eddie stood. Her eyes were closed but she was still breathing, the floral pattern of her dress moving with each breath. Shards of ceramic were spread out around her, littered with droplets of dark blood that spilled from a cut on her forehead. It dripped down the side of her face, along the curve of her cheek and onto the floor where it formed a small puddle. Her skin was pale in the artificial light of the house, the soft yellows doing nothing to soften the tones of her ashen face.
“Mama!” He ran up to her, falling to his knees beside her still body. He shook her, trying to get her eyes to open, but all it rewarded him was a pained grunt. His eyes welled with tears again, this time for his Mama, but nothing he was doing was working.
A shadow fell over the floor and he looked up to find his father blocking the light from the gold-colored light fixture above the kitchen table. His face was stern and dirty looking, his stubble well past the point of a five o’clock shadow and leaning more towards a sleazy strip club owner. There was a smear of blood on his face from his hand, which he noticed was bruised around the knuckles. However, the sight of what was in his other hand made him freeze, entire body going stock still.
In his father’s left hand were the remnants of the broken plate on the floor, the jagged edges cutting into his skin where he gripped it tightly. Matching blood littered the edge, and a splatter of the dark liquid traveled up his hairy arm and disappeared into his rolled up flannel sleeve.
He looked up at the figure before him, and the tears spilled over against his will.
“What happened to Mama?” He asked. “Why won’t she wake up?”
“‘Cause she’s sorry, son,” his dad answered, throwing down the ceramic and causing it to shatter against the floor. Eddie flinched, and his father caught the motion. He hadn’t been able to quell it, hadn’t learned how to hide his fear yet. The man scowled at him, lip curling as he grabbed Eddie’s arm and hauled him off the floor in one solid motion.
“She’s weak, Edward,” he began. This close, Eddie could see the redness of his eyes, and the deep purple bags that hang underneath. “Just like all women. Do you wanna be weak, boy?”
Eddie shook his head, and his father gripped his arm tighter. “Answer me!”
“N-No sir,” Eddie muttered, voice small and weak in the face of his father.
“Then stop that fucking crying, don’t be a sissy. I ain’t raising a fucking faggot, Edward.”
With that, his dad dropped his arm and stumbled into his bedroom down the hall. As soon as his figure was gone, Eddie turned back to his mom, crouching next to her. Sometime when his dad was talking, her eyes had opened and her breathing grew stronger. Eddie felt like it was nothing short of a small miracle.
“Mama, are you okay?”
“‘M okay, baby,” she replied, pushing herself off the floor with a grunt. She sat up with Eddie’s help, and frowned when she saw the reddened mark on his arm. “I shouldn’t have let him do that to you.”
“You were hurt, Mama. ‘S not your fault,” Eddie reasoned, pulling his arm out of her grasp to wipe at some of the blood on her face. “You’re bleeding, too.”
“Oh,” she began, reaching up to touch the wound as if she hadn’t realized it was there. “It’s nothing, Eddie, just a little scratch. Mama will be okay, promise.”
She didn’t look okay, this close, with her sunken-in face and slowly forming black eye Eddie hadn’t been able to see before. But his Mama was always right. Always.
“Pinky promise?” Eddie asked, holding out his little pinky. His Mama smiled, and raised a shaky hand to lace her pinky with his.
“Pinky promise.”
A year later, he was riding in the car with his Mama, backpack at his feet. She was dressed nicer than he ever remembered her being; a baby blue, short-sleeved dress hugged her slender frame, paired with white heels, white bug-eyed sunglasses, and a sheer white scarf she had tied around her hair. Her suitcase was in the trunk, but his father was nowhere to be found.
“Mama?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Where’s Dad?” He asked. His Mama cleared her throat before she answered, voice shaky.
“He’s not coming with us, Eddie,” she said. “We’re going somewhere far away from him. Somewhere new.”
“Where?”
“Have a look for yourself, honey,” she said, pointing to the window. Eddie crawled up on his knees to look out, seeing a sign welcoming them to a place called Hawkins. He sat back down in his seat, looking back at his mother.
“What’s here?” He asked. His mother smiled.
“Your Uncle Wayne. He’s my brother,” she supplied. “We’re just going to pay him a little visit, okay?”
A few short minutes later, they were parked in front of a small trailer, a gruff looking man waiting for them on the newly-built porch. They got out of the car and Eddie grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders before his Mama led him up the steps.
“Eddie, this is Uncle Wayne,” his Mama informed. He looked up at her and she nudged his arm, urging him to say something.
“H-Hello, sir,” Eddie greeted, sticking out his small hand for the man to shake. Wayne huffed a laugh and crouched down, causing Eddie to take a step back on instinct, before he took his hand and shook it.
“Nice to meet ya, Eddie,” Wayne began. He let go of his hand but stayed crouched. “You can call me Wayne, or Uncle Wayne, or Uncle, or—hell, Todd for all I care. Just none of that ‘sir’ business, you got me?”
Eddie smiled and nodded. “Sorry, si—uh, Uncle Wayne.”
“That’s better, boy,” Wayne said, smiling as he clapped his shoulder softly. Wayne had kind eyes, blue and soft around the edges. They weren’t mean like his fathers. Instead, they looked exactly like his Mama’s—save for a few extra wrinkles around the edges. “Why don’t you go on inside while your Mama and I talk?”
Eddie did as he was told, walking in the trailer and taking in his surroundings. It was small, smaller than his house, but cozy. A couple mugs were hung up on the wall, paired with three trucker hats and a framed picture he was too far away to see. An old, floral patterned couch sat on the long wall of the living room, a coffee table in front littered with an opened can of Coke and a half-eaten bag of chips. The windows were open to let light in, making the space feel much bigger than it actually was.
He stepped into the kitchen, just a pace away from the living room, and took in the red-toned wooden cabinets and cream countertops stained with coffee rings yet to be wiped away. There was a hallway to his left where he found a single bedroom and a bathroom. The bathroom was small, just big enough for a stand-up shower, toilet, and sink. A single toothbrush sat in the cup on the side of the sink along with a bar of soap and an almost empty tube of toothpaste. On the other side of the sink though, Eddie noticed an unopened toothbrush. It was blue and had sparkles throughout its plastic. At the bottom, there was a small dog sticker and it made him smile a little.
His attention soon wandered to the bedroom, where he found a little twin-sized bed and tons of boxes. The bed was bare, save for a folded up quilt near the bottom with a pillow on top. The boxes were filled with various things; clothes, books, a cassette player, shoes, and tons of other small trinkets. He sat on the ground, pulling a box closer to look through it. There were thin books near the top labeled ‘Hawkins High’, and he flipped through it to find pictures upon pictures of people. He read the names, sounding them out to see if he could get them right. Some of them were weird, though, and he quickly put the book down to look at something else.
There was a box of cassette tapes to his left and Eddie scooted over to look through it. There were tons of names he didn’t recognize as he rifled through the plastic cases, though one stood out to him.
He picked up the Fleetwood Mac tape along with the cassette player from a box near the closet, plugging it into the wall and putting the tape in. He eyed the front door, seeing it still firmly closed. Just then, the tape clicked, causing him to jump, and he pressed play.
The familiar voice filled his ears, and he smiled. He and his Mama used to listen to Fleetwood Mac back home in the kitchen while they made supper, singing along with the tape or the radio to fill the house with music. The sound of it brought a smile to his face, and he closed his eyes as he listened to the words.
Engrossed in the music, he barely registered that the front door had both opened and closed until a soft hand was laid on his shoulder.
“Eddie, baby, I have to go,” his Mama said, and he jumped to his feet. He kinda felt bad about going through Uncle Wayne’s things without him being there, but if they were leaving then he didn’t think he would get too mad.
“Where are we going now, Mama?” Eddie wondered. His mother’s face turned pinched, and she lifted her glasses to look at him directly. She wore make-up, much more than she usually did, and as she crouched down Eddie could see it was barely disguising a bruise along the top of her right cheekbone.
“Eddie, only I’m leaving,” his Mama corrected. “You’re staying here with Wayne.”
At that, his whole world fell apart.
His mother, his Mama, was leaving him. It didn’t seem fair that he couldn’t go with her, that he couldn’t stay with his Mama like he wanted to. Wayne seemed nice from their brief interaction, but he didn’t know him. Not like he knew his Mama.
His stomach sank to his feet, and it felt as if someone poured ice-cold water over him. His eyes grew wide as tears welled, spilling over his cheeks.
“Why, Mama?” Eddie sobbed, wiping at his face because he wasn’t supposed to cry. “Why can’t I go with you?”
“You just can’t, Eddie, I’m sorry,” she stated. It felt hollow, her explanation. Like she was hiding something.
“But why?”
“Because you just can’t, Eddie!” She snapped, and Eddie’s breath caught. She sounded mad, but Eddie had never heard her get mad, not at him at least. He didn’t know what he did, only that she wouldn’t let him go with her.
She took a breath and cupped his cheek. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“But- But you can’t leave me!” Eddie wailed. “Mama, please!”
She opened her arms and he fell into them, clinging hard enough to deem separating impossible. She hugged him back just as tight, and Eddie saw evidence of tear tracks streaking through her caked-on foundation.
“I know, baby, I don’t want to leave you either,” his Mama soothed. “But Wayne is going to take care of you, okay?”
Eddie looked over her shoulder to see Wayne leaning against one of the kitchen countertops, smiling sadly at him. Eddie screwed his eyes shut and buried his face in his mothers neck.
“You’re gonna come back, right?” Eddie mumbled before he moved to look at her. “Pinky promise you’re gonna come back for me.”
His Mama cried and wiped at her cheeks, smearing the make-up and making the bruises appear fresh on her pale skin. She held out a pinky, and Eddie laced his with hers.
“I promise, Eddie,” she said, leaning forward to kiss his forehead before getting to her feet. Her and Wayne shared a hug on her way out, and Eddie caught Wayne wiping his eyes too. He and his uncle stood on the porch as his mom drove away, waving until her taillights disappeared around the curve of the road.
That was the last time he saw his mother.
Unfortunately, it was not the last he saw his father.
He stayed with Wayne for two months until his father found him. They had grown accustomed to each other in that time, Eddie having warmed up to another parental figure and Wayne having gotten the basics down for caring for another being. Wayne insisted he start school in the fall, and he was two weeks in when all hell broke loose.
His father rolled up to the trailer in a fancy-looking sports car Eddie knew his dad didn’t have the money for. He stumbled out on the gravel, banging on the door until Wayne pulled it open.
“The hell are you doin’ here?” Wayne asked, standing firm in the doorway.
“I’m here to get my son,” his father demanded. He pushed past him and stormed the place until he found Eddie in the only bedroom—Wayne having set up a cot in the living room.
Eddie hadn’t expected to see his father again, mostly because he didn’t think the man really cared for him. That was prominent when he snatched Eddie off the bed and hauled him out of his room.
“Dad?” Eddie questioned. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m taking you away from here,” his father responded, glaring at Wayne who stood blocking the doorway.
“You’re not takin’ him anywhere, Al,” Wayne countered. He crossed his arms, looking far more intimidating than Eddie ever imagined. “He’s happy here.”
“He’ll be even more happy with me,” his dad insisted. “With his real family.”
“Son of a bitch, Al, I am his real family!” Wayne yelled. “You ain’t got the means for takin’ care of that boy, and you know it.”
His father stood toe to toe with his uncle, glaring at him. He whispered something Eddie was too far away to hear, but it made Wayne deflate completely.
Eddie didn’t want to leave. He found that these past two months with Wayne were filled with more happy memories than he ever remembered having back home. Wayne was nice, a little rough around the edges but he was a big softy inside. He cared about people, that much was evident in the way he was constantly helping people out around the park. He was a good person, so leaving him felt like his Mama all over again.
“Come on, son,” his father demanded, grabbing his arm and dragging him out of the trailer. Eddie looked back at Wayne, eyes stinging. He waved, and Wayne waved back. He watched the trailer from the backseat until he couldn’t tell which one was theirs, only facing the front when his dad snapped at him.
They rode for hours, far past the Indiana state line, until they ended up in a strange city filled with tall buildings and blinding lights that made Eddie’s eyes sting. They went through the city, stopping on the outskirts in a run-down neighborhood even more decrepit than his old house in Kentucky.
He spent two years with his dad in a city he came to know at St. Louis, but it never felt like home. Not like the trailer with Wayne, or anywhere his mother was. He learned how to hotwire cars and how to drive like a bat out of hell whenever his dad told him to. He learned that he was too much to take care of; his father constantly complained about feeding him, keeping him clothed, taking care of him like a father should. He learned that showing emotions would only get you hurt, that he had to hide them to survive. He learned what all the different white powders did to someone, how they would affect your mind and your body. How they made his father violent, or remorseful, or depressed, but never happy.
His father was on a bad trip when a rush of red and blue lights invaded their windows, sirens blaring and making Eddie’s ears ring. Their front door was kicked open, the old wood splintering easily under the force of a steel-toed boot. Police flooded the house, and Eddie was grabbed and dragged out before he had time to comprehend everything that was happening.
He was sitting in the back of a cop car with the door open, body completely still as police went in and out of their house. He couldn’t let them know he was scared out of his mind, that he was afraid of what they would do to him. He knew the best way to get through it was to show nothing at all. To be indifferent. Emotionless. It was the only thing his father taught him that he deemed useful.
His father was dragged out of the house by two policemen, kicking and screaming at them but Eddie couldn’t hear what he was saying, ears having gone deaf to anything other than the ringing in his head. Next thing he knew, his father had broken free and punched one of the officers, causing several to tackle him to the ground and handcuff him before practically throwing him into a car and hauling him away. All Eddie could do was watch, knowing there was nothing he could do to help him.
“You got somewhere to go, kid?” One of the cops that took him out of the house asked, leaning against the open door and blocking the flashing lights. Eddie nodded, and the cop took him back to the station where he called Wayne.
“Eddie, son, where are you? Are you okay? If that bastard hurt you, I swear to god—“
“Wayne,” Eddie began, his voice rough from not using it. “Can you come get me?”
A pause. “Sure, kid, where are you?”
“St. Louis,” Eddie supplied. There was cursing on the other end, muffled so Eddie couldn’t tell what was said but he knew Wayne well enough. Even after only two months, the man had become more like a father to him than his own dad ever was.
“I’m coming right now to get ya, just hold on tight, okay? I’ll be there ‘fore the morning.”
True to his word, Wayne showed up right before dawn in his beat up truck. He stormed the station like a madman, looking for him. He was rumpled, like he threw on just enough clothes to be decent before booking it all the way here. If he knew Wayne, that’s probably exactly what he did.
“Eddie? Eds, where are ya?”
“Sir,” the lady at the front desk interrupted. “I’m going to have to ask you to lower your voice—“
“Wayne!” Eddie perked up from the desk chair he was sitting at in the station, running around desks before jumping straight in his uncle's arms. Wayne held onto him just as tight, and he could’ve sworn he heard a sniffle or two come from the man.
“I was so worried, Eds,” Wayne whispered. “I tried lookin’ for ya, I swear I did, just—If I’d known he’d taken ya to another state I wouldn’t’ve stopped ‘til I searched the whole damn country.”
“I know, Wayne,” Eddie muttered. “I missed you too.”
As much as Eddie tried, he couldn’t put up that mask of indifference around his uncle. He could try, sure, but it never worked longer than five seconds before he saw right through it and it crumbled at Eddie’s feet.
“Let’s get you home, son,” Wayne insisted and before he knew it, Eddie was asleep in the passenger seat of the truck as they took the highway home.
Since then, Eddie and Wayne had become inseparable. There were no secrets between them, no masks. They weren’t needed, not when Wayne was more than good to him. They weren’t wanted, either, since Wayne made sure to remind him that showing emotions wasn’t a bad thing. That it was good, healthy.
It wasn’t until much later in middle school when he learned that having a mask was necessary sometimes. Especially when people started calling him a freak and a weirdo because he wasn’t identical to everyone else. Because he lived in a trailer with someone that wasn’t his biological parent and wore hand-me-down clothes that were baggy on him since his growth spurt hadn’t hit yet. He donned the air of indifference he had left behind long ago, letting the names and rumors bounce off his skin like water off an umbrella.
That need intensified when high school hit and the rumor mill grew exponentially. Suddenly, he was bombarded with accusations of Satanism, prison time, drug dealing—though that one was true—pet raccoons, and, at one point, an army of undead babies he sucked the life out of that he could command at will. Really, the shit people came up with was astounding, and Eddie learned to shove it all away. None of it was true—save for a couple things he would never, in a million years, tell another soul at Hawkins High—so he made sure to act like it was true. Let people believe what they want to believe. In the meantime, Eddie used it to his advantage to prevent anyone from getting too close. From looking past the barrier he put up between himself and everyone else.
So yeah, Eddie knows a little bit about where Mike’s coming from.
“Actually…” Robin starts. “Steve’s not doing so great—“
“What?!” Dustin squawks out, cutting Robin off and all but jumping up from his seated position. “Why the hell did you not start this whole damn thing with that?!”
“We were getting there, Henderson!” Eddie clarifies. “Now sit your ass down.”
Dustin—for once—does as he’s told. Eddie looks to Robin and gives her a nod, letting her have the floor.
“Steve’s got it in his head that he’s the only one allowed to sacrifice himself for us, that he’s only needed or wanted when he can put himself in the line of fire. So, like the caring dumbass he is, he’s been wandering around Hawkins at night because he’s worried that something will happen.”
“But I closed all of the gates,” El starts, head cocked and eyebrows scrunched like a confused puppy. “We are in no more danger.”
“I think part of him knows that, Supergirl,” Eddie explains. “But he needs to know for certain, to make sure you guys are absolutely safe.”
She nods, and sadness finds its way to her eyes. Eddie feels a pang of sympathy for her, knowing that learning how to live all over again is never easy.
“He’s not been sleeping much,” Robin continues. “It’s like he’s barely there anymore. Like he’s just… a shell.
“He thinks you all hate him. He thinks he deserves this for all the shit he did in the past, even though we all know he’s more than made up for it by becoming a decent fucking human being,” she spits out. There’s anger in her eyes now as she glares at a stain on the carpet, unwilling to look at the kids but needing to get her point across. “He broke down in my arms because this is the fifth fucking time the people he’s loved has left him and I think… I think this time broke him.”
She raises her head and looks over the kids, tears balanced on her lower eyelashes and threatening to spill over.
“You’re his family, the family he got to choose, and you still… you left. Just like everyone else has.”
The room fills with silence as the words sink in.
“How… How do we fix it?” Will asks, his quiet voice now loud. Eddie sighs and rakes a hand through his hair—a motion that keeps reminding him of Steve—before shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I know part of it is my fault, I admit that. I shouldn’t have just stopped talking to him all of the sudden, I should’ve… well, there’s a lot of things I should have done but I didn’t, so I plan on fixing that,” Eddie admits. He looks around the room, makes as much eye contact as he can to drive his point home. “You should too. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it, not this time. Not for this.”
The kids all nod, and Eddie gestures to the door to dismiss them. They all look like kicked puppies with slouching posture and ducked heads, walking out of the trailer with their tails between their legs. Dustin and Mike are the first to hop on their bikes, ready to either apologize and get it over with or get as far away from his and Robin’s disappointed glares as possible. Before they can push off, Eddie calls out to them.
“Hey! Give it a couple days,” Eddie orders. “Steve… He’s going to need some time. Go to him when he’s ready, okay?”
He’s met with various nods and ‘will do’s as some of them take off, their knobbly knees hitting the handlebars of their too-small bikes. Then, he notices a particular brunette has yet to leave, her bike with little white training wheels still standing in the grass. Her big brown eyes lock with his and, even though there's a porch between them, he can feel the seriousness in her gaze.
“I miss him. He was always very nice to me,” El confesses. “He always gave me piggyback rides.”
Her face falls a little. “I did not know we were being mean to him.”
Eddie finds himself softening a little at her words.
“I know, Supergirl,” he winks at her. “That’s why you’re my favorite.” 
She giggles in response and hops on her bike, meeting up with Max who stopped to wait for her a few yards away. 
Eddie closes the door, falling against it with a thud. He groans, the sound bouncing off the thin door and out in the empty trailer. He turns to go to his room, preferably to wallow, before nearly jumping clean out of his skin. 
Well, he thought the trailer was empty, except there now stands one Robin Buckley who has resumed her unimpressed, hands-on-her-hips, "you're a fucking dumbass" position from earlier. 
"Jesus H. Christ!" He exclaims. A hand comes up to grab at his heart which is actively trying to beat out of his chest as his lungs grapple for air. "Birdie, I forgot you were there."
"Yeah," she deadpans. "Clearly." 
Eddie straightens up, and quirks an eyebrow at her rather over dramatically. Robin rolls her eyes.
"Well?"
"It's a deep subject," Eddie sarcastically responds. Robin, unfortunately, doesn't find that funny. "'Well' what?"
"Go apologize!" She yells. 
“Okay, okay, geez!”
Eddie pats himself down, looking for the keys to his van before Robin clears her throat. He looks over at her to see an unamused quirk of her eyebrow before she points to the hook by the door where his keys hang. 
“Thanks, Buck!” he exclaims, pressing his hands together in prayer to the saint she is. Grabbing them, he throws the door open and clears the steps in one jump, stumbling a bit on the landing but really, he’s quite proud of this rare athletic appearance. 
Jumping in his van, he slams a random tape in the deck, grinning a little at the song that plays first. Despite his obvious avoidance of the second track, the Master of Puppets album still holds a very special place in his heart. So it's really not a surprise that the song that just so happens to play first reminds him of the very man he’s going to see, sacrificial tendencies and all. 
He slams on the gas, tires squealing as he peels out of Forest Hills trailer park faster than he ever has before. 
He’s not running away this time; not running from a small cheerleader’s body trapped on his ceiling, not running from angry town hicks with their fiery pitchforks, and not running from a creepy interdimensional demon who enjoys sucking the life out of depressed teenagers. 
No, this time, he’s running to something. Running to Steve. 
He just hopes Steve will let him.
———
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avvail-whumps · 7 months
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‘guns for hire’ — the finale #38
previous · masterlist
content warnings: intimate whumper, conditioned whumpee, stockholm syndrome, past torture, injury recovery, implied bribery, mentioned non-con drugging, mentioned panic attacks, dub-con kissing, dub-con touching (not sexual or explicit)
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Gulping down another glass of fresh water from the miniscule plastic cup, Leo gave a refreshed, soft sight as the cooling water flooded down his sore throat.
His eyes and his cheeks were still sticky from crying, damp under his chin. He eagerly scrubbed it away, reddening his skin as he did so, but part of him couldn’t care. His puffy eyes flickered up to the clock behind him.
It had been a while since the interrogations had finished.
Leo heard a lot of yelling from outside; Sharpe and Summers were right outside the door, and it hadn’t been closed properly, so he could hear their voices clearer than before. A man, old and intimidating from the sound of his booming voice, had been screaming down the corridors.
There was something about not having a warrant for Roy’s arrest, which Leo clung onto tightly. That meant all of this was unlawful, right? It suddenly made sense as to why Sharpe had been so insistent on getting his confession before the forty-eight hours were up. It also meant that he would probably be allowed to leave soon.
His heart fluttered at the thought of seeing Roy again. He just wanted to feel his touch and listen to his voice. Over forty-eight hours without him was too unbearable for the secretary.
After minutes passed, Summers came back in again. She smiled warmly at him, motioning for him to stand up.
“Your father’s here, Leo,” she offered gently, causing his eyes to lift up in surprise. His mouth popped open, unable to find the right words. The concept of seeing his father gave him mixed emotions. Roy’s hissing words were constantly whispering in his ear.
He eventually managed to push himself onto wobbly feet, joining her outside. Sharpe was nowhere to be found, nor the shouting man from before. Judging from what he had overheard, that was the Police Commissioner.
“Am I allowed to go home?” He whispered hesitantly, like he was treading on eggshells. Her remorseful eyes looked down on him, sighing quietly.
“You’ll spend a little time at the hospital so they can properly check your injuries,” she informed, easing him along the corridor. He walked slowly, but she matched his pace to accommodate his sluggish footsteps. God, he just wanted to put his head on his pillow and go to sleep. “They’ll give you some medication to help you process everything, alright?”
Leo slowly nodded his head. “Then I can go home?”
Summers turned the corner, leading him to the front of station and down some stairs. “Yes. Then you can go home.”
When Leo was taken down the stairs, he saw his father. He was waiting anxiously on the row of chairs, hair a mess and his face red from crying. His eyes snapped towards him as soon as he saw the movement, and with a choked gasp, he snapped to his feet.
Leo’s throat bobbed, taking in the image of his father. He hadn’t really changed much since he last saw him. His skin was a little more wrinkly, and it looked as though his eyes had aged decades. They went glossy amongst seeing his face for the first time, and Leo didn’t have time to open his mouth to say something before familiar arms were wrapping tightly around him. A shaking hand cradled the back of his head, tucking him close into his chest, and his father trembled with raw, unrestrained sobs.
The secretary’s fingers dug into his back, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly to stop himself from crying. Something stirred in his gut.
“I missed you,” he said in a rush before he could stop himself, feeling his father grip him impossibly tighter. He’d yearned for his father to hold him like this. Ever since his mother left, this was all he’d wanted from him. He loved his father deeply. He knew that. It shoved away the stabbing in his heart for a while, though, and he was okay with that.
His father tried to speak. But Leo knew he’d completely lost his voice, and for that, he just simply held him. Leo didn’t really look anything like his father. He got most of his features from his mother, which was always what he wondered caused his father to push him away like he did.
His father pulled away for a moment. Leo felt large hands cupping his cheeks, tilting his head up. His father’s tired, exhausted eyes wandered over his face, taking in every little detail, every little feature he could, like it would be the last time. His lips were wobbling.
Summers cough snatched both of their attention.
“Mr Whitlock, can I have a word?” She asked politely. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”
His father swallowed, hands dropping to his shoulders with a little squeeze. He nodded his head, struggling to find the right words.
“Yes, right. Of course,” he stammered, pressing a soft kiss on the crown of Leo’s head. His stomach tingled in warmth. His father quietly addressed him. “Please stay where I can see you. I love you.”
Leo jerkily nodded his head. “I love you too.”
It came out more as a whisper, because his throat had closed up inexplicably, and his voice had failed him. His father’s hands begrudgingly peeled away from him, before he and Summers stepped to the side where Leo couldn’t hear them.
His feet took him over to one of the chairs, and he found himself sitting down numbly. Part of him couldn’t quite believe what was going on. Roy’s words were consuming his thoughts, reminding him of the conversation they’d had after the twenty minutes with each mercenary. Amplifying those initial feelings of hurt and anger towards him. They were still there, just residing at the bottom of his heart, but it was overshadowed by the very concept of just seeing him again. Of feeling him hold him. Of hearing the words “I love you” from him again. 
Leo wrung his fingers together nervously. It didn’t feel as good as when Roy said it, though. Summers and his father talked for a while. Apparently, an ambulence was on the way to take them both to the hospital so Leo could get looked at properly. He didn’t like the idea of being shackled to a bed again, but there wasn’t anything he could do. She was probably catching him up on what they knew to buy time for its arrival. 
Leo was given some water and a little sandwich to keep him occupied. His father sat with him for a long while, but was pulled away again by both Sharpe and Summers once more. The detective gave him a long, hard stare when he passed. 
Both of them knew that Leo had lied. Both of them knew the truth, but Sharpe still offered him a light smile, as if to say “it’s going to be okay”. 
The secretary had finished his sandwich when two other people caught his eye. An old, white haired man, weathered with wrinkles, dressed in a uniform with lots of golden badges pinned to his chest. Leo deduced that he was the Commissoner. He was shaking hands with somebody, a tall man who he couldn’t see the face of. Leo watched him curiously as he passed, but swiftly looked away when his cold, hard gaze flickered to him on the way out. 
His heart fluttered at that, pounding in his chest. 
He didn't know why those eyes frightened him so much, but it was like a horrible gloom had appeared before him, his hairs pricking on edge. He slowly snuck a glimpse as he opened the glass doors, stepping outside, and stopping beside—
Oh. That was Roy. 
He was talking to the tall man with a bit of a stoic, hard expression, and waved a hand dismissvely when the older one pulled out a big, thick cigar. He seemed to hand something to Roy, but he couldn’t pin exactly what it was. Leo’s heart fluttered in his chest, his eyes glued onto the back of his head. The sectrary wondered something. Was that his uncle? Why had he been shaking hands with the Commissioner? 
As if sensing eyes on him, Roy titled his head back, and Leo almost jolted in his seat. His lips curved into an amused smirk, and he crooked his finger towards himself, as if beckoning him outside. Leo didn’t even have a second to think about it, the worried words of his father unheard in his mind, before he was on his feet, and scurrying towards the door. He pushed the door open, his heart in his throat and his blood rushing through his veins. His eyes ran over him frantically, as if he’d already forgotten every little detail.
The man, who Leo suspected was Roy’s uncle, had already disappeared into a sleek black car down the road. He wasn’t paying any attention to him, however, all of his focus tailored to the mercenary. 
“I didn’t say anything,” he whispered under his breath, itching just to throw himself at the man and feel his arms wrap securely around him. Roy chuckled, his eyes shimmering. 
“I know you didn’t, lion,” he hummed, a soft lilt to his voice that had the secretary melting on the spot. “I know how good for me you can be when you want to.” 
His big eyes stared up at him. “Are you proud of me?” 
He really wanted to feel Roy’s hand on his head, brushing affectionately through his hair, but he knew that probably wasn’t going to happen while they were still outside the police station. The mercenary managed a warming, encouraging smile that made his heart flutter. 
“Of course I am.” 
That was all he wanted to hear. That was all he needed to hear, and any little doubt he had about not telling Sharpe was erased. It was that easy for Leo to get swept violently by the current. He beamed. 
“I’m supposed to go to the hospital for a little while,” he told him, and Roy nodded his head. 
“I know,” he murmured. “I’ll come get you once you’re finished.” 
Leo’s spine shivered. “You promise?” 
Roy nodded. “Promise, lion. You know I’d never let you go so easily.” 
Those words brought a sense of ease and comfort this time. As long as Roy promised. As long as he was going to come back, then Leo could keep going. He could stay separated for a little while longer with that notion in his mind, reminding him who he was doing this for. 
“Oh, and lion?” 
The secretary paused, his fingers on the door relaxing as he eagerly glanced over.
“Yes?” 
Roy handed him a sealed box, and he flipped it over to find that it was a phone. His eyes flickered up to him in confusion, brows pinching. 
“I’ll be in touch, alright?” The mercenary hummed, patting his shoulder. The touch made his skin sizzle and burn, a blush rising to his cheeks. He latched onto the small contact, and knew it would be all he was going to think about before he was out of hospital. “Be a good boy and wait for me, lion.” 
When the ambulance came, he and his father were both taken away from the police station. Being in the hospital was more difficult than he had anticipated. Being examined and bombarded with even more questions was far too strenuous on his mind, especially since he didn’t have Roy there with him. The mercenary hadn’t contacted him or visited him at all, but Leo tried not to let it get to him. If it was his uncle at the police station, then he was most likely frying much bigger fish than he could comprehend. 
He spent a lot longer in the bleak, mindless building than he would have hoped. Each time they had to take his blood or prod any sharp needle into his forearm, he found himself falling into hysterics. It was only made worse when there were so many hands pinning him down, forcing him into those terrifying memories with the other mercenaries, and he would have to be sedated for a little while. 
His father visited him the most often. But so did people from his old work. They would bring balloons and presents, showering him with cards and kind words. It would have been better if it was from Roy, though. 
When Leo was out of the hospital, his father drove him back to his old home. He cooked for him, helped him into bed, eased his medication into his system and made sure to tell him that he loved him everytime he left a room. It was all Leo had ever wanted from him, but it was hollow. It didn’t feel real. His eyes were only ever glued onto his phone. Waiting for a call, or a text message, leaping for his phone whenever it lit up in the middle of the night. His heart was starting to pound at the very prospect of him not coming. Of being abandoned again. 
When it did come, Leo was already packing. 
His father was sound asleep as he crept through the house, slowly unlocking the door and sneaking out. He’d left him a note. He had his contact in his phone. He’d keep in touch with him, ring him every week, and everything would be okay. His father was trying his best, but he was an adult, and the pain of staying in his childhood home made it difficult to keep his head on straight. 
He took his violin with him. Leo didn’t know what happened to the old one, but Roy had been able to conceal things away so well that they’d never found anything upon searching the house. He even remembered him saying something about a “thorough computer guy” one of the very first times he’d woken up in that basement. 
The secretary was glad for it, though. 
This time, when he saw Roy, he was able to leap into his arms. Strong ones found their way around his waist, pulling him in, and Leo buried his face into his chest with a soft cry. He’d missed the man so much, it had almost been unbearable. It had been far too long since he’d been able to touch him like this again. 
“I missed you too, lion,” he teased, patting the small of his waist gently. “Come on. Put your stuff in the boot.” 
Leo was barely able to do that coherently, with Roy kissing him as he went and easing him into the backseat of the car. He barely registered the fact that there was a driver, wearily waiting for some orders. He wondered if the car and the driver were his uncles doing, but those thoughts were quickly swallowed up when a hand gently cradled the back of his head, fingers teasing the locks. They’d grown far too long for Leo’s liking. 
Roy broke the kiss to send a sharp look towards the driver. “Go on.” 
He obeyed quickly enough, the car purring to life and rolling off the curb of the pavement. The mercenary’s lip found his neck again, and Leo’s hands gripped his shoulders tightly, his legs sprawled out awkwardly across the car. Roy’s fingers tightened in his hair, and they were suddenly jerking his head back abruptly. A sharp pain spiralled through his scalp and his neck, and a soft cry of pain escaped his lips.
The mercenary leaned closer, his lips teasing the shell of his ear.
“Just so you know, lion,” he murmured every do quietly, his low voice making shivers tingle down his spine. “It doesn’t matter if you’d told them or not. Either way, I would have been walking out of here. And had I known you sided with them, I would have hurt you unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.”
Leo’s throat closed with gasps, the grip in his hair making him wince. Still, with a pounding heart, a twitch of a smile pulled at his lips.
“I know,” he breathlessly whispered, his shaking hand moving down his chest, pressing against his leg, and letting his fingers tease under the waistband of his pants. Roy’s eyes glimmered brightly, and an amused smirk spread across his face.
“You little minx,” he purred, the grip in his hair easing when he pushed his lips against his again. Leo’s eyes fluttered shut, melting into the kiss with a newfound hunger. Because if Roy were to take his clothes off and push him onto the leather seats right now, then that was proof that he loved him back. Leo was sure enough of that.
Roy placed light kisses against his lips, easing off. Leo had to hold back a frustrated huff, but a peck against the furrow in his brow made that annoyance disappear in an instant. The mercenary pulled him closer into his side, and Leo melted into the embrace, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
The trees rushed by in a blur, but the secretary was more focused on the warmth of the man beside him. Leo leaned his head comfortably against his shoulder, clinging onto Roy’s arm, one hand tangled snugly within his. The mercenary was stroking the back of his scarred hand with his thumb, making his skin tingle and his heart flutter in his chest.
He couldn’t stop the smile that made its way onto his face. The sense of calm and peace that was flowing through him right now was completely unmatched.
“I love you,” Leo hummed quietly under his breath, and the man shifted, pressing a warming kiss to his temple.
“I know, little lion,” he smiled, squeezing his hand gently, letting him know that he was assured, that he was completely his. In every way. “I know.”
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and with that, the main story is complete. i can’t believe it’s over already. thank you for all the kind words throughout writing 🩵
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softly-sirius · 2 months
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The Staff Of The Bear Dating Vampire Gn! Reader Headcanons:
Currently on Shift: Carmen Berzatto, Richie Jerimovich & Sydney Adamu
Carmen
At first, thought it was kinda weird that you had a mini fridge with a padlock in your room
You told him it was where you kept your vintage jeans
 Which was a complete lie, so when Carmen told you he collected jeans too? 
Well, you had to spend a lot of time researching on the computer to cover that lie up
Will make you blood-infused recipes to show you he accepts you
Red velvet cake with blood instead of beetroot
Honestly, would eat it as well
Ends up getting a little obsessed with making stuff the perfect texture
Asks you loads of questions about blood
What do you like about it? Do different types taste different? How do you like it prepared?
He wants to know everything about your preferences so he can make everything perfect
I think Carmy's vampire partner would struggle the most with being a vampire and not a human 
So eating the food Carmen makes you will make you tear up sometimes because it reminds you so much of being human
Kinda wants you to bite him, but also kinda does not
So So Nervous about it, but you never bring it up
You can hear his pulse racing when he’s stressed so you always know when he needs help
You’ll kiss his pulse point when you notice him stressing out
He washes his hands a million times when he’s back from work in case of garlic
Before he knew the secret he once brought you some garlic bread 
Your nose burnt for a week, your throat even longer
You couldn't bring yourself not to eat it when he gave you those eyes
Carmen has sunscreen for you in summer and insists on it even if it does nothing
The hot summer in Chicago just makes you extra exhausted and sluggish so you need to feed more
He knows when you’re slacking on your feeding and will make you blood puddings (now with real blood)
When he does pluck up his courage and ask about biting he finds out he kinda likes it
Loves it when your teeth scrape his most sensitive areas
He really likes it when you bite at the pudge of his stomach, though it isn’t the best spot for you to feed from
But your bites are more love bites than actually feeding from him
Overall, he is not as chill as Richie would be with a vampire partner, but that's because he isn’t chill about anything
He’s just happy someone likes him :’)
Richie
“You’re a vampire? My baby’s a vampire?”
He would love you to bite him, wants to see your teeth marks all over him
Was jealous for a while wondering where you were getting blood from
 Who were you biting? Did they taste better than him? 
He was not having that
Read that papayas make blood taste better so he starts eating them all the time
Starts taking iron tablets in case that tangy taste is what gets you going
‘Accidentally’ cuts himself in the kitchen to see your reaction. 
It’s minimal 
Eventually, he just gives in and is like, 
“Why have you not drunk from me yet?”
Moans when you bite him, it’s probs made him nut let's be real
Loves to have your bite marks all over him, on his thighs, his chest, his arms
Wants you to feed from him until he goes dizzy and can’t stand
Loses his mind when his blood drips from your lips and you stare at him all predatory
Turns red when you tell him how good he tastes
Enjoys being taken care of afterwards
Makes you watch Blade a million times
Calls himself your toyboy (even if you’re not that old a vampire or younger than him)
Whenever he sees bats he’ll tell you he saw one of your friends
Talks to the bats sometimes
Keeps blood in a wine bottle for you at the restaurant and loves to pour it for you and take care of you when you visit
Loves to cuddle up to you in summer because your body is nice and cold
The most interested in your ‘powers’ and asks you a million questions
“You or Godzilla, who would win?”
“Wait, so when you kept asking me to open all those jars?”
So smug when he realised how often you acted helpless just to get his help
Arm wrestles you all the time
Thinks if he catches you off guard he might win (Sometimes you let him)
He’s a loser, but he’s your tasty loser 
Sydney
Laughs when she finds out and thinks it’s a joke
Probably bails on you for a little while
But then ends up coming back like…
"I didn’t think i could be ok with it, but I would rather be with you than without you"
Is grossed out by it, so you drink blood in private
She does not want to be bitten
Is the least chill with it, but she loves you so she deals
Will feel for your fangs every time you kiss, but you keep them hidden away
She gets mad at you when you go out when it’s really sunny
Keeps shades and an extra hat in her bag because sometimes you just turn up
She’ll be waking around the city and you just appear and ask to hang out
She thinks it’s a kind of power
She just forgot she added you on Find My Friends
Then she realises she can use your powers for her gain
Uses you when shopping second-hand to check if stuff is real silver
Buys you a gothic ring with a bat on it mostly as a joke
But you wear it all the time, it melts her little heart
Loves,when you turn into a little bat, especially if you look like a fruit bat
She’ll cradle you against her chest and stroke your head with her fingers
Will carry you around in her bag all day if you want to
She doesn’t call you her vampire but thinks of you as her bat 
Thinks it’s pretty funny when you go as a vampire for Halloween every year
Especially when a drunk Richie starts complimenting how real your fangs are and pokes his fingers in your mouth
Is definitely not jealous that when Tina cut her finger during prep you had to step out of the room
Especially not when she sees the empty iron pouches in the trash
She knows they tide you over in emergencies till you can drink blood
Maybe she wants you to drink from her a little bit 
Perhaps you’ll get to taste her one day after all, just as a little treat
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adore-laur · 4 months
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SUNSTRUCK
— a sensual addition to southpaw 🌞
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——
TODOS SANTOS, 1992
Palms slick with saltwater spread atop the surfboard floating in Mexico's turquoise ocean, its waxed surface scorching to the touch as it sparkles underneath the smoldering sun. Heaving himself up with taut and tanned arms, Harry switches out the cool engulfment for a beating heat that strikes his skin just right. Droplets cascade down the toned muscles of his back. Freckles that have come out of hiding dot his face in scattered clusters. The ultraviolet rays of June naturally bleach his tuft baby hairs blond.
He's unequivocally thriving, surrounded by a yellow aura gleaming brilliantly in the daylight.
Lying on his stomach, he manually paddles over to where Sawyer is supine on her pink inflatable raft. With a caramel-colored complexion and slim, silky legs that shimmer from the start of a sun-drenched summer, she resembles a solstitial vision for the ages. She has never looked more relaxed in all the years he's known her for. Her limbs that soak up splashes of Vitamin D are loose and not tense from working stationary hours at her office desk. There's no wrinkled crease of frustration between her eyebrows that needs to be smoothed out, nor is there a troubled frown pulling at her lips that needs to be lifted. She's in her own bubble of iridescent ecstasy.
This hush-hush getaway has rejuvenated their souls. The lush ocean breeze and visually flamboyant architecture lured them like they were a message in a bottle destined for the shoreline. Harry finally has uninterrupted time to spend with Sawyer in private in a nestled town where no one knows his name. Domesticity has already begun blooming in the desert bungalow where they're staying. Whispered confessions of love and gratitude spoken around the rims of coffee mugs. Waking up with her in his snuggly embrace is a luxury he's still getting used to. Kisses followed by wandering hands careen lazy mornings and sleepless nights. Their relationship is flourishing every day, and it feels like paradise.
As Sawyer tans like a sun goddess, Harry grows increasingly bored. The sluggish waves weren't nearly powerful enough to triumphantly catch, so he resorted to catching some rays instead. It didn't pan out too well because now his back is burning, and his girlfriend isn't paying attention to him. It's a deadly combination he needs to fix pronto.
"Sawyer," he says, peskily flicking water at her. "There's a shark behind you."
Opening her pretty brown irises shielded with cat-eye sunglasses, she flips him off and grouses, "You're not funny."
Harry smoothly straddles his surfboard and points past her. "I'm serious. Don't move, okay? I can see its fin circling."
It only takes a single second for her precious face to drop. She timidly shifts her sunglasses to the top of her head and stares at him in terror. "Is there really?" she whispers as if the non-existent shark is eavesdropping on the two lovers. "What do we do, Harry? Oh no, what do we do?"
To not crack a mischievous grin severely tests his might. "I'll grab you and take you to land. Don't worry, baby."
"We can't!" she tells him urgently, her voice rising to a whisper-shout. Thankfully, she doesn't dare turn around to see if they're actually in grave danger. "It'll follow us if we move. We have to be smart about this."
Harry dramatically looks off into the distance like he's in a film playing a determined survivor lost at sea. "If this is the last time we see each other," he declares with faux valor, "I want to die knowing I tried saving you."
Sawyer gawks at his morbid statement. He thought it was romantic. "Are you out of your mind? Don't say things like that!"
There's a slight growl to her tone, and she appears borderline petrified, so he abandons his silly prank. He's close enough to her raft to stretch his body forward and lift her, so he does, but not before humming the menacing Jaws theme and wiggling his fingers in her direction. She looks bewildered as he grips her waist and carefully transfers her to his surfboard. Once she's sat in front of him, he clings to her like a koala on a eucalyptus tree, his perspiring chest pressed flat against her back.
"Hi," he murmurs, nuzzling her cheek with his nose. "There's no shark. I just wanted to be near you."
Sawyer stills, then hastily unwinds his arms from around her. "You're so annoying," she whines, harmlessly slapping his thigh and grabbing her raft so it doesn't drift away.
Harry cups her jaw and tilts her head toward him. "You love me. I annoy the hell out of you, yet you can't get enough of me."
Glancing at his lips, she situates herself in his lap and smiles. "It's true. My sunray makes me happy even when he's a complete ditz."
Harry suddenly doesn't know how to speak, too enraptured by her natural beauty paired with a doe-eyed gaze that melts him like an ice cube on a sizzling driveway. Those brown eyes could get him to do anything she desired. Does she know that? Does she see the influence she has over him? Does she know nothing made sense in his life before he met her?
Unable to express his undying commitment to her without stumbling over his words, he utters a simple and sincere, "I love you."
Sawyer places her hand over his heart. "I know it."
Eventually, the rolling tide brings them back to the shore. The Baja California peninsula's tip possesses powdery sand grains that carry on for miles. This particular beach, Punta Lobos, is a hidden gem, and no tourists infest the area during the week. Rocky bluffs border the water, and the occasional hiker will admire the oceanic view from their advantage point before retreating down the trail behind the cliffs. Other than that, there's no one lurking around and disturbing the peace.
Harry and Sawyer lie side by side, sand sticking to their wet skin as the foamy waves barely reach their toes. Their fingers instinctively interlock, palms smoother due to being immersed in saltwater for hours, and something about it sends a firecracker shooting off in Harry's heart. Sawyer's skin after sunbathing is always gorgeous — golden, silken, and stamped with secret birthmarks only he knows the locations of.
He suddenly feels hot all over. Blazing sunbeams mixed with coursing dopamine are making him antsy. Trying to ignore his straying thoughts only worsens the constriction.
Looking over at his girl, Harry swallows and swipes his thumb across her chin to garner her undivided attention. She squints and beams angelically at him, a sheen of sweat gracing her cheekbones.
"Pretty girl," he says, his knuckles tracing the shape of her jaw. "What's on your mind?"
"I'm thinking about where our next destination should be."
"Nowhere. Let's stay here forever."
Sawyer ruffles his wavy hair. "And do what?"
A thousand scenarios whip around in his brain, and he ends up settling on asking his favorite question. "Wanna make out?"
Her plump lips instantly melt into a blissful smile. She rolls over on top of Harry's body, her syrupy skin adhering to his as she clasps his cheeks with her hands. She grants him his wish, coaxing warm and salty kisses from his mouth. His greedy hands roam the back of her thighs, trailing them up and down her sun-kissed flesh. Her ankles prop up and cross over each other, and she hums into his mouth as their craving kisses deepen. The pendant with his first initial that rests perfectly between her clavicles reminds him she's not going anywhere, as does the ring he gifted her that's settled on her finger, the cool metal neutralizing his flaming body temperature.
The unfortunate cause of their breakaway isn't because their love-filled lungs are deprived of oxygen. It's because, after all, they're on a public beach, and the sound of distant chatter has them pulling apart as quick as a zap of lightning.
Sawyer stands, briskly adjusting her bikini straps and glancing around like what they were doing was a scornful obscenity. She's adorably flustered. On the other hand, Harry sits up and nonchalantly adjusts himself while pinching his swollen bottom lip. He would be lying if he said he hasn't noticed excessive PDA isn't something Sawyer is necessarily comfortable with now that they're dating. She shies away from it, while he's quite the opposite. It's almost impossible to suppress the urge to touch and kiss her like there's no tomorrow, so he doesn't feel awkward about the innocuous disruption.
As he snatches his floral-patterned button-up that he left stranded on the sand and begins putting it back on, he spots his camcorder nearby. He brought it along to capture memories, which so far have mostly been of Sawyer in her feminine element—sunbathing on the poolside lounge chair with a magazine in her lap, curling her eyelashes in the bathroom mirror, dancing and singing to "Venus" by Bananarama on the bungalow sofa. 
She's the center of his universe. The summit of beauty and love.
His gaze flits between the device and Sawyer, who is now red in the face. It's amusing, so he brings the viewfinder up to his eye and presses the record button. He purses his lips to hide his growing smirk as he zooms in on the small group of people strolling to the coastline and then on her rattled reaction. 
It doesn't take long for her to notice. She jogs over to block the lens with her hands, fretting, "Stop it! This is so humiliating."
Harry laughs, lifting the camcorder to a height she can't reach. Sawyer is looking at him unimpressed, her arms crossed, and her head tilted to the side. The people most definitely saw them being handsy and smitten out in the open, but what's there to be sheepish about? Love is meant to be shown to the world.
"Are you embarrassed?" he teases, dragging out the last word.
She raises her eyebrows and nods. A hint of a smile plays at her lips, but it doesn't seem genuine. It appears insistent, one of hidden discomfort. 
Harry isn't a total space cadet, so he takes it as a cue to quit messing around and acknowledge her unspoken signals. He stops recording and drops the camera in the striped beach bag slung over her shoulder. He then tucks his surfboard under his armpit and offers Sawyer his free hand. The energy between them has shifted by a smidge, and he doesn't like it one bit. The grains of sand beneath his soles have somehow turned into eggshells within minutes.
"Ready to leave?" he asks. Sawyer nods again, still ominously silent, as she ignores his hand and fetches her deflating raft. "'Kay. Let's hit the road, then."
They arrive at the rental car, a vintage orange convertible that made his pockets hurt. Sawyer wanted it, and he couldn't refuse her. The hood is up in case of unpredictable weather, so Harry straps and fastens his surfboard to the top while Sawyer hops in the passenger seat, throws her raft in the backseat, and shimmies back into her daisy dukes.
Harry sits behind the steering wheel, his lanky limbs struggling to comfortably fit in the restricted space. The engine rumbles to life when he turns the key in the ignition, and he rolls the windows down before reversing out of the vacant parking lot. He peeks at Sawyer a few times as he merges onto the highway winding along the coast. She's staring at the desert landscape ahead that's saturated with a golden haze from the forthcoming sunset. Cacti and dead brush sizzle under the evening sun. Mountains tower over the feathery clouds. Vultures circle in the sky as roadrunners scurry along the pavement. It's stark scenery but nonetheless transcendent.
None of his surroundings matter, though, when his favorite person to talk to is overtly ignoring him. He tries to convince himself that maybe she's just tired. No, that can't be right. He knows her. She's affectionate when she hits a wall and cuddles up to him sweetly, clinging to his arm like a sloth on its beloved branch.
The truth is that he messed up.
Before he can dwell on every misstep he took in the past ten minutes, an earsplitting BOOM cuts through the atmosphere, followed by a rapid whooshing sound. Harry firmly clutches the wheel as the vehicle suddenly loses equilibrium. Without outwardly panicking, he takes his foot off the gas pedal and lets the car naturally slow down before pulling it off to the side of the road and braking lightly.
"Shit," he hisses under his breath, heart thumping erratically. "Goddamnit. I think one of the tires just blew out."
Poor Sawyer has her eyes pinched shut and a death grip on his bicep. Harry snaps back to reality and kills the engine, listening for any odd sounds. Before he steps out, he gives the top of Sawyer's head a gentle, comforting noogie and murmurs, "It's okay. We're okay."
She shakily gets out with him and leans against the passenger side door, anxiously biting her polished fingernails while Harry perplexedly settles a hand on his hip and assesses the external damage. The front right tire looks like one of the clocks in Salvador Dalí's The Persistence of Memory — sad, melted, and a surreal depiction of an unfavorable outcome.
He looks up and down the highway, finding no signs of any buildings, vehicles, or humans. Something he does see, however, is a broken beer bottle a couple of yards behind where they were driving a mere minute ago. Most of the shards of green glass are scattered along the edge of the road, yet a few stray pieces are lying in just the right place for any vehicle that comes racing down the highway. It's the perfect puncture for a not-so-perfect boyfriend already on thin ice. Karma must have a vendetta against him today, but he won't let it clip his wings. When life gives him lemons, he knows how to make a delectable pitcher of lemonade.
So, Harry does what he's best at: distracting his girlfriend. He can quickly turn this misfortune into something fun and make Sawyer forget about how sour the day has turned.
Swiping his sweaty forehead with his wrist, he huffs and gets to work. He's changed a few tires in his life, so it should be done in no time. First, he takes his shirt off so he doesn't get heatstroke. The humidity outside is brutal, causing sweat to bead by his hairline and on his back. He makes a show of slowly unbuttoning it and slinging the fabric over his shoulder. It's obvious Sawyer's gaze is locked on him. He's willing to admit he possesses vanity over his physicality, and it doesn't help that the girl watching him constantly feeds his ego.
Next, Harry takes his sweet time and saunters to the trunk, where the rental agency told him the spare tire is located. Lifting the trunk and flexing his arms, he opens the well to reveal the tire. There's also a jack and lug wrench that'll come in handy.
After gathering everything, he kneels on the blistering road, loosens the tire's lug nuts with the wrench, and then places the jack under the vehicle's frame. He stretches his arms above his head before using the jack to slightly lift the car off the ground. After removing the lug nuts, he removes the ruined tire, momentarily glancing at Sawyer as he breathes heavily from his body's exertion in the unbearable heat. She's in front of the car now, looking at the sunset that paints elegant splashes of pink and orange across the horizon.
Harry grunts as he tosses the tire aside. Sawyer glances back, and he doesn't miss how her eyes flick down to his abdomen, now slick with a sheen of sweat. 
"Wanna learn how to do this?" he calls out, grunting again when he picks up the pristine spare.
He's given no response as he lines up the holes and pushes the tire into the wheelbase. His biceps flex with soreness, and when he peers up again, Sawyer still looks at him, her eyes communicating something obscure. They have a little stare-down until he can't take it anymore and begins replacing the lug nuts. His jaw is clenched as he works quickly to try to get to the bungalow as soon as possible so they can untangle this yarn of bizarre tension.
Once the tire is secure, the old one is thrown in the trunk, and the tools are all put away. Harry walks over to Sawyer. She's perched herself on the car's hood, picking at her cuticles. Standing in front of her, he places his hands on either side of her thighs, his shoulders taut as he watches her eyes dance over the sky behind him. He kisses the tender spot below her jawbone, tasting and smelling residual coconut tanning lotion left there. Goosebumps rise across the expanse of her neck like a swelling tidal wave, and Harry can't help but bury his face in it and whimper pitifully. He's like a needy puppy when she ignores him, pawing for the tiniest bit of love and attention.
"It's so hot out," he complains before sighing dramatically. "Let's head back."
Sawyer doesn't push him away, which counts as progress. "I want to watch the sun go down," she says, lost in thought. "Who knows the next time we'll be able to on an abandoned desert highway."
He won't argue with that. He doesn't need to nor necessarily want to. If Sawyer wants to soak in the sunset, he'll endure the feverish weather if it makes her happy. Besides, she's right; little precious moments, such as experiencing the sun dip below the horizon, leaving behind a new, wispy portrait of captivating colors each day, are worth pausing life from time to time.
Sealing a kiss on her forehead, Harry hops on the hood and settles beside her. "I'll never learn how to say no to you."
☼ ☼ ☼
Back at the secluded bungalow, an unorthodox band of tension is still waiting to be snapped.
Sawyer has started cooking dinner with the miscellaneous ingredients she purchased from the downtown market yesterday morning. Canola oil is popping and sizzling in a frying pan, and julienned bell peppers of various colors are ready to be sautéed. Harry took a quick shower to wash the ocean and sweat from his sunburnt skin and has since changed into a white long-sleeved button-up tucked into teal trousers. He also has a pair of sunglasses over his eyes to help relieve spending hours in saltwater and squinting under the blinding sun.
Sawyer is in a tight, cropped blue camisole with low-waisted silk pajama pants. Her hair is down, golden beach waves reaching the middle of her back as she maneuvers around the kitchen area. Harry observes her from the dining room table, not quite knowing how to initiate a conversation without stretching the metaphorical elastic too far. Or worse, past the point of no return.
He watches Sawyer tilt the cutting board over the pan so the peppers fall into it. They immediately crackle when introduced to the heat. She then takes a wooden spoon and stirs the vibrant vegetables, turning on the overhead stove fan so the smoke doesn't set any detectors off. She's still ignoring him, entirely focused on one task and pretending there's not an elephant in the room that needs to be addressed before the night concludes. Harry knows if he brings it up, she'll shut it down, say everything is fine, and insist she's not angry. She's a terrible liar, so he'll save that tactic for another argument.
As he stares at the back of her head, he realizes he doesn't like her version of the silent treatment. It's okay if she won't talk to him, but acting like he doesn't exist is ruthless. So, he walks over to her and wraps his arms around her slim waist. She tenses but continues mixing the peppers in silence. 
Okay, that's definitely not the reaction he wanted. Not even an ounce of acknowledgment when he begins kissing her neck, taking his time loving on the beautiful ridges carved there.
"Slow dance with me," he murmurs pleadingly, squeezing her.
"I'm busy right now."
Now, don't get him wrong; he likes her stubbornness. He even finds it incredibly endearing to a degree. But when it's directed toward something he's clueless about, he finds himself having to coax an answer past her adamant walls of defense. Being candid doesn't always end well, so choosing the proper approach is crucial if he wants to crawl out of the hole he's dug himself into.
Harry reaches around her preoccupied figure to flick the stove's heat off. The blue flame vanishes, and the sizzling ceases, causing Sawyer to sigh heavily as she sets the wooden spoon off to the side. She still doesn't turn around, even when Harry moves her thick hair over her left shoulder and starts planting warm kisses further down her skin, slower and more intentionally. She smells like the ocean breeze at the height of summer, sweepingly refreshing and pure. He doesn't know how he went so long without touching her like this.
Light from a dying yet persistent sunset pours through the slanted ceiling window. The nearby radio quietly plays a mariachi song that doesn't fit the fraught mood. Upbeat and punchy, the music is supposed to evoke happiness and camaraderie. It falls short this time, but like before, lemons can always be turned into lemonade.
"Do you know how to Salsa?" Harry pipes up while stepping away, giving her room to breathe.
"How to make salsa?" Sawyer replies distractedly. She's begun garnishing the semi-cooked peppers with fresh oregano.
"No, how to dance the Salsa."
She drizzles more oil into the pan. Her hand hovers over the stove's knob to light the flame again, but she retracts and mutters, "Um, not really."
Harry rolls his sleeves to his elbows and tosses his sunglasses onto the counter. "It's all in the hips, isn't it?"
She glances back at him for a split second before leisurely spinning around and crossing her arms over her chest. "Did you need something?"
"Sí, muñeca."
The almost invisible twitch of her lips doesn't go unnoticed by his attentive nature. "What is it?" she asks impatiently. "I'm trying to make dinner. You know, I've realized you always decide to be a pest when I'm not paying enough attention to you."
Busted. Well, at least she's talking to him now.
Harry begins clapping his hands to the song's rhythm in the background and swinging his hips in a terrible presentation of what's supposed to be salsa dancing. Sawyer arches her eyebrow and blankly stares at his uncoordinated movements. He's making an absolute fool of himself, but honestly, he just wants to see her smile. He'll go to the greatest lengths.
Shuffling closer to her, he caresses her limp hands and tries to get her to loosen up. "Let's dance."
“I'm not in the mood to dance."
He frowns dramatically, widening his feet to be the same height as her. "What's going on right now, hmm? We were having so much fun earlier."
Sawyer slides away from the stove and leans against the adjacent kitchen wall. A psychedelic painting of a gecko in the desert hangs above her. "It's not that hard to figure out," she says, looking everywhere but at him. It stings just a tad.
One of Harry's hands rests flat on the wall beside her, his thumb faintly yet purposefully touching the shell of her ear. He leans in and murmurs, "Are you still upset with me?"
The stubborn girl he knows and loves dearly steadily nods her head. "I'm furious. My body is on fire."
He bites his bottom lip with his front teeth as his piercingly intimidating gaze hungrily travels downward and lands on her exposed stomach. The silver bellybutton ring shining against her golden skin sets him on fire in an entirely different way. She's a delectable feast for the eyes.
Harry doesn't believe that her blood is boiling to the extent of fury, but he'll entertain her flair for dramatics. He says, "I'm sorry for shoving a camcorder in your face when you got embarrassed."
Sawyer gives him a puzzled look. "Huh? Oh, I don't care about that. I'm over it."
"Okay, then tell me why you're so furious." He's being thrown for a loop, and it's making him dizzy.
It's clear she's internally contemplating her response based on how her posture becomes less stiff. After rubbing her arm awkwardly, she says, "Because you're not nice."
Harry blinks slowly. Once, then twice. "What?"
"You were being a jerk by teasing me while fixing the tire."
It takes a while to realize his plan totally backfired. His innocuous teasing wasn't supposed to make her even more mad at him, and now he's stuck in a maze of figuring out exactly what he did wrong. Girls are so complicated!
Unless…
"Is that what this is about?" he asks, his lips quirking in amusement and slow realization. Perhaps the little show he put on for her had the intended effect after all.
Sawyer scoffs. "Stop smiling!"
He grins like a lovesick fool. "I'm not smiling."
"Yes, you are! Your eyes smile before your mouth does." She goes to tuck her stray baby hairs behind her ears, and when she does, Harry traps her fidgeting fingers with his hand still resting beside her head. 
"Yeah?" he goads, his pulse throbbing faster. "When did you notice that about me?"
"I've always noticed it. It's so easy to tell when you're about to smile. Your eyes glimmer, and then you scrunch your nose."
"You like watching me?"
"Cállate. We're not finished with this argument."
"Go on, then."
Sawyer waves her free hand around as incomplete sentences get caught in her throat. "I— you— we can't keep doing this!"
Harry's heart falters at the vagueness of her confession. "What are you saying? Be gentle with me."
She gathers her crumbling composure, then carefully says, "What I mean is... we can't keep fueling this fire if we're not going to do anything about it."
The fire she speaks of has been wildly swirling in his stomach for a long time. He's managed to tame the carnal flames by waiting for Sawyer to declare her desires first since her comfort level is always his top priority. The opportunity has now risen, and he's lucky she has opened up this much so that he can jump in and kickstart the colloquy they've been hesitantly dancing around for months.
"Is this about sex?"
Pink spiderwebs of heat spread across her face. Harry's thumb presses down on the apple of her blushing cheek, her skin delightfully warm. It's nice to know a little fire has also been burning in her stomach. It's just a matter of tending to both of them. Kindle the flames until they roar with lust.
"Sort of," Sawyer mumbles, her eyebrows plunging with an unknown emotion. "Maybe. Yes. I don't know. All I know is that I don't want to tiptoe around it anymore." Her hand reaches out to rest on his neck, her pleading body language igniting the embers again. "Harry, it's killing me. I can't hide it."
He cups the side of her head. "Why didn't you tell me sooner, baby?" His voice has stooped to a deep, gentle rumble that shelters her with compassion.
"I didn't want to rush into things." She drapes her arms over his shoulders and plays with the outgrown curls at the nape of his neck. "I want to take my time with you and soak you in day by day. Take slow sips of your sunshine."
Knees weak, Harry whispers, "Don't. Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"With those eyes, Sawyer. Don't look all innocent when your words are the opposite."
She's completely clueless about how her imploring brown eyes can hold such seductiveness. Amber flecks swim in her irises, which are the color of dark chocolate. Rich. Exquisite. Tempting. Harry wants to break her off between his teeth like peppermint bark and swallow her silky, revivifying sweetness.
The tip of Sawyer's nose trails along his jaw, her lips brushing a path against his hot skin and setting fire to his loins. "I'm just tired of being patient. Does that make sense?"
Harry gives her a slight, truthful nod, then slumps his forehead against hers. "Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you. There's no need to be shy around me. I'm your boyfriend."
"What if you don't want the same thing? That'd be so embarrassing."
"Sawyer Alejandra, you are so goddamn stubborn. Do you want me to just give it to you straight? Because I will." He takes a deep breath before blurting, "I want to have sex with—"
She clamps her hands over his entirely-too-bold mouth. "Shush!" Pinching her eyes shut, she whines and grumbles, "Forget I said anything. I have to finish cooking dinner."
If there's one thing he knows about Sawyer's personality, it's that the second she feels an ounce of mortification, she immediately backtracks. He'd usually let it slide, but this topic of conversation is a tricky one to simply forget about and move on from like nothing happened.
Harry unwinds her hands from around his neck and keeps them cradled in his grasp. Then, while staring into her devastatingly gorgeous eyes, he says, "This tension between us isn't going to just magically disappear. Either we do something about it, or ignore it. Your choice."
Sawyer swallows thickly. "I want to, so badly. But I'm scared."
"Why?" he asks, trying to open her blooming petals. They're singed with uncertainty.
"It's an incredibly vulnerable act, dufus." She cutely wrinkles her nose.
"And we're incredibly vulnerable lovers, so what's the sitch?"
She brings their conjoined hands up to her lips and kisses his knuckles. Against his skin, she mumbles, "How do we even go about this? I've made it awkward."
He shakes his head in disagreement. "You didn't. Do you trust me to take the reins?"
"Of course."
"Then follow me to the bedroom."
Sawyer points to the stove. "But what about dinner?"
Harry pinches her cheek and starts dragging her down the hallway. "I know just the cure for an appetite."
☼ ☼ ☼
The queen-sized bed has sheer canopy curtains draped around it. They were too lazy to make it this morning, so the sheets are still crumpled, and pillows are strewn about. Sunlight streams through the open bay window, making the room glow a tender hue of honey. 
It's alluring and also equally terrifying.
Harry went into the master bathroom to mentally prepare himself, even though he told Sawyer he was just freshening up. His reflection in the mirror peered back at him pensively. He fixed his hair about ten times, swiped another layer of deodorant across his armpits, and then gave himself a hushed pep talk before swinging the door open and putting on a cool, calm, and collected face.
Yet the butterflies in his stomach currently contradict everything he's trying to convey, especially when he finds his sweet Sawyer sitting against the headboard, the puffy duvet covering her bare breasts. The sun casts light on her stunning face and accentuates her apprehensive features. She's innocently staring at him as if she didn't knowingly climb into bed without any clothes on and sat there patiently waiting for him like the good girl she is.
And... he's hard already. Well, that's one less thing to worry about.
Harry clears his throat and strips down to his boxers, then slides into the space next to her, waiting with bated breath. Neither of them looks at each other, too hesitant to make the first move. They've both had sex with different people before, so it's not like they're blind leading the blind, but now that they're actually in the bedroom, all confidence has apparently flown out the window.
"We could start with, like, kissing or something." So much for saying he'd take the reins. He can't even speak properly right now.
In his peripheral, he sees Sawyer nod hastily. "Sure," she says, quieter than ever.
"Okay. Are you comfortable doing it naked since you're already... naked?" She laughs, and Harry smacks his forehead. "Sorry. God, I'm so nervous. You're making me feel like a teenager all over again."
Silence lingers long enough for him to finally gain the courage to glance at Sawyer. She locks eyes with him, then slowly, almost teasingly, lets the duvet drop and pool around her waist. Harry's mouth goes dry as he takes in skin he's never fully seen before. She's soft, shapely, and undeniably tempting.
Sawyer crawls on her hands and knees until she's straddling his lap. She still has her underwear on, lace boy shorts that hug her hips deliciously well. With blood rushing to his brain (and other places), his reaction is a bit delayed until his hands eventually find their place on her waist. He's breathing deeply, nostrils flaring as he ravenously wonders how she will look naked underneath him, pleasure etched on her face.
"You're divine," Harry whispers while toying with the flimsy hem of her underwear.
"So are you," she replies, rubbing a coquettish hand down his chest. "Hey, let's maybe skip the kissing part? I'm kind of impatient."
"Damn, all right. We're diving straight in?"
She presses her body against his torso and hooks her arms around his neck. "I want to feel you. I've dreamed about it."
A desperate groan sounds in his throat. "You're lying."
"I'm not. Then I'd wake up, and you'd be kissing me like you knew exactly what I needed. And your hands would get so close to where they were in my dream but never close enough."
"Yeah? Where were my hands in your dream?"
Her eyes flutter shut as if she's recalling the fantasy. "Mm... everywhere. Warm and heavy between my thighs. Sliding up my stomach." A lazy, sensual smile creeps onto her lips as she adds, "Around my neck."
Harry is tired of waiting a second longer. He flips her over so he's on top, his silver necklace with the 'S' pendant swinging over her collarbones like a pendulum. "Let me make you feel good. I'll give you the real deal."
Sawyer twists the chain around her pointer finger and tugs him closer. "Please. I want it more than anything."
"Dig your heels into my back," he instructs before shuffling down her body until his head is lined up with her thighs.
She complies, and the pressure on his shoulder blades makes him choke on a moan. Her bent legs effortlessly fall open, granting him access to the single layer of fabric that comes between him and paradise. He stares at her from his position, his hands hooking around her knees. She stares back at him, a vehement fire in her eyes.
"It's all yours."
Her readiness is enough for him to lose his last shred of self-control. He leaves a suckling love bite on her inner thigh, then murmurs, "Lift your hips for me."
She raises the lower half of her body, and Harry slides her underwear off. She assists him when it reaches her ankles by kicking it across the bedroom. He focuses back on the inviting sight before him. A shiver trails down his spine when he takes two of his fingers and circles them around her entrance. She's dripping wet.
Sawyer's jaw goes slack as she scratches her nails across the expanse of Harry's sturdy back. He hisses past his clenched teeth, loving the luxurious burn. Tingling and tantalizing sensations course through his system as he tests the waters, slowly sinking his middle finger past her drenched opening. He vigilantly gazes into Sawyer's eyes the entire time, gauging her expressions for the faintest flicker of pain or unease.
"Talk to me," he says.
"It stings a little, but keep going."
"You're doing so good. So, so good. Tell me if it's too much, okay?"
She nods with a raspy whine, so he adds another finger, then uses his thumb to press against her clit and rub halo shapes onto it. Her thighs tremble and tighten around his head, tiny gasps escaping past her lips. He leaves bruising, biting kisses on her skin as he skillfully works his fingers, which are now soaked with her arousal. Filthy thoughts invade his fuzzy brain, thoughts of dreams he's had himself. Vivid images of doing what he's doing right now, except they'd always be cruelly cut short by the breaking of dawn.
Harry grinds his hips into the mattress, alleviating the ache while his kisses move closer to where his fingers are. Sawyer's panted breaths motivate him to ask: "Do you want my mouth?"
"Yes, please. Eres tan bueno conmigo."
The foreign praise rolling off her tongue enchants him to dive into her sweet, sticky heat. He laps up her wetness like its melted candy, the taste dangerously addictive. He hums insatiably, palms spreading on her lower stomach as he swirls his tongue inside of her. His cheeks are ablaze with sex drive as his eyes train themselves on Sawyer's face. Soft, sensual sounds trickle out of her mouth, fueling the intensity with which he pleasures her.
Pulling away for air, Harry whispers, "I can't get enough of you," before replacing his mouth with his fingers. They slide past her clenching walls so enticingly, so perfectly.
"Harry," Sawyer moans, fisting his hair and tugging at the strands. "I-I'm almost there. It's so strong."
He removes all body contact while sucking his fingers clean, then catapults off the bed to quickly grab a condom before she loses her approaching climax. He sifts through his duffel bag, finding the box he secretly packed in case something happened on this trip. 
Maybe he manifested it. Or perhaps his girlfriend is simply braver than him.
Making his way over to the bed again (tripping on Sawyer's unplugged curling iron in the process), he bounces back on the mattress and hands her the foil package. Her skin is glowing with an angelic radiance, but sinfulness cracks through when she pushes on his chest to get him to lay back. She straddles him and rips open the package with her teeth. The arch of her back, the excitement in her movements, and the slickness of her arousal are all he sees. She has no idea how heavenly she looks.
Sawyer's fingertips walk down his abdomen and brush over his length, which is straining against his boxers. "Can I?" she asks politely, her eyes wondrous.
"Go ahead, sweetheart." Harry cradles her head and brings it down for a fond kiss, her hair tickling his face. "Feeling okay? Not in pain or anything, are you?"
She shakes her head. "No. I feel like I'm floating."
"Same here." He breaks into an aching smile, coming to the realization of how special this moment is. "I love you so much. I'm gonna remember this forever."
"Me too." Sawyer slides his boxers off, their harmonious breathing mixing together. Harry's cock breaks loose and rests against his happy trail, reddened and throbbing. "Woah."
He laughs at her reaction. "Don't act so surprised. It's all your fault, baby."
She blushes and carefully rolls the condom on while Harry stifles moans by biting his knuckles. He won't last very long, but he'll make it worthwhile for her. He'll take his time, just how she likes it. Soak her presence in. Slow sips.
He sits on his knees, then motions for Sawyer to recline and spread her legs. Once she's in position, he settles an arm on either side of her body and hovers over her. He tucks her hair behind her ears and leaves a hungry kiss on her lips. "Ready?"
"Yeah," she exhales. "You?"
"Totally."
"Change my life, sunray."
Grabbing the base of his cock, he lines it up with her entrance. He reminds himself to go slow as his tip sinks into her, and he keeps it there as he watches Sawyer's face. Her shiny lips are parted, eyebrows pushed together. Her legs squeeze him while her hands hold onto his biceps. The muscles of her cheekbones twitch. God, she's an angel.
"I've got you," Harry says, a thrilling knot forming in the pit of his stomach. "Fuck, you were made for me."
He sinks further into her wet warmth, one hand grasping her leg to bend it more. She's tight, yet he's able to fit himself all the way in. Gasps leave both of their mouths at the feeling of him bottoming out, and it's like everything is moving in slow motion, the golden haze in the room adding to the delicacy of the moment.
"Mierda. Oh my God, Harry. Oh my..." Her fragile voice, leaking with whispery weeps, shatters his poise as he begins thrusting in and out. Sawyer's limbs become weak, her feet slipping down to the dip of his spine. It's all hot breath and swallowing each other's noises with sloppy kisses. Being inside her is a level of intimacy that electrifies every part of his soul. It's unfamiliar territory that binds him closer to the girl he wants forever. The orange flames they stepped around for years are now a cool, sapphire-blue.
Their hips reconnect with each thrust, a beautiful sound fused with their satisfied moans. Harry's pendant sways forward, his neck straining. Sawyer's nails pierce crescent moons onto his back, followed by more scratches that make him shudder.
"Goddamn," he chokes out, his cheek pressed against hers. "You feel stellar. I'm close. Give me... Christ, give me something to dream about."
"I'm there," she says. "I love you. I can't hold it any longer."
"Let it go, Sawyer. C'mon."
Arching her back off the mattress, she orgasms with a cry of release, and the vision of her has Harry immediately spilling out into the condom. It's powerful, otherworldly, and absolutely life-changing. He pulls out and lays on top of her, embracing her in a hold of overwhelming adoration as he whimpers into the pillow beside her head. They both melt into each other, sweaty and happy, coming down from their individual climaxes.
Every minute that passes, the room grows darker due to the moon painting the sky black with stars. Only the wind and their breathing fill the space, cool and heated gusts reciprocating. Harry can feel Sawyer's lips against his temple, curving up with a smile every so often. He's got a permanent smile as his fatigued gaze stares at the ring on her finger. He feels like sunshine is bursting from his pores and serotonin is being absorbed.
Sawyer is the first to move. She uses her remaining strength to get up and tightly wrap the sheets around her naked body before stepping out onto the balcony. With the door open, he can see the full moon illuminate the expanse of the flat desert, cacti and palm trees looming as far as the eye can see. The lack of humidity at night causes a balmy breeze to encircle her body, whipping her tousled hair.
"Can I tell you a secret now that we've had sex?" Harry asks from his place on the bed. His voice is sore and hoarse.
Sawyer turns around and bites her lip with a giddy grin. "Shoot."
He disposes of his condom, then puts his boxers back on and joins her, not caring about the chilliness. He still feels warm inside and out. "Do you remember our phone call last September when I was in South Carolina with a broken wrist?"
A flash of remembrance crosses her moonlit face. "Yeah. I was so worried about you."
He cradles her cheeks and pertly kisses her nose. "You took such good care of me when I got back."
It's the absolute truth. All the tagalongs to physical therapy, icing his wrist while cuddled on the couch, being a shoulder to cry on when he got frustrated—he couldn't have done it without her.
"I hated seeing you in pain," she says, looping her arms around his torso. "It hurt my heart."
"Never mind that." He inhales deeply and pushes forth his confession. "You... when you said you missed me during that call, a feeling came over me. Something in your voice made me weak. And something happened to me that had never happened before. I don't even know why I'm telling you—"
"Spit it out, Harry."
His head tilts back as far as it can go. "Fuck's sake. I got hard, Sawyer. Your voice made me hard."
Her mouth hangs wide open. A well-timed gust of wind passes like an awkward moment in a cartoon. "Um, wow. I'm not really sure how to respond to that."
"You don't have to say anything. Just thought you should know now that we've done the deed."
Sawyer giggles, hiding her face in the space between his pecs. "First off, please don't call it that." She looks at him and continues, "Secondly, you thought I should know that you got hard in South Carolina?"
He starts laughing too. It's contagious around her. "I should also probably tell you that I jerked it out in a crummy Holiday Inn shower. It was quite pathetic and sad."
She sputters out a boisterous cackle that echoes across the barren desert. Harry's cheeks flush instantaneously. "I appreciate your honesty."
"On a more serious note," Harry starts, gripping the balcony railing with one hand, the other on her hip, "I appreciate how you forced a confession out of me the next day. Don't know if I've ever told you that."
Her expression turns sorrowful. "I didn't mean to pressure you. It had been building up inside me for so long, and you looked so beautiful that night. My heart spoke for me and—"
Harry cups her jaw and kisses her unexpectedly, making her squeak. It reminds him of that night in the rain when his blue raspberry lips collided with hers for the first time. He pulls away slowly, fitting his nose over her own and swaying her slightly. "You did everything right. I was a coward who was frightened of rejection. The thought of ruining what we already had was nauseating."
"You thought I would've rejected you?"
"I never really know what you're thinking. That pretty brain of yours holds so many secrets."
Sawyer steals a ripe kiss. "Can I tell you one right now?"
"Always."
She kisses him again before saying, "I see forever with you. I want to wake up in your arms every day. I want to laugh with you until our sides ache. I want to kiss you until I get dizzy."
"Sawyer," Harry whispers, his eyes softening.
"I mean it. No one will ever make me feel this type of love again."
"I feel the same. You're all I need."
"Te quiero. Mi alma es tuya."
He nips her neck, slow and tender. "If you keep speaking Spanish to me, we're not getting any sleep tonight."
"Sí? Quieres más rasguños en la espalda?"
"Gonna tell me what that means?"
She gracefully traces the tattoo on his abdomen and says, "I can show you instead."
Harry's stomach suddenly grumbles with hunger, ruining the intimate moment. He peers at the twinkling sky above and laughs at the inconvenient interruption. "I would love that, but I'm absolutely starving right now. We skipped dinner."
"There's cold peppers on the stove."
"Delicious," he says sarcastically, shifting his gaze to her again. A few seconds pass before something he wants to mention pops into his thoughts. "Hey, did you know this month marks five years since we first met?"
Sawyer gapes at him, genuinely surprised. "No way. Five years?"
"Crazy, right? Five years since you almost gave me a concussion."
"I still feel terrible about that," she admits with a pout.
Harry remembers everything about that day, even when his brain got jolted by a killer volleyball serve by the prettiest girl on Cocoa Beach. Her brown eyes up close, holding gentle concern for a stranger. That sassy hand on her hip thing she still does today. Clementine fabric against caramel skin. Orange juice in a bottle. Summerboy.
"But if that never happened," he says quietly, "then we might've never spoken to each other."
Her dreamy hum tells him she's musing about it too. "That's true. Isn't it mind-blowing how the tiniest of decisions can affect the entire course of your life? I like to think that every past choice of mine led me to you."
He admires the way her voice gets wispy when her mind wanders. "Word. Does post-sex make you all philosophical and shit?"
She shrugs. "Maybe."
"Cool." Harry backs away while holding her hands until their fingers eventually slip from each other's grasp. "Well, while you brood about Plato's teachings, I'm going to snack on your world-famous half-cooked peppers."
"Have fun with that."
"I will. Love you." Halfway through the doorway, he suddenly stops and rushes forward, giving her a suffocating hug, his lungs breathing everything about her. "All jokes aside," he murmurs, "I also believe everything I did brought me to you. And it just makes sense to be in love with you. Okay, bye."
He's off and running toward the kitchen before she can say anything else, not even the shadows of night on the floor being able to darken the natural luminescence he leaves behind.
——
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chloessleepystories · 8 months
Text
Arizona Sun
Sammi LOVED visiting her uncle in Arizona! The wide open spaces gave her the chance to breathe, to slow down, and the sun just FELT different here... It made her body warm, and her mind slow, and felt soooo gooood... Soft and warm and agreeable...
Sammi loved her uncle's tastes in music! He had downloaded some great tracks to her phone for her - songs that were similar to things she already liked, but just a little better somehow, by artists she assumed were local... They were addictive!
Sammi loved to put on her headphones and sink into a stupor, letting the music wash through her brain from one side to the other, while she relaxed in an old chair on the ranch's large estate and just watch the mountains, watch the heat haze shimmering through the afternoon air... So easy to let her eyes unfocus, and her mind unfocus, and just drift and listen...
Sammi LOVED sunning herself, getting a great all-over tan, but she HATED tan lines! Had always hated them, ever since... um... Well, since always! But her uncle had helpful suggestions about that too... Every day this week she'd worn less and less...(Not just when sunning or listening to music, but all day! Whether doing chores around the house or having breakfast in bed or drinks on the veranda... Even though she wasn't *quite* old enough...) Worn less and less until she'd finally realized she could just be nude! She had been quite comfortable getting sun all over her ripe young body, every inch, for almost two days, now - and she was starting to be nude the rest of the time, too!! It was so freeing, so relaxing, and that's what a summer vacation is supposed to be all about, right? And her uncle said, nobody else is around, so who's to mind? So she did as she was told, and went nude all day, from house to sunning to veranda, from chores to drinking and giggling and more drinking...
Sammi loved the sun, and loved not thinking. The heat made her feel so happy and good, she felt like a sleepy lizard on a rock, not having to think about anything much at all, her brain so slow and sluggish, slowing down as the songs she listened to slowed down, like the way her uncle's voice got so low and slow sometimes...
Sammi loved doing what she was told! It was so much easier than making her own decisions, she just did what her uncle told her to do, around the house and around the estate... eating what she was told, and drinking what she was told... And letting her uncle apply sunscreen to her supple young skin again and again so it wouldn't burn...
She did NOT like sunburns, but she LOVED the feel of her uncle's strong, chapped hands rubbing all over her body, cupping her bottom, caressing her back, squeezing her tits, making sure the lotion was applied everywhere, over and over, while she listened, and watched the shimmering heat...
And just lately, Sammi had been getting the idea that what she REALLY loved... was COCK... She'd never seen one in real life, but the more she thought about it... The more she listened to her music and dozed in the sun in the nude, touching herself in her feel-good places... The more she could imagine its thickness on her tongue, its warmth filling her cunny... And she CRAVED it like nothing before...
Sammi bit her thumb and looked toward the house. Maybe her uncle had a long fat cock that she could play with...? Maybe she should go and ask... And see if there was anything else he'd like her to do... Like a good girl...
Because if there was one thing she loved most of all...
Sammi LOVED being a good girl for her uncle...
💕💕💕
I no longer have the photo that inspired this - so let me know if you have a pic that you think would work with it!
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Note
idk maybe this is too big, but beatrice’s reaction at receiving diego’s email in 🐸 🗺? i really really like how you write their attraction towards one another. and here’s a set of 🌮🌮
[thank u for the tacos, maybe i'll have some birria later :)]
//
it's not a good day.
it's not a bad day, either, really.
you got out of bed in the morning. you ate breakfast — congee with an egg and some peanuts. you did the physical therapy exercises you're supposed to have kept up for your shoulder, even though it's been two years; they still help, especially when it's cold and rainy, so you do them. you went to the climbing gym, earlier than lilith ever would; you make your way up some V6s and V7s, but with no enjoyment, sluggish and tired for no reason. you went back to your loft — you'd signed the lease a few months ago under mary and shannon gentle urging and lilith's not-so-gentle demand, because even if you're not here often, beatrice, you need a home. you showered in the dark, blatantly ignoring whatever scars still sting sometimes. you washed your hair with expensive shampoo and conditioner a stylist you like — who lets you sit in the chair in silence she allows to be comfortable and doesn't pester, doesn't try to get you to try anything feminine, schedules you for trims you prefer more frequently than not if you're in town — and try, very hard, to feel real. you dried off, and put on comfortable clothes, and ate lunch, some leftover jerk salmon from the night before.
time moves weirdly on the days where it's not good enough to be solid but not bad enough to cease to exist at all. your therapist says this is normal for people with ptsd, but nothing feels normal about it. it feels like you're underwater, or like that one time when you were eighteen and got completely crossfaded at a party mary and shannon had thrown: everything is hard, and slow, and before you know it, it's nearing four and the light is fading.
you have things you need to do: photographs you need to edit; contracts you need to sign; to start coordinating a tentative upcoming trip to antarctica and south georgia this summer. you make yourself tea and will yourself to at the very least check your email; shannon had said that it helps her when she's having a bad day to set up one task she can do, to ease everything just a bit. you haven't really moved in, not in the way you should: you have a big desk, multiple monitors, all the gear you could hope for; you have a big bed, too soft, sometimes, and a couch. you have a nice, large tv on the wall. you have a few dishes and pots and pans in the kitchen. you have what you need in the bathroom: a toothbrush and a razor and toilet paper and your skincare serums and two clean towels, bar soap from mary dragging you to the farmer's market. you have nice olive oil and two throw pillows. you have a custom hangboard against one wall. there's empty space everywhere, your loft far bigger than you would ever need. not a home, not yet, in any way you can really feel, at least today. especially today.
but you boot up your desktop computer, because you are steadfast and there are still things you need to do, still things you need to shoot so you can show the world what matters. what has to matter, far beyond you and your small life.
most of your emails are boring — the option to do sponsored content for a new camera; an updated contract for an upcoming documentary you're going to help photograph for; a notification that the film you had ordered had, indeed, shipped — but there's one from someone you have never heard of that catches your eye.
you read through it, twice: someone named diego, a grad student at a university in the city, had emailed on behalf of his advisor, dr. ava silva, wondering if you might want to partner on an expedition to guyana. they need a climber, and diego claims that dr. silva loves your photography. you remember, vaguely, from an article before you had — before — that dr. silva apparently has some sort of preternatural ability to find new species of frog, and so it's intriguing, the prospect. everything feels more solid, like you're coming up for air after holding your breath for too long, when you think about the rainforest, and this little project and its simple, pure, important goal. you google ava silva phd frog and there's a link to a bunch of scientific journals, a formal headshot from the university — dr. silva is, well, beautiful, and young — and then, like the world rights itself, a picture of dr. silva smiling, dirty in the way only the real wild can produce, grinning with real joy. she holds a tiny frog — bright blue — in the palm of her gloved hand. there's green behind her, all around her.
if nothing else, you think, you'd like to meet this dr. ava silva, who finds such clear joy in small creatures, in making sure they're seen, and recognized, and named.
you email diego back, offering to be connected to dr. silva, because you want to know more. you order dinner and watch something that makes you laugh and even fish out some chocolate for dessert. you wash your face and moisturize; you brush your teeth; you fold back your duvet neatly. it's a life, you think, one that you are determined, even if it's hard, even if it's impossible, to make worthwhile. maybe tomorrow you'll get to learn more about the world from someone who fills it so fully. maybe tomorrow will feel clear. maybe tomorrow will be a good day after all.
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crinkled-emotions · 2 months
Text
Day 28: Daggers in Australia
Back in the groove! I think this fic ended up being somewhere around the 5k mark whilst the others have been mostly 1-2k max. I honestly thought about writing more but rather than making it seem overfull I hit a point and I was like yep, we're done, that's fine there.
-
“Someone hold my hand when we cross the road, I’m not awake enough for this.”
“Payback, hold your wizzo’s hand.”
“Fuck you, Rooster.”
Rooster dodged when Payback went to swat at the back of his head, pulling his suitcase along with him as the pair fucked around. Fanboy groaned, turning to rest his head on Bob’s shoulder.
“You’re gonna keep me safe, right Bob?”
“A little busy right now, Mick.”
Bob, wrestling both his luggage and Phoenix’s while she went to the bathroom, did indeed look busy. Maverick was already on the phone organising pick up from the airport, talking quietly as people rushed around him. Coyote had decided to sit on a bench nearby and was texting his mom, letting her know they’d landed in Perth. Everyone was sluggish, feeling the jetlag from their thirty hours of flying including their layovers in LAX and Sydney. The only one with enough energy to keep them going had to be Hangman, of course, bouncing on his feet in a way that told Coyote he’d maybe had a taste of Aussie coffee on the plane. When his incessant talking made even Coyote doubt his friendship he reached out, grabbing Hangman by the wrist.
“Sit down and shut up a sec, you’re asking Rooster to punch you again.”
“He missed last time,” Hangman rebutted but he did indeed sit down and shut up aside from his foot tapping on the lino floors of the Perth airport’s international arrival terminal.
It was barely 3am and everyone was on their last legs, yawning and using each other to stay up. Even Maverick himself was struggling with the time changes which told everyone to be on their (mostly) best behaviour.
The conference with the Australian Navy was being held on the Perth base for some reason instead of Sydney; apparently it was their turn to host something and no one had really had a problem with it except for the fact that it meant an additional layover and six hours of flying for the Daggers who’d been flown in especially for a panel at the conference. Initially it had only been those who flew the mission who were invited but in the end it had been agreed that Coyote would also be attending to provide additional perspective on the training.
“Mav, I’m starving. Can we get food on the way to the hotel?” Rooster complained. Maverick, still on the phone, held up a finger to tell him to wait.
“No, that’s not what I said... okay, well, that would be- yes sir, that would be great. Thank you very much. I apologise for the early start.”
With his phone call over Maverick turned to the Daggers, including Phoenix who had returned from the bathroom and taken her luggage from Bob.
“Okay, everyone go and see if you can get an uber or a taxi. Your hotel rooms are all under your own names; check in and get a couple hours sleep. We’re going to meet tomorrow morning-“
Maverick paused, checked his watch, and grimaced.
“-later today around 0800 hours, and a representative from the Australian Navy has offered to take us on a tour of Perth. I expect that you’ll all be on time and ready for anything they set up for us on this tour. The conference starts in two days; today and the following day is all about building our relationships with our Australian colleagues so best behaviour, guys.”
“Yes sir,” the team all echoed. They all headed for the exit, immediately grimacing.
“How is it warm at three am?” Phoenix complained, already reaching to take off her jacket.
“Australia is notorious for their hot summers,” Bob supplied, “well; that’s what it said on the brochure in Sydney.”
-
A couple hours later the Daggers gathered out the front of their hotel, all of them battling jetlag like pros. The Navy representative greeted them easily, gesturing to the minibus behind him.
“Good morning everyone! My name is Jim Dempsey, everyone calls me JD and I’m going to be your Navy representative whilst you’re here in Perth. Today we’re going to be visiting some of the more common tourist attractions; I thought you might like to see the beaches, and then we’re going to-“
“-JD, I’m so sorry to ask, would it be possible to have our first stop be a coffee shop?” Rooster asked. JD laughed.
“I think that sounds reasonable. Alright everyone, let’s get a move on!” The Daggers started toward the minibus, climbing in and finding a seat. As Phoenix sat down she nudged Bob, leaning in to whisper to him.
“He’s way too happy for this time of day,” she muttered. Bob snorted.
“It’s the coffee here; apparently it’s supercharged.”
“This is going to end badly,” Phoenix sighed. Bob nudged her side.
“It’ll be so much better when you’ve had caffeine. C’mon, brighten up; when was the last time you went to Australia?”
“Never, actually,” Phoenix confessed, “you?”
“No. Fanboy said he and Payback got sent here a few years ago but it was in a remote location. They had to stand on a hill to get cell reception and Fanboy got heat exhaustion.”
“Sounds rough; explains why he’s clinging to his water.”
Their eyes fell to the large water bottle in a side pocket of Fanboy’s backpack, both wondering if they should have brought their own. They watched when Rooster hit his head on the roof of the minibus and stifled their laughter, instead choosing to take a couple photos of the scrub around the hotel. With everyone buckled in, the minibus started up and JD headed toward what he called bragged was of the best coffee shops around.
-
“Now, prepare yourselves, and go easy on the caffeine; speaking from experience, our coffee is the best in the world but it’s also strong so you will be shitting through the eye of a needle at twenty paces if you’re not careful.”
JD was quick to warn the Daggers as they stepped into the cute coffee shop, pausing to take a look at the menu. They all slowly looked to him in confusion but he waved them off.
“Our coffee is high in caffeine, so it gives you the shits. You’ve been warned.”
“I just want a coffee,” Hangman said after a moment of staring blankly, “damn coffee shops make this so difficult.”
“Try a flat white,” JD suggested. Hangman glanced at him, then shrugged and went up to order. Phoenix mused at the menu for a moment. It was too hot to be drinking hot coffee like Hangman had just ordered... iced latte it was.
Once everyone had placed their orders and paid they stood back to wait, glancing around.
“Where are you from?” Rooster asked JD, who hummed.
“I was born in Queensland, but I’ve been in Perth almost twenty years. It’s a great place to be; no one really thinks to come here so we mostly get our beaches to ourselves.”
“What ones would you recommend- holy shit that’s good.”
Hangman had joined the pair, takeaway coffee cup in hand as he took his first sip. He offered his cup to Rooster who shook his head.
“I’m not getting cooties, mine’s coming.”
“To answer your question, a lot of the guys go surfing at Scarborough but most people flock to Cottesloe on our hot days.”
“Hey, man, while I’ve got you-“
Rooster’s name was called and he split from JD and Hangman to grab his coffee. JD patted Hangman’s shoulder then went to see where they were at in regards to coffee collection. Maverick stood by Hangman, smiling at the way his eyes lit up the more he sipped at his coffee.
“Just remember what JD said; we’re moving around a lot today so don’t do something dumb.”
“Me? Dumb? I’m good, Mav, in fact I’m too good to-“
“-be true,” the rest of the Daggers filled in nearby, earning laughter. A woman approached Hangman suddenly, holding out a piece of paper and a pen.
“I’m so sorry to ask, but are you that guy from that movie?”
“Uh...? No?”
“Oh, damn, that’s... embarrassing. Sorry!”
She disappeared out the door and Hangman frowned as he looked to the others.
“What was she sniffing?”
-
With everyone happily caffeinated, JD loaded them back into the van and they drove through the picturesque scenery of the Perth suburbs sipping on their coffee and taking photos through the windows. For a group of seasoned aviators they were definitely feeling the coffee hit, talking a million miles an hour. JD glanced over at Maverick who cleared his throat.
“They’ll settle; where are we headed?”
“I thought we could do Fremantle Prison first, and then depending on energy levels and the coffee crash we could either relax and see a movie or head to the beach for the arvo.”
“I’m sorry; arvo?”
Fanboy interrupted the conversation, apparently listening to all the conversations in the bus. JD smiled at him in the rearview mirror.
“Afternoon.”
“Gotcha.”
“After the prison we might do smoko-“
“-smoko?”
Rooster, this time. Apparently all the Daggers had become eavesdroppers.
“Take a break; shearers use to have smoke breaks so they’d call it morning and afternoon smoko.”
JD filled in the blanks, already questioning his own lingo.
“I totally forgot to ask this earlier when I heard it in the airport; what the fuck is a gobby-“
“-and look at that, we’re here!”
JD pulled the van into a parking space at the prison, glancing over his shoulder.
“Before we go in, I do just ask that you’re respectful to both the staff and the culture. I can tell you more later but if you’re not sure about something please make sure you ask me.”
“Of course,” Phoenix reassured. A glance to Bob beside her found him dozing, hat over his eyes.
“Hey, Mav, we’ve got a man down.”
“I’ll wake him, you guys go.”
-
The Fremantle Prison had a long (complicated) history in Australian culture, and the Daggers were quiet as they took it in. It originally opened in the 19th century, and when it closed in 1991 it was a welcomed announcement by the general public due to concerns for prisoner welfare and the state of the facilities. At one point Rooster separated from the group to read a plaque about the last execution on site and Maverick appeared by his side, a hand on his shoulder.
“How are you feeling about the panel?” He murmured. Rooster shrugged.
“The more I talk about it the less I feel like I’m gonna hurl.”
“I know. If you need a break just ask, okay?”
“Mav. I’m fine.”
Rooster sent him a reassuring smile, turning back to the information he’d been reading. Phoenix joined him when Maverick left his side, nudging his side.
“Hey.”
“Hi, Tash.”
“This place... wow.”
“Haunting,” Rooster mused. Phoenix glanced around.
“Apparently they do night tours as well; think we can make Bagman scream?”
Rooster raised an eyebrow, then smirked; Phoenix rolled her eyes.
“Ew, Brooster. Ugh, you’re the worst.”
“I really think that one’s on you!” Rooster called as she left him to go and stand with Bob.
“Do you think that’s him?”
Rooster glanced over his shoulder, trying to figure out where the younger female voice came from considering it wasn’t Phoenix and she was the only female in their group. He frowned, then put it down to the eerie nature of the prison. It was probably playing with his head.
-
“How are we feeling? We could have a counter-y or we could head to Cottesloe-“
“-a counter-y...?”
JD winced.
“Sorry. Uh, we could go have a sit down meal at the pub or we could head out to Cottesloe beach.”
Maverick checked his watch, then shrugged.
“Everyone okay if we go have something to eat?”
The group agreed easily, Hangman jogging up to catch up with Bob.
“Hey, did you have the coffee? That was seriously strong, like crack but also a little like maybe I should have slept more, and did you smell the air- and the vegemite toast this morning was disgusting-“
“-what is wrong with you?”
The pub JD picked had a strong scent of stale beer the second you walked in and the TAB room to the left was loud enough that even if there was music playing over the speakers you wouldn’t have been able to hear it. The Daggers and JD found a table toward the back of the dining room, picking up their menus.
“What would you recommend, JD?” Payback asked.
“No more coffee for Jake,” JD deadpanned earning laughter from the others, “but anything here is great. The parmy has just the right amount of ham and sauce to cheese ratio and the fish is always fresh.”
“I’m so lost,” Bob muttered as he stared at the menu. A waitress appeared to get their drinks orders then they poured water to get themselves started, the Daggers taking in the room.
“Is that a pool table?” Phoenix asked. She immediately realised her mistake when Coyote and Hangman stood.
“We’ll be back.”
There were already a couple locals playing, but it appeared the two Daggers were welcomed into the group easily to everyone’s surprise. The waitress came by again to take food orders then while they waited the group fell into easy conversation about the Australian culture and the upcoming panel the Daggers would be attending. It was highly classified so they kept it general, talking around it rather than about it. Maverick leaned back in his chair and he was the first to spot the food coming out, his eyebrows raising.
“That is huge,” he said in regards to the steak placed in front of Bob, then turning to the seafood Rooster had ordered.
“And that- there’s so much.”
“I feel a nap in my near future,” Rooster grinned. Maverick smiled at him, taking a prawn when it was offered.
“Is this where that saying about a shrimp on the barbie comes from?” Payback asked JD, who shook his head.
“Not really, we might do that your last night here. Most Aussies actually prefer yabbies; a type of... I dunno, it’s kinda like a prawn or a lobster but oversized. You find ‘em a lot in freshwater dams on the farms but there’s plenty of yabby farmers around here that keep up the supply.”
“What the fuck is a yabby-“
“-hey, food!”
Coyote and Hangman returned from the pool table when Bob waved them over, eagerly eyeing their meals.
“I feel like this is going to ruin everything I’ve ever worked for,” Hangman said as he reached for his silverware. The others laughed.
“We’re going to swim it off, remember? It’s about half an hour to Cottesloe so you’ll be good to get straight in the water when we get there.”
“That’s alright then.”
-
The Daggers stripped off to their swimwear on the sand, tossing various articles of clothing at Maverick and slathering on sunblock. Right before they took off JD waved to get their attention.
“Swim where everyone else is and keep an eye out for sharks.”
“He’s joking, right?” Coyote whispered to Payback, who snorted.
“Yeah; it’s a public beach, there’s no way sharks would-“
“-unfortunately I’m not joking mate, we get a few shark attacks every summer. We’re in their territory and if they feel threatened they’ll defend.”
The Daggers were suddenly a little slower to head for the water. Maverick laughed, turning to JD.
“That should settle them... oh. You weren’t joking.”
“Nope.”
Out in the water, Phoenix was lying on her back and enjoying the cool water whilst the others horsed around a little further out. She felt something brush her foot and gave it a gentle kick, taking a deep breath to refocus when there was another touch against her ankle. Next thing she knew there was a sharp tug and she screamed, thinking about the seven most deadly animals in Australia and how most of them were in the ocean. When she came up for air Payback and Fanboy were coming up too and laughing, high fiving. Phoenix scowled.
“Sleep with one eye open, assholes,” she warned. The pair exchanged a look then swam off to join where Bob and Coyote were wading and talking. Rooster was talking to a local and Phoenix didn’t have the heart to tell him he resembled a drowned rat with his damp curls rather than his usual attractive (dry) face. When she realised she couldn’t see Hangman she glanced around, finding him on the shore. There was a group of women surrounding him and he was loving it, as per usual, but she could tell he was utterly confused. She decided to join him on the shore (cockblock him within an inch of his life and then a little more for good measure), nudging his side.
“Hey, Bagman, what’s going on?”
“He’s the guy from that movie!” One of the onlookers exclaimed, Phoenix snorting.
“No, he’s US Navy and as much as he’s loving this he’s not who you’re looking for.”
The women all blushed and scattered across the beach back to wherever they were supposed to be, Phoenix wheeling around to face Hangman.
“What the hell was that?”
“I have no idea.”
-
That evening the team had an early dinner and thanked JD for his tour. The team knew they shouldn’t go to bed considering it was only 7pm so they decided to go see a movie nearby. A local cinema was playing a new one so they headed into the city, bought tickets and went into the theatre. They’d picked a movie at random and hadn’t even looked at trailers; the only rule was Rooster was banned from picking movies because he’d chosen Oppenheimer last time and it had sparked a Barbenheimer debate on base. Settling into their seats, Phoenix opened a bag of M&M’s then poured half of it into Rooster’s popcorn, the other half going into the box she and Bob were sharing. They sat through the twenty minutes of previews and when Phoenix glanced over she wasn’t entirely surprised to find most of the Daggers dozing already. It was dark and cool in the room, a nice break from the heat of the Australian summer sun. Even Maverick was struggling to keep her eyes open, something Phoenix wouldn’t have ever predicted. The only other Dagger mostly awake was Bob after his impromptu nap on the way to the prison that morning, sending her a smile when the movie finally started. A young woman ran across a train station, politely apologising to everyone she nearly bumped into on her way to a coffee shop. Bob glanced down at Phoenix when she yawned, offering his shoulder.
“I won’t tell ‘em.”
She accepted the offer, leaning on his shoulder.
“Wake me if something happens.”
“Tash. Phoenix, wake up.”
Phoenix felt like she’d only just closed her eyes when Bob jolted her out of her doze, sitting upright.
“Wha? What’s wrong?”
“Look!”
Phoenix scrubbed at her eyes, glancing up at the screen. Her eyes widened and she reached over to wake Rooster.
“Look,” she hissed, “doesn’t that kind of look like-“
Rooster’s brows furrowed as his brain tried to wake up, probably in his REM stage considering what time it was back at home, then he connected the dots and snorted.
“It kinda looks like Bagman- huh... I wonder if that’s what those women were talking about earlier?”
“At the beach? You saw that?”
“No, at the coffee shop this morning. A woman came outta nowhere, asked Hangman for his autograph.”
The male lead in the movie started yelling and stripping, pulling his shirt off shortly followed by his shorts which were tossed into the trees. Rooster snorted.
“He looks so much like Bagman, I wonder if he has-“
Phoenix and Rooster’s heads tilted to the side, frowning.
“The ass dimple.”
Rooster turned to his other side, frantically shaking Hangman awake.
“Bagman, look! Your ass is in a movie!”
-
“Was that a dream? Did I dream that?”
Standing outside the theatre, waiting for their ubers to take them back to their hotel, the Daggers all turned to Hangman who looked like he was having an existential crisis.
“Nope, sorry man. Wasn’t a dream,” Rooster grinned. Phoenix jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, stifling her own snort. Bob glanced between them.
“How did you two figure it out again? The ass dimple?”
“That’s classified,” Phoenix commented at the same time Rooster said, “it was a long time ago.”
Hangman rolled his eyes, focusing on the parking area.
“Thanks for exposing me.”
“Anytime,” Rooster grinned. The uber drivers began to arrive and the Daggers paired off, splitting into the three cars. Maverick took the front seat of one of the cars, glancing over his shoulder at Rooster and Phoenix.
“Am I missing something?”
“No, Mav,” Rooster said easily, exchanging a look with his best friend who turned toward the window to stifle her giggles.
-
The next morning the Daggers eased into their day plans, having breakfast together in Rooster’s hotel room and then discussing what they wanted to do. JD, who met them a little after they finished eating, suggested a ferry ride out to Rottnest Island.
“Wait- isn’t that where you can see a quokka?” Fanboy asked. JD nodded.
“They roam all over the island out there, it’s almost certain you’ll see at least one.”
“JD I’m guessing you already got tickets?”
Maverick glanced over at JD.
“We should get going though if we’re going to get there in time. The ferry is a decent drive out of the city. Everyone should take plenty of water and sunscreen but there is a general store on the island.”
“That’s great- Hangman, are you alright?”
Hangman glanced up, shaking his head.
“Rough night. I’m good.”
Phoenix and Rooster snickered whilst Payback covered his laugh with a cough. Maverick’s eyes passed over the Daggers then he smiled at JD.
“Let’s go.”
-
The ferry ride was surprisingly smooth on the way over, the water steady enough that Bob took to reading the brochures nearby without motion sickness and Rooster had a short nap on the seat against the window. By the time they got to the island Bob was full of knowledge- mainly about the local wildlife.
“Guys, I wonder how many snakes we’re gonna see? Apparently they release them on to this island all the time.”
Phoenix’s eyes darted to Bob, glaring at him.
“What?”
“Yeah, the Western Australia government relocates snakes out here instead of letting them- y’know.”
“Die?” Payback filled in, but his eyes were firmly on the ground as though he was looking for any signs of said reptilian attacker. Hangman’s lips quirked upwards.
“They’ve never seen a rattlesnake-“
“-did you not see that video they played on the plane ride over? Tiger snakes are aggressive and dangerous,” Phoenix interrupted as she threw her hands in the air. JD laughed at the Daggers.
“Tiger snakes aren’t social creatures; the only reason they’d come into populated locations like this is if their habitat was invaded or there was insufficient food. The conservation teams out here are great with snake monitoring and they’re all qualified to relocate them. It’s not the tiger snakes you need to worry about, though; we have a dugite snake population out here and they’re highly poisonous.”
“A what?” Rooster asked. Bob dug out his phone and after a quick search showed Rooster said snake. The others watched the colour drain from his face.
“That’s terrifying.”
“Stick to the paths, and most importantly if you see one don’t move, just let it go on its way. It’s very rare that a snake comes anywhere near here but we like to be aware of our surroundings.”
JD gestured to the first café he saw.
“C’mon; I believe you guys could use a coffee.”
“Do you guys have a break every ten minutes for coffee? Goddamn,” Rooster muttered. Despite his comment he still jogged to catch up with the others, ready for a caffeine hit.
“Bagman what’s your coffee count at?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
-
“Mickey, you’re walking so close to me I’m getting claustrophobic. What are you doing?”
Reuben glanced over at his wizzo who was indeed standing quite close, frowning at him. Fanboy cleared his throat, scooting over a little.
“Sorry man; the snake talk freaked me out.”
“Me too but I’m not being snake bait so you’re gonna have to walk like a normal person. C’mon Mickey, we literally fly death traps for work!”
“And fun!” Hangman called, a couple metres behind them. Fanboy glanced over his shoulder to glare at the caffeinated aviator, turning back to face toward the rest of the track.
“I fuckin’ hate snakes, I never made peace with ‘em-“
“-make peace?”
Payback burst out laughing, doubling over as he gasped between laughter. Fanboy rolled his eyes.
“What a great partner you are. Thanks for the support.”
“Make peace!”
“What’s got him so wound up?” Coyote asked as he passed the couple on the walking track, Rooster and Phoenix ahead with JD whilst Bob had stayed back with Maverick and they were talking between themselves.
“Mickey has just told me he wants to make peace with a snake,” Payback said, stifling his laughter. Coyote’s eyebrow twitched as he tried not to smile.
“That sounds like something that could get us in trouble with the locals.”
“Fuck you- both of you!”
Coyote and Payback broke into laughter, standing around long enough that Maverick, Bob and Hangman caught up to them. Hangman opened his mouth to start talking but Bob easily slid a palm over it.
“That’s enough from you. What’s so funny?”
“We were thinking of going to the zoo later to see if Fanboy can face his little snake phobia,” Payback said. Bob snorted.
“I’m in.”
“You’re all mean as hell,” Fanboy groaned, “I’m hanging out with Hangman now. C’mon Hangman.”
“No one tells me what to do-“
“-Seresin, get a move on!”
“Coming Mav!”
Maverick had kept going around the teasing; Hangman took off to catch up to Maverick and Bob sent the others a look.
“He’s gonna crash hard any second now. Be prepared.”
“Oh, we’re ready.”
-
The search for a quokka took a little longer than expected; it was only that they stopped the lap around the island for a bathroom break that Phoenix saw one whilst she was waiting for the guys.
“Ohhhhhh holy shit!”
JD, standing on the other side of the track, smiled at her.
“They’re cute aren’t they?”
The closer Phoenix got the more confused she was.
“It looks like a rat!”
“That one’s probably got a bit of somethin’, you know how it is.”
“But- but all the celebrity photos- they’re cute!”
“I appreciate that, Phoenix,” Rooster said when he appeared. Phoenix whipped around, phone in hand.
“Roos! Look, a quokka!”
“What the fuck is that?!”
Rooster backed away from the quokka, an eyebrow raised.
“Why does it look like that?”
“Bradley, respect!” Maverick scolded as he came out, giving Rooster a quick swat up the back of his head. Rooster pointed toward his feet where the quokka had decided to hang out and Maverick grinned.
“Look at that! Hey little guy, what are you doing down there, huh?”
“Mav, I think it’s got mange,” Rooster winced. Then he smirked.
“Wait here, maybe it’ll bite Hangman. Hey, Seresin-“
Phoenix laughed when Rooster went to turn back into the bathrooms, only stopped by Maverick who caught him by the arm.
“Not now, there’s witnesses- hey, JD.”
JD laughed as he watched Rooster and Maverick, Phoenix rolling her eyes as she took a couple photos of the quokka.
“Bloody hell mate, you lot are cooked,” JD laughed. The others emerged from the bathrooms, Payback pausing when he realised Phoenix was taking photos.  
“Hey, Fanboy look, snake!”
A kid in the background, having overheard Payback, screamed for his mother and Hangman burst out laughing.
“Aw, man, Payback, you made a kid cry. No more quokkas for you.”
-
That night, Maverick and JD organised a pit fire at JD’s (despite fire regulations, they were very aware there was some law bending going on there) as well as beer and fire-grilled steak (Hangman’s mouth started watering when JD mentioned it). A couple kilometres out of the city JD’s parents had a small farm and when the Daggers got there they had a fire going in the fire pit, steak almost ready to go on the fire and cold beer in the esky nearby. They all gathered around the fire and Bob reached for a bottle of water.
“Hey, JD, I forgot to ask; are dropbears real?”
JD hummed. Winked at Bob who smirked.
“Mate, we try not to talk about it, but we’ve seen a lot of ‘em around here lately. Just don’t go out the back when it gets darker, I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Coyote leaned back in his chair, beer in hand.
“What the fuck is a dropbear?”
“Wait; you guys don’t know what a dropbear is?” Bob started. Phoenix put down her raspberry Cruiser, something she’d been handed by JD’s girlfriend.
“How do you not know what a dropbear is?”
Rooster scoffed.
“Oh c’mon, everyone knows what a dropbear is-“
“-shhh!”
Phoenix elbowed him in the ribs, putting a finger to her lips to shush him. Hangman was leaning forward, interested.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a dropbear?”
“A killer koala; mate, they have these gnarly teeth, and these claws that can claw through- well, anything!”
Coyote gaped.
“Killer koalas?”
Maverick snorted, watching Phoenix and Bob exchange a look. JD piped up then.
“Mate, dropbears... they’re terrifying. One night, my dad, he went into the bush looking for some firewood when we were camping... came out covered in scratches. The only thing that could do that, well...”
JD took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. Everyone glanced around, eyebrows furrowed.
“He’s not serious... right?”
Hangman was the first to speak up, but he shut his mouth when JD turned to him.
“Deadly serious, mate. You don’t stand under a tree after dark out here.”
“Right,” Hangman scoffed, “y’know we can read. There’s no way dropbears are real.”
Bob raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
-
The beer and steak around the fire was a great idea, and everyone was in high spirits as they got ready to go back to the city. By the time they were climbing into the van they were giggling to themselves about how loud Rooster had yelled when he’d gone to pee behind a tree, heard rustling and thought it was a dropbear coming to eat him alive. The good news was Bob definitely wasn’t going to eat him but he wasn’t going to let him forget it either. The nerves about the panel the following morning had mostly dissipated, Rooster himself even saying he was ready to tell the story to an audience rather than explaining his every move to Cyclone because he had to. Maverick had taken one look at him as he climbed into the van then passed him a huge bottle of water and reminded him that even if he was hungover he still had to show up. Hangman finally had his caffeine crash and was snoring in the back of the van- Phoenix had wanted to draw on him in retaliation for every dumb stunt he’d pulled but Coyote had frantically shaken his head at her; he’d been rooming with Hangman and he was like an energiser bunny on a good day. Payback and Fanboy were quiet as they took their seats, still googling dropbears to see if there was anything to those rumours even though JD swore on his mum’s life that he really was just shit stirring. Bob was still thinking about the huntsman spider he’d seen in a brochure and was reaching to shake out his boots just in case putting them back on earlier hadn’t been enough to kill whatever may have snuck in there.
“Hey, Mav?”
Maverick glanced over his shoulder at Phoenix as they walked into the hotel lobby, ready to sleep for a million years. As much as he’d tired the Daggers out he’d exhausted himself too.
“Yes, Tash?”
“Tonight was a really good idea. Thanks.”
“Thank JD; it was mostly his idea, I just bought the steak.”
“But still. We’ve been so busy ever since the... y’know. We’re here for the conference but this... this feels like a vacation too and I think we needed it.”
Maverick smiled.
“We all need breaks sometimes.”
“Even you?”
“I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation day unless it was forced- wait, yes I can. Bradley decked a kid at school. God, I’ll never forget that phone call. He was 12...”
As they headed into the elevator Maverick began to tell the tale, Phoenix hanging on his every word.
-
“And now we turn to the United States’ top aviators, the Dagger Squad.”
Maverick sat up in his seat, nudging Rooster under the table.
“Shoulders back,” he whispered, but apparently the microphones were sensitive enough to catch it and the group of Australian Navy personnel stared blankly. Maverick cleared his throat.
“We knew what we were facing going in. We had a steep mountain, g’s that tested our skills and the risk of fifth-generation fighters taking us out at any given moment.”
“Sir, who was the enemy?” Someone piped up from the crowd. Maverick cleared his throat.
“That’s classified. Now, in order to start our training, we spent a lot of time running simulations...”
-
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puzzled-pegasus · 25 days
Text
What if?
Wings of Fire infection/curse AU where the infection is related to the dragons' tribe element.
I see a lot of infection AUs so i wanted to get on the train with my own idea even tho its most definitely not original lol. Here's what I mean tho.
(TW for semi-graphic descriptions of the following: mind hijacking parasitic infection, muscle dystrophy i think its called, stomach parasite, parasitic spores, fatal insomnia, exhaustion, and body decomposition, body horror in general)
For SkyWings, the sky is their element. Infected dragons' scales turn sky blue, starting around the infection site and first attacking the legs in most cases. They become afraid of heights and afraid of landing due to their nonwing limbs starting to fail them. Their fire cools and weakens until all that comes out is blue, dusty smoke, full of spores to infect more dragons. One day, they have an unexplainable urge to fly to the highest point possible...but they are still terrified to land due to their weakened limbs, so they fly around until their lungs and chest muscles give out and they crash land from exhaustion. Once landed and dead----at this point their scales are almost if not entirely blue---the blue, mossy plant sprouts from their body, beginning from the site of infection. If the disease is transmitted through bite, the spread starts there; if the spores are breathed in, it starts from the throat just behind the chin.
For LeafWings, it's plants. Leaves start to grow where they don't normally. Moss covers the dragon. Tails and horns branch out and flower, sending out contagious spores. Dragon movements become sluggish and robotic. At death, they lie down or collapse into the dirt and take root, growing a new plant.
For MudWings, it's less obvious. In earlier stages, the dragon appears distant, and wants less to do with their siblings. Their mood changes. They complain of stomach pain and bloating. They become lethargic for a while, then suddenly extremely anxious. Finally, they go dig a hole and crawl into it, covering themselves with dirt and mud. Soon paralyzed, the dragon will not move until death. Their body sinks into the ground, and a patch of the swamp dwelling infectious plant strain grows unassumingly over top, having taken root in the dragon's abdomen.
In NightWings, it starts with the loss of sleep. The first symptom is that no matter how hard a dragon tries, they cannot sleep. After several days of remaining awake, the infection starts to shpw itself on their scales. Their scales lighten, turning silvery pale like a moonbathed NightWing egg. Hallucinations. Sense of impending doom. Visions that are more like a nightmare, as if the dragon is really there witnessing the worst. Depending on powers, the symptoms are different. In later stages, infected dragons' scales glow in the dark, as do the plants that sprout from their decomposing body after they die.
Cases have not yet been found in SandWings. Their habitat is not suitable for any species of this parasite.
RainWings lose their color change ability in patches, green or white spots growing on their scales until theyre covered. At the last stage, they typically hang from trees by their tails. The plant's branches hang down like vines, and any dragon who walks through the curtain of green is likely doomed.
A SeaWing slowly gets covered in algae. At last, they climb onto the beach and die, and the flowers bloom.
In IceWings, it is rare, but possible. The plant stays deep inside, to avoid the cold of the dragon's habitat. The dragon's limbs become paralyzed one by one, beginning with the wings. Sometimes, in the far north, the plant can freeze and be killed before it kills the dragon, leaving them partially paralyzed; but in the lower arctic tundras, in the summer, it will sprout and kill them.
In HiveWings, it's a lot like ant fungus. They act strange, expressing no emotion or reaction to those around them. Their connection to the othermind is severed; the only plant that controls their mind now is the disease. More often than not, they are executed before the plant can grow, but if they aren't, they will find a high place and then freeze like a statue until the sprout bursts out of the neck, throat, skull, eyes, of their still-standing corpse.
It's the same in SilkWings. Metamorphized Silks are typically immune, but larvae are not.
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lanitaminaj · 1 year
Text
“seen any boys, miks?”
they’re on eren’s porch, the boy holding a cigarette between his right hand’s fingers as his left hand’s fingers gently stroked through mikasa’s short, dark-toned hair. the girl’s head rested on eren’s rugged thigh, mikasa really having no choice in the matter as she obeyed eren’s simple command of come here, mika. i wanna play with your hair.
“what do you mean?” mikasa absentmindedly questioned eren’s words. her willowy, pale-toned fingers toyed with a loose thread from eren’s black cargo pants, distracting the girl from what the boy above her had to say.
“any boys called you pretty?” his clarifying words uttered.
“no,” mikasa austerely responded. her nose was suddenly met with the sudden scent of burnt ash. without looking up, mikasa was cognizant that eren had taken another pull from his cigarette. “even if any had,” the girl began, her voice flowing with an indifferent tone. “why would you care?”
eren’s tough, lengthy fingers gripped slightly tighter on mikasa’s locks.
“it’s my job to care,” he huffed, taking another puff from his cig. “you filled out this summer. i’m just worried other boys are gonna take advantage of you.”
“they’re not,” mikasa replied rather solemnly. “boys don’t notice me, so you have nothing to worry about.”
his hold on her loosened. “good,” he purred. “you don’t even need to be talking to boys, miks. the way they think about girls, god, i don’t want you getting yourself in trouble with them.”
“i know,” mikasa finds herself replying. “you tell me this all the time, eren.”
“shh,” eren hummed, his fingers returning to petting mikasa’s coiffure. “i’ll keep reminding you as long as i want.”
they grew quiet, the sounds of songbirds chirping and the rubber tires of the occasional car crunching against the graveled road filled the tranquil ambiance of the young adults.
mikasa grew drowsy, her flushed cheek rubbed against the rigid material of eren’s cargos while her eyes began to shut blissfully because of the boy’s careful caress on her.
abruptly, mikasa recalled a piece of information that had occurred just hours earlier.
“hey, eren,” she slurred, her state the result of relaxed sluggishness. “i have a party tonight. i mean, i got invited to a party. for tonight.”
“oh, yeah?” his timbre low and playful. “who’s party, baby?”
mikasa, who was too out of it to notice the affectionate nickname, lucidly answered eren with a name. “reiner braun’s.”
the girl found herself being jolted awake, a sharp pain emerging from her scalp caused mikasa to squeal.
“eren!” she shrieked, her head forcefully lifted off the boy’s comfortable lap. eren’s grip on her hair made mikasa meet his eyes, his hardened, vexed stare connected with her pain-induced squinting eyes.
“are you fucking joking?” eren growled, his sharp, gritting teeth peeked through his uneven, plump lips as he demonstrated his indignation. “you’re not going to that fucking party.”
“that’s not fair,” mikasa whined, finding some courage to voice her chagrin as she looked eren in his eyes. “you kept me cooped up in the house all summer, eren. i’m eighteen, and it’s still hot out. if i wanna go out, i’ll go out.”
eren’s gaze softened, his clutch on mikasa’s hair loosened just a bit.
“miks,” he began, his smooth voice rolling off his tongue like sweet honey. “oh, miks, you just don’t get it.”
“what?” mikasa questioned gently, her head cocked and her dark eyebrows furrowed at the sudden sweetness that oozed from the boy.
“boys like… braun,” he began, his right hand’s fingers flicking his cigarette away as he pushed back some of mikasa’s tresses that settled on her reddened cheeks. “they’ll see pretty girls like you and just, lose control. i don’t want you getting hurt, mika. do you want something bad to happen to you?”
“no,” mikasa obediently replied, her bottom lip sticking out as she softly shook her head.
“do you want me to be worried sick about you all night, miks? wondering if you’re okay or if he hurt you?”
“no, eren.”
“so you won’t go to that party, baby?”
“no, no i’ll stay home.”
eren smiled, his delicate eyes twinkling as his nose widened because of his smile. only a corner of his lips were raised, a smirk ever so smartly presented on his beautiful, benevolent face. but if anyone knew eren, just enough to where they could read him diligently, they would know that his smirk was anything but altruistic.
“good girl,” he praised, his fingers released mikasa’s hair as he allowed her head to rest on his lap once more. he gently combed through her silky locs, his throat humming as he lulled the girl to sleep.
“you don’t need to go anywhere,” he whispered, his grin blossoming as eren watched mikasa’s eyelids flutter shut under his doting care. “spend tonight with just me, baby. just you and me.”
“yes, eren,” mikasa mumbled, her vision obstructed by the sights of a violet-colored darkness underneath her eyelids. “just you and me.”
heavily inspired by closer by @lizhrs 💌⭐️
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ace-of-gay · 2 years
Note
Can you do another tony x little reader fic where the reader is sick?
Thanks
Warm outside, sick bubbas
Daddy tony stark x little regressed reader
Warnings: age regression, mentions of sippy cups, pacis, stuffies, being picked up, names like daddy, bub, dove, petal, uhbuh, etc., vomiting.
Pronouns used: none, suitable for all
No implications to race mentioned, suitable for all
1,247 words
Edited to the best of my ability
Tumblr media
《~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~》
Summer set in quick and you just weren’t ready, constantly having stayed inside whether or not you were regressed or not didn't help how you hoped, the heat getting to your head bearing everything unbelievably boring and numbingly warm.
Hanging out in the workshop was a slight calm to the storm brewing upon you.
Everyone could see you were out of it and fighting regressing for the sake of just wanting to be okay.
You had started making your way to the lab where tony was preoccupied with a mission setup, when you passed by Steve in the kitchen talking to Bucky, looking over at his shoulder to see you grumpy and uncomfortable
"Hey bub where you headed off to?"
All he got back was a grumble in return
Following behind you after dismissing the conversation with Bucky.
he was genuinely worried knowing you get grouchy when you don't regress and that tony was reluctantly preoccupied for the next couple hours he decided he would step in.
" i know he’s busy right now and that’s the last thing you want to hear but would you like to go for a walk to help ease your mind while you wait?"
Stopping and looking back you really didn't feel amazing but that didn't mean you would pass up fun time with uhbuh Steve, you nod and he takes your hand shooting a quick message to stark to let him know where you’re gonna be.
Steve and you leave the tower walking in the morning sun, it wasn't beating down just yet but that didn't stop him from packing extra water in your small backpack.
Eventually you find a little shop with fun and captivating knickknacks and trinkets galore, looking at toys and coloring books with a few items put in your basket including matching rings that would be wonderful as an unannounced gift for tony, Steve had bought you stickers, a new coloring book and markers.
He noticed you were getting tired and figured it’d me good to get you back to the tower, thinking stark should be done soon. And so your adventure embarked hand in slack hand.
The walk was exhausting and you were starting to feel unwell, you were sluggish and flushed, really not into much movement. even after drinking plenty of water, taking a break in a cool shaded area you still seemed really out of it so he decided no better option to carry you piggy back style back to the tower the remaining blocks.
By the time you got back to the tower you were very flush and dazed still fighting regression Steve took you straight to where he knew tony would be.
The moment you and Stevie got through the door you reached out to tony just wanting him to hold you, maybe he could make the neusea and pounding in your head go away, maybe he could make your chest feel less tight and stuffy.
"Oh kiddo what’s goin on? What happened?"
He questions as he takes you into his arms, taking the bag with a thank you as well.
You don’t respond, just dropping your head to his shoulder, finally finding a bit of peace in his hold, "C’mon petal you’ve gotta let me know or doctor daddy will prescribe tickles"
Not even pulling a giggle out of you, you must not be feeling well.
"You feeling ick petal?"
You nod against his shoulder burrowing your head into the crook of his neck practically asleep at this point.
He takes you to your shared room and making sure the air conditioning is on, a vomit bucket next to your side of the bed and he has you curled up in his arms
"Did you have fun with uhbuh steve?"
You look up from your hands with a grin, nodding, reaching out for the bag.
He hands it to you letting you show him what you got, pulling out the box with the matching rings and handing them to him, putting the rest of the stuff in the bag on the floor and curling up under the blanket on your side.
"Ohh look at these bub these are wonderful, we'll look at them even more when you’re feeling better" he states, pulling you up to cuddle into his side, my love you must really not be feeling well, you feel extra warm to the touch. You nod into his chest, your head feeling stuffed and dull, like someone is trying to open your skull like a geode, a throbbing spinning pain that all you wish to do is ignore it, the sound of the show on the tv too invasive and the feeling of the heat against you skin burning under a fresh layer of cool from the air conditioner.
Your daddy’s left hand holding you close and his right rubbing patterns between your shoulders lulling you into a dreamless sleep.
A sleep that lasted but 45 minutes, before your stomach turned and lurched in a matter of seconds, your eyes barely open when you reach out for the vomit bucket, retching until your stomach deems that it is done expelling bile. Tony brushing the stray hairs and sweat from your forehead and rubbing your back, when you stop he takes the bucket to the bathroom emptying it, returning it to its place and grabbing a cold sippy of water from the mini fridge in the room.
"Oh my dove you’re okay, I’ve got you" tears falling down your heated cheeks cooling valleys into your delicate skin.
"Dun ike it, ake it stop" you whine out latching onto your daddy sobbing into his chest, all he can do is hold you as he feels useless not being able to make you feel better.
After a few minutes you finally calm down pulling away letting him ease you to drinking the water and letting you settle in his arms listening to his arc reactor send pulses through itself. Taking the sippy and setting it aside, he wipes your tears away kissing your forehead and giving you your paci, soothing you back to sleep, your mind and body encased in the feeling of his chest rising and falling.
In all honesty not only did things like this help you when you’re little but they also help him catch up on well needed sleep.
You wake to your daddy fully asleep arms tightly wrapped around your waist, a strike of peace you rarely see on his face. Wriggling out of his hold you grab the stickers and colors from the bag and your comfort stuffy from the bed, going over to the mat on the floor with all your little stuff, a small coffee table the perfect height to sit on the floor and reach to color and play with the stickers, decorating the table along with your journal, your stuffy watching you make chaos without realizing your daddy sat up watching you have a blast undisturbed giggles and coos of joy.
Your stuffy falls over and your daddy pucks you up setting you on his hip and dancing you around, "looks like my baby feels better hm? You nod in agreement.
The rest of your day continues as if you were never sick, maybe it was the heat, maybe it had been how long it was since you were little, or possibly even how much you missed your daddy but alas you feel much better and that’s all that matters.
《~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~》
Thank you so much for your request!! And a reminder to all who want to request something from me, i have no limits on how many times yall can request storys
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onewmin · 9 months
Text
the perfume on the shelf. pt. 9 | bangchan
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Pairings: Bang Chan x Fem!reader, Kim Yugyeom x Fem!reader
Summary: Falling in love with your best friend was never a part of the plan. So you end it up. But does he want to put a stop to it, too?
Warnings: AU, awkward friends to lovers (flashback), a description of a kiss, a super-overused cliché (you’ll know when you see it), profanity, slightly violent behaviour by Chan, a lot of awkwardness, Chan doesn’t seem to see that he’s the problem, typos
Author’s note: hope you enjoy the chapter!! Let me know what you think <3
Disclaimer: the names and appearances of real people are used for inspiration and writing purposes only. I do not claim anything, everything belongs to its owners.
Part 8 | Part 10
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“Come on, Yugyeom, come on!”
You screamed at the top of your lungs, wind roughly hitting your face as you were pedaling your bicycle at a crazy speed. The clouds abruptly turned dark grey, making the two of you ending the picnic on the meadow and ride your bikes back to your respective country houses. A short summer weekend to the country that your parents had organized was supposed to be all outdoors, hanging out under the sun experience; however, the weather had other plans for all of you.
Your mom was calling you non-stop, demanding the two of you you came back home before the rain started. Yugyeom’s parents weren’t that concerned, having texted him to get back home safely only. Yours, on the flip side, your mom especially, had already scolded you about you getting soaked and getting sick before the rain actually started. So that’s why, Yugyeom and his slow bike pedaling made your blood boil. You were not supposed to get even more berated at because your friend was super sluggish!
You hit the brakes as soon as you saw the cottages on the hill. It would only take around fifteen minutes to get back home, so you really needed to rush even harder.
“We really need to speed up-“, as you turned around, saying the words, there was no Yugyeom. He was far away, standing on the side of the road, taking pictures of the thunderclouds on his phone.
“Are you kidding me?” You hissed as you hopped on the bike again to aggressively ride to where he was standing. In that moment the fact that you went on that picnic was to create a super romantic atmosphere to finally confess your feelings to him — the feelings you, what seemed, had been carrying in your heart since you were eleven — this fact had completely escaped your head. The only thought circling around inside your brain was how much you wanted that idiot to be scolded by your parents for being irresponsible and having his head so far up his ass-
“What the hell are you doing?” You jumped off your bike, leaving it on the ground on that empty country road the two of you had chosen for your rides when you were ten. “It’s goin’ to rain soon, we have to get back home!”
“Look how beautiful it is”. He pointed somewhere, but you didn’t pay attention; you were looking at him watching the sky. Yeah, he was extremely pretty, you’d noticed it a long time ago. And while he was gawking at the grey clouds, you were examining the moles on his face — especially the one under his eye. You felt that absorbing urge to pepper kisses all over his stupid handsome face, but gulped and turned to follow his directions instead.
The sky was painted in dark colors as the bluish and grayish shades were mixed, clouds turning purple, when they unhurriedly moved to the two of you. You’d never seen a view like that; mesmerized as you were, you couldn’t take your eyes off the sky.
“It’s really pretty”, you breathed out, eyes glued to incredible scenery. In front of you was another meadow, and the green grass looked almost grey under the darkly-colored sky.
“Y’know what else is pretty?” You heard Yugyeom saying quietly.
“What?”
“You”. His voice came out as a whisper, but you heard him; turning your head to look at him, your hand immediately reached to your neck to start scratching it nervously.
“Wh-what?” You stammered.
“You”. Yugyeom never stammered as much as you did. “You’re so pretty, I-I-”. Oh shit, did he stutter? Holy crap. “I just can’t think of anything else, you’re always on my mind”. He paused to take a deep breath.
Did your everlasting crush just confessed his feeling to you? Wha-a-a-t? “I only, uh”, he scratched the back of his head, still looking at you, “I was waiting for the right moment to kiss you today”. Your heart skipped a beat.
“Maybe…” You uttered, fingers tugging at your earlobe. “Maybe you could do it now…” You turned away, having no ability to bear looking at him. You were chewing on your bottom lip, eyes fixated on the clouds while the sky was playing its thunderous symphony.
In a swift moment your hands were in his as Yugyeom interlocked your fingers. Your heart was drumming inside of your chest the same way the thunder was blasting its favourite song. And Yugyeom, ever so stoic and never nervous, blabbered about his sweaty palms and how it was supposed to make you uncomfortable. What an idiot.
You smiled. Never in a million years you’d think Kim Yugyeom, the dream of half of the girls in your year, would awkwardly mumble in front of you, his childhood friend.
He unlocked your fingers, his hands hesitantly landing on your shoulders. “I don’t really… I don’t know how to it”.
“Me neither”.
His eyebrows rose and he glanced at you as if you’d told him you were secretly a royalty. “You… don’t?”
You lifted an eyebrow. “How would I know?”
“Well, uh…” He gulped. “You… I’ve never thought… I thought… Oh god”, he sighed, “whatever”.
With that being said, he cupped your checks, leaning in close. Warmth blossomed inside your chest as roses in the garden did every spring. Your lips brushed together, tentatively, as you felt his hot breath on your face. Yugyeom’s eyes were already closed, and you squeeze shut yours. The smell of his almond shampoo was dizzying, and you tugged on his arms, just to keep yourself from falling. His lips were warm, almost pillowy against yours, so soft you could drown in that mere touch. Yugyeom’s bottom lip was caught in between yours, and you finally responded to a kiss, timidly repeating his movements to taste the strawberry flavour of the chapstick he had applied earlier.
It was too sloppy and open-mouthed for your liking now, but for the eighteen year old you that was a perfect first kiss.
The drops of rain hit your head abruptly, adding more water in your already wet kiss. And as the two of you pulled away simultaneously, your eyes opened only to see him breathing heavily, his eyes still closed. The rain had wetted his hair quickly, and his face was glistening under the grey sunset. And when he finally opened his eyes to look at you…
The both of you grinned at each other. Yugyeom ran his hands through your damp hair and smiled again. “I liked kissing you more than I imagined I would”.
You bit your lip. “I didn’t think you, uh… I didn’t think you noticed me in… In this way”.
He sighed. Having brushed off the strand of hair behind your ear, Yugyeom quickly pecked your forehead. “I notice you. All the time”.
A smile stretched across your lips as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, tiptoeing, to brush your nose over his. To say your heart was ready to jump out of your chest would have been an understatement.
If eighteen year old you only had known that saying goodbye to him would be like a repetitive torture made by thousand cuts from sharp daggers, she would have beaten you up for moving on from him in the first place. But now, looking at him eight years later, you could still catch a glimpse of that boy you fell in love with, however… He was different. Yugyeom radiated confidence even more than he used to, being able to withhold conversation with everybody in the room; only his smile was a bit more simper than you remembered it to be.
“So?” Eunjoo showed up in front of you as if she hadn’t done anything weird several minutes ago.
“You totally failed as a matchmaker, Eunjoo”, you sipped on the drink in your hands. “I’m honestly embarrassed for you”.
She smacked your shoulder angrily. “I can’t stand you”. She crossed her arms at the chest and huffed. “How long are you going to cry over Chan? Your entire life?”
“It’s been only two months”. You reasoned. “Or, was I supposed to move on immediately after we broke up?”
“Not immediately”, she agreed, “but…”
“But what?”
“You’re not supposed to suffer forever”.
“Eunjoo”, you put your hand on her shoulder, “it’s been two months. Let me suffer through it”.
She sighed, but nodded. “So…” She continued. “It didn’t go well with Yugyeom then?”
You let out a deep breath, hands covering your entire face. “You’re unbearable”, you mumbled. “Can we, please”, you looked at her again, “talk ‘bout somethin’ besides my ex-boyfriends?”
Eunjoo lifted her hands. “Alright. But just so you know”, she took you by the arm, “I’m just trying to lift you up”.
“This is your strategy, not mine”, you said, as the two of you were walking towards the tables. “Y’know, running back to an ex after a tough break up”.
She smacked your shoulder again. “Ouch!”
“Shut up”, she hissed. “My strategy worked”.
“For who? For you piece of shit ex? Or for Jeong, who didn’t even care?”
She said your name through gritted teeth, what was a total contrast with a smile she was faking. “One more word”, Eunjoo almost spat, “and I will kill you”.
You huffed, but didn’t respond — sometimes Eunjoo was too serious to take her threats lightly. Besides, you were enjoying this fun bickering with her in the last couple of weeks.
As you were seated to finally have a meal, your eyes couldn’t help but wander to where Yugyeom was sitting; to you, it was this soft golden light around him, making him look even more angelic than you remembered. Once, when Chan asked what was so special about Yugyeom, you even thought that you made him up, that you romanticized your first love too much for it to be actually the way you remembered. But you didn’t. Yugyeom was real, and his love, as free as running through the meadow on a sunny day, just to have the wind gently hug you with every step you took, — his love was the realest thing in your life.
Loving Chan had never felt as gratuitous; it was always filled with your tears, everlasting chest ache for someone who could never be yours as much as you were his. As a matter of fact, you even felt a bit happier it was all over now.
You didn’t have to pretend around him anymore, you didn’t have to hide your feelings, to suppress them to the point where you almost became numb. Your heart was broken; almost every night you were going to bed and overthinking every little thing you did. The tears you showed only to your cat felt harder than rain, however, they weren’t draining anymore — they were liberating.
Yugyeom raised an eyebrow, noticing your fixated gaze on him; you slightly nodded and turned away, feeling the embarrassment creep up your cheeks. Hopefully, he wouldn’t think too much of it — otherwise, it would be too difficult to explain what you’d been thinking about.
Your mind always came back to Chan, no matter how hard you tried to mute even the slightest memory of him, your mind conjured up every shared moment with him possible. However, what’s more important was the other point that bothered you: was Chan thinking about you as much as your thoughts were wrapped around his silhouette in your life? Was he also crying himself to sleep throughout these months, listening to the midnight radio program just to rock himself to sleep? Was he obsessing over every little detail of your relationship during his therapy sessions?
Of course, he wasn’t. He resisted therapy while being with you, so he wouldn’t be a dedicated patient now either. Probably he was too engrossed in his own thing, writing music and doing whatever assholes do. Incidentally, Minho tried to tell you something about Chan, but you refused to listen; you were glad, truly glad they were slowly building up their friendship once again, but you didn’t want to know Chan’s whereabouts. When your previous boyfriend broke up with you, scrolling through his social media hundredth of times a day didn’t really contribute to your healing — quite on the contrary.
Your thoughts were flowing through your head concurrently with giving toasts and people declaring their love to Youngjae, his loud laughs at whatever joke made and Eunjoo’s so-called ‘discrete’ texting under the table. No matter how much your never ending thinking consumed you, no little detail ever left your vision.
A couple of hours had passed before Youngjae started persuading everyone to continue his birthday party at a karaoke bar. He was rather tipsy to make good decisions, nevertheless, everyone agreed to it. Everyone, except for your best friend.
“Are you kiddin’ me?” You took her by the arm as she led the two of you to the exit. The other guests followed shortly after.
“What?”
“You’re leaving Youngjae’s birthday party to go and hang out with Minho?” You couldn’t believe your ears! Always well-composed and strict, now Eunjoo was being like that? What’s next? She’d start using contractions in her speech all the time?
“It’s not like that”, she responded quietly, “I’ve had a horrible headache for the whole day, you know it”. You nodded frantically; she was texting you all day, complaining that her migraines seemed to be back again. But it wasn’t a reasonable excuse for…. For this whole Lee Know thing. “Minho’s just… Offered me a ride home”.
“Really?” You raised an eyebrow. “You could’ve asked me”.
“You’re drunk”.
You stopped abruptly. “No”, she looked at you in disbelief, “I didn’t have a drop of alcohol tonight. Even if I was drunk”, she took you by the arm, “you could still ask for a ride. Just, y’know, to be polite.
As the two of you stopped at the parking lot, waiting for Eunjoo’s ‘ride’, Youngjae and Yugyeom — of course — had caught up with you.
“You sure you don’t wanna go?” Youngjae held his cousin by the shoulders as she shook her head.
“My head will explode if I do, Youngjae”. He nodded to her words, also knowing about her history with migraines. And as they engaged in the conversation, you and Yugyeom awkwardly stood next to each other.
“Are you comin’?” His question was the first one to cut through the silence. And you glanced over at him to see he was looking back at you.
You shrugged your shoulders. “Yeah, I guess”.
“Cool”. He nodded. Some more seconds passed in silence. “You’re also callin’ a cab?”
You shook your head. “No, I’m drivin’ there myself”.
“Cool”. He nodded again. Oh dear lord, it had never been this awkward when you were teenagers.
“How’s your job?” Yeah, no matter how uncomfortable it was, you still had this urge to speak to him. You really had no idea where it was coming from.
“It’s good”, he replied, hands in the pockets of his pants. The way he was stepping from heel to toe, looking like an absolute idiot, reminded you of the same circumstances many years ago, when Yugyeom, doing the same thing as of now, confessed his love to you in the park alley. A sunny day as the two of you were walking from school to your respective tutors, sweaty palms interwoven. Life was so much easier back then.
“I like it much more than my previous one”, Yugyeom continued, “the, uh, position is better”.
“And the money?”
He let out a breathy chuckle at your shameless comment. “Always the materialistic”. You huffed. “Yeah, the money’s better too. Can afford not having a bunch of roommates now”.
“Cool”. You responded with a small smile.
“What about your job?”
“There’s nothing about it”, you looked at him, “it’s boring. Drains the life out of you”.
Yugyeom rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh, was surprised to find out you weren’t working… Somewhere as a writer”.
You snorted at his comment. “Yeah, it was out of the question since the publishing agency rejected me”.
“How many?”
“What?”
“How many publishers rejected you?”
Ouch. Yugyeom definitely knew what wound he should get bleeding again with the right pressure. He knew you too well, even after all these years, to realize that you didn’t pursue your dream with enough ferocity. Like you should have.
You were silent for a moment, but still uttered an answer, even though Yugyeom already knew what your next words were going to be. “One”.
He took a deep breath and let out a loud exhale. “Why didn’t you move onto the next agency?”
A hard question like this required a simple answer, but the reply was even more fucked up. Two years after your graduation you were working as a secretary at a publishing agency, had just gotten on a hook of a emotionally abusive relationship and, at last, your heart was actively aching from the breakup with Yugyeom himself. You never told him, but one of his last visits to Seoul, when the two of you spent the night together for the last time, was right the day before your meeting with your boss about the book you were going to present to him. Needless to say, the rejection and Yugyeom leaving again made you feel absolutely devastated. Being shaken to the core as it was too much for you to handle another criticism and rejection, you shut down the chase completely. You were not going make it as a writer, and you were the one person responsible for ruining that dream of yours.
But explaining all this to Yugyeom was a waste of time — or, as usual, you had projected that idea onto him yourself.
“I’m givin’ up easily”, you simply said, “you know that”.
Yugyeom shook his head, not really taking your answer as an absolute truth. Yes, you had a tendency to give up whenever it was getting too difficult, but this time he couldn’t believe it was that easy. “That’s not it. But”, he ran his hands through his locks, “it’s not my place to give you a lecture”, like I used to, he almost added.
“Like you used to?”
His eyes went wide for a moment as you pointed out the exact thought running through his head. “C’mon, Yugyeom”, your speech pursued, “it’s not like we can’t laugh while talking about… past”.
“We sure can”, he let out a chuckle, looking you up and down unwittingly. Nothing had drawn his attention, until… Until his eyes caught the glint of gold on your neck. A familiar stinging pang in his chest came back as if it had never left, making his steady heartbeat turned into erratic. Having his breath hitched somewhere in his lungs, Yugyeom cleared his throat and looked away for a moment to come back to his senses. It’s just a necklace, it doesn’t mean anything. It certainly doesn’t mean she also… No, it doesn’t make sense. It’s just an accessory, not… Not something important.
“Nice necklace, by the way”, he noticed.
You smiled and adjusted the chain on your neck. “Thanks. It’s a gift from an old friend”.
The inner skeptic Yugyeom had to deal with his entire life was baffled at that; a gift from an old friend? Alright then, maybe there’s a slight chance she also hoped for the two of you to get back together. He’ll see.
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“What?”
Chan shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his chair. “I think it’s a good idea”.
Jisung let out a deep sigh, putting his hands on his hips. He shook his head. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah”.
Han plopped on the couch oppositely him and rubbed his eyes. The last three months were a nightmare to him, starting with the accident and ending with Chan informing him about his supposed departure. “Why did I agree to manage him in the first place?”
“Didn’t you even consider to discuss it with me first? Before you made any decisions”.
Chan took a deep breath. “I don’t see the point”.
This… fucking guy. “Is it.. is it because of-“
Chris slammed his hand on the table as he jumped from his seat. “No!” He close his eyes for a moment to take a deep breath again. “No”, he continued in a more calm manner, “it’s not about that. My life doesn’t revolve around her, just so you know, Jisung”.
Huh? It’s not what it looked like for the past bajillion of years. “Then what is it?”
“An opportunity of professional growth, if you will”. Chan crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “Felix persuaded me to come and work with him”.
“Can’t he come here?”
“Han”, Chris stretched his arms and sat back on the chair, “I need this. Besides, I haven’t been in Melbourne for, like, forever. It’s my hometown, after all”.
Jisung let out a deep sigh. “I get it, Chan”. He pinched the bridge of his nose and, smacking his thighs with the palms of his hands, stood up. “I’ll walk the executives through it, but it’s highly likely they demand two comebacks a year, at the very least. Doesn’t matter where you live”.
Chan nodded. “I understand. Me and Felix will work on that”.
“And I’m comin’ with you”, Jisung added when he was already at the door, “don’t want another manager get this”, he pointed at Chan, “huge money machine to themselves”.
Chris laughed; Han was more than a manager — he was his friend. However, to admit to any soft feelings towards each other would be a straight violation of ‘tough male persona’ they both used around one another.
As Jisung left, Chan was alone again, his phone in his hands immediately. The past month went on as a never-ending festival, while Chan was wasting his money on partying and alcohol, just to avoid thinking about the elephant in the room. A new girl every night, him not remembering their faces, but only dreaming of her all the time. If he kept his eyes closed while kissing them, fucking them, falling asleep beside them, they all looked just like her. Never had Chan ever experienced something of the sort; none of his ex-girlfriends had left such a huge hole in his heart. No one but you.
It would be an understatement to say Chan jumped at the opportunity to leave the country. Felix had been his long-time friend from the early trainee years, before he left and went to university, and Felix came back to Melbourne. Not only would he see his friend, but he would escape this city, where, no matter how many people were living, in every face on every street he would see you. The city screamed your name through the wind, flowery scents and lattes with banana syrup that was served in every freaking coffee shop in every freaking corner of this ridiculously large city. Chan hated the mere reminder of you, but he always ended up clinging to that small recollection of every little thing about you.
Because suffering in silence while thinking of you was easier than apologizing. Chris couldn’t admit his fault, still; to him, you should’ve been the first one to say sorry. He had already done enough, dedicated so much of his time to you, just to love you in silence, to go through your endless toxic boyfriends, to calm you down after Yugyeom broke your heart, to listen to you constantly just for him to turn out to be the bad guy in the end? Nope. Chris was not going to come crawling back to you, begging you to forgive him and taking back every word he said, even though he desperately wanted to.
Not to mention that he couldn’t monitor your social media, ‘cause you blocked him. After all these years and the friendship the two of your shared, that’s what you did? Blocked him?
So, he took it personally and blocked you too. However, it didn’t stop him from collecting the crumbs of your from anywhere he could. And the best place to do so was Eunjoo’s account. That was what Chris was going to do now as well.
Eunjoo didn’t post much, let alone something truly personal. She’d have flowers, her dog, her family occasionally, you a couple of times — and that was it-
“Oh”, Chris almost gasped. From what he had collected about your best friend was that she wasn’t an active user of social platforms, but she had just posted something after almost six months of nothing.
The first picture was her and her cousin, Choi Youngjae, the radio host Chan had encountered multiple times; the second picture… He noticed you almost immediately.
“She got a haircut?” He mumbled, zooming in the photo. Yup, looked like you did; Chan almost moaned at the thought of running his hands through the strands of your hair. Had he not treated you as shitty as he did, perhaps, that’s what he would be doing at the moment.
And Chan would’ve locked his phone and continue his everlasting pining if he had not seen one thing, one person specifically. On the opposite side of the picture, separated by around seven people, was Yugyeom. He was there too. The two of you were in the same room, at the same party, around the same people, and probably talked to each other. And what’s worse, you were wearing that damn necklace.
In a swift moment Chan violently threw his phone at the nearest wall, which almost immediately ended up in him running to pick up the mobile from the floor. The screen was broken to pieces, but, somehow, the poor phone was still running. And through the dozens of cracks Chan was still looking at that photo, when you were smiling in the same picture with your ultimate ex, being happy without Chris. He didn’t really consider you weren’t truly happy, as well as it never went through his head that you were suffering just as much, no; the only thing that was banging in his head like an annoying beat was you and Yugyeom in the same room.
How fast did you move on, huh?
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Taglist:
@heylookwhoitis @amaranth-writing @itstorimf @tenshimara @whyyougottadothatbro
Fic masterlist <3
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dianneking · 9 months
Text
Getting Mothered - a Sugar Mommy Boss Update
<- Previous Update - The start of the saga - Next Update ->
Today's really hot and humid. Generally speaking I do love the heat of summer, I can usually withstand it pretty well and feel alive in it.
Not today.
Today my blood pressure is as low as it gets, I am feeling already sluggish in the morning, and by the time midday rolls around it feels like I'm moving around in thick syrup.
"Are you alright?" asks the boss lady. I nod. There's still a lot to do, and I've already drank water and ate a snack, not much else I can do. I'm in energy-saving mode and even talking needs to be rationed.
(I did not, in fact, fall asleep - no way I’d be able to relax enough for that - but that was a very kind thought. Also, she did not pounce me when she had the golden occasion to. That was also nice.)
By the time we finish all the work for the morning, I feel like my head is completely empty of thought.
"Do you want to go home for lunch?" She asks, and I shake my head stupidly. It's a 45 minute drive to my place, and the same to get back, and we've already finished late, there's no way it would fit into my lunch break without starting way too late in the afternoon. Also, even in my current state (and precisely because of that) I would not dare to put myself in the car. My reflexes are probably non-existent at the moment, thank you, brain fog.
Safety first and all of that. She looks at me. I blink back. She sighs.
"Come with me." I follow her to her door, and into her house. By now, I've been invited here enough times to be somewhat familiar with her kitchen. "Sit." I sit.
The cynical part of me tells me that if she were to try something right now, I'd probably not have the strength to do anything about it.
"Drink."
A bottle of electrolyte water hovers in front of my face. "Seriously. You should be able to take care of yourself by now. Aren't you from the plains? You should be used to even worse heat waves than what we get up here."
I shrug and chug down the drink as she clucks at me like a mother hen, not requiring real answers from me. Once I've finished it she already has another one ready for me. She putters around in the kitchen as I drink the second bottle more slowly, starting to feel the semblance of rational thought back in my brain.
"Can you stand without falling down like an overripe pear?"
"I'll manage"
"Go outside to sit on the covered terrace, it's nice and breezy even in the summer - but don't you dare faint on the way there"
"Duly noted"
She was right, the terrace is refreshingly swept by whatever airflow the mountains grant us today. She has a leather couch off to the side and when I sink into it it's the most heavenly spot I could dream of.
"Here. Eat up." She shoves a bowl of cut fruit into my hands, and sets a basket of bread nearby. "I'm going to catch up with emails. You stay here and recover."
"I can also..."
"Don't you even try that. Stay here. Eat. Rest."
I thank her, and she waves it away, already on the way back inside.
"Oh, and if you fall asleep, I'm not going to wake you up. Just give me a call when you wake up and we'll see about work."
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