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sweetsweetjellybean · 22 days

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Your crush on Eddie was better off a secret and a kiss that should never have happened leads you into a storm.

I wasn't happy with my first version of chapter 4. So I polished it up and added a little more dialog. Feel free to wait for the next chapter but if you'd like to read it, either as a refresher or for the very first time, please let me know what you think. XOXO-Jelly

Masterlist Listen to Fake Plastic Trees Here

What to expect: Second Chance Romance set in 2012 Chicago. Eddie and Steve are in their 30s. Fem!Reader is given a pet name from each of the guys. No other name mentioned. No use of Y/N. No physical description. Reader does have a bit of personality, as I find it nearly impossible to keep her blank for such a long fic. You may find yourself at times making choices that you wouldn't normally make, but I hope you can put that aside and enjoy the ride. Sensitive Content. 18+ Mentions of DV. Smut Guaranteed happy ending. This is my love letter to Eddie Munson.

WC: 11646 beta'd by @superblysubpar

A sharp chill nips at your cheeks as gusts of autumn wind blow through the amber-leafed trees surrounding Hawkins High's parking lot. You pick at the splintered wood of the picnic table beneath you, etched with initials and scribbles. The anguished croon of Placebo plays through your headphones, drowning out the sounds of the start of another school day. Shifting the pile of books on your lap, you steal a glance at where Eddie stands with his back to you a few yards away.

Lately, it’s like your best friend has purchased real estate in your brain. Daydreams resulting in hearts doodled in the margins of your notebooks a little too close to where you printed his name. His dark curls spill over the collar of his worn denim vest, shadowing the frayed edges of the Dio patch he had sown on last week. He's deep in conversation with Dan Shelter, a senior in the same class that Eddie would have been in if he hadn’t missed so much time after his mother passed. They both turn and look at you at the same time.

Eddie’s eyes narrow as his brows pull tighter into a frown. You push one of your headphones back, and the noise of everyday chatter and car engines bursts into your reality.

"You know your girlfriend is deeply weird, Munson," the spiky-haired jock says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket, not even trying to hide his distaste.

Girlfriend. You’ve both tried to stamp out that rumor—yet no matter who else you go out with, those sparks never last and pale in comparison to the steady flame you feel around Eddie. Would it really be so bad if it were true? The answer scares you more than you expect.

"She’s not my girl," Eddie retorts with a swift shake of his head, his voice edged with that familiar bite of annoyance. His foot scuffs against the asphalt, the white Reebok stark against the black jeans clinging to his narrow hips. An impatient sigh pulls the fabric of his Hellfire Club t-shirt tighter across his chest, outlining his lean frame. "You in or out?" His fingers snap near Dan's face, the sunlight catching on his silver rings, "I've got other places to be, and you're not my only customer."

"Sure, whatever," Dan grumbles, extending a hand with a few crumpled bills.

Eddie accepts the cash with an easy smirk, teasing the dime bag between thumb and forefinger, letting it sway like a pendulum. Dan’s hand hovers while he glances around for prying eyes, but Eddie lets the bag drop to the ground before he can take it.

"Oops," Eddie’s voice drips with feigned innocence before he pivots on his heel and walks away without a backward glance.

Dan’s face ignites with anger as he stoops for the bag, muttering a curse.

"Always a pleasure," Eddie calls over his shoulder, flashing a dismissive two-fingered salute. A gaggle of pink-cheeked girls from the sophomore class crosses his path, eyes trailing over him like he's their favorite song come to life.

"Ladies." He extends an arm, waving them on, his voice as smooth as a melody. They flutter past with giggles and heated glances. Despite their whispers of 'freak' in the corridors, they all vie for a chance to climb into the back of his van when no one is looking – to be the subject of the rumors they'd later deny.

He never hides his interest when he likes a girl — everybody knows when Eddie Munson is into someone. But he’s never looked at you that way, never given you that smile meant for those he desires. And that’s something that has never bothered you. Now, it stirs something else — a green thorny vine wrapping around your insides. He’s just Eddie – your friend. The same old Eddie, you reaffirm, even as your heart whispers lies of a different tune.

Without missing a beat, he saunters over, the rhythmic clink of his chain wallet punctuating each step. He leaps onto the picnic table, landing beside you with a thud, sending vibrations through the timeworn wood. His eyes linger on the girl's retreating forms.

"You need to be careful, Eddie," you warn, tipping your chin toward where Dan is stalking off in a dark cloud of annoyance.

"Careful is my middle name, doll." He smiles a big, sly grin, dimples deepening, causing a flutter in your chest, an unexplained sensation that's become strangely frequent these days.

He nods at your leg, eyes dropping to your thigh. "What’s this?" His dark lashes make half-moon shadows on his cheek as his thumb brushes over the square field of bright white crosses covering the denim patch on your jeans. A trail of tingles follows, unbidden and unwelcome. You disguise the shiver as a chill from the wind, even as you crave more of his touch.

"It’s called sashiko," you explain, hyper-aware of the warmth of his skin as the ghost of his touch lingers. "The art of visible mending."

"Looks cool." His gaze meets yours, a little too intense and a little too long. Your fingers clutch your notebooks tighter, a shield against whatever this feeling is.

"Are you coming over after school?" Your voice is steadier than you feel.

"I’ll drop you off, but I’ve got to go back to the trailer after," Eddie replies, his eyes still holding yours in a silent conversation you can't quite interpret. "I’ve got stuff to do." Something in his tone suggests layers you're not ready to peel back. "Not your kind of stuff."

The house where Eddie grew up doesn't look the same anymore. Someone else has moved in – keeping the lawn perfect and fixing up all the broken things, erasing any traces of tragedy. The neighborhood has moved on, absolving themselves like they hadn’t just turned their back and let it happen. As if it wasn't their problem. Eddie's staying on the other side of town now with his Uncle Wayne in a tiny one-bedroom trailer. Wayne's heart is in the right place, even if he drinks too much, just like Eddie's dad did. But he's not bad, just... lost when it comes to dealing with an angry teen, and with him working nights, Eddie's on his own to figure out how to deal with it all.

"I can keep you company?” You try to keep the offer casual despite the hump in your pulse.

He shakes his head, a shadow crossing his features. "Nah, I’ve got to stop at Rick's, then a run." There's a hardness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

You frown and look away, hiding your disappointment. "I don’t see what the big deal is," you argue, keeping your voice low, "We smoke together all the time."

"The big deal," he says, reaching out to lift your chin and forcing you to look at him. "Is that this is business, and I don’t want you involved. Alright?" His voice is firm, letting you know he won’t budge. "I’ll pick you up later," he promises. "Movie night. Just us."

The shrill ring of the bell is your cue to retreat, to put distance between you and these feelings threatening to upend everything. You nod at him, shoving your books into your bag. His gaze holds you for a heavy beat before breaking away. There's a shift in the air, a prelude to something you can't name, like the static before a storm. Eddie's last glance sears itself into your thoughts when you part ways at the door.

As you make your way to class, those feelings nag at you like a forgotten lyric. You hug your arms, trying to squeeze out the persistent ache that spreads through your limbs. It's a tangible pain, this longing, like a hand squeezing around your heart, making it hard to breathe.

But you push it all down, guarding it like a secret. To lock it away in the confines of your ribcage, where it can't taint the one thing you value most. The friendship you've built is too important, too rare to risk on a silly crush that might only live in your head and fade with time. It’s a gamble you won’t take. You can't lose him. You won’t watch that light in his eyes dim for you, awkward silences replacing the laughter. Without him, you’d be alone.

Cold gray days give way to dark, inky nights. The stars and moon are veiled behind thick cotton clouds, stealing the light earlier as fall edges closer to winter. Winds gust, sending wet leaves sticking to the glass of your office windows as the bare fingers of the boxwoods planted around the brownstone scratch against the house in protest.

Lowering the lid of your laptop, the light in the room dims as the brightness is trapped between the two halves. Your arms stretch over your head, loosening the tension in your neck as you push away from your desk, drifting towards the sounds of life from the living room. Steve’s long legs are stretched out on the chaise end of the couch, a Bulls game on the TV, but his attention is stuck on the laptop resting on his thighs.

“My eyes are going to fall out my head if I stare at that screen for any longer,” you declare, rounding the corner of the couch.

“Well, then, come stare at this screen instead.” He nods at the TV, extending his arm to make space for you to crawl onto the couch next to him and fit yourself into his side.

“You’re so warm.” You nuzzle into his chest, and his lips touch the top of your head. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“I’ll wake you up when it’s time for bed. I still have a few hours of work left,” he sighs, his finger sliding down the trackpad as he scrolls through a document that never seems to end.

“Is that for the launch?” Your eyes squint at the brightness of the screen.

He groans at the ping of another incoming email while toggling between the many windows he has open. “Yeah, we're in the final stretch. The event team is trying to finalize the details. Maroon 5 and Fallout Boy are locked in to perform, but we’re still waiting to hear back from a few other acts and about a million other details that need ironing out.”

“It’s going to be a great night, baby. Everyone will be so impressed,” you assure, the arm you have draped across his stomach tightening, trying to impress your words into him. “Everything is going to go smoothly, you’ll see.”

He scoffs, doubt clouding his voice. “I wish I had your confidence. The server's capacity is still a question mark, and we're racing to fix streaming delays. Fuck!” The heels of his hands press into his eyes. “All I need is this thing to fail at the last minute, especially with Richard and my dad watching.” He imitates his father's stern tone, “Typical. He’s always been a fuck up. Chokes right before the buzzer.” Letting his hands drop, his eyes turn to you. “I should have listened to you and not invited my parents. I actually never thought they would agree to come. Now I’m running around trying to get things ready for them too.”

“Hey,” you take one of his hands between yours, “That’s not going to happen, Steve. If the servers have issues or if there's a lag, it's just a hiccup. You've got a team to handle that. You've put in the work, and you're brilliant at what you do. Your parents will see that. Everyone will.”

He manages a smile, but it’s just a placation.

“What can I do to help?” You ask, “I’ll make sure we have some Pellegrino stocked and that cheese your parents like.”

There's a pause as he weighs his next words. “I’ve already called the housekeeper and told them to put fresh sheets in the guest room in case they decide to stay here, but I still need to make a reservation at the Four Seasons as a backup.”

Your jaw tightens, but you curb your annoyance at how John Harrington has everyone trained to cater to his high-maintenance whims, but this is for Steve’s peace of mind. “I’ll call first thing tomorrow. Consider it done. Anything else?”

He hesitates, a little apologetic. "My suit... the dry cleaner closes early tomorrow. I hate to ask, but I might not make it in time–"

“No problem. I’ll make time.”

His lips lift at the corners, and this time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I love you.” He leans forward, slotting his lip softly between yours. “I’ll put the ticket in your bag. Thanks for helping out, Ace.”

“I just have Eddie's interview tomorrow afternoon. I should have plenty of time." Standing, you tug at his hand. "Now, can we go to bed? Everything will look better after a good night's sleep.”

His mouth sets in a determined line as he shuts down his laptop, yielding to your pull as he rises. His hand finds a place on the small of your back, grounding you both as you climb the stairs together.

Hitching the strap of your messenger bag higher on your shoulder, you kick at a loose stone on the sidewalk in front of the brick building. Car horns blare in the distance as traffic rolls by in the busy neighborhood. The sun casts a glint off the steel CursedSound sign, its metal already weathering with a faint tinge of color. The heavy door is yanked open, its clank and whine making you jump.

"Hi," Eddie greets you with a soft tone from the other side of the threshold.

"Hi," you return, shyness adding a tremble to your voice that shouldn’t be there. His fingers grip the edge of the door, and light flashes off the Rolex peeking out from under the cuff of the plaid flannel he wears over a fitted v-neck and jeans, the fabric snug against his defined shoulders. It’s still a novelty to see how his slim build has filled in over the years. Part of you still expects the boy you knew instead of this man in front of you. He looks you over in the same way, like he’s trying to decide if you’re really there. Maybe it’s the differences he sees in you, too, or does he still see the lonely girl he once knew? You shift your gaze down the street, your toes curling inside your Converse as warmth climbs up your neck. "Are you going to let me in?"

"I don't know." He pretends to ponder, a smile forming, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Where's your hard hat?"

Tilting your head to the side, you purse your lips until he breaks into a chuckle. He swings the door open wider, welcoming you in. You pass him with a shake of your head and continue down the hall.

The lobby is in chaos.

"Sorry for the mess. The maid took the week off," he quips, watching you take in the space.

The brown paper has been removed from the windows, allowing bright light to stream through the streaked and dirty glass. All the furniture has been pushed toward the center of the room, and ladders and paint cans litter the floor space. A large mural wrapping around the windows and front entrance has been outlined but not completed. In the same graffiti style as the one upstairs, this one displays more cityscapes with waves of the lake breaking at the forefront. Winged skulls and guitars blend with colorful swirls of clouds rising toward the ceiling.

"It’s perfect," you tell him as your eyes follow the sweeping, colorful lines around the room. “Really beautiful.”

"Was that a compliment?" He asks, coming up behind you, his breath a warm whisper against your ear. "I thought it was a dump."

"Well, what can I say?” You spin around. “It’s growing on me." Your fingers move to your lips, concealing your smile as his deepens with your praise.

"You look really good." His low voice bounces off the empty walls, "I mean…your, uh, outfit is nice." He waves his hand toward you before wiping it on the front of his jeans.

Your brows raise as you glance down at the jeans and plain Lolla tee you put on this morning. None of the trendy outfits you usually wear for interviews seemed to fit right today.

"Wow, that was smooth," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don’t know why I’m so nervous."

The fluttering in your stomach matches his energy. “Maybe it’s because I’m going to get you to spill all your secrets and print them so the whole world can sit in judgment."

A choked sound comes from his throat as his eyes widen into saucers.

Unable to keep a straight face, you giggle. "Relax, Eddie. I already told you I’m not writing some hit piece. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Besides," you shrug, "It’s only me."

A sharp breath escapes as his shoulders lower. "Yeah, you’re right." He says, taking a step forward, his gaze locking with yours. "After all these years, it's still you.

"Eddie." His name comes out on a breathless sigh as you look away. The shield of anger between you is heavy and battered, and you aren’t sure how much longer you can hold it up. He takes another step forward, and you clear your throat. "Why don’t you show me what else you’ve done?"

He rakes a hand through his curls, "Of course." His lips tighten into a flat line as he gestures toward the stairs. "After you."

You lead the way to the second floor, where the smell of fresh paint permeates the air. A ladder leans against a half-painted wall, and orange extension cords crisscross the carpet in the hall, winding into the studios like work has been suddenly halted.

"Where is everyone?" You look around the abandoned space before stepping inside Studio A. It's come a long way since your last visit. The deck that holds the mixing board is ready, and the wiring is underway.

"I didn’t know how long you’d be here, so I told them to take the rest of the day off." His eyes follow the movements of your hand, brushing over knobs and sliders of the soundboard that's still sheathed in a protective layer of plastic.

"You didn’t have to do that," you say, walking back out into the hall.

"I didn’t think we needed the audience," he shrugs, walking along with you to the next room.

"I hope you don’t fall behind schedule." The walls of the small Studio B are covered with walnut slats to create an acoustic barrier while still keeping the room open, while the mixing room kept the original exposed brick.

"I’ve got time."

"Even so," you move to the window. The sun glints off the mirrored surface of the tall building across the street. "I’m sure you're eager to open. Put out that first album with the CursedSound logo in the liner notes."

"Of course I am." He comes to stand beside you, taking in the bustle of the city at midday. "It’s gonna be good to have nothin’ between me and the music. Let the artists be as creative as they want. Their management can deal with the corporate A&R people and leave me out of it."

"You never did like playing by the rules," you smile, catching his eyes in the reflection of the glass.

He turns his head, studying your profile. "Why should I?" he continues, his tone more determined, "The rules sure as hell never helped me. I'm gonna take my chances as I find them, even if I have to play a little dirty. I deserve happiness the same as the next guy."

"Of course you do." The world has done nothing but take from him.

"What about you?" He asks as you return to the hall. "The rules seemed to be treating you well."

You raise your shoulders with a warm smile gracing your lips, one you have no intention of concealing. "I love my job. I like the city, and…I have Steve."

"You ending up with Steve Harrington," his voice curls around the name, a sneer you can almost see, "I gotta admit, I didn't see that one coming."

Stopping, you pivot to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. "He's a good guy, Eddie."

He sighs in a short, almost defeated breath. "I know he is, doll."

The unmarked door at the end of the hall provides a convenient distraction. "Where does this go?" You wonder with your hand closing over the knob.

"My apartment."

"You're living here?" You let it go like it burned you, swallowing the lump that has made a sudden appearance in your throat.

"Sure. Can't beat the commute." He reaches around you, turning the doorknob to reveal another flight of stairs. "Do you want to go up?"

Flashes of that day are more vivid than they should be for memories two years old. The closet carpet is soft under your fingers as wet tears rain down on the glossy pages. Steve's voice gets closer as he calls out your name. A tightness grips your chest as you attempt to step back, momentarily forgetting that Eddie's right behind you. He supports you with a steadying hand on your hip as he faces you, seeking your reaction.

"No, that's okay. I think we're fine down here. I wouldn't want to disturb anyone," you say, attempting to sound confident as you wipe your palms along the sides of your jeans.

Eddie scratches the side of his head as his brow wrinkles. "Who do you think it up there?"

A hot breath passes your lips as you turn away, walking back down the hall toward Studio C. "I don’t know," you call over your shoulder, too chicken to face him. "Skyler Simmons. Rock royalty. Media darling. According to the magazines, your long-time girlfriend. The one you own a house with. Ring any bells? Isn’t she here with you?"

"My what? Skyler Simmons?" The deep belly laugh that follows has you spinning on your heels to face him.

"Wait. You’re serious?" His dimples make an appearance as his smile deepens. "Me and Skyler?" He can barely get her name out without chuckling.

"The one you’re photographed with constantly."

His brows shoot up. "Keeping tabs on me?"

"Oh, don’t flatter yourself," you huff. "It came up in my research. Do you have a relationship with her or not?"

"I know her," he offers, shaking his head, "She’s a friend. We go to the same group."

"What group? The one for annoying assholes."

He pauses, his arms crossing over his chest. "The one for people with addiction in their families. That okay with you?" His voice escalates. The simmering anger in his eyes mirrors the intensity of his tone. "Skyler is gay. Her girlfriend's usually hanging around, too. Does that mean I’m fucking her too? Jesus."

Frigid water clashes with your hot blood as the fight drains away. Glancing at your feet, your voice diminishes to barely more than a whisper. "Why hasn't she come out in the media?"

"Maybe because it’s none of anybody's fucking business." His piercing gaze bores into you as the sharp words land like heavy stones in the sour pit in your stomach. "Hold on," he waves a hand in front of you, "Why do you even care?"

"I don’t," your voice falters as the dishonest answer leaves you without hesitation. Your eyes trace the patterns on the floor. "It just makes for a better story, is all."

His hands run through his hair, fingers tugging on the ends as his tone softens. "Doll," he pauses, taking a deliberate step closer. His warm fingers cup your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his. Those amber swirls, always seeing beyond your surface. "No one else is in my apartment, and no one else is gonna be."

His touch sends a searing heat spreading through your skin as the weight of your engagement ring pulls on your finger. "You’re a grown man, Eddie. Do whatever you want." Stepping back, his hand falls from your face as you turn and enter the studio.

"Fucking stubborn," the low murmur carries under his breath as he follows you inside.

"It looks like this one’s almost finished." You spin around the room, taking in the progress, before letting your bag slide down your shoulder and sinking onto the couch.

Gray triangles of acoustic foam now adorn the live room walls in contrasting patterns, and layers of soft carpeting line the floor. The mixing room's mural stands completed, and the furniture has all been placed.

His eyes move around the room, the pride evident on his face. "Just some wiring and the vocal booth, and I’ll be ready to start setting the levels."

"This one’s your favorite, I can tell," you shift, tucking a leg under you as he joins you on the couch.

"Shhh," he hushes you, raising a finger to his lips. "The others will get jealous."

Rolling your eyes, you pull your phone from your bag, open the recording app, and set it between you both.

"How does this work?" Eddie's eyes are fixed on your phone while he rubs the back of his neck.

"Well, typically," your hand slips back into your bag to retrieve the neatly stapled pages of your notes, "I ask a question, and you provide the answer." You set the pages in your lap, drawing in a steadying breath. He’s sitting in front of you with a key to a locked door – one that might be best left closed and forgotten, but it’s time to hear him out.

"Eddie Munson interview, part one."

"Mr. Munson." You slip into your most professional tone. "Thank you for granting us an interview during this busy time. All of us at Stax are very excited to welcome CursedSound to Chicago."

He leans forward, his voice dropping slightly in timber as a much smoother, older Eddie begins to answer, "Thank you. I always have time for my favorite magazine." He winks.

Your lips press into a line as you tilt your head to the side, taking a quick glance at your packet. "In April 2003, Fever to Tell was released by a relatively new band and a completely unknown sound engineer. It went on to sell over a million copies, putting The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the name Eddie Munson on industry minds. Fever to Tell is still, to date, one of my favorite albums. Were you aware of the significant impact this record would have when you were working on it?"

"At the time, we were really just hopeful, you know? We believed in the music we were creating. Karen and Nick, and Brian flew out from New York with their last dime, and we just got to work. Karen had this kind of raw, untamed energy, and I wanted to capture that, to add an edge to the album. It was this post-punk dance-floor-friendly racket that injected a much-needed dose of authenticity into a musical era that was getting stagnant."

"It's not an exaggeration to say that record helped shape the direction of indie and alternative rock for years to come. But what I want to ask is you before all that. What was the road like moving from Hawkins to having your dreams come true in LA? Was this the path you first set out on, or were there curves in the road?"

"I think 'curves' is a generous term for the absolute shit choices I was making for myself back then," he chuckles. "As you know, I left Hawkins about a year after I graduated. That town had already decided I would never be anything more than a freak– a loser with no future. If I had stayed, that's exactly what would have happened. I was trying to outrun my past without a clue what I wanted for my future. I had my own band back then, and sometimes, we’d open for slightly bigger bands that rolled through town. One of them was about to tour and invited me to go as their one and only roadie, and it felt like a free ticket out."

"Bananafish," you interject, swallowing and glancing down at your notes.

"Yeah, Bananafish. God, they sucked. Did you know they started as a Spin Doctors tribute band?"

"No," you laugh, "And that wasn’t a red flag for you?"

"It should have been. I wasn’t with them for long anyway. I think I lasted for three weeks before they cut me loose for getting in a fight with the drummer." He pauses, shaking his head. "I never knew when to shut my mouth. At that point, they had hooked up with another band called Everly. Slightly better, but not by much. I managed to hold it together for a few months. I was high or drunk most of the time, the only reason they kept me around was because they liked the way I babied their instruments."

"I remember,” you nod. “You’d spend half an hour polishing that Warlock every day after school."

"Got to treat a lady right if you want her to sing for you," he says with a sly rise and fall of his brows, draping an arm over the back of the couch, shrinking the space between you.

"I was surprised that you left it behind."

Eddie's expression turns more solemn. "There were a lot of things I wished I could’ve taken with me. But back then, I couldn’t even take care of myself."

"I don’t believe that," you swallow, the words sticking in your throat, "You could have tried."

"If I had tried, they would’ve ended up broken, and I’d‘ve lost them anyway." His fingers brush your shoulder, and you flinch. The leather creaks as you sit back against the arm of the couch, just out of reach.

"Back to Everly. Why did you part ways?"

"Oh, well, I fucked it up, of course. They had landed a spot at Bonnaroo, and I got so fucked up the night before I missed sound check. When I managed to pick myself up off the floor of the van, they handed me my duffel and a twenty and told me to pound sand." His eyes drift away, fixating on a point across the room. "I had barely been outside of Indiana, and there I was, stuck on some farm in Manchester, Tennessee, with no ride, no money, and no one to call. I was angry at the world and never felt more alone. People always talk about hitting rock bottom, I thought that was it, but now that I look back, it was more of a crossroads. If I had followed that darker path, there would have been no coming back. I was wandering around backstage where they park buses, hungover, maybe still half in the bag, and that’s when I met Max."

"Max Navarro?" You shuffle through the pages of your notes.

"Yeah. You know him?" Eddie’s eyes brighten as his gaze drops to the pages in your lap.

Your head turns from side to side. "You referred to him as a mentor in the Stones interview, but I couldn’t find much on him besides his name being listed as an audio engineer for several tours."

"That’s Max." Eddie breaks into a smile. "He’d tell you he likes flying under the radar. He was hanging out in front of the bus playing guitar with a couple of guys when I walked over like a cocky shit, picked one up, and started playing. He gave me something to smoke, and it wasn’t weed. All I know is that I woke up face-down in the dirt the next morning. I don’t know if he liked me or just felt bad for me, but he dragged me on the bus and had me start assisting him with the sound for Faith No More."

"Faith No More? Are you kidding me?" Your hands fall to your lap, slapping against your thighs, jostling the cushion enough for your phone to slide toward the back of the couch. "You had their poster in your room. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you had a charmed life."

"Well, even the sun shines on a dog's ass some days," he laughs.

"So Max is who taught you about engineering?"

"Max is who taught me about everything." His voice holds a reverence when he says his name. "He kept an eye on me. Showed me how to work the boards. He said he could see shadows following me around, so when we got to LA, he took me out to the desert, fed me some tea, and exercised my demons."

"Did it work?" Max wasn't the only one to see shadows looming. Consequences of decisions made by others. Expectations of a community that turned its back. They clung to him like an impenetrable fog.

"I’m not sure. I felt lighter after, but it could have been the gallon of water I sweat out," he chuckles. "After that, he cashed in a favor and got me an internship with a small studio in Laurel Canyon. I parked cars at night and lived in a room the size of a closet at Max’s house. I worked my ass off. I went to therapy–"

"How very L.A. of you," you chime in.

"Don’t knock it until you try it." He looks at you from under raised brows. "It’s, uh, good to talk about things. Be open, you know?"

"No thanks. I tried that once," you tell him pointedly, the tightness in your chest returning, "It didn’t work out for me."

Your arrow hit the target. Regret flashes in his eyes. "Doll–"

"You decided to stay in L.A. and work at a studio instead of going back out on the road?"

"I like studio sessions. Makes me feel like I’m working towards something. I like completing an album and putting it out in the world. Some people thrive being out on tour, like Max. Not me," he scratches at his chin. "Too many ghosts on those old roads."

Like the ones back in Hawkins that jolt you awake in the dead of night, murmuring past shames of a lovesick and foolish girl. Robin had seen it, and so had the entire town, but you aren’t her any longer. She lies resting beneath the frigid earth, her memory an unmarked grave. You've moved forward, and you’ll never go back, the city drowns out the remains of her cries.

"So you stayed and built your life there," you conclude, flipping through the pages of your notes, ticking off the points from your outline.

Eddie leans back, a contemplative look on his face. "I guess you could say that. I got my own place, made some great friends. Sundays are for Max's family and Chile relleno. The weather is always beautiful. But I really stayed for the music,” he shrugs. “Have you been? I could take you some time. Show you around. Max would love to meet you, the girl I won’t shut up about. I think you’d like it there."

The girl he hasn’t bothered to call in a decade. "To Los Angeles?" Your gaze rises from your notes to meet his nodding response. "I've been a few times. With Steve. Mostly for work."

"Oh yeah. Makes sense." His jaw tightens, and he averts his gaze. "Well, I guess the rest is history. Is that enough for your story?"

"Yeah." You reach for your phone, tapping the red square to stop the recording. "It will be a great opening piece for the series." You pick up your messenger, hauling its weight into your lap, tucking your notes inside. The afternoon is ending on a flat note. A stone sits on your tongue, holding back questions that you lack the courage to ask, but maybe it’s better this way.

Eddie sits up suddenly, snapping his fingers. "Speaking of history, I want to show you something." He stands up, looking towards the door and back at you, "Um.. wait here, okay? I’ll just be a minute."

"Okay-"

He holds up flat palms. "Don’t go anywhere." His eyes close as he winces, " I mean, you can wander around if you want. Just don’t leave."

"Eddie-"

"I’ll be back." He holds up one finger as he exits the room.

With a sigh, you push up from your thighs, rising to your feet, walking through to the live room where a drum kit stands at the ready. The snare looks a little worn, and the symbols have lost their shine. Your nails tap the high hat, and you smile at the shimmering sound.

"What am I doing?" You whisper, spinning the gold band on your finger.

The sound of the floor creaking echoes through the hall. Eddie enters the room with the large box he's carrying obscuring his upper half. His name written in Wayne's shaky handwriting, peeking out from underneath his fingers.

"What's all this?" You ask as he sets down the box with a heave in the center of the room and sinks to his knees, hovering over the taped flaps.

"I have no idea," he grins mischievously. "Wayne gave it to me when I stopped by last week and told him I would see you. But you know him, he never throws stuff out. It could be anything." His hand smoothes over the top as he raises a brow. "Wanna find out?"

Your hands slide over your jean-covered thighs before your feet carry you forward. "Mrs. Click better not be in there."

His head tips back with laughter. "I make no promises," he jokes while you take a seat on the floor on the side of the box.

His mouth quirks up, watching you get comfortable. With a fluid motion, he leans and grabs a box cutter beside the soundboard. His shirt lifts slightly, offering a glimpse of hair trailing down his belly and the sculpted muscle beside his hips. His tongue lightly grazes his upper lip as he expertly flicks the knife open, his jeans snug on the contours of his strong thighs. Exhaling slowly, you avert your eyes, scanning the room instead as you wait for him to slice the tape.

"Score!" He pulls out the ragged-edged sheet that was folded and tucked into the top of the box. "Corroded Coffin," he reads aloud the words scrawled across it with something resembling shoe polish.

"Oh no," you laugh, your head turning side to side as you rock in your seat.

"Hey. This is rare band memorabilia. It’s probably worth money," he defends, holding it up proudly.

"Yeah, to the guy you have to pay to haul it away," you giggle.

"Alright, Alright," he folds it up, the smile never leaving his face as he reaches into the box. "These are yours." He pulls out a stack of comic books and hands them to you.

"Still in good shape." You thumb through the copies of Tank Girl and Witchblade.

"My campaigns." He pulls out a pile of notebooks and sets them aside before reaching back in. "Some CDs." He comes out with a hand wrapped around a stack of jewel cases, the one on top catching your eye.

"Hey, that’s my Cranberries Cd!" Your fingers dig into the carpet as you tip forward, yanking it from his hand. "I looked for this everywhere. I knew you took it, you thief."

"I don’t know how that got there," he scratches his head, "You must have left in the van."

"Nice try, Munson." your eyes narrow, "I checked there." You lean over the box, poking a finger into his chest, "I knew you had a crush on Dolores."

"You got me. It was the accent," he admits with a grin full of dimples, his hand closing around your finger.

"I’m keeping it." You drop back into your seat and pick up the case to examine the disc.

"Holy shit."

You raise your head to meet his wide chocolate eyes, a look of sheer delight written across his face. "Close your eyes," he instructs, pulling back the flaps of the box, hiding whatever he's found.

"Mrs. Click?" You set the CD on top of the comics.

"Better," he says excitedly, waving a hand toward your face. “Come on. Close your eyes."

"Fine." You leave one eye open, folding your hands in your lap.

"No peeking." He wags a finger.

Your lips purse as you close your other lid, waiting for the big reveal. Plastic clanks against something heavy, followed by the rustle of cardboard.

"Okay. Open."

"Daisy!" Your hands fly to your mouth before you reach out with wiggling fingers.

He winces as he hands over the two-foot garden gnome. "How can you call something so ugly a pretty name like that?"

Taking the heavy lawn ornament in both hands, you gaze down at her droopy hat and too-large ears, which stick straight out beside her bulging eyes and porcine nose. Her rubbery lips are pulled back in a smile, showing off her buck teeth and flowery dress that barely conceals her body.

"She's beautiful." You cradle her in your arms. "Besides, you're the one who stole her."

"You’re the one who dared me to," he scoffs.

Your cheeks already ache with an unrestrained smile as the memories from that night surface. "I didn’t think you were going to wake up the whole neighborhood crashing into the bushes in Mr. Lawson’s yard."

"I was drunk," he defends, his face turning red.

"You tripped over your feet and ripped your pants," you gasp for air, trying to get the words out with your laughter, "You had on those Garfield boxers with the hearts."

"Of course, you remember that." His laughter joins yours, easy and familiar. "You're the one that woke up the neighbors, making the van backfire."

"It was the first time I drove, and I didn’t have a license." You clutch Daisy tightly to your chest as you try to catch your breath. "Mr. Larson came out in his bathrobe, screaming about shooting you in the ass."

Eddie shakes his head as you laugh at his expense. "He almost caught us when you stalled out. All for that hideous thing."

"Shh," you cover her ears with your hands. "You can’t get rid of her."

"Never," he agrees, reaching out for her. "I’ll find her place of honor around here somewhere."

"Put her on your nightstand," you suggest, handing her over.

"Ugh," he says, setting her aside, "I’ll have nightmares."

You burst into laughter once more, and his eyes ignite. He smiles like he’s savoring every sound, like your happiness is a hard-earned treasure he's been longing for.

The shards of the past press against the scar tissue encasing your heart as if struggling to free themselves and reassemble in the present. Your hand finds its way to your chest, pressing gently on the tender center, trying to quell the ache and remain in this moment—with him.

"What else? What else?" You clap your hands, bouncing in your spot.

"Okay, okay," he gives in, happy to indulge you. "Um, a pack of crayons, a monopoly piece." He places them aside. "Thanks, Wayne. Could have done without that. Looks like some clothes. Oh, this is yours." He tosses a ball of red fabric at you, and you catch it with both hands before he continues to search through the box.

"Is this what I think it is?" His voice brims with excitement as he pulls a rectangular tin from the box. He shakes it, and a sharp sound follows. "Yes." His tongue sticks out from the corner of his mouth as he pries off the lid.

His voice fades into the background as your focus turns to what you're holding. The fabric of your Musicland vest unfurls as you hold it out in front of you, the gold name tag still pinned to the front catching the light. A heavy sensation settles in your stomach, tightening and cramping as a sick, painful feeling creeps in and spreads — nausea churns as each inhale becomes battle.

There’s a scrape of metal as the lid pops off. "Polaroids," Eddie declares, his attention lost to the thrill of his find as he flips through the stack of photographs.

Your heart races as the room seems to shrink. "Stop it," you whisper, your voice quivering, your trembling hands twisting the vest as if folding it small enough can make the pain disappear.

"They’re pretty faded, though," he goes on, unaware.

"I said, that's enough!" The balled-up vest flies from your hands, landing back in the box. Adrenaline surges through your veins as you push yourself up on unsteady legs. "I need to leave."

Eddie's laughter dies in his throat as he looks up, the joy in his eyes replaced by confusion. "Wait a minute." He gets to his feet and follows you. The small pile you made topples over, forgotten as you pick up your bag from the couch. "What just happened?" He moves in front of you, blocking your path. "I thought we were having fun."

"Fun?" The word is a shard of ice. Without hesitation, you sling your bag over your shoulder and maneuver past him towards the door.

“Just hold on a minute.” He blocks your path again, hands up, eyes searching yours for answers. “Tell me what's going on.”

"What do you want?" The words slice the air, eyes locked, a bare blade of anger.

"I wanted to-" His eyes flick toward the abandoned box in the center of the room.

"No." Your head shakes, "Why are you here? Now? After all this time? What do you want from me?"

"I just wanted to see you." His arms cross over his chest as his voice turns softer. "I missed my friend."

"Your friend," sarcasm drips from your words as you quirk a brow, "So you show up here with a box of crap and a ‘hey doll’,” your voice lowers to mock him, "And I’m supposed to what? Forget about everything that happened and hand you a clean slate. Drop everything in my life to follow you around like a puppy because you feel like paying me some attention?"

"That’s not…I’m not asking for that." His hand runs through his curls, frustration building in his tone.

"I'm not going to sit here with you wandering down memory lane and watch you pretend like you cared." Your eyes sting, but tears won't fall. You've shed your last one for him long ago. "Like any of it mattered."

"No one's pretending here, doll." He steps closer, his hands falling to his side, fingers rubbing at the seam of his jeans. "Of course, it mattered—all of it."

Your bag falls from your shoulder with a resounding thud, its weight matching your resolve as you push your hand against his chest. "I don't believe that for a second. If it mattered, you never could have done what you did."

"Done what?"

"Left me!" Your hand lands flat across your heart. "Without a goodbye, just some shitty mixtape full of songs that I can't listen to without my heart breaking over and over."

"You're right, okay." His voice rises to match your volume, his fingers closing around your biceps. "I was a fucking coward, and I ran. I couldn't see that look on your face again, the one you had when I told you I was leaving. I should’ve said goodbye, but I knew you'd try to convince me to stay, and that was never going to happen. I'm sorry I hurt you, but I can't be sorry I left."

"Hurt me?" You push his hands away, taking a step back to control the cracking in your voice. "You didn't just hurt me, Eddie. You destroyed me."

He swallows, looking away. "You were better off."

Fresh anger surges, along with the strong desire to escape – to leave this dead and buried, maybe for another decade until the hurt isn’t so strong.

"See, that right there is why I'll never believe you," you snap, pointing an accusatory finger his way as you step around him, your hand closing around the doorknob. But at the last moment, you turn, wanting him to hear it. At least once.

"I didn't quit Musicland. I got fired. I was a mess after you left. I cried for days, but I clung to this pathetic hope that you’d call to explain everything. To say it wasn't the end for us. You wouldn’t just throw me away, right? Not after everything we had been through together. I wouldn't leave my room, not even to eat. I was so afraid that the second I left, the phone would ring."

There's regret in his eyes as he steps forward, getting closer until he can touch you again, one hand gently gliding up your arm.

"But that call never came, did it, Eddie? Not one. And every day that passed, I died a little. But then I wasn't sad anymore. All those tears, they turned to hate," you say coldly, locking your gaze with his. "I hated you. I hated every song that came on the radio, reminding me of you. I hated Hawkins and everyone in it. But most of all, I hated myself for trusting you. For believing that you ever cared about me. That I wasn’t alone. That's what you did to me, Eddie.”

“You made me hate myself."

"I’m so sorry, doll," his words barely crest the silence as his gentle hand cradles your jaw. “There’s so much I want to explain to you.”

His touch is hot, but inside you, a coldness lingers–inside your stone. "You kissed me. And then you left me the next day. You knew how I felt."

"I know. I know. I’m sorry." He steps closer, trying to pull your rigid form into his arms, lips brushing your temple. "You don’t even know how much. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing. Trying to make it up to you. But you’re wrong. It all mattered. I did care. That kiss..it’s the reason…" He pulls back and looks into your eyes, "You knew me, you always did, but there were things I couldn’t tell you. Things I couldn’t admit even to myself. I was scared and angry all the time."

Your head shakes as you swallow hard. "You're not even real!" You shout in his face, your fingers clutching the doorknob behind you. Spinning, you tug hard, but his hand slams against the door above your head, keeping it shut.

"Stop, doll," he pleads. “Let me explain,” but the push-pull intensifies. You're no match for his strength. "Stop it!" he yells. His hand pushes on your shoulder, turning you to face him. Anger flashes in his eyes, and his cheeks flush.

"I made you up.”

“No.”

“The boy I knew could never have done that. He could never have hurt me like that." Your shoulder jerks, breaking his hold as you attempt to turn away again.

His fingers wrap around the side of your neck, keeping you in place. "That boy could never have given you what you wanted. He wouldn’t have had the first clue how to handle you."

"Is that why you’re back?" You ask, still defiant even as his thumb presses into your throat, tipping your head to meet his gaze. "Dragging this all up again, ruining my life? Because you do?"

"Damn right, I do."

His words are a gravelly assertion, barely escaping before his mouth descends toward yours. For a heartbeat, the world pauses until your mouths finally meet — urgent and fierce. You part your lips eagerly, tongues finding their way together in a hungry and unapologetic dance. The firm pressure of his mouth moving in sync with yours is a spark, igniting a fire that seems to spread with each touch. The scent of clove and cedar leaves you lightheaded as the flames lick through your body. The scruff on his cheek is a rasp against your skin, a roughness contrasting with the smoothness of his kiss. He tastes like cinnamon and a hint of coffee. This kiss is filled with years of longing, swelling and crashing like an orchestra's finale.

Minutes slip away, yet your greedy mouths remain desperate. The room falls into a hushed stillness, save for the sharp intakes of breath and the sensuous wet slide of lips. The kisses seem endless, broken only by fleeting gasps for air, compelling you to pull each other closer, savoring every taste. Your fingers tangle in the soft waves at the nape of his neck, evoking a low, guttural groan that mingles with your shared breaths when you tug. His hands trace the curves of your body, touching every inch as they follow a path beyond your hips and ass, seizing the back of your thighs. With a firm grasp, he lifts you, pressing you against the unyielding door. You gasp as he positions you just how he wants — aligning himself hot and hard against your center.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips as his hips roll, igniting fireworks through your body. Your eyes flutter shut, and a kaleidoscope of colors burst in the darkness.

He nips at the plush of your bottom lip, teeth grazing in a tender claim, a muted buzz begins in your bag—a sharp, insistent sting—that yanks you from the haze back into the real world. His eyes remain closed when you pull away. He leans closer, chasing your mouth, but the moment is already shattered.

Your stomach plummets as the harsh reality sets in. His kiss now tastes like the ash of betrayal. The distressed whimper escaping your throat finally has him looking at you, shock written clearly across his features. Slowly, he releases you, your body sliding against his until your feet meet the floor. He takes a step back, hesitating, swallowing, "Doll —"

"No." You shake your head, your hands covering your mouth. The gold band on your fourth finger is a cool scorch against your swollen lips. "I have to go." You spring into motion, rushing to gather your bag.

"Stay, and we can talk about this," he implores, moving one hand to his hip while the other rakes through his hair.

"Please don’t," you plead. "Don’t ask me for anything else." You swing the strap over your shoulder. "I just ch—" But the word stays stuck in your throat, as your eyes swim with tears.

His face falls, "It's not your fault, okay? I kissed you."

"Eddie—"

"You didn't do anything wrong. It was me," he insists, frustration in his voice as you scrub your face with your hands. "I don't want you driving when you're upset."

"I'm sorry," you say with an aching heart, pushing past him and closing the door behind you.

The sidewalk blurs under your feet as you race to your car. Fat raindrops splatter against the concrete like a spray of gunfire, each one a cold, wet slap against your skin. The sky chooses this moment to crack open, unleashing a torrent that feels personal. Your car comes into view, a bright orange ticket flapping under the wiper. Perfect. Just perfect.

With hands slick from the rain, you fumble with your keys before throwing yourself into the driver’s seat. Snatching the ticket from under the wiper as you go and crumpling it into your fist, stuffing it into the glovebox to be dealt with later. The downpour drums on the roof, enclosing you in a watery cocoon as you search through your bag for your phone. A missed call from Steve and a text reminding you about the dry cleaning. You spill the contents of your messenger onto the passenger seat, pens and lip gloss tumbling into the footwell. "Shit!" The word is a half-sob as you clutch the receipt marked with today's hours in unforgiving black ink.

Glancing at the clock on your dash, it hits you with the subtlety of a wrecking ball– six minutes until closing. It might as well be in another time zone, given the snarled rush hour traffic and the river that the streets have become. Your car roars to life, and you pull out onto the roadway, tires hissing on wet asphalt, windshield wipers barely keeping up with the deluge. Your skin still sings with Eddie’s touch, but it's the burgeoning storm of words—cheater, adulterer, betrayer—mixed with the soft hazel of Steve’s disappointed eyes that tattoo themselves across your conscience. This is the unforgivable sin, and you can't undo it, but you'll be damned if you don't at least try.

You're double-parked now, hazards blinking a frantic rhythm. The 'CLOSED' sign on the dry cleaner's door mocks you as you rattle the unrelenting metal handle. "Please, please, please," you whisper, pounding on the uncaring glass, your unheard pleas bouncing off the empty shadows within. A car horn cuts through the rain —"What the fuck, lady?" The other driver yells, uncaring of your predicament.

"I'm moving, I'm moving!" The words are a rain-soaked shout as you slosh back to your car, drenched and defeated.

Another angry horn sounds off as you pull into traffic, carelessly cutting off a Yellow Cab in your haste. Rainwater drips from your hair, soaking your shirt. Even with the heater set to blast, it does little against the chill that has settled deep in your bones. Down the road, a bright blue sign glows like a beacon, and you jerk the steering wheel, the car fishtailing as you skid into the lot.

The pharmacy's fluorescent lights are too bright and too sterile as you grab a small bottle of mouthwash off the shelf in the travel section and wait in line to pay, the store's generic electronic music grating against your already frayed nerves. Outside, you stand on the corner, swishing and spitting the minty liquid onto the sidewalk, repeating the process, trying to cleanse more than just your mouth. A passerby wrinkles their nose at you from under their umbrella. "This is Chicago! You've seen worse!" You snap, arms thrown up in exasperation while the rain and your regrets mingle on the cold pavement.

With pruney fingers, you pull the cardigan you had left at Stax off the back of your office chair. Shrugging it on, the material dampens from your wet t-shirt but offers a little warmth. Your phone buzzes as you settle at your desk — five missed calls from Eddie and four texts. The roar of the heavy rain and being buried deep in your bag had muffled its sound, not that you would have picked up.

Eddie: Answer the phone, doll!

Eddie: Look, I need to know that you’re okay.

Eddie: I swear to Christ if you don’t pick up.

Eddie: Okay, have it your way. I’m driving to your place.

What? No! Your thumb presses the call button, and it rings twice before it connects. There’s no hello, just the slight hum of an engine and the rain pelting glass.

��I’m okay,” you breathe into your phone, “I didn’t go home. I’m at my office.”

Your heart drums in your ears with each second of silence. Your eyes flutter shut, relief flooding you when he finally responds. An exhale loosens the tension in your chest. His voice resonates in a dark rumble through the phone, "We need to talk."

“I….I know,” your voice wavers as you wipe your nose on the back of your hand. “I just need a minute here, Ed. Can you give me some time?”

The rhythmic blink of the turn signal punctuates his heavy sigh. “Yeah. Alright. But doll,” he pauses as the sound of water splashing against his vehicle mingles with the whoosh of passing traffic, “You’re not running away from this. And trust me, the irony of that statement isn’t lost on me. Think about what I said, okay? I meant it all.”

With a tight throat, you whisper, "I have to go," and disconnect the call.

Placing your phone on the desk, you dab the raindrops off your face with a tissue. The quiet of the office wraps around you, its half-dark corners and the soft glow from the monitors creates a place for you to breathe and be still. The raging storm and the ticking wall clock echoing in the solitude do little to distract you from thoughts you’re not ready to face. With a deep breath, you lift the lid of your laptop, seeking refuge in the normalcy of work as you coax the screen back to life.

The song erupts from the speaker on the edge of your desk, a jolt of sound shattering the silence like an accusation. You grab it with fumbling fingers, scrambling to press the off button. Covering your face with your hands, you let out a sound that is equal parts sob and hysterical laughter, wondering how you ended up in this situation. With your elbows pressed against the wooden top, you bury your face in your hands.

“What are you doing here, kid?” The gruff voice cuts through your misery.

"Jesus Christ, Hopper," you gasp, clutching at your chest, "You scared the hell out of me."

"Guess we're even since Mr. Brightside nearly sent me into cardiac arrest." Hopper towers over you, standing beside your desk with his hands buried in his pockets.

“You listen to The Killers?” You ask, surprised while he drags a chair from the next desk, its wheels screeching faintly against the concrete floor.

“You kids really think Jim Croce is the only thing on my playlist?” A chuckle escapes him as he eases into the chair beside you, “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

You muster a puzzled look, shaking your head in feigned denial.

“Don’t bullshit me, kid. I don’t have much time. I’m meeting Joyce for dinner at that Italian place on Taylor Street. Have I told you about it? I’ve been dreaming about the breadsticks. Enzo puts some spice on ‘em, I don’t know what it is, but it’s good. You dip it in olive oil,” he groans, “Forget about it. Those things knock your socks off, and I’m wavering on the main course between—”

“I need you to take me off the studio opening,” you interrupt, folding your arms across your chest.

“We’ve been over this. Unless you have some good reason–”

“Eddie kissed me,” the confession slips out, eyes widening in shock at your admission, hands flying to cover your mouth.

His brows rocket upwards, then draw together, his gaze sharpening, voice dipping into a low, protective timbre, “What do you mean he kissed you?”

“No,” you clarify, squeezing your eyes shut and pressing an elbow against the desk, massaging your temple to soothe the forming headache. “I kissed him. We kissed. It was mutual.”

Hopper reclines, the chair creaking under his weight, his gaze level and unreadable. “I’m disappointed in you, kid. I never thought I’d be having a conversation like this with you.”

“I know. I know. Steve…” you trail off, eyes drifting to the photo of Steve on your desk.

Hopper leans in, his hand cutting through the air. “I don’t give a fuck about Harrington,” each word gains in volume, “This is about you and everything you’ve worked for. It’s 2012. That kind of nonsense ends careers. Do you know what can happen if he complains?”

Your eyes roll. “He’s not going to complain, Hop.”

“You don’t know that,” he counters, his head shaking off your naivety. “These things like this have a way of coming out. That was an amateur move. Where is your professionalism? What were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, lowering your eyes. “We have more of a history than I let on.”

“Well, stop the presses. I couldn’t have figured that one out.” His voice lowers in resignment, “Maybe this is my fault–”

“No–”

Your protest is swift, but he plows right over you, “I’ve babied you. Maybe it’s because you’re my favorite or because you were just a kid when you started. I let you get away with too much over the years because you’re a damn good writer. But that stops now, I’m going to treat you like all the rest of the idiots in this place.” His hand waves around the room before pointing right at you. “You’re going back to that studio, and you’re going to keep your dick in your pants and get those interviews done. If you want to play kissy face, you do it on your own time. You got me?”

Your mouth drops open, disbelief palpable. “You're still going to make me finish?”

“Damm, right I am,” Hopper affirms, not missing a beat. "If I hand your work off, it raises questions. Big, messy questions. What do I tell downtown when they ask why the piece was reassigned? Unless you’re ready to come clean to Harrington?”

Your lip goes between your teeth as your head shakes.

“I thought so.” Hopper leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "This could be both our necks," he mutters, concern filling his voice.

Your head shakes, but your determination is clear. "It won't."

“It better not. I don’t want to hear another word about it until that last story is on my desk. Are we clear?”

Your jaw clenches, the reality of the situation hitting hard. "Crystal."

Hopper's gaze remains fixed on you, ensuring his point has been made. "Good," he says, his voice softening, "Now go on, get out of here. Deal with whatever mess you've got going on. Just make sure it's sorted by Monday."

Your key slides into the lock and you turn it slowly, the tumblers falling into place with a series of soft clicks. You pause, leaning your forehead against the chill of the metal door, grappling with a rising queasiness that sours your stomach.

A wave of home's warmth engulfs you, mingled with the earthy aroma of herbs and roasting potatoes. The vibrant strains of Queen accompany Steve's honeyed tones floating down the hall from the kitchen.

"Welcome home, ace. I was beginning to wonder where you were," his voice, laced with a touch of concern, greets you, “Busy day? Did you write me a Pulitzer?”

Your messenger bag slides from your shoulder, giving into gravity with a loud smack against the hardwood.

His voice grows nearer, warmer as he moves down the hall, the floor lightly creaking with each footfall. “I swung by the Athenian Room, grabbed us Chicken Kalamata, and I have a bottle of Chardonnay breathing.”

Your favorite. Your heart sinks further, receding behind your ribcage, unworthy of his care or devotion.

He stops short when he rounds the corner into the foyer, taking you in, his eyes reflecting your disheveled state.

"I didn’t get the dry cleaning," you admit, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I was... too late."

For a heartbeat, he's silent, but his eyes remain tender. “Hey, that's alright, ace. I'll just skip the gym in the morning and swing by the cleaners before work. Are you okay?”

Traces of the day find a path down your cheeks as you sniffle and draw the cardigan tighter around yourself. "I got caught in the storm."

“Did you forget your coat?” He draws closer as you give a small nod. His hands slide up your biceps, continuing on to wrap around you. “You're frozen.” He uses his thumb to lift your chin. “How about a hot shower, yeah? I'll keep dinner warm. You'll feel better after you eat.” His mouth begins to near yours, but you turn your face away.

"I think I'm coming down with something," you manage, your lies teetering atop your mounting guilt. "My throat is sore."

Concern etches his features, his brows knitting together as he adjusts, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You don't feel hot.”

Pulling away, you bury your face into his shoulder. "I think I'll just shower and go to bed."

“If that's what you want,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your head, though his tone is threaded with disappointment. “Go on up. I'll bring you some water and a couple of Tylenol.”

“Thanks, Steve,” you step away with a weight in your chest. “I'm really sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.” He waves off your apology, his smile faint but sincere. His arms fold over his chest as he turns back toward the kitchen.

As you climb the stairs, the music snaps off, replaced with the distant roar of a sports game, the announcers' voices carrying up the stairwell.

The embrace of the hot shower strips away the cold clinging to your skin, but it cannot wash away the regret. Sliding down the tiles, you draw your knees close while your tears fall, mixing with the stream of water spiraling towards the drain.

Your life is a song made up of the choices you've made, each one a different note that sounded so sure at the time, but now the harmony seems slightly off-key. The steam rises around you like a specter. It's the quiet between the chords. And you're there, just listening, trying to figure out if there's a note you'd change or if every single one was necessary. As you nestle into bed, sleep tugging like an insistent tide amidst the drift into dreams, one truth resonates clear– the music plays on.

Song 5 coming this week! Follow @tornupdates for notifications

Thanks for indulging me with this new version. I wanted to get it right. This next chapter is going to be Steve's launch party and will explore the fallout from that kiss. I love each and every one of you and I hope Torn!Eddie makes an appearance in your sweetest of dreams. -Jelly

#steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #eddie munson smut #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson fanfic #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfic #torn series

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mattblackagain · 4 months

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Written for Honey @d2bm some time ago but as a few of my followers like stories, here it is again.

The Hitchhiker

Part of my job entails driving around the country in a nice car (not mine) visiting dealers for the brand that I work for. It’s not unpleasant; it gets me out from behind a desk and generally people are pleased to see me. It also means spending quite a few hours in a car on my own, with sometimes an overnight stop up north, in Scotland, or the west country. Occasionally, but not as often as I used to, I’ll see a hitchhiker. Usually these are men delivering cars to dealers and finding their own way home, easily recognisable by them carrying trade plates. I sometimes pick these guys up just to see if they have anything interesting to say, but usually they don’t. They just want to get home as quickly as possible.

On this occasion though I spotted a single female. Young and wearing a very short denim skirt, she was holding a tatty piece of cardboard with something scrawled on it that I couldn’t make out. The light was just starting to fade so obviously, spotting her immediate danger and being a gallant chap, I pulled over and wound the passenger window down.

“Warwick?” she asked, poking her pretty face and long dark hair through the window.

“Yes, as it happens!”, I lied. I was actually going nowhere near Warwick but had completed all my appointments for the day and had nothing waiting for me except an empty motel room.

“Jump in”.

“Great! Thanks a lot!”

She opened the door and dumped her pink backpack on the floor of the car. It looked familiar somehow, but I couldn’t think where I’d seen one like it before.

She got in the seat arse first and knees together. She was clearly practised in wearing short skirts, and this skirt was VERY short. It was faded, with a frayed edge that contrasted with her nicely tanned legs. She had just a vest top on, no bra and she didn’t need one. Her small but perky boobs jiggled as she got comfortable and put her belt on. She smelled lovely, fresh and sweet but not overpowering, just clean with the merest hint of perfume. We set off.

“Bit risky isn’t it, hitching on your own I mean? And it’s getting dark”. Yes, for some reason I was turning into her dad. Although she was easily young enough to be my daughter I didn’t really want to draw attention to this fact.

“I know! A friend was supposed to pick me up but they let me down and I didn’t know where the bus station was or anything!” she explained, slightly air-headedly. She had nice teeth, very little makeup, just a bit of mascara and some lip gloss. Must stop staring at her lips, look at her eyes....

“Well, no harm done. You’re safe now, I can drop you off wherever you like”.

“Cool, thanks again! I owe you! By the way, I’m Honey.”

“Pleased to meet you Honey, I’m Matt”.

“Oooo...I like this one!”. She reached forward and turned the radio up. “Perfect” by Exceeder.

“1, 2, 3, 4, let me hear you scream if you want some more. Like ahhhh, push it, push it, watch me work it, I'm perfect” she giggled, arching her back against the seat and pouting.

“You are very cute”, I ventured, trying not to make my leering too blatant.

“Awww! Thanks! You’re not so bad for an older guy!” she smiled. “And I really would like to thank you properly.”

With that, she pulled up the middle of her skirt a few inches to reveal white cotton knickers with little blue and red pictures of ice cream cones on, stretched across her mound. She slipped a hand inside, her knuckles stretching the material still further, then pulled her hand out and popped two fingers in her mouth.

I swerved to narrowly miss a traffic island. Fuck. There was nowhere to pull over though, I’d just have to keep going.

“Hehe, that was close! You concentrate on the road mister and I’ll look after everything else”. She took my left hand and placed it on her tit. I squeezed, rubbing her nipple with my thumb. She pushed her boobs together with her arms to let me grope both with one hand. “Is that what you want mister?” she said, moving my hand down to her crotch. Through the knicker material her mound felt soft, warm and slightly damp. She pushed her hips into my hand as my middle finger ran down the crease.

“Mmmm...yes, do that more please” she moaned, biting her bottom lip. I could smell her pussy now, and I knew what to expect when I pulled her knickers to one side. She was already soaked, and my finger slipped easily between her swollen lips.

“Let me find somewhere to stop before we crash”.

“OK!”, she smiled, and ran her finger across her bottom lip.

We carried on for a couple of miles and, thankfully, a layby appeared. I’d used this one before for a “power nap” on my travels, it had a line of trees between the parking and the road so was relatively secluded, if not that quiet with the traffic going past. It was empty, and the light was fading fast.

As soon as we’d stopped she released her seatbelt and dived in to kiss me. Open mouthed, her tongue finding mine and flicking across my lips in an eagerness that usually only the young possess - one that I’d not felt in a long time.

“I need it in me” she whispered, unbuttoning my shirt. Yes, well, I’d figured that much out already but thanks for confirming. My dick was already straining for attention in my black jeans as she ran her fingers over the bulge. I undid my belt and fly buttons and pulled it out into the cool air. She let out a squeal of delight and dropped her dead down, her hot mouth enveloping my cock head and an inch or two of shaft.

I pushed down on her head, her nose pressed against the inside of my thigh, then let her bob on it, her tongue lashing around the head on each upstroke before pressing down as far as she could. I ran my left hand down her back and rested it there.

She looked up, a string of saliva connecting her lip to my cock. “I want all of it”. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Classy.

“Stay there”, I instructed, opened the driver’s door and got out. With hindsight, maybe I should have tucked my dick away first, but I was on a roll. Fuck it. With my jeans halfway down to my knees I waddled round to her side of the car and opened her door.

“Oooo! Perfect!” she giggled, swivelling on her seat and taking me in her mouth again. At least I could claim to be err...brushing something off the roof with my hand if another car appeared. Cupping my balls in her hand, she want to work on my cock pushing deeper and deeper. “Arrggggh” she gargled, as he head of my cock reached the narrow restriction of her throat.

“Fuck yes!” I blurted out. “Fucking suck it”. She looked up at me as if to signal yes, and I felt her tongue touch my ballsack. Yes, she was good…

Placing one hand on the back of her head, I pushed hard. She had just about taken it all to be fair. I held her there for a few seconds, then released. She came up gasping. “Yesss...” she hissed. “Make me choke on it please!”

Using both hands this time, I pumped her mouth. “Gug, gug, gug…” accompanied by the suction sound of my cock head blocking and then releasing in her throat. She placed her hands on my thighs and looked up for a signal. Not yet Miss, not yet. “Gug, gug”. Her eyes started to water and she pushed her hands against my thighs to signal enough.

Nearly there. Just a little more, petal. “Gug, gug, cough!”. A stream of thick spit burst from her lips, I released her and she inhaled loudly, sucking in deep lungfuls of oxygen like someone who had escaped a submerged car in a river.

“Thank you, Sir”.

Wow, I love being called Sir. Especially by sluts.

“Get up and turn around”.

“Yes, Sir”.

She did as instructed, bending at the waist a little and gripping the roof edge of the car. A quick glance right to check nothing was coming (although I was close) and back to business. Crescents of arse cheeks poked from her knickers, her skirt was halfway up her arse and her legs were perfectly straight. She stood a little on her toes, wiggling.

“Please fuck me”.

Not needing to be asked twice, I pulled her knickers down onto her thighs and squatted down. She lent forward slightly in response, arching her back, as I spread her arse cheeks with my thumbs. Her holes were perfectly clean and shaven, and I was hungry for a taste of both. I poked my tongue between her pussy lips first, which was wet and sweet as expected, then hooked a forefinger into it. My tongue moved up to her brown hole, poking into that tight little starfish. She pushed back onto it, the filthy slut.

There was no need to wait any longer. She was soaking wet and my bulging dick was feeling like it would burst. It needed driving into some flesh. I stood up, and held the head up to her cunt, my balls just catching the elastic of her knickers.. “Is this what you want?” I said, rubbing the head forward and back between her swollen lips.

“Fuck yes! Please!!”

“Please WHAT?”

“Please SIR!”

I pushed, it sank in easily. That familiar wet grip, so perfectly designed, the flesh so firm, yet yielding.

“Oh!!” she gasped. I grabbed her narrow waist with both hands and pushed again, deeper.

“Oh my god, I love it….please”.

I pumped her, running my hands up and down her sides, over her tits, relishing her tight young body. She met my thrusts, pushing back on her heels, then pulling forward onto her toes. I gathered her hair up with both hands, then held it in my left fist and pulled. It smelt wonderful. My right hand returned to her tits, pulling at her vest top to expose them and kneading them like dough balls. Plunging into her faster, her arse slapping against my thighs, I knew it wouldn’t be long before my frustration was released.

“I’m going to….going to….” she whimpered, before reaching back with her hand and dipping her middle fingertip into her asshole. I felt her cunt contract, then she started bucking.

“Oh...oh….YES!! Fuck it! Harder!”

I was seconds behind her. Gripping her waist hard to maximise the length of my thrusts and pulling her onto my cock, using her whole torso as a fuck tube.

“FFFFUUUUUUUCK!!” I yelled as a torrent of cum rose from my balls, ripped through my dick and spurted deep inside her. Pound, pound, pound...timing each thrust with a spurt until finally staying buried in her while I caught my breath, gasping.

“Wow”, was all I could say, before slipping out of her.

“Here, let me”, she said, turning around, squatting down and taking my still half hard dick in her mouth and expertly sucking it clean. One last chance for me to take in the sight of the top of her head bobbing on my cock and commit that vision to my memory. Perfect.

Still slightly wobbly and dazed from the experience, I arranged my clothing and she got some wipes from her backpack. My cum had run down the inside of her legs, and she couldn’t resist running a fingertip through it before tasting it in front of me with a smile. Pure filth. She pulled her knickers up over her squidgy cunt and got in.

We made our way to the street where I dropped her off without saying much, just smiles mostly.

“Thanks again mister!”. She waved, blew me a kiss, spun around and left, that tiny skirt wiggling on her hips as she walked away. I don’t suppose I’ll be lucky enough to see her again. What a girl though. What a honey!

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wearywinchester · 3 years

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Tender

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When hiding an injury from Dean doesn’t go to plan, he’s there to give you the comfort you need.

Requested by @latenight-daythoughts: “Hey! I have a request for a Dean one shot please, could you do one where she gets hurt on a hunt and tired to play it off until they get back to the bunker and when dean patches her up it hurts more then she thought, so she starts crying and Dean comforts her and is all cute and sweet? I love your writing btw!!”

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: angst, injury, blood, fluff, comfort, kissing

Hurt. You got hurt on that hunt and you weren’t quite sure how you talked yourself out of it with Dean. Maybe you actually did, but a part of you told you that was more than likely impossible. Not with the look he gave you or the glance he spared down at your leg. But he seemingly took your word for it at that very moment.

Your eyes squeezed shut for a moment as you took a breath, trying your hardest to make it to the Impala sitting just a few feet away. Every ounce of pressure on your leg made it ache all the more as you walked, walked like you insisted you could do to a persistent Dean the moment he saw the look on your face. But you told him you were fine, staving his worries with a smile and a witty counter that had a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It was fine, so long as you kept your weight off of it as much as possible until you could clean yourself up, it’d be fine. At least that’s what you’d told yourself.

You were relieved once you’d slipped in the front seat after Dean suggested you sit up there with him, Sam in the back, a quiet sigh leaving your lips as you slumped back against the leather seat. The fabric of your jeans over the wound on your thigh had been frayed on the brink of being ripped, but not enough to draw your eye should you be anyone but yourself or Dean Winchester. Stains of crimson hadn’t been visible on the dark denim material, but you were sure it’d be obvious the moment they came off.

As you sat, you felt that ache on your leg begin to lighten some, that pain shooting down it dissipating now that you hadn’t been standing on it.

It shouldn’t be that bad, not really, you’d snagged it along the edge of something sharp when that demon had thrown you with so much as a flick of her hand. You were sore overall, something a hot bath might help with when you make it back to the bunker. But you’d yet to see your leg, to see just what damage lay beneath your jeans.

“You sure you’re okay, sweetheart?” Dean asked, pulling your attention from your thoughts.

You looked to your left, Dean’s gaze shifting from the road to look at you for a moment or two before looking ahead.

“‘M fine, De,” you murmur, that aching burn on your thigh threatening to spill over your emotions and give you away in an instant.

He looks at you again in a lingering glance, his lips pursed in disbelief, brows furrowing at the way you looked down at your leg with a frown, or the way you brushed your thumb over that very spot you said was nothing. He saw how your lips twitched downward in a deeper frown for only a mere second, quickly brushing it off with a sigh and a bite to the inside of your cheek before he looked forward once more.

You knew, by the light tension in his jaw and the crease between his brows, you knew he could see there was more to it than that.

After a moment or two you scooted a little closer to him, your hand grabbing his own. He felt the way you brushed your thumb along his knuckles in an absentminded habit, your gaze fixed out the window in an attempt to set your attention on anything other than the burning feeling that simmered on your skin.

It was okay. You were fine.

Your hand hadn’t left Dean’s nearly the entirety of the trip, something he noticed and something he didn’t mind, something that had him smiling softly at the mere thought of it. But something that was just as quick to steal that smile was the very look on your face each and every time he glanced over at you, a slight frown on your lips that you weren’t even aware you had, and that crease between your brows very much there.

You sighed when he parked in the bunker’s garage that night, getting out before he could come and help you do it. The look on his face was evident that he wasn’t happy with that, those dimples appearing by the corners of his mouth as he looked at you over the roof of the car.

“I’m fine, Dean,” you say, meeting him and Sam at the trunk where you’d grabbed your bags.

“You say that every time, sweetheart,” he counters.

“Maybe this time you’ll take my word for it,” you say, brows raised as you put your bag over your shoulder.

He chuckles then, head shaking as he closes the trunk. You tried your best to be convincing, and so far he hadn’t pried, but that very same feeling was back now that you were up and walking around, pressure back on your leg seemingly worse than before.

You found yourself grateful that Dean had chosen to walk ahead, Sam beside you, making it just a little easier to hide the change in the way you walked. Just enough to get you to your shared room without being terribly obvious. But it hurt, it hurt more and it was becoming increasingly more apparent to you.

You were home, and that’s what made things a bit better for you. You weren’t in some motel anymore, weren’t in the Impala anymore, you were home in the comfort of your familiar place with your room, your bed, and Dean. Despite the nagging pain wearing away at you with every movement of your leg, you tried not to think about it that much, and tried not to think about how it’d feel upon taking your jeans off. How it’d look given that you haven’t even seen it yet.

Dean dimmed the lights in the hall and bid Sam a goodnight like he always did, twisting the knob to your shared room and pushing the door open. Everything was as you’d left it just three days prior, the bed still made and ready to climb in and Dean’s slippers still tucked halfway under the bed, his pajama pants still slung over the back to the small desk chair.

“There’s no place like home,” Dean chuckles, sighing as he drops his duffel bag on the floor at the foot of the bed right next to yours.

You watched as he untied his boots and stepped out of them, unease settling over you as you took your own boots off, fighting the urge to scrunch up your face at the way your jeans pressed into your leg as you bent down.

You couldn’t hide this from him forever, you don’t think that’s possible when you really think about it. But you still weren’t willing to give it up, you could see the look on his face already if he knew. So, you bit the inside of your cheek and shrugged off your jacket, eyeing him with a soft sigh.

“I’m gonna go shower before bed,” you say, smiling when he turns to face you.

He simply hums, dipping down to kiss you.

“Don’t be too long,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling back with a grin.

“Is it ‘cause you’ll miss me too much, Winchester?” You ask, brow raising in amusement.

You watch as the corner of his mouth quirks upwards, a laugh leaving his lips as he nods to himself, tugging back the blankets on the bed. It very much was the reason and he knew it, no matter how much Sam picks on him for it all in good fun, he just can’t help it.

“That’s exactly why,” he says, tossing a clean flannel of his your way along with a pair of boxers because he knows just how much you love to wear them to bed. Doesn’t even need you to tell him that very fact because he sees you snag a pair from his drawer every night without a care that he’ll see you stealing them either.

You stand there for a moment more as you look at him, your smile soft and fond as you hold the clothes in your hands. After that moment, you find it in yourself to turn on your heel and step into the hall, heading towards the bathroom. Your heart was bursting with the very thought of him sharing his clothes with you, of the very idea that he’d been so thoughtful, but the wound on your leg was making it awfully difficult to think about anything other than that.

You switched the light on and closed the door behind you, setting the clothes down on the counter. You turned the faucet on and stuck your hands under the tap, the water cold as it splashed across your face. It was a little more refreshing than you felt before it, soothing the fatigue that’d been settling over you only temporarily.

Dread simmered in the pit of your stomach at the thought of having to take off your jeans, but it wasn’t doing you any good to keep them on.

You exhaled a sigh, eyes squeezing shut as you hooked your fingers in your belt loops. It was fine until you got about halfway, and you found yourself fighting the urge to let out the cry that’s been sitting in the back of your throat, the feel of the rough material scraping over your thigh making it all the more difficult to stifle it.

It was then that you saw it, the blood smudged over your leg and the scrape that ran across your skin, angry and red as it tapered just above your knee. You ran your hands down your face at the sight of it, having been less than ideal but you knew it couldn’t have been good.

You kicked the dirtied jeans to the side in frustration, sighing as you opened the cabinet below the sink. You snagged the first aid kit and the bottle of peroxide just next to it, grabbing a clean wash rag.

This could have been avoided, maybe, but at that moment you were struggling to figure out just how it could have been. Demons were unpredictable, able to sense a trick with ease, able to tell when someone’s lurking with the intent to leave one less demon in the world. They give ample opportunities to be outsmarted, though, but this didn’t seem to be one of those times. There was no match for a human against the powers they hold save for the weapons that served you no use that day. You were thrown clear across the room without a beat of hesitation, something done with ease.

So maybe, just maybe it wasn’t avoidable this time.

You knew Dean saw it, he had to. It was more than obvious that there’d be repercussions to being thrown a good seven feet into a less than unforgiving cabinet. He knew you better than to believe that you were as fine as you say you were. He knows you like the back of his hand, can see your stubbornness from a mile away because he’s the very same.

You wet the wash rag at the sink, taking a seat on the bench by the showers. You began to blot away the blood, nose scrunching and eyes squinting as the burn of the jagged scrape worsened from it.

It was then that there was a knock on the door, a more than familiar voice on the other side.

“Sweetheart? ‘M coming in, I forgot to—”

Your eyes widen as the door opens, gaze meeting green eyes before his stare shifts downwards to the rag in your hand, splotches of a pale crimson staining it. They bounce to the source, to the irritated and red scrape dragging along the outside of your thigh, nearly classifying as a cut but not quite.

“Y/n.”

“Dean, it’s not—”

“What, ‘it’s not a big deal’?” He says, anger seeping into his tone. Not at you, never. It was when he thought back to that hunt that has him angry.

“Dean,” you sigh.

He’s quick to cross the tiled floor, kneeling in front of you. He nudges your knee with his hand gently, the tips of his fingers brushing along your skin. You saw the crease between his brows deepen, lips parted as his eyes bounced over the entirety of the wound on your leg. You can see the way his jaw tenses, tight and unwavering and if it were possible, steam would be coming out of his ears at that moment.

“Damn it, Y/n,” he says quietly, a frustrated huff leaving his lips. “You didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to freak out,” you reason, brows furrowing as you tilt your head to the side slightly.

His gaze narrows up at you in disapproval, your reasoning something that was near laughable to him, you even knew it was ridiculous too the moment the words fell from your lips.

“You can bet I’ll freak out,” he says, his chuckle humorless as he runs his hand down his face. “This is exactly why I didn’t want us to split up.”

“Well, we did.”

He bit the inside of his cheek as he looked at you, breathing out a huff through his nose. He was upset more than anything, with himself you could tell, could see the frown on his lips as he grabbed the wash cloth from your hand and picked up where you left off.

He was gentle as he wiped away the dirt and blood smeared around it, more so than you despite the white-knuckled grip he’s got on the tattered cloth. You tried to keep your attention on anything else, anything other than the way your leg had been so sensitive even the most mild of touches as hurt. You tried to keep your gaze on him, distract yourself with the abundance of freckles speckled across the bridge of his nose and over his cheeks.

They were easy to distract yourself with on any given occasion, on times where you didn’t need to be distracted, when you shouldn’t be. But for the life of you, you couldn’t bring yourself to get lost in counting them this time, not with the numbing pain serving as a painful way of keeping you fixated on just that.

“You should have told me,” he says quietly, residual anger still wrapped around his tone with the softness of his words. But he was more concerned than angry.

You puffed out a humorless laugh through your nose, your grip on the bench you sat on tightening some. “I’m not exactly jumping at the idea of running to my boyfriend every time I get hurt on a hunt.”

Your tone is frustrated, embarrassment simmering in the pit of your stomach over the current situation you were in, not to mention the way it happened. You’d never get taken seriously if you ran and cried to Dean each and every time you got hurt. You barely felt like an adequate hunter as it is, you didn’t want to add to it. You would have been fine if he hadn’t seen it.

“Y/n, this isn’t some puny little paper cut, okay? This is way different than just slapping a bandaid on it and kissin’ it better.”

“I said I’m fine, Dean,” you say, jaw tensing as you look away.

You hated the way your voice was beginning to falter, swallowing thickly in hopes to push down the persistent lump in your throat. Now was not the time to cry, not in front of him. That would only make matters worse and you don’t think you could handle that.

“It doesn’t make you weak to ask for help, not even a little bit. You don’t have to play the tough guy act all the time.”

You stay quiet as you continue to look away from him, the pressure building behind your eyes. When you glance down you see he’s got that dreaded bottle in his hand, popping the cap open with his thumb. He’s hesitant as he tips the bottle, the clear peroxide having poured steadily over every inch of the wound on your leg, bubbling and stinging the moment it touches the damaged skin.

You felt your lip begin to quiver, near uncontrollable as it throbbed and burned, the pain worse than you thought as you bit down on your lip. It was almost unbearable, a numbing kind of pain that brought heat to your cheeks and quickened your heart. That pressure behind your eyes increased then until you just couldn’t handle it, lip free from your teeth as you hid your cry in your shoulder.

But it turns out, you’re not that good at hiding, not from Dean Winchester. Not that it was very hard to notice either.

He stopped immediately, gaze flickering to you, cheeks wet with hot tears and lip quivering in a way that tugged at his heart. His hand settled on your cheek, a gentle nudge to get you to look at him.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, the fond nickname something that makes you cry all the more in that moment.

You wrap your arms around him and he settles back a bit as he holds you closer, brows furrowed and jaw tense because seeing you so upset is one thing he can’t handle. Seeing you cry is something that tears him to shreds every time.

His grip on you is tight, his stubble pressing into the side of your neck. He’s cautious of bumping your leg, his throat clearing to try and stave off that pressure constricting around his throat from that very same lump forming as it did you. You could feel the kiss he pressed to your cheek, one to your temple, lingering and sweet. Dean Winchester could be the gruffest man anyone’s ever seen, but he’s got the softest heart, and if there’s one thing he can do without fail it’s comfort.

He finds himself pulling back when you loosen your grip, lip still wobbly as ever as you look at him with glossy eyes. You wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand, cheeks that burn with embarrassment for crying even though he didn’t mind it in the slightest. He didn’t mind the tears on his shirt, didn’t mind the snot to go with it. That’s the least of his concerns, they all pale in comparison to you.

“It hurts,” you whisper, your gaze shifting to his at the feel of his hand on your cheek, calloused and warm.

“I know it does, baby. Hell, I couldn’t even imagine what that feels like,” he says, smiling softly. “But ‘m almost finished and the ugly part is over, I can promise you that. You just gotta let me take care of you, okay?”

You nod, the patience in his words having set you at ease as you sniff, wiping your tears once more when his hand falls from your face in favor of sorting through bandages. He comes up with a few cotton pads, laying them over the length of the freshly cleaned wound as you sit there, still sniffling from having cried.

He’s more than careful as he takes the roll of gauze and wraps it around your thigh, securing the bandages completely with care to not make it too tight before he tucks in the loose end.

“You’re good as new, sweetheart,” he says, looking up at you.

You flash him a look, biting the inside of your cheek as you laugh softly, not quite humorous. “I’d hardly call it that.”

You’re grumbling, but he takes that hint of a smile as a good thing, standing halfway to press a kiss on your cheek and one to your lips, another to your forehead as his hand brushes over your cheek before he stands fully and swipes the clean clothes from the counter.

You stand with a look of unease, trying your best to keep the pressure on your good leg before that dreadful pain can jolt up your other. You shrug off your shirt in favor of his flannel, the soft material hanging loosely from your shoulders in a heap of warm and fabric softener and a hint of his cologne. It’s a simple thing that amounts to more comfort than you can express, the mere feeling of it putting you at ease.

He helps you with your pajama bottoms, trying not to fuss over you as you did it yourself, instead offering his arm for your balance that you found yourself needing more than you thought.

Your bed was more comfortable than you’d imagined coming home to, leaps and bounds better than that motel mattress. The sheets were soft and they too smelled like Dean, the blankets warm and hefty as they rested over top of you.

Dean brought you close enough to nearly share a pillow, the events transpiring earlier that day on the hunt having sunken deep in the pit of his stomach and simmered there, bringing with it that anger that hadn’t quite left. It made his stomach twist and churn each and every time you got hurt, the blame he put on himself having picked at him every single time without fail. Especially when it brings you to tears, especially when it’s got you so bothered it’s got you crying into his shoulder.

He hates it, he hates that part of hunting.

But regardless, those kind green eyes meet your gaze as he looks at you with a soft smile, his fingertips brushing along your cheek. He’s got that look on his face, one that’s telling of something humorous sitting on the tip of his tongue just waiting to be spoken.

“What, De?” You sigh, feeling the residual tension of your tears beginning to dissolve just a little more.

He chuckles, looking down for a moment as he shakes his head. “If I were you, ‘think I might’ve cried way sooner than you did.”

You roll your eyes then, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Dean, that’s a lie and you know it.”

“Is not,” he insists, lips pursed to stifle his smile.

You look at him, tired and amused as you make no effort to hide your smile. He’s got that smile, that one that makes your cheeks burn and your heart flutter every time he looks at you like that.

“Whatever you say, Winchester,” you sigh, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his lips.

You find yourself lying atop his chest as he turns the tv up a little bit more, his chuckle rumbling against you. He tossed the remote down, the very tip of your finger tracing over his chest. Your legs tangle with his own, your injured one on top as you turn a bit more on your side. He’s got reruns of your favorite show on because he knows you’re too tired to watch the new ones, knows you like to have it on when you fall asleep.

“Goodnight, De,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his chin before sinking back down on his chest.

He smiles in that moment, soft and sweet as his thumb brushes back and forth over your shoulder lightly.

“Night, sweetheart.”

You’re fine. You’ve got him and you’re okay.

—

Tags: @flamencodiva @stixnstripesworld @elegantbutedgy @humanmistakes @agalliasi @deandaydreaming @campingmonkey @lanea-1 @akshi8278 @kidd3ath @taikawho

#dean winchester #dean winchester oneshot #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester angst #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction

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sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years

Text

Acquainted Part 1: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: After avoiding Geto for three weeks after your kiss on the training field, he confronts you while out with a group of sorcerers at the club. (definitely inspired by “Acquainted” by The Weeknd ლ(́◉◞౪◟◉‵ლ))

words: 1,670

tw: nsfw (drug use and drinking)

We’re just blowing off steam. As you fluff your curls and adjust your green, slinky minidress, you try to come up with any good reason to not go to the club with a group of jujutsu sorcerers. And Geto Suguru.

You had skillfully avoided him after kissing in the training field; part of you was nervous, the other was absolutely baffled about how someone so powerful and dangerous could possibly be interested in you. You spent the majority of your time ducking into back hallways when you saw his powerful figure rounding the corner, or avoiding his stare as you passed by. It had been difficult, but your insecurity felt heightened now that you knew you had the eye of one of the strongest men in Tokyo. There was no way that you wouldn’t hear about the comparison if anyone found out about what happened that day.

Yesterday, Shoko had intercepted you on the way to class and grabbed your shoulder, fixing you with a hard stare you didn’t think could come from her. “We’re going out to the club tomorrow, and I want you to be there.”

You click your tongue against your teeth as you press a nude eyeshadow into the crease between your upper and lower eyelid and contemplate faking sick. As if the universe had heard you planning to back out, you hear the unmistakable hiss of your door sliding open. The sound of heels clicking against the floor makes you turn around and come face to face with Shoko, who places a hand on her black denim-clad hip and looks you over once.

“You ready, y/n?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re riding with me and Gojo.” There was no mention of Suguru, but you reason that’s only because Shoko knows. She hadn’t said a word to you about the incident, but the way she accosted you yesterday told you that she was obviously aware.

As you both make your way to the parking lot, you gain a feeling of comfort when you see the sapphire-eyed sorcerer patting on the steering wheel of his SUV, the bass reverberating from the stereo system. When you open the door, the words “bitch, sit on my face, I attack that” hits your eardrums and you cringe before climbing into the back seat.

“Gojo!” you yell over the music, but the sorcerer only deviously smiles at you from the front seat.

“Come on, y/n! It’s a vibe,” Gojo replies, then cranks the music up even more. Shoko sits on the passenger side, lighting up a joint before inhaling deeply and passing it to Gojo. The car pulls out of the parking spot and speeds off to the club. “Here.” Gojo passes you the blunt and you carefully take it between your fingers, inhaling as deeply as you can. You’ll need all of the calming agents you can get your hands on tonight.

Two passes later, the bright lights of the downtown area slide into view and your nerves are much less frayed than before. Gojo makes a few turns, then finds a parking lot where you all smoke your last before extinguishing the joint in the car’s ashtray. The white sorcerer opens your car door, coaxing you out of the seat your legs stuck to, and you follow the two past the long line outside of the club and to the front doors. The bouncer smiles at Gojo, nods at Shoko, and eyes you carefully before opening the door without so much as a word.

“Sometimes being a sorcerer pays off.” Shoko tosses over her shoulder, winking at you. The thumping bass and low-lights remind you of the times you would spend weekends with your friends from college, getting drunk and seeing how many men you could kiss in an evening. Tonight, however, you would get cross-faded and see how many men you could avoid.

The bar was full of people watchers observing those who chose to dance, and your eyes roam the crowd to see if a certain man would appear out of thin air to accost you. When you were certain he had not yet made his appearance, you relaxed against the cool metal of the bar, thinking about what you want to drink. You don’t have to think for long when Gojo slides a glass of clear liquid your way, passing another one to Shoko.

“First round is on me, ladies.” You toss the shot back and grimace as the fire of vodka slides down your throat, leaving a burning sensation in its wake. You wait for the numb feeling to take hold, hoping it would arrive before the raven-haired sorcerer did. But as soon as Shoko pulls you onto the dance floor, the urge to worry slips away on the heels of a catchy tune.

It isn’t long before your hands are in your hair as you swing side to side, the thrumming beat of the music making you close your eyes and release your inhibitions. Yes, this was it. The bliss that comes with the numbness washes over you and you forget all about --

“Oh, hey, we got a VIP section!” You turn your head slowly to look in the direction Shoko pointed, and you could see a few sorcerers you knew in passing seated behind a red velvet rope. Gojo was among them, tossing back another shot, and laughing obnoxiously, and when you scan to the left of them, you catch the black eyes of Geto Suguru. “Come on.”

You timidly follow your friend to the VIP section and smile nervously at the group, who greets you excitedly. Well, everyone except for Suguru, that is. He’s seated off the side of the large booth, fingers pressed to his right temple in a show of boredom.

“Take another shot!” Gojo encourages you, and you obey, if only to focus on something else. “Hey, Suguru, are you going to drink or will I have to give your shot to y/n? She’s already pretty tipsy, but I’m sure you won’t--” A shot disappears from the table in a flash, deposited quickly into Suguru’s throat. Gojo cheers childishly, and turns back to his other friends, striking up a conversation about the time he goaded Suguru into drinking seven shots in a row without stopping. You glance over to the pensive man, who’s clad in an expensive looking dress shirt and black pants. His hair is also up in its usual bun, but he’s not looking at you, instead preferring to stare out into the crowd. You turn away again, but realize a little too late that a second-year is backing up right into you.

On the way down, you consider your fate.

A broken ankle was the worst outcome. A bruised ego was the best.

However, neither of them occur, and you feel a pair of strong hands firmly holding your waist. You look up to see none other than Suguru holding you upright, and the second-year begins his apology, stammering about his mistake as he quickly backs away.

“You alright?” The feeling of Suguru’s hands against your skin makes you shiver, and for a moment, you’re grateful he can’t see the color of your cheeks in the dim light.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” There’s something about the way he looks at you, the way he doesn’t let go of you that breeds that familiar nervousness in you. But you can’t pull away from his grasp… because you don’t want to.

“Dance with me.” The words fall from Suguru’s mouth easily and you nod, earning a half-smile from him. You make your way to the dance floor again, and once you find a spot that isn’t taken, Suguru turns you around and pulls your hips flush against his. You wrap your arms around his neck after he dips low enough. Suguru presses a kiss to your temple before whispering huskily in your ear.

“You’ve been avoiding me for too long, y/n.” The apology that falls from your lips is automatic. “I’m a very patient man, but this? Tell me what I did to push you away.”

“You didn’t do anything.” You answer, and you feel his grip on your hips tighten.

“Then why in the world have you been dancing around me like this?” A strangled noise escapes your mouth and he presses a hand against your bottom, swaying back and forth to the beat of the music.

“I…”

“You don’t have to answer that right now. Just dance with me.” You continue to dance with him, feeling the world blur around the edges as the vodka shots settle into your bloodstream. Suguru’s lips press against your temple again, then he removes his hand from your back to cup your chin. Your lips meet his tenderly, the quick kisses seeking and searching for more. Before long, he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into your mouth with ease. Your teeth click together, dragging across each other’s taste buds, while his hands grope you over your dress.

“Su…” you moan as he pulls away, and he tilts his head, eyes lidded.

“I have to get you out of here.” Suguru pulls you off the dance floor and out of the club, and you suppose everyone inside is much too occupied to see the two of you suddenly depart. You hang onto him as you exit the club into the crisp night air… much like the air the night you two met for the first time. He opens the door to his flashy two-seater, letting you slide inside before he presses the start button and pulls out of the parking lot. His right hand grips your thigh as he drives in silence, the only sound between you the revving of his car and the tires on the pavement. You want to explain, you want to address your feelings, but as Suguru strums his fingers along your bare leg to some unheard tune, all you can do is think about his lips on yours and the way he touches you.

#geto x reader #jjk geto #jujutsu kaisen getou #geto suguru #shoko ieiri #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

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bosspigeon · 3 years

Text

a space between the shadows

My VERY last-minute prompt fill for @wayhavensummer, which turned into YET ANOTHER character study of my Sad Werewolf Detective~ Prompt: 🌈First Pride, Belonging Pairing: Adam/Male Detective, Bonus Found Family Vibes~ Words: 2137 Summary: Arlo has some... complex feelings around his identity, his relationship with his closest friend, and who he is supposed to be in a place like Wayhaven. CW for allusions to homophobia, slurs, and implications of religious trauma/bigotry

Seeing as someone actually bothered to submit paperwork this time, Arlo feels it’s safe to assume there will be no (or at least fewer) strange supernatural occurrences involved in this festival. Still, he’s not sure what to make of it.

“I don’t… have to go, do I?” he asks Tina.

Tina blinks slowly at him, as if he’s suddenly become the stupidest creature to ever draw breath. “Yes,” she says simply.

“I’m just a detective, and it’s Wayhaven, it won’t be anything crazy, so I don’t have to be there to keep things—”

“Oh, no, of course not,” she interjects, well acquainted with his nervous babbling by now. He’s barely exhaled his relieved sigh when she leans her elbows on his desk and grins in his face. “We’re going in a purely civilian capacity.”

“But I don’t want to,” he says quietly, and he knows he sounds like a pouty little kid, but he can’t help it.

Tina pouts mockingly right back at him. “I don’t care.”

And that sort of sums up their entire relationship, he thinks.

Adam, of course, is about as pleased as Arlo is. Unfortunately, Adam has not yet learned what Arlo knew by sixteen— that there is no force in the known universe more powerful than Tina Poname's stubbornness. She simply can't be defeated.

"She's a little bisexual juggernaut," Arlo sighs. He's annoyed, sure, but he can't keep the fondness from his tone as he watches her swan back and forth from the safety of the sitting room.

Naturally, Tina and Felix get on like a house on fire, and the two of them have commandeered Arlo's studio. The floor is a minefield of water cups, washable paint, and drying posters. Felix has Tina's flag tied around his neck like a cape.

Mason disappeared the second the first tube of paint was popped open, though his sharpy retort of "I like what I like" when Tina asked what his persuasion was (so that she could make him a poster as well) did launch her into her practiced dissertation on the intricacies of bi and pan identities, and how they mean similar things, how at their core neither are meant to be exclusive, and it is simply a matter of personal identity and choice which one suits an individual best.

"Have you been to a Pride festival before?" Nate asks, setting down two mugs of tea on Arlo's coffee table, carefully out of the way of the map of Wayhaven he and Adam are poring over. More for Adam's peace of mind than anything. It's mostly taking place in the local park, and while there will be a parade, the route is short enough to keep things contained.

"Yeah, once," Arlo says with a shrug, and he and Adam are sitting close enough on the sofa for their shoulders to brush with the motion. "When I was at uni."

Nate hums and sits down in the armchair across from them. "I assume it was… unpleasant for you?"

Arlo smiles, flustered, and rubs at the back of his neck. "It was fine. Fun, even. I mean, I went to art school, so the turnout was great. Nerve-wracking, yeah, because so many people, but seeing your anthropology professor riding a mechanical bull in little more than nipple pasties is one hell of a distraction."

He can feel the scandalized look Adam is giving him, but he knows if he turns to meet his eyes, he'll blush all the way to his hairline, so he sips deeply from his mug instead.

Nate tilts his head, lips pursed. There's a brief twitch of amusement to them, but it settles as his brow furrows thoughtfully. "I'm afraid I don't understand. If you had a good time at the last festival you attended, why are you so hesitant to participate in one closer to home?"

Arlo looks down at his mug, thumbing at a chip in the black enamel, exposing an ellipse of white ceramic underneath. The silence is heavy, and he knows if he lets it go on too long, Nate's going to start apologizing, so he sighs hard through his nose before he barrels on. "It's… it's different here. Back at school, I wasn't… I wasn't the Detective's weird brat. I was just Priestley, the weird performing arts major." He picks a little harder at his mug. "Might sound odd, but I didn't have to perform there, not the way I do here. I could just be Arlo. Not a shadow. Just… the fuckoff huge goth from your sociology lecture hall who just so happens to like men."

He doesn't look up, but he can tell Nate is chewing over the information. As he considers, Adam shifts on the sofa, closing the bare inch of space between them so their thighs press together. Arlo peeks up, and Adam's giving him that look. The one that makes him go all soft around the edges. "I know small towns can be… conservative," he begins, and his mouth twists distastefully around the word. "But I have never gotten the impression that Wayhaven was…"

"Anything but refreshingly progressive," Nate finishes for him.

Arlo looks up with a wry smile. "Yeah, no, it's great on that front. I'm damned lucky I didn't have to grow up with Rebecca's family. It's just…" He shifts his weight, and before he can sprout claws to really start menacing his poor mug, Adam plucks it from his hands and sets it out of the way. "There's a legacy for me here," he murmurs. "One I never asked for. Sure, I don't have to worry about getting called slurs," he chews his lip, "at least, not anymore after the whole Graham thing, but I'm still… I don't really get to be me here. People here don't look at me and see Arlo. They see Rook's kid. They see Detective Priestley the Second." He huffs out a laugh. "I didn't even get to come out on my own here. I honestly don't think I ever have outside of school. Everyone knows everything they want to know about me, because I've been a landmark since I was born. This month, it's just a landmark with a rainbow flag."

Nate is giving him that sad-eyed look he gets whenever Arlo and Rebecca get into it. The one that says he wants to help, but he's not sure how.

Arlo rubs his hands over the worn denim of his dark jeans, picking at a frayed thread. There’s a spiderweb of cracks forming in the fresh coat of black polish on his thumb where the nail has begun to thicken in response to his emotional state. He sighs a little, but he doesn’t have the time to sink too deeply into his own head, because there is a pale hand creeping cautiously over his.

“Why do it, then?” Adam asks, head tilted and brows drawn, as if he truly doesn’t understand. “Officer Poname cares deeply for you. I am sure she would understand if you were honest with her.” His lips twitch faintly, and the smile he gives Arlo is touching in its earnest, if stilted, effort. “Bisexual juggernaut or no. Though, she is only little to you.”

Arlo snickers weakly, turning his face away so he can hide behind the fall of his hair. Adam doesn’t let him hide, though, brushing it out of his face, knuckles skimming the detective’s cheekbone. Arlo can’t help but sigh and lean into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.

There’s a crash and a cry from the other room, but it’s Nate’s startled noise that makes the two of them leap apart as if burned, putting a few inches of space between them.

Arlo’s face flushes hotly when Nate smiles at them, and there’s a mischievous twinkle to his dark eyes. “I wonder what that’s about!” he exclaims, clapping his hands together and springing to his feet. “I’ll go check on them, shall I? Make sure they’re not causing too much trouble.” And before Arlo can even stutter out a… something—an explanation, or maybe an apology for third-wheeling the poor man—Nate is striding off towards the studio with a spring in his step the detective can’t help but find incredibly mocking.

He closes the door behind him with a parting smile and a decisive click.

They’re left on the sofa sitting guiltily apart like a pair of teenagers caught canoodling, and surprisingly it’s Adam who breaks the stalemate by huffing through his nose and turning to Arlo again, reaching out for his hand and tugging it between his own. “You were saying?” he presses gently, his thumb tracing ticklish lines alone Arlo’s palm.

Arlo tilts his head and sighs “I guess I just… Tina’s like my sister, you know? And we wound up going to different universities in different cities, and I didn’t really get to share any of those big milestones with her. She’s not the type to be jealous I made other friends or went and had fun without her, but it feels sort of… I want to be able to share this with her, since she was one of the first people who ever bothered to… to not just care about me, but to care about me enough to…” He furrows his brow and chews at his lip, trying to figure out how to make sense of the feelings he’s never really been able to express out loud. “Neither of us belonged here, really. Sure, I was born here, but I never really felt like I was supposed to be here. I just felt like I was filling a space someone more important than me left vacant.”

He looks down at Adam’s hands, sturdy and strong, tangled up around his freckled, long-fingered one. He swallows. “Tina’s the one who looked at that space, then decided it wasn’t for either of us, and she carved out one that was.” He smiles fondly, thinking of the way Tina bullied her way into his lonely life and gave it some much-needed color. “She made a space where we could both fit. It was messy, and awkward, and we were still outcasts, but we were outcasts together.” He laughs, and it sounds suspiciously wet even to his own ears. Thankfully, Adam doesn’t bring attention to it. “Christ, I’m rambling. Does this make any sense at all?”

Adam is quiet, thoughtful for a moment, but he squeezes Arlo’s fingers to draw his eyes up again. He’s smiling, a real smile, one that Arlo is seeing more and more these days. A man could get addicted to a smile like that. “It does,” he murmurs, bringing Arlo’s hand to his mouth to brush a kiss to his palm. It’s such a simple little touch, it barely lasts a second, but it steals all the air from Arlo’s lungs.

Adam shifts, and his face scrunches a bit. “While I won’t say I am looking forward to the chaos, I am…” He looks up at Arlo again, his brows drawn, his jaw set with the same fierce determination with which he stares down trappers. “I am honored to share this with you.”

It is really not fair, the way he can just say things like that, things that would sound trite and cheesy coming from anyone else, with such naked honesty. Arlo has no choice but to kiss him. He’s rewarded by a sweet, startled noise rumbling against his mouth, but he draws back before they can get too distracted, seeing as their friends are just a room away. If Adam is pouting, Arlo’s certainly not going to be the one to tell him.

“I guess, in a way, it’s a first for the both of us, right?” he coughs, just to ease the heavy atmosphere a bit. “My first Pride in Wayhaven, and your first entirely.” He pokes Adam in the chest. “We’ll have to get you a flag. You look good in pastels.”

“Are you certain the rainbow is not too at odds with your aesthetic?” Adam teases in return.

“Goth is a state of mind,” Arlo replies archly.

They laugh quietly together, shifting again to close the distance between them. Adam turns to face Arlo more fully, their shoulders bumping in a way that is incredibly comforting in its charming awkwardness. “What is wrong with Agent Priestley’s family?” he asks, keeping his voice low so as not to draw the attention of their companions chattering in the other room.

Arlo tries to smile, but it comes off as more of a tense grimace. “Catholic,” he snorts.

Adam’s expression mirrors his so perfectly, Arlo has to clap a hand over his mouth so he doesn’t bark out a laugh. “Ah,” the vampire says primly. “I understand.”

Arlo gives up and collapses against the vampire, snickering helplessly into his neck.

#the wayhaven chronicles #wayhavensummer #adam du mortain #a du mortain #tina poname #i hope this makes any sort of sense #i know i kinda went off the wall w the prompt #but my logic is that there's ANOTHER prompt that will be for the actual festival #so this is more an introduction to the First Pride????#fhdkjashdkjsg if its bad its bad okay #yeehaw #oc: arlo priestley #arlo's issues aren't with his identity so much as with the fact that his identity never really mattered to people in wayhaven #just who his parents are #arlo wants to be allowed to be himself without feeling like he has to live up to someone else first #and tina helped him with that #tina is the one who helped him feel pride #so he wants to be able to share this with her #its not directly mentioned here but naturally adam is trans yeehaw #pidge writes

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darter-blue · 3 years

Text

I'm afraid I have been talked into more of this fluffy nonsense. So I'll just leave this here for you all - and know that there are four more chapters to come.

Part one, two and three on tumblr - or read it on ao3 here

~~~~

Steve is being led through a sea of bodies by a smiling Bucky, a Bucky who keeps looking back at him over his shoulder, his eyes alight with warmth and laughter that Steve can almost taste.

It’s infectious.

He wants more.

He lets Bucky hold him tight, happy to be held and grounded by the touch. All of the noise, the sweat, the coloured lights, have him on edge, enough that he sighs with relief at the sight of the doors ahead of them.

His shoulders relax and his jaw unclenches as they move out into a more open area. Steve doesn’t question it when Bucky drags them further. He let’s Bucky take him wherever he wants to go. Steve is game. Steve is more excited about the next few hours than he has been about anything for the last few years.

That’s probably sadder than Steve has the capacity to think about right now.

So he doesn’t.

He pushes it to the back of his mind, where all his less than helpful thoughts are relegated, and he focuses instead on the softness of Bucky’s hand around his hand. On the way the waves in his hair bounce as he rushes across the casino floor.

He focuses on the way Bucky’s body moves so fluidly, so gracefully. Of the shape of his legs in his jeans, the denim is light and loose and well worn. Steve wonders about why he chose them, for comfort, for style, convenience? He wonders about the softness, the casualness of Bucky’s entire outfit. His shoes are scuffed, but the leather is a dark enough tan that they’ve been polished recently, his t-shirt is threadbare, his jeans are fraying at the hem.

He wonders how much of that is a choice and how much is because that is all Bucky can afford.

It reminds him of his life before the serum.

He shakes those thoughts away.

Steve watches the way Bucky takes care to steer clear of people, the way he apologises to the few that he has to weave past, the way he smiles at them, laughs at his own rushing feet.

Bucky radiates such a calm sort of comfort, even in his enthusiasm, even through the excitable nature of his hurry, that people seem eased by the very fact of his presence.

Steve is sure he could bask in the glow of it for years and never want to move.

He’s so busy contemplating what it might be like to have actual years to spend with Bucky, what sort of heaven that might be (whether his sins would even allow his access - no, no, push those thoughts away) he doesn’t realise they’ve slowed down until they manage to come to a stop.

And Bucky spins around, lets go of Steve’s hand, throws his arms in the air and cries, ‘Ta-da!’

Steve looks behind him, at the section of the casino that Bucky has led them too, a neon sign over the wide doorway that reads ‘Wedding Chapel’ and his heart skips a beat for the second time that night.

Thor’s Asgardian liquor has really done a number on him.

Or maybe it’s just Bucky.

‘Oh no,’ Bucky says, smile fading, arms falling, ‘do you hate it?’

Steve is still so shocked can barely move his head to shake it, but the look on Bucky’s face - the way his expression is drawing in on itself, into something unsure, into something upset - has Steve reaching out to grab both of Bucky’s hands in his own.

‘I don’t,’ he says, looking Bucky firmly in his beautiful steel blue eyes, ‘I absolutely do not.’

Bucky looks back up at Steve and raises an eyebrow. His lips lift at the corners in the beginnings of a grin.

Steve’s fingers itch for his pencils, to capture the perfect charm of it.

‘You absolutely do not hate it?’ Bucky asks, looking over at a small crowd of guests as they stumble out of the chapel, singing and drinking from colourful plastic bottles, dressed in matching t-shirts that say ‘Elvis said we do!’ and ‘Viva las Witness’.

Steve shakes his head and pulls Bucky closer.

‘You think… I mean it’s pretty crazy, right?’ Bucky says, biting his lip.

Steve does shake his head this time. Wants to chase away any further doubt from Bucky’s face. ‘I’ve never seen anything that made more sense.’

And Bucky’s eyes widen, his eyebrows rise. His smile is back in full force, lighting up his face in a way that clutches at something deep in Steve’s chest.

‘I don’t think you’re crazy, Bucky. I think you’re beautiful.’

Bucky ducks his head, but leans closer into Steve, pushes against Steve’s hands and lets his weight rest there.

Then he looks back up at Steve from under his dark lashes, a more lethal move than Steve has seen on any battlefield, ‘Do you think we’re like those particles?’

Steve isn’t sure at all what he means by that, and it must show on his face, because Bucky huffs a soft laugh, pushing further into the resistance of Steve’s hands as they hold him in place.

‘Quantum entanglement,’ Bucky says, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling and then back at Steve, ‘Like once upon a time, when we were all just particles, yours and mine, our particles, we vibrated in unison.’

Steve smiles at the sincerity with which Bucky is telling his story, but doesn’t interrupt.

‘That the matter that makes us who we are, it was all part of something bigger. Something vast. And that’s how we know each other?’

‘From when we were nothing but particles?’

‘We’re still nothing but particles.’

Steve laughs and rolls his eyes, exaggerates a flinch when Bucky lets go to swipe a backhanded slap at his bicep.

‘Sorry, you sound like a friend of mine,’ Steve says.

‘Well you must have smart friends, Steve-Steve Rogers.’

‘I do,’ Steve agrees, fondness creeping into his voice, ‘very smart. Tell me again, why are we like Quantum Entanglement?’

‘I think, way back when everything was just a dense collection of particles, that you and me, we, our particles, they danced together. And now they recognise each other.’

And Steve has to hold his breath at the truth of it.

Something inside of him recognises something inside of Bucky. It longs for him. It’s drawn to him.

He couldn’t think of any more perfect explanation than that they’re just pieces set adrift, coming back to the whole that they once were.

‘We should do it again,’ Steve says quietly, ‘Dance together.’

‘We already did,’ Bucky whispers back.

Steve shakes his head with a chuckle, ‘You are trouble, aren’t you Bucky Barnes.’

‘Good trouble?’ Bucky asks with that charming grin.

‘Very good trouble.’

‘The kind of trouble you want to keep?’

‘Forever,’ Steve says with no hesitation. ‘Forever.’

‘Then let's go,’ Bucky pulls back and shifts his weight, leans into the doors of the chapel to pull Steve with him.

‘Lets go.’ Steve says, and follows Bucky inside.

This is, without a doubt, the greatest night of Steve’s life.

It honestly never occurs to him to think otherwise.

#stucky #steve x bucky #bucky barnes #steve rogers #my writing #accidental husbands #soulmates #bottom bucky #cap steve #shrunkyclunks

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the-tardis-in-221b-baker-street · 3 years

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Behind The Scenes - How I Made Vyvyan Basterd's Denim Vest

As I’ve had a bit of interest about how I came to make this particular bastard’s denim vest, I thought I would do a write up about it! This was a very long and detailed process to get it to where it is today so strap in kids! (Apologies in advance for the shit phone photos!)

Finding the jacket -

It’s widely known that Vyvyan’s custom vest is a Levis. The dead giveaway is the small iconic red tab on the right pocket. Without even researching this, it was blatantly obvious that it was a denim jacket that had the sleeves ripped off. This jacket in my mind was the one thing that needed to be right because this is the foundation of the project right? Interestingly enough, that I was unaware of, you could tell the age of the jacket via the code on the brown tag inside the jacket by the collar. I looked for HOURS trying to find the right one that would fit Vyvyan’s and I can tell you that it’s damn near impossible. In my mind, the jacket would have most likely been from the late 70s and probably not bought brand new. The more I looked, the more I drove myself insane so after painstakingly trawling ebay, I came across this one jacket. As I was after a particular shade of blue and no front pockets as soon as I saw it I was like ‘THAT WILL DO!’ because the price was right for me. (£20 BARGAIN!) Upon inspection, the reason it was that price was because there was a tiny piece of yellow paint on the back and some spots on the sleeves. This didn’t bother me because I was ripping the sleeves off. It was ironic it was yellow to be honest, Vyvyan must have been doing some work on the Ford Anglia…

(Photos from the ebay seller)

Once this jacket arrived and I saw it in person, I came to a conclusion it was just a tad too dark for my liking so… I guess I was gonna have to double bleach this son of a gun.

Measuring and ordering the studs -

The next step was finding the studs as from a quick search, postage was going to take a while. The best way I felt like I could visualise this is if I cut out squares that I thought were the right size, going off some references (my lovely friend Andy who helped me with Rick’s badges sent me some good reference photos from the Bachelor Boys photo scans) then I would know exactly how many studs I would need. I’d needed pyramid studs and round mushroom studs. The mushroom studs, going off my references, were the same size as the pyramid ones so that was nice and easy.

Cutting the sleeves off -

There’s no rocket science behind this, get some sharp scissors (I personally used dressmaking scissors) and then hack them off! I cut before the seam. The reason I did this because A) I was going to be double bleaching it so it would have to survive the washing machine twice at least and I didn’t want it to over fray the edges and B) the sleeves didn’t need to be bleached as well so there was no point having them on there pre bleach. I didn’t chuck the sleeves in the bin because they were perfect for testing on before committing.

Bleach testing -

I want to say for the record I have never bleached any fabric in my life so this was completely unknown territory. I was willing to accept the challenge though! So I did a couple of tests on some strips from the sleeves using various combinations of part water part bleach as well as straight bleach to the denim. As you can see, the straight bleach to denim was a complete no no!

Because I’m a right idiot, I don’t have any photos of the dried test strip but I can tell you I tried 50/50 bleach to water (i’m unsure what millitres it was now) and submerged it in my bathroom sink for half an hour. This seemed to work so I went ahead and did this for the whole thing. I ended up using two whole bottles of bleach, the equivalent in normal cold water (I think it may have even been 40/60 bleach to water in the end, meaning I put a little more water in), a pair of rubber gloves (protect those digits, folks), an apron (don’t ruin ya threads!), a big old storage tub, and an old towel laid out on the floor under the tub. I’m not gonna lie to ya, I was bricking it because I was terrified it would go from being too dark to too light because i’d read bleach turns quick. I have no photos of this set up either (surprise, surprise) but I submerged the jacket in the bleach water but I kept it moving around so it wouldn’t end up patchy. I set a timer for 20 minutes but took it out after 15 because, bloody hell that bleach turned quick! I’m lucky I did this right next to my bathtub because I could quickly rinse it off and then the washing machine wasn’t far either so I could shove it in on a rinse cycle. It worked out alright in the end, even if it did take ages to dry!

Now that it was dry, I needed to do the same again but for the lighter patch of denim on the back of the jacket. Instead of submerging this, I stuck a couple of bits of cardboard under the panel (so it didn’t soak through to the rest), got a takeaway tub with a bit of bleach and water, a sponge and just dabbed/poured it on in bits and kept moving it around for 10 minutes. Then repeated the process of rinsing it and chucking it in the washing machine to rinse. Then cut to me impatiently having to wait for it to dry again before I could do anymore.

Fraying the edges -

In the meantime I had a go at practicing different techniques of fraying and weathering the denim on the strips I had left. I cut off the cuff of one of the sleeves because I would be working with that thickness on the shoulder edge. I basically got a really sharp craft knife (thanks to the boys who I live with who make Warhammer models) and started slashing into the edges, sanding it with sandpaper and then using tweezers to pull excess bits off. This seemed to work quite well so once the jacket was dry, I went and did just that. It was a bit fluffy so I used a paint brush and water to just clump bits of the white bit together.

B&Q run anyone? -

Funnily enough the first thing (before I even got the jacket) was the chain and padlock necklace our edgy punk likes to wear. I did a run to our local DIY store armed with my copy of the Bachelor Boys book and reference photos on my phone and tried to match up the chain to the one he wears. I must have looked mental. The chain I settled on was dead on the nose perfect. It’s the exact length of each chain loop that I needed. I ended up getting two metres cut because I didn’t know whether one metre was enough and better to have too much than not enough. It's an incredibly thick chain so I'm glad I had my Dad who owns a grinder that could cut the excess off. I went for the first plain, big, silver padlock I could find. It’ll still need weathering but that’s a job for another day. I was unsure about the chain for the back piece so I ended up coming back on a second trip because I couldn’t find exactly what I was after. More on that later.

Studding the back of the jacket -

Woo hoo! The studs arrived! As always, I practiced the studs on a scrap bit before I committed. Turns out the pyramid studs were super easy to poke through but the round mushroom studs needed a craft knife to poke a hole in it before putting them in. Easy enough.

The next step was to measure the length out between each stud to make them even.

“If you think like the character, I don’t think he would have sat there with a ruler and measured them out, he would have just stuck them in.” - My housemate

That’s all very true and it looks like a mess, but it’s an organised mess that i’m sure the BBC costume department took care with as well! If you look at the Bachelor Boys book (my saviour for getting the back piece correct), Vyvyan is missing studs. This was probably due to the fact the boy threw his body around so much, it doesn’t surprise me that he lost a few here and there! Because of this, I was going off the pilot episode’s jacket studs because it was where it was most complete and that’s more what I was after. The round studs were a bit of a guess and I had to watch and pause the show (oh what a shame, I had to watch it again!). I was hesitant but I just went for it in the end. It didn’t turn out too bad! Weirdly enough, the yellow paint didn’t come off with the bleaching process but I'm oddly glad it didn’t. It added a bit of character and a little personal headcanon.

WIth the two pieces of chain, I know it’s not exact and I kick myself for it but it’s not the end of the world. This wasn’t a bad alternative. I roughly measured out the length I needed and then using some strong cutting pliers, cut the chain. I also stitched them in at the top before putting the stud over the top. This is so A) If the stud goes flying off whilst i’m wearing it, the chain won’t go with it and B) If I do find a better chain, it’d be super easy to replace!

As for the front of the jacket, that was pretty easy as there weren’t many studs to do. I did make sure I had fully pressed the studs in but the round ones were basically like split pins. Because of this, they did move around and I didn’t want to catch any of them when I wore it. So I very carefully stitched the studs down on the inside, careful not to sew through) I’m not the best at normal sewing so they’re just roughly tacked in but it’ll be safer in the long run.

VERY METAL -

If you look super closely at the back of his jacket (luckily I had really close up references so I could see the detail really well), It was clearly done with a permanent marker because you could see little spaces where the writing has been coloured in. On the test strips, I tried using paint for the words but it just didn’t have the same effect. Bring in the sharpie! I wanted the same effect so I did that after I had pencilled it out. I also did the same thing for the ‘U.R. DEAD’.

HURT YOUR DOG & LOVE YOU DEAD -

The very last thing I was going to do to this jacket was the paint on the front. This was the piece of the jacket that I really tried to channel Vyvyan. I wasn’t going to go out and buy expensive fabric paints, instead I hit up a local Wilko (A shop that does a bit of everything) and picked up tester pots of indoor wall paint. They were small enough for the job I wanted them for and cheap as chips. And ya know, I’m sure Vyvyan probably would have done it with whatever paint he could get his hands on, most likely for walls. I know that the paint isn’t designed for fabric as large amounts of it will crack and not look good but I was only using small, thin amounts and if it cracks a little, it won’t matter. I pencilled it out first and then went in roughly with the paint. Once this had dried, I outlined it scruffily with sharpie again to get that ‘I don’t give a shit if it’s neat’ look.

Calling Dr Love… -

I felt it was almost a sin if I didn’t look for one of Vyvyan’s t-shirts to really put the icing on the cake. As far as I am aware the bands that appear on Vyvyan’s t-shirts are: Whitesnake, Rush, KISS, Saxon, Motörhead and The Exploited. I was thinking ‘Oh this will be fine, how hard could it be to find one of his t-shirts?’. Turns out, it’s a lot more difficult than I thought! So I looked at all them individually and tried to find them via ebay but alas, nothing. From my research, it looked like the KISS Rock and Roll Over album cover t-shirt was still being produced. BUT… it wasn’t as exact as I wanted it so using some creative initiative, I had to make it myself! I first of all found the highest quality PNG file I could find of the album cover and modified it. I took out the writing and added KISS around the edge like Vyv’s and turned it 90 degrees so that the person with the beams were at the top on the right, again like Vyv’s. After a lot of fiddling about with colours and such, I got it printed. Turns out it was cheaper to have it made so it was screen accurate than it was to buy the one that looked only slightly similar. Go figure!

I’m so very proud of the outcome of this project. It was a lot more fuss than Rick’s badges but totally worth every penny, effort and love I put into it. Still need to get Vyvyan’s cuffs and belt but I'm hoping to do a photoshoot with myself dressed as the bastard soon.

If you want to see the finished piece, check it out here!

“I’m very sober and very, VERY BORED!”

- Vyvyan Basterd

#Here we go lads sorry it's so long #There was so much to say about it!#I do have more photos of the process but I had to choose the photos wisely because Tumblr only allows 10 pictures BOOOOOO #Vyvyan Basterd #Adrian Edmondson #Ade Edmondson #The Young Ones #Cosplay #The Young Ones Cosplay #Vyvyan Basterd Cosplay #DIY #my cosplay

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yespolkadotkitty · 4 years

Text

Fighting Blind, pt 19

Masterlist here ~ thank you @heatherbel for the beta!!

Warnings: shameless angst.

I sleepwalked back to my apartment. The noises of London made me jump at first, my movements jerky. Had I locked up the storeroom? The museum staff entrance? I didn’t know.

I didn’t much care.

I had lain on the floor of the storeroom for some time, clutching the axe. Sobbing my throat raw. Willing it to send me back to before. Willing it to let me look into Pero’s eyes just one more time.

Willing whatever magic that it had before to let me hold him, just for a moment, feel his heart beat, bury my face in his neck. Hear his voice.

Just one more time.

I didn’t remember taking off my filthy robes and changing into the spare outfit I kept in my locker for nights out. The nylon fabric felt incongruous; I’d become used to thick, soft robes. My bra chafed.

I let myself into my apartment. Everything was where I’d left it.

My phone chirped in my bag and I pulled it out to see a text from Emma: Don’t stay too late! Reality TV beckons.

It was our little joke since she had introduced me to Ru Paul’s Drag Race, six months ago.

It felt like five lifetimes ago.

I put the phone to sleep, dropped my bag in the kitchen, and dragged myself to my bed, looking ahead of me but not seeing.

I lay down, fully clothed. The date on my bedside clock showed that here, almost no time had passed. I’d been deposited back to almost the exact moment I'd left.

My gaze was unfocused as I stared at the ceiling. My eyes reported back a view of the plain plaster, but in my mind I saw Pero’s last moments. The length of thick red ribbon around my wrist felt unreasonably heavy. I twisted the fraying ends with my right thumb and forefinger.

If I could have cried some more, I would have.

I felt wrung out, a cloth squeezed too hard and then left out on the line until it sagged, dry as bone, moving only at the whims of the wind.

Eventually, I slept, and when I did, I dreamed of my husband’s big, soulful brown eyes, his scarred hands on my skin, the whisper of his melodic Spanish accent in my ear.

*****

I woke up in the middle of the night, shaking. My arm spread out across the cool, crisp sheets, reaching for the warmth of a broad Spaniard who had been killed in battle thousands of years ago.

I clutched desperately at a pillow that did not smell of him, and I waited for dawn to come, silent and dry-eyed, a husk of myself.

The next day, I called in sick.

Emma left me six texts and three voicemails. Marco tried to call all afternoon. I ignored them both, and I stayed curled up on the bed, staring at nothing, hardly moving except for water and bathroom trips.

Eventually, I slept.

No dreams came.

*****

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when a sharp rapping on the door jerked me from my half-sleep, half-grief stricken stupor.

“Fuck off,” I moaned to the empty room, my voice paper-dry, cracking. “You’re not Pero. He’s gone.”

The clock showed a whole day had passed. It was just after ten a.m.

The pounding got louder.

I scrubbed my hands over my face, got up wearing yesterday’s clothes. Walking felt like dragging my feet through a carpet of molasses.

I yanked open the door without checking to see who it was.

Emma stood on the other side, and she took me in with wide eyes, her lips parting.

“Um, oh my God,” she breathed, taking in my wrinkled clothes. I probably stank. “What happened? Flu?”

I gazed at her, my very best friend, trying to summon joy at seeing her face again, when I never thought I would. Instead, I just shrugged.

And then she moved forward and wrapped her arms around me, and I let my face fall into the familiar feel of her shoulder, and I cried.

Two cups of tea later, I had unloaded the entire story to Emma, who had listened without interruption, various expressions parading across her elfin face, but, who now almost certainly thought I had experienced some sort of intense mental break.

I wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t.

“Well,” she said finally, with the tone of someone speaking to a very infirm person or a baby; “You can’t go back to work in this state, can you?”

I gaped at her. “You want me to go back to work now?”

She tugged my hand until I reluctantly stood up from the sofa. “You’ve not got a lot of choice. There’s a man in the staff waiting area and he says he won’t leave until he sees you. Came all the way from America.”

My heart sank further still. I just heard America, not Spain.

Emma herded me into the bathroom, stripped me off as I stared sightlessly at the wall, turned on the water, shoved me under it.

I watched, unfeeling, until the spray hit the red ribbon around my left wrist, and then a cry raked up my throat, and I slid down the tiled wall, curling in on myself, pressing the damp wedding bracelet to my lips, wishing myself back in China. Back in Pero’s arms.

Wishing I could hold him just one more time.

Just one more time.

*****

Emma didn’t say much on the way to the Armouries. What could she say? From her point of view, her colleague had called in sick one day and appeared to have suffered an intense psychotic episode.

I half sleep-walked off the tube, up to the museum. People passing probably thought I was taking very strong drugs.

Emma made me a very strong cup of tea, so strong that perhaps the spoon could have stood up by itself, and steered me to my desk chair. “Sit. I’ll bring the visitor.”

I stared into the mug. “Do I have to? Please don’t make me.”

Emma set her hands on her hips, her face creased in sympathy, brow pinched with worry. “You can go home right after. I swear. Okay? You get one more day of whatever... this is, and then I’m taking you out on the town. London at our feet. Or, you know, twelve hours on the sofa, with popcorn and Ru Paul. Okay?”

I nodded, just to get her to leave.

Time passed; I wasn’t sure how much. I stared at my PC’s Welcome to the London Armouries screensaver, and wondered how much trouble I would get in if I hurled my computer out of the window.

Then I remembered I didn’t even have a window in this office.

I smiled without humour.

A soft knock at the door made me look up. “Come in,” I called, with zero enthusiasm.

The handle turned, and I expected to see Emma, but I didn’t. What I saw made me topple off my chair.

A man with Pero’s face stood in the open doorway. His hair was lighter, cream caramel kissed with autumn, tousled. Scruff adorned his upper lip and the same strong jaw as Pero’s.

The same soulful, deep brown eyes.

The same striking profile, same nose I’d loved the hook of.

I stared at him as all the noise was sucked from the room. My ears rang.

He hurried over to me. “What the- Are you okay?” he asked in a husky-edged, drawling baritone, California with just a lick of Texas.

I stared at him wordlessly. My mouth opened and closed, until I finally squeaked out, “is this some kind of joke?”

The man stepped back, brows furrowed. “Funny. I’m pretty sure that's my line.” He rubbed a hand over his scruffy jaw, and that was when I saw it.

The circular mark on the root of his thumb. The depiction of infinity; the spiral, the serpent eating its own tail. Not black, like ink, but the colour of melanin.

My heart lurched into my throat.

This time when he offered me his hand, I took it.

Our palms touched, and something electric chased down my arm. The stranger jerked as if I’d struck him, slapping his hands over his face as he reeled back, hitting the wall and sliding down it. I rocked back on my heels, staying on the floor.

He held his hands over his eyes for a moment that stretched, shaking, his shoulders hunched in.

When he finally looked at me, his eyes had changed. Darker, somehow. His mouth just a little scowly.

My heart jumped like it had been supercharged, because there was my Pero. I was frozen to my spot.

“The dreams,” the man said, very slowly. “I’ve been having these crazy dreams. But they’re.. memories, aren’t they?”

Unable to speak, I nodded.

“They’re my memories. But also… not mine.” He stared into the distance for a long moment, his face pale, wonder sketched on his features. “And this.” He ran the index finger of his right hand over the birthmark on his left thumb. “You did this.” His eyes sparked hazel fire, accusing me of this insanity.

And he was right. I had done this to him.

I held his gaze, my heart in my throat, heavy. “I gave it to you. Before.”

The stranger’s hand eased over his abdomen, resting where Pero had been gored open by Tao Tei teeth. “It feels… fuck, it feels real.”

I swallowed, my eyes burning, stomach bottoming out. Tears streaked down my face and I let them come, my stomach cramping, and for an agonising moment, it was like losing him all over again. In my mind’s eye I saw the blood pulse from him, his life slipping away and me crouched over him, helpless to stop it. “It was real.”

We sat together in silence for, I don’t know how long. I both ached to touch him and feared it. Feared the modern texture of his open-flannel shirt over a white t-shirt. Feared the rough denim of his jeans.

And how would he smell? Not of lemon oil, leathers or woodsmoke. How could he?

“I’m Zach,” he said into the dragging silence. “Zachary Pero Wellison.”

My mouth dropped open.

Zach smiled lopsidedly, pushing a hand over his face. The face that was Pero’s, and yet, not. “So… I guess with the addition of…” He waved his hand between us. “...this, I’m sort of…. Both of us? I’m Zach, but I somehow have the memories of….. Pero.” He pressed a fist to his head and then popped his fingers in a “head exploding” reference. “Is this really happening, do you think?”

I laughed, without humour. “At this point, I don’t think I know.”

Zach huffed out what might have been a laugh. “The shrink sure as hell didn’t cover this in PTSD counselling.”

His deadpan delivery made me smile for the first time since I’d woken up back in 2019.

Footsteps sounded outside, followed by voices that lingered and then, after a minute, moved on. My gaze flicked over Zach, my stomach heartsick. Pero, my Pero, was in there, and yet, he wasn’t.

This was impossible. Everything I had ever learned told me what Zach and I were experiencing just did not happen.

But.

“You’re military?”

He nodded, shrugging off the shoulder of his flannel shirt and pulling up the right sleeve of his t-shirt to show me the bottom half of an intricate tattoo on his shoulder. “Semper Fi. Marines. Buzz cut grew out.”

I ate up the extra view of his body, greedy to know where he would be the same, and where he might be different.

“Glad I never saw anything like… the Tao Tei in Afghanistan,” he said shakily, a self-deprecating laugh escaping his lips.

I held his gaze. “It was an experience. Are you.. I take it you don’t still serve?”

“Nope. Three tours and an honorable discharge, two years on the street, but for the past five I’ve had a steady job. A roof over my head.” He summed up his life so flippantly; his delivery really reminded me of Pero’s nonchalance about death.

I sell my sword for coin, I sleep when fighting has exhausted me, and one day I will die and return to the earth. Simple, don’t you think?”

“Um, so... can I get you a coffee?” I asked, swiping my hands over my eyes. It felt like a monumentally banal thing to say seeing as this man now seemed to hold every memory my dead husband had ever clocked up, but I didn’t have anything else.

“Got any whiskey?” he half-laughed.

“I wish I did.”

“I’m good. Drank about a gallon of it at the hotel. Nerves. I, um…” He lifted those cocoa eyes to mine, and for a second, a heartrending second, it was Pero looking at me. My pulse tripped. “This is... fuck, this is a lot. I really…” He clenched his hands into fists, drawing my attention to that birthmark, the same lines, lines I had drawn, only in that brown shade of skin pigment. “I wanna touch you. Or he does. I don’t know. But… can I? Is that okay? I can’t think about anything else.”

Twin zings of excitement and fear skidded up my spine. “Um… okay.”

Neither of us moved.

Zach laughed nervously, standing. He towered above me as I sat in the corner next to my computer chair. I let my gaze travel up his body, long legs in faded blue jeans, a flat stomach under that white t-shirt, the lines of his torso delineated by the open plaid shirt.

His eyes were soft as he offered his hand again, palm out flat.

This time, when I took it, no lightning. Just a warm touch. His fingers sure and confident around mine.

He tugged me gently to a standing position, until we were only a foot apart, then he let our joined hands fall to our sides. We stood together like that for goodness knew how long, looking into each other’s eyes; his so familiar and yet so new.

Zach lifted his free hand to gently skim his thumb along my jaw, and just like that, the air changed. Each breath I took seemed supercharged as I gazed into his big, soulful eyes. “Zach,” I whispered, and it didn’t feel wrong.

He slowly lowered his head to mine, his eyes constantly flicking to meet mine, checking it was okay. Checking I was okay.

And then just before our lips met, a shudder went through him, and he whispered, “Cielo,” with just a hint of Spanish melody, and there was no way in hell he could have known that word unless-

And I yanked him down to me and kissed him with all the love and yearning and grief in my heart, and he kissed me back. His hands came up to spread over my back, and the warm, solid wall of his chest felt divine.

Perfect.

Bliss.

I opened for him, and he licked into my mouth, his teeth scraping just a little, and I welcomed the tiny hurt, pressing closer into his body. His lips were Pero’s lips, his little shaky inhale the way Pero would sometimes suck in a breath when we kissed. I shoved my hands beneath his open plaid shirt, felt the play of muscle on his back, under the soft t-shirt, and it was like holding Pero. I sobbed into Zach’s mouth and he drew back, frowning.

“Sorry,” I choked out. “I’m sorry. I -”

“I know,” Zach whispered, stroking my hair back. “I was there. He - I - loved you … He loved you. More than anything.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my lips together to stop them from trembling. “This isn’t happening. I would give anything to have him back. Anything. But this is… it can’t be real.”

Zach cupped my cheek, his eyes dark, stormy, and for a moment it was my husband looking at me. “Ask me something only he would know.”

I opened my eyes again. This was like living in an alternate reality of the film Ghost. But real. I felt the floor under my feet. I felt Zach’s palm against my skin, gun-callused, the same way Pero’s had been sword-callused.

“What did he say to me, when we... when I…” The words dried up on my tongue. Suddenly I didn’t want to share, which made no sense. “The first time,” I finished lamely.

Zach dropped his gaze from mine, a flush stealing over his cheeks. “Cielo. Heaven. I will not last,” he murmured, that Spanish melody sneaking, incrementally, into his tone.

My pulse spiked.

No one could know that.

He met my eyes again. “Fuck. I know. This can’t be happening. But it is. Unless we’re both suffering the same delusion.”

I half-laughed. “Unless. God, Zach. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about…. all this.”

“I’m not. I wanted answers to these insane dreams, to the burning feeling on my birthmark, and however absolutely batshit those answers are... I had so many moments over in Afghanistan, wondering what I was fighting for... where my life was going. Always thought - it’s so stupid, but always thought I was just waiting for something. And maybe that something is you.”

My stomach dropped. “Oh, Zach.”

He smiled lopsidedly. “Whatever this is, it doesn’t feel like just my twisted little secret anymore.”

“I-” My heart pounded. “Secret. Oh my God, secret. The axe.”

Zach’s gaze shot to mine, wonder sketched on his handsome features. “I know how to open it.”

*****

I’d never run so fast before. I skidded out of the office, Zach on my heels, past some very surprised visitors and down to the artefact storeroom. I could only hope that no one had been there since the day before yesterday.

Zach stood silently by, but I saw his hands clenched into fists by his side as I swiped my keycard.

It was still there.

The door slammed behind us as I lurched on to the floor, picking it up, uncaring about being without cotton gloves.

Zach held out his hands, and I passed it to him. He gazed at it in wordless awe, his eyes poring over it, fingers stroking reverently.

Then he turned it over, pressed his thumbnail into the slice representing Pero’s scar in the carving on the bottom, and the handle turned, loosening.

I gasped in shock, surprise, joy.

Zach gently pulled the haft loose to reveal a shallow compartment in the metal handle, two pieces of parchment and a loop of crimson lying inside, like the finest of treasures.

With hands that shook, I took out Pero’s handfasting bracelet. The edges were frayed, the fabric so old it had discoloured, but it was his. I lifted it to my lips, felt my heart wrench from my body.

Zach had set the axe down and held the pieces of parchment in his palms. His eyes were wide as he breathed, “I wrote this. I mean, he did. But I remember writing it.”

I paused, the dusty, faded bracelet pressed to my cheek. “What?”

He showed me the yellowed parchment, the writing faded beyond recognition. “The words are almost gone. But I was there. I - he - wrote it while you slept. On the handfasting night.”

The world spun. I braced myself up on one arm. “Would you read it? Please.”

Clearing his throat, Zach closed his eyes, and to my amazement and joy, to my sadness and gratitude, Pero’s voice left his lips.

Querida

You sleep as I write this. My wife, in our bed. Your body and soul more beautiful than I could ever have wished for, in this life certainly. I am not good with words, mi vida, but you must know that you hold my old, scarred heart in your hands.

I think perhaps, you always have.

If you are reading this then I have gone with God, but whatever He may have planned for my old bones, I will carry you with me always.

Until we meet again,

Yours,

Pero

When he’d finished, tears streamed unashamed down my face, wetting my jeans. I couldn’t have cared less.

Zach’s face was drawn, too. He set the two pieces of paper aside and opened his arms, and without a second thought, I crawled into them. He rocked me gently, and I pressed my face into his neck, breathing him in; he didn’t smell of Pero, he smelled of rosemary and sandalwood and coffee, but it wasn’t wrong.

“Thankyou,” I whispered into his shirt. “Thank you, for letting my hear his voice, just one more time.”

Zach said nothing, just nodded. He understood. He always would.

We sat that way for I didn’t know how long. Eventually I roused myself. “Zach?”

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest. “It’s still me. I think,” he drawled, American again, but that husky-edged voice curled its way into my heart.

“What’s the other piece of paper?”

He lifted one arm to pluck it from the floor. “It’s… what is this language?”

I recognised the penmanship. “Oh my God, it’s Gaelic.” I scrambled off his lap, reaching for my phone. This piece of parchment had been wrapped inside the other, and the words had been mostly preserved. I took a picture of the text, uploaded it to the translation app a colleague at the British Museum had developed. While still in beta, it nevertheless contained many ancient languages.

Within a few moments, a translation appeared, and Zach and I gazed down at the screen as I read aloud:

Jade

The thought that this message may find you in a future many, thousands of years from now gives me pause, I must admit, but since fighting those… Monsters, I find nothing surprises me.

We gave your husband a warrior’s wake. That I swear to you. Lin saw to many of the details personally. After your rooms were cleared I found a note in his hand and I enclose it here.

We captured a Tao Tei in the days following Tovar’s death. We fed Ballard to it. A fitting end for such a waste of air, I think you’ll agree.

And after that, the strategists found the Queen. We think we’re halfway to learning how to be rid of them. Once and for all, I pray.

A year has passed since you and Tovar left me. As I write this, Lin sits beside me with our twins, Jade and Pero, named for the man who saved Lin’s life, and the woman he loved beyond the boundaries of time.

I don’t know what will happen when we die, but we will keep Tovar’s axe in our family as best we can. Lin says she trusts the spirits to take care of it, and after all I’ve seen here, I can’t disagree with her.

She wouldn’t listen even if I did.

We miss you.

With love,

William Garin

*****

A/N: One more chapter to go on this journey. Thank you, thankyou, thankyou for all your love, comments, messages, reaction gifs, theories, THANKYOU x 1000000000. Thank you for indulging my insanity.

Tagging: @babybelou @theravenreads @vanillabeanlattes @alienprincesspoop @knittingqueen13 @lackofhonor @holographic-carmen @thewayofthemandalorian @buckstaposition @thegreenkid @agirllovespasta @chews-erotically @apples-of-february @mstgsmy @songsformonkeys @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @buckysalefty @readsalot73 @restingnurseface @opheliaelysia @emmy-dandiliom918 @prdsdjarin @a-seeker-of-imagination @havenforafrazzledmind @badassbaker @thewaythisis @kindablackenedsuperhero @keeper0fthestars @starlight-starwrites @agentpike @alldatalost @littlemissthistle @cryptkeepersoul @stylelovechild @maryan028 @seawhisperer @emesispo @beccaplaying @hdlynn @jaime1110 @marydjarin @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @mrsparknuts @pinkzsugar @cutepurplehedgehog @ksgeekgirl @skdubbs @roxypeanut @usernameistooshort @tortles

#fighting blind #pero tovar fic #the great wall fic #the great wall au #pero tovar au

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hansolmates · 4 years

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jjk; angel’s trumpet [bonus]

summary; one second, your life is flashing before your eyes and the next, you’re transported into a world exactly like your own. but the jungkook you meet in this world isn’t a renowned singer or your former almost-lover, in fact he has no clue who you are and why you know him so well. as you work to find your way home lost and confused, you conclude that you’re either dead or in the middle of the most wicked drug trip of your life. pairing; idol!jk x reader (f), alternatively film producer!jk x reader genre/warnings; fluff, angst, supernatural, idol!au, non-idol!au, alternate universes, themes of fate, language, alcohol consumption, in this chapter–nudity boobies! w.c; 2.2k a/n; why did a week go by so stinkin’ fast? i’m not ready to let go of this couple! that being said, i wouldnt mind posting some drabble babbles about these two or four. im utterly thankful for the love and passion my readers had for this, i had so many kind readers that kept me afloat through all of. i can’t wait to see you in the next one, and i hope you enjoy this little glimpse💕

[final] [bonus] -> masterpost

“You’re not Jimin.”

Jungkook’s eyes snap open, and he takes note of the change in air. Chalk it up to the open window or the fact that the rain’s evaporated, but he can’t help the pinch of pain in his heart as he realizes that you’re far, far gone from this world.

And in your place, is you. Not quite you, but it’s almost scary how easy it is to regard your visage and simple conversation.

“Jimin,” he repeats, as if he heard you wrong. “As in, Park Jimin? Tiny guy with a big ego?”

“Yes,” you reply blandly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Your eyes are sparkless, flickering between your state of nakedness and his state of nakedness. “I know I wasn’t exactly sober last night, but I distinctly remember telling him he’d be in my bed tonight,” and you regard Jungkook with a sort of pointed look, unable to decipher your situation, “but here you are. Still cupping by boob.”

Out of reflex, he squeezes his palm. Yep, that’s yours.

A little part of him also wants to yell to the heavens because you failed to tell him you were hooking up with Park Jimin before all of this.

Okay technically you didn’t, but the person in front of him did.

His heart is fresh and stinging like a hot cut on the asphalt. He watches you take in your surroundings, humming when you notice the new clothes on the rack and the way your desk has been rearranged. Jungkook is trying very hard to be patient, after all you’re a stranger and suddenly he feels like he’s the one that’s known you all his life. Oh, how the tables have turned.

You stretch, testing out your limbs as they pop and crackle at your command. You run a hand through your strawberry-smelling hair, and Jungkook has to grip the sheets to not go by instinct and take you right then and there on this mattress. With a shameless groan of satisfaction, you flop against your bed. Jungkook tries, emphasis on try, to not watch as your breasts bounce and the way your hair flows around your pillow like the angel you are, but he’s rendered smitten.

“Uh,” boobies boobies boobies.

You pointedly ignore his piss-poor attempt at coherent conversation, staring up at the ceiling. “Ho—ly shit,” you curse freely, heaving an exhausted sigh, “I feel so sore.”

“S-sore?” Great, he found his voice.

“Yeah, like I’ve been in a coma or something,” but you think nothing of it, summing it up as a crazy dream from alcohol poisoning. You sit up straight, reaching for your phone. It’s not on your desk, but instead you find something far more interesting.

You reach for your Midnight Blue Citrus candle, frowning at the contents. The wax is nearly burnt to the end, the tips of the wicks charcoal black and frayed. Waving your used candle in Jungkook’s face you blame, “What the fuck, did you use all of this last night? I just bought this like, literally yesterday!”

His face falls, “What? You’ve had that candle for forever—”

“And why the heck it is so hot in the middle of February?”

Oh.

Something dark and sad creeps up Jungkook’s stomach, and he hates to be the one to tell you. February was when it all started, and his life changed with the presence of you. Jungkook tells himself repeatedly that the woman in this room is simultaneously the person he’s loved since winter and the stranger he feels that he’s meant to love with time. Considering everything’s happening all at once understanding it is still hard, but he’ll try for you.

It breaks his heart to see how you look lost and confused, like a child woken up from a debilitating nightmare. Your lips are bitten red and purple, trying your hardest not to show fear in front of him, a stranger. You’re frustrated as you try your hardest to shut the windows to block the incoming humidity from last night’s rain.

He says your name, sweet and soft. “It’s almost summer,” he says, his voice calm and collected.

“So are you telling me, that wasn’t a dream?”

The two of you stare at each other, unmoving. He tries not to squirm under your gaze, you watch him intently, scraping at the edge of your brain for any ideas. You’re hugging yourself, arms wrapping against your breasts as if you’re trying to hold your body together in a way that alludes to any brokenness you felt over these past two months.

Neither of you break the silence, and there’s a bang and a crash. Jungkook flinches at the tell-tale signs of the unwanted intruder, the fling of keys across your wooden table and a shrill call of your name.

“Who’s that?”

“Probably Hoseok,” Jungkook answers reluctantly, his thumb rubbing between his brows.

He ignores the extra cool air against his naked bits when he throws the blankets off his lap. Ignores the way you pointedly, shamelessly check him out as he throws on his sweats and a t-shirt. To his dismay he can’t ignore the burn in his cheeks when he knows how you’re scrutinizing him like a one-night stand, trying to recollect any type of concrete thought that would seem plausible enough to explain why you woke up in bed with him.

Throwing open your bedroom door and leaving you there, he cards a hand through his rogue bedhead to face a frantic Hoseok.

“It’s so early,” Hoseok warbles to himself, impressed that he’s managed to cop fresh donuts and coffee at nearly 7AM.

Jungkook sees nothing but an orange blob and Hoseok’s head, bleary and vibrating. Rubbing his eyes he says, “You just realized how early it is? Couldn’t you have stopped by a little later?”

“No, I couldn’t!” Hoseok’s now invading Jungkook’s personal space, as if you weren’t the bridge between their threads of a relationship, as if he and Hoseok could be friends. “I woke up a few hours ago and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I felt it, Jungkook. It was like an episode of the Twilight Zone. The air shifted and I felt like I was between two parallel universes—I swear on my bad knee that I’m not going through a drug trip—and I felt the world turning and changing and it was so fuckin’ weird I had to come here as soon as Dunkin’ opened. Didn’t you feel it too?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook exhales, not bothering to hide the disappointment. He smiles sadly, “it’s definitely not her.”

Hoseok’s expression and excitement over the world’s converging falters, and he pulls Jungkook into a hug. They’re not particularly close and Hoseok’s smaller in size compared to Jungkook, but for those five seconds he feels comforted as he hugs him back.

“Why don’t you go home and chill out, I don’t mind explaining things to her,” Hoseok offers, “and I’ll call you later and let you know how it went.”

“Okay,” Jungkook replies, voice slow, “that sounds like a good idea, actually.”

The situation is royally messed up, and he hates that he can’t blame it on anyone. Jungkook is a practical man, and he knows that he has no use when Hoseok is here with donuts and coffee. More importantly, there is no use torturing himself by letting his heart break in the presence of you.

“What is this, a party?” Taehyung’s bare feet smack against the hardwood, and he plops himself in the chair next to Hoseok, “did you get me coffee this time?”

The two of them bicker good-naturedly, with Hoseok explaining a little kindness goes a long way and Taehyung muttering that kindness doesn’t happen without caffeine. Jungkook excuses himself, feeling very much out of place as he moves to your bedroom to pack his things.

“You’re leaving?” you’re standing in the middle of your bedroom, now dressed in a long t-shirt and your hair tied clean and away from your face. You look pretty.

“Yeah,” he says shortly, stuffing his jeans in his bag and making sure all traces of him are gone from your bedroom. “Need to sort things out,” he excuses, and while you may not buy it, he really does. He feels heartbroken, angry at the world. Maybe he could visit Yoongi today and get a demo in, put all this pent-up emotion to good use. “But Hoseok brought you breakfast, he’s a good friend, he’ll explain everything.”

“But I don’t know Hoseok,” you mumble, picking at the hem of your band shirt. You’re pouting, stubborn.

“But you don’t know me either,” Jungkook retorts, not unkindly, but not exactly gentle. “I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you.”

There’s a hard rip at his zipper, putting in a little too much force as he seals away all his things into a compact backpack. Heck, he even went as far as to take back the hoodie he lent you last month, making sure the fabric is crisp and folded so he can stow it away from your curious eyes. He shoves on his denim jacket from last night, still lingering with the scents of sand and saltwater. It makes him sombre, and the selfish part of him wishes to bottle up that scent and tuck it away forever.

“You’re wrong,” you blurt when he moves toward the door. His hand lingers over the knob, “I do know you.”

He narrows his dark eyes, taking in your honest expression, “At Jimin’s job, maybe? I did a couple interviews in the beginning of February. Maybe we passed each other while you had lunch with him.”

“No. You sang to me, talked to me, as much as you could up until this moment.”

He remembers the stories you fed to him last night under the stars, shameless and full of love as you explained to him of his other self. The life where he’s a renowned singer, a Golden Boy, one of the most revered in his industry. A life he could only dream of, yet somewhere out there he’s living it in another body making that dream come true.

Thoughts are running through his head, memories that aren’t his own. He could only imagine what you must’ve gone through, recovering in a hospital bed for two months, unable to move but actively aware of the pain and anguish. How confused you must’ve been, aching to figure out what the hell is going on, acutely aware of the voices constantly chattering about your well-being.

One of those voices being Jeon Jungkook, who was probably taking care of you night and day.

His head is starting to throb, and he feels like he’s five seconds away from spiraling.

“I’d… I’d feel more comfortable around you, Jungkook,” you confess, reaching for his hand, “but if you need to, you can go,” you bite your lip, folding in on yourself once more, “if it hurts too much to be around me right now.”

He gladly takes your hand, rubbing his thumb between your palm. The familiar sparks he feels when he holds it return, but tamps it down for the sake of your vulnerability. It’s not your fault you’re in this situation. “No… I’m just gonna go home for a bit, clear my schedule,” he gives you a little smile, and he inflates a bit when you give him one of your own. “I’ll come back for you after breakfast.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

You pull him into an unexpected hug, suddenly fearing he may never come back.

“I always wondered what the man looked like behind the voice,” and you’re suddenly melting, feeling a sense of familiarity as you let your heart run faster than your brain when you let him hold you in his arms. He smells just like him, too.

His embrace is tight, and his arms fit in all the little curves and spots that make you feel warm and safe. “And am I living up to your expectations?” it’s a half-joke, after all the both of you are going simply by feeling and there’s no way in hell would he even attempt to compare himself to well, himself.

You pull away to look at him, really look at him. Honest, clear eyes. Jungkook thinks he sees the world in your gaze. “Only if you eat a donut before you go,” you reply with a shy smile.

At your defiant mention of food he can’t help but grin like a maniac, letting you tug him back out to sit at the counter with him and have breakfast. Like he said before, he can’t wait to fall in love all over again.

#jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #bts fic #jungkook fluff #goldenclosetnet #im not crying you're crying

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weltonreject · 3 years

Text

Juniper and the Gardener

|| Juniper “Juno” Saint Catherine is always looking to be home, always waiting for his time at work to be over, for the time of his life to finally start up again. || ~3.8k words

Buy me a coffee || Other original writing || Thesis: Lost & Stolen

It wasn’t his poorest habit, but Juno frequently slept in his work clothes. He had only three pairs of nice slacks—as well as the fault of forgetting to send out his laundry in a timely manner. To counteract his own shortcomings, he did, however, make the change over from beige to black. The undone center crease—and other telling wrinkles—were better disguised and appeared to be from a long commute rather than a restless sleep and hurried walk; fifteen blocks to save the few bucks in bus fare.

Juno had fallen asleep with his beer bottle in hand, resting upright against his hip and without a single sip taken. Stella always tasted like piss to him anyway. Juno yawned and walked the bottle to the kitchenette sink, holding it upside down as he cracked his tense neck. The same fork was still in the sink from the night before. Not washed, or more preferably, joined by any other utensil. No other meal had been served, even for one, while he was slouched against the headboard.

It was nearly eight that morning. He wasn’t late, but he could be if he didn’t hurry. He’d already been demoted once that year. The office didn’t take very nicely to having to change his name on his paycheck, so they wanted to make sure any check they did have to send to Juno whoever was for as little as possible. Personally, Juno thought his last name—Catherine—was a delightful change. He took it graciously five years ago, relishing in silence up until five months prior.

With the bottle in the sink, Juno began yanking his arms out of his unbuttoned shirt. The cuffs were tight and folded his hands into cracking claws before slipping up the sleeves. He kept his other—ironed—shirts on the tall rack by the door. He chose the slimly cut maroon shirt—a favorite—and quickly hurried it closed as he stepped in front of the cracked mirror in the room’s foyer.

Oh, did he not remember ever turning thirty. Or looking thirty. Or, more so, now looking thirty-seven. With the cuffs unbuttoned now, Juno adjusted his thirty-sixth birthday present: a gold watch with a black face and shining numbers. They stayed shined, even under the glass and with countless swipes of the hour and minute hand over top. It was the cruelest birthday joke a lover had ever gotten him, but then again, the truth always had a way of being cruel. There was nothing to fold over and tuck under with the truth stretched out so finely in front of him. Ticking ever so softly on his wrist.

Every action, from the moment of waking, was a passing of time to get back the pale, antique hallways of The Quill Hotel and back to room 516. He’d been living there for fifteen years, everything the exact the same—even the sheets. After he’d stayed two consecutive weeks, Mrs. Gregory marked the inner tag of his bedding bag and made sure the same sheets returned to his room. One time, after nursing a broken, bleeding nose while propped up on three pillows, she asked about the blood she found. The note was on the hotel’s pale lilac stationary, neatly folded on his nightstand, giving him the number of a helpline if he was in trouble.

The stain was still there, fading with every wash. It was on the left side of the bed, Juno able to circle it whenever he slept alone.

Juno locked his room—the only room still having a traditional lock and not requiring a keycard— at eight fifteen. He was due in the office in fifteen minutes. He could make it with a pace of about a minute per block, provided Miss Rosanne didn’t have any new pictures of her grandchildren at the ready at the front desk. Juno took the hallway at an angled gait, trying to cushion his footsteps.

The carpet on the fifth floor was wearing spectacularly on the edge of the landing and down each step. The carpet was teal and purple, although now mostly just brown and gray. If anything, Juno preferred the faded colors to their original dye. The bright colors reminded him of far worse days. Hurrying to his room with far more embarrassment and anxiety about who could be tracking him across the same carpet, tainting the eager footsteps echoing his own all the way into his room and back to his bed.

Purple and a warped greened teal had bloomed on his own skin too often after such tracking. They never turned such a benign brown or gray, instead looking so yellow he feared a kind of rot growing from his shame. The frayed carpet had been kind to him, leading him out the front door every morning.

“Morning, Mister Catherine.” The gardener, Landis, greeted him almost immediately. He was kneeling on the other side of the hotel’s walkway. He was laying mulch, a small towel tucked against his knees. His work trousers were torn; the work of a stubborn rose, Juno was sure.

“Morning, Mister Fern.” Juno lifted a quick hand. His watch glinted in the morning sun, like a wink from under his jacket cuff. “Beautiful day.”

“Gorgeous.”

Spring had just started to poke through the blanketing cold fronts, warmth sighing in with the light breeze. Sun had melted the heavy, thick clouds and began peaking through like water through a frozen lake. It made the long walk to Juno’s office pleasant. He didn’t even think to misread the building’s sign of Campbell & Violet as Cramping & Violent that morning.

###

No one greeted Juno as he slipped his way to his desk. It made sense, though, seeing as everyone was on the phone with clients and hospitals and insurance firms. He didn’t expect anyone to cover their receivers and mouth a delighted Good morning! to him—of course not. Those that greeted him every morning in the hotel were obligated to do so. That was part of their job, too. Saying hello to the disgraced paralegal Juniper Saint Catherine was not a part of the job description of anyone in that office. Honestly, if it had been, Juno didn’t think he would’ve taken the job.

He savored his privacy. Juno thought of it something shareable. A set amount given to him, only able to be split and handed out like the segments of an orange. He thought about never starting on the peel, back when he was in his twenties. But then where would all that bitter sweetness go? Not to anyone that genuinely mattered. The vulnerability of sharing private moments would stay in thick, calloused isolation for the rest of Juno’s life. And he’d decided, by thirty, he wanted an orange grove.

“Catherine,” Someone said, swinging around their desk to his own. They relished in his new last name far too much. Juno heard something not quite delight in the spoken soft syllables of the surname. It was something like satire, like a joke only the man could hear. “Need that filing report done by morning meeting.”

“That’s less than…” Juno checked his watch, although already certain it wasn’t enough time. “That’s less than an hour.”

“Well, what can I tell you. Should’ve gotten here earlier.”

“I’m on time.” Juno didn’t expect to be correct. “I have a life outside of this office, you know.”

“And I’m sure you do.” The man—who’s name was irrelevant to Juno by that point—shrugged. “But when you’re here it’s our time, okay?”

“I’m not a fucking intern.” Juno grumbled, yanking open his desk drawer to gather his favorite pen and highlighter: another gift.

“Sorry? What was that?”

“I’m not an intern.” Juno over-enunciated. The man hadn’t expected Juno to repeat himself, to use company time to talk back. “I’m double your age and a grown fucking man. Don’t treat me like I haven’t figured out how to scrub my balls yet.”

It was a common complaint at home that Juno had too much of a sharp, grotesque tongue when he was angry. Then again, he wasn’t angry at home very often. He was out of practice.

The man blinked, considering the snap back. “Morning meeting.” He said finally. “I’ll do a longer schmooze bit in the beginning and buy you an extra ten minutes, if you should need it.”

Juno made the morning meeting, walking into the office with the report in one hand a large cup of coffee in the other. He looked at Son-of-the-Firm-Something-or-Other and made a very large charade of handing it over to the nameless man, who, as Juno realized was supposed to have it done himself.

Those extra ten minutes may not have been Juno’s to have, but as reparations, but they were ten minutes he’d converted into a stewing clip of embarrassment for What’s His Face.

It was enough to pass the next seven hours in petty delight.

###

Juno rushed home in a fast, more angular commute than the morning. He buried his hands in his front pockets and bent forward, hoping he’d stumble and find himself rolled over in the hotel’s flower garden. The hotel’s shadow would block out the sun and allow his disoriented look up at the sky to be clear and vivid. The gardener would be there, probably scolding him for crushing his work, but still helping him up and home.

The gardener was not out front when Juno crept inside. He ducked behind a family checking in to avoid Miss Roseanne. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the hotel staff—rather the opposite, considering his indefinite stay—but he was aching to be back in his room. To have time all to himself again.

In the middle of Juno discovering that his twist off beer bottle wasn’t twist off, someone knocked on his door. Juno only ever had one visitor. He paused the request for entrance with a swift bang on the hinged deadbolt—knocking the bottle cap clean off, without foaming over. Juno held the bottle out to his side and then answered the door.

The gardener stood in the hallway, gently playing with the bottom button of his denim jacket.

“You didn’t come over last night.” Juno said, stepping to the side and bracing his weight on the door.

“I finished late, hun, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You aren’t a bother and you know it.” Juno sighed. “Get in here.”

“I missed you.” Landis said, safely past the foyer of the room.

“You could start saying that instead of hello.” Juno muttered, locking the door again.

“It’s true. The moment I see you again, I realize how much I’ve missed you. That little ache goes away.”

The little ache: Landis’s sense that there was something else more important to be doing, or something out of place that couldn’t be seen, but needed to be fixed in order to continue. An obsessive thought that was completely silent but ran on a repeat. The ache was the record spinning around one more time.

“Why don’t you sit down, let me take off your boots.” Juno handed Landis his beer and pushed him back into the hotel’s teal green armchair.

Landis collapsed with a faint huff, letting out a low groan as Juno hoisted his leg onto his own bent knee. He tipped back his beer as Juno began unlacing his shoes. They were double-knotted, but also caked together with a thin layer of mud and mulch. Juno picked at them ferociously, not wincing when a splinter of wood got under his nailbed. He wanted to simply race to the point when he would free Landis’s foot and he would slip down lower in his chair.

“How was work today?” Landis asked. He rested the bottom of the bottle on his shoulder, his temple against the cool bottle neck.

“The same. Can’t get much worse.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

The demotion hit Landis harder than it did Juno. Juno laughed his way out of the payroll office, thinking what idiots they were for not just firing him. He was still more talented than he was gay, apparently. Enough of both to keep around. Landis, on the other hand, felt it as a personal cut from his own hand onto Juno. It was his name he carried on his smaller paychecks. But also, as Juno had to point out it, it was also Landis’s name and his “fault” that Juno walked into pay roll with such a high skip in his step. They could have just enough of both too.

“It’s okay. I still have a job.” Juno brushed the flaked mud from his right knee before switching to bending his left. He started on the other knots. “And I still have you.”

“Those two things aren’t married; you’d have me even without the job. Maybe even have your old job if it wasn’t for me—”

“Oh, you’d love me even if I was unemployed?” Juno teased, running his hands up Landis’s calves. He squeezed his muscles, pulsing a quick massage over their undoubted aches. Landis groaned and yanked his legs back from Juno. He put his beer bottle on the floor by the back right leg.

“Get up here.” Landis straightened his posture and closed his leg, pressing his knees together. Juno stood and put his knees on either side of Landis’s thighs, just fitting against the curved sides and armrests. Landis slid his hands up the length of Juno’s back, feeling his muscles twitch as he squirmed; Landis always had cold hands. “I missed you so much today.” Landis rested his head against Juno’s cheek. He inhaled deeply, burrowing his nose into Juno’s neck. “I barely saw you—you were late for work, weren’t you?”

“Barely.”

“Be on time, if only for me. I want a good glimpse of my husband in the morning.”

Silence fell over them both. Not quite the same silence they kept when in public together, but a far sharper one. One with teeth and claws. One that left marks on them if they weren’t careful. One that the people around them swallowed when they would whisper.

“Only for my husband.” Juno promised, threading his fingers into Landis’s hair. The roots of his hair were still wet, after his cordial cleanup after landscaping. Juno always told him he didn’t have to clean up to see him. He’d always take him at his most well-worked, and kiss him just as deeply as the roots he’d planted.

Juno loved his husband more than any words were capable—but he knew he had to create them sometime. He couldn’t let their relationship stay liminal and simply for the “in-betweens”. This was Juno’s life, not anything else he attended just to simply see the hands of his watch swing all the way around and tell him he could return to his bedroom. Return to Landis’s arms: tanned, firm, and tired. Juno missed Landis, too, every moment of the day. But, more articulately, he missed his life.

How could any words ever say that?

“Why don’t we go to bed, hm?” Juno slid back, trying to get his feet on the ground without stumbling. “You must be tired, Handsome. Always working so hard.”

“I’m not tired.”

“No?”

“No.” Landis hoisted Juno up by his waist. “I can still make love to my husband.”

“Landis, no, it’s been a long few day for you--”

“And I miss you.”

Would it be selfish for that to be enough? For Juno to accept that he was enough of a reason to bring life back to their room, to their bed, to himself?

“I can’t tell if you want me to argue.” Juno laughed, covering his own mouth. He braced his other hand against Landis’s shoulder. “Because I won’t.”

“Only argue if you opposed to the ravishing.” Landis jokingly pretended to toss Juno backwards onto the bed but caught him again before easing him back onto his own feet. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“You said that yesterday.” Juno feared for a moment he was only worth a repetition. But then he saw the look on his husband’s face, the non-mourning loss in his eyes, as he got carried off by the teasing touch of Juno’s fingers on his collar.

“And I’ll say it again tomorrow.” Landis pressed against Juno, both of them braced by the bottom of the bedframe. “Always, until it stops being true.” He lifted Juno again, easing him over the frame’s edge. “Then I’ll tell you that I miss you right then and there, even when I can still see you on the sidewalk. I’ll tell you and never leave you alone.”

“Then how will you miss me?” Juno arched an eyebrow, letting himself be laid down on the new sheets.

“Unless I can have you like this, every moment, then there is always something to miss.” Landis climbed over the bedframe as well, not bothering the two steps to walk around to his side of the bed. On all fours, he shifted his weight from side to side, jokingly shaking the bed and jostling Juno.

“Every moment, huh?” Juno kept his eyebrow raised, adding Landis’s favorite smirk—the one that got them to the same position fifteen years ago. “Aren’t you getting a bit old for that, Handsome?”

Landis didn’t respond and slipped his hands back under Juno, cradling his back against the mattress. Between the shirt and the blankets, his hands warmed and were almost like liquid curling around Juno’s spine. Openly, and stupidly, he moaned into the static silence of room 516. The warmth of being held was more than enough to convince Juno that age had noting to do with them. Love—the way they created it, made it, held it, nurtured it—didn’t age and didn’t age them. It was the ultimate elixir, and Juno was nearly intoxicated with it. His hands grappled with Landis’s shirt, pulling his body flush against his own.

“I keep falling asleep in my clothes.” Juno said into his husband’s ear. “Why don’t you undress me?”

###

Juno and Landis slept stretched over one another. Arms latticed together like they were trying to meld back together in their unconscious state and keep the impending separation from even the realm of possibility. What would—hell, could—anyone do if he was sutured at the hip to Landis as he reported to the other landscapers not much before dawn. Juno would love to kneel in the damp, malleable earth with his husband and mold mulch around baby sprouts and loose roots. The rings of dirt on their fingers and palms would be more sacred than a wedding band. Even in disguising it, they could wash each other’s hands—one caressing over the other—and watch their joint work swirl down the drain. At least Juno wouldn’t have to spend his day alone.

A knock startled Juno, nearly causing him to dislocate Landis’s shoulder. For once, Juno was ungrateful to not have been wearing his work clothes.

“Be right there!” He called, scrambling for his robe. He’d left it just outside the shower, wrinkled and still damp from two sets of feet stomping all over it.

“Mister Fern?”

“Are they talking to me?” Landis grumbled, rolling over.

“Don’t be so arrogant, I had the name first.” Juno whispered, tying the robe closed. He didn’t even check the mirror for any red marks on the curve of his neck or behind his ear. If he stood in the opening, the door didn’t reveal his bed. “Hello?” Juno didn’t even know what time it was.

“My wife sent me over.” The man in the hallway was older than Juno, in his own robe, and smiling just as anxiously as Juno felt.

“I’m sorry I don’t know your wife.” Juno cocked his head to the side, blocking the wandering eye of the other tenant. “Terribly sorry if she knows me.”

“I asked the front desk for your name.”

“You asked the front desk for me? I can’t possibly be that famous.” Juno repeated the man for Landis’s benefit. He could posit his theory for the disturbance the moment Juno closed the door over.

“This slipped under our newspaper this morning—I think it was kicked under on your way out the door.” Henry held out a note on the hotel stationary.

He expected to see Landis’s handwriting delicately fitted onto the top third of the paper, refusing to stretch over more than it had to. Instead, it was from a typewriter. It was a note celebrating another year at the hotel. Now, sixteen years in the same room.

The number shook Juno as he stood in his doorway, the man looking at him for some kind of explanation or calming words.

He spoke instead. “Sixteen, huh? Wow. You definitely settled down, didn’t you? Got a roof over your head.”

“Yeah. Yeah I do.” Juno nodded, finding a smile somewhere in his quivering lips. “Settled down just fine. Faster than I expected, too.”

“Hope there’s someone worth sharing it with, even if it’s rented.” The older man said with a short nod to his own door. “Sorry to interrupt your evening, Mister Fern. Have a lovely stay… At home.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Juno folded the paper over, his fingers sounding rough over the cardstock. “For returning my mail, too. Good night.”

Juno closed the door over and read the note again. Sixteen years in the hotel, in the same room, with the same man. It was like a strange sort of birthday card. The anniversary telling him just how many years, those that came before, could be discarded. Those that were lived but lifeless.

Juno had no idea the time, no idea the hours he had left with Landis in their—his—bed. He struggled to ration how much time he should stay away in order to compile memories of Landis as he slept awkwardly twisted and bent while on his stomach, reaching for Juno’s still-moving body. There was so much to find new, even after sixteen years of evenings just like this one.

The thing that was always the same though, thankfully, was Landis’s inability to snore.

His soft, airy breathing, slow and even—nearly an audible pattern. Like a set clock of Juno’s very own kind. The only kind of clock that wasn’t counting down, or keeping any sort of time, just keeping rhythm and routine. Juno decided he only wanted to know that time, and laid against the other pillow, facing his husband.

“Good night, Mister Landis Fern.”

“Good night, My Juniper Catherine.”

“I miss you.” Juno said, closing his eyes. “Wake me when you go.”

#writeblr #original work #original short story #my writing #Juno and the gardener #listen i had this idea and i wrote it and it's gay and sweet and not as sad as my other stuff #enjoy!!!

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mattblackagain · 9 months

Text

The hitchhiker

“Warwick?” she asked, poking her pretty face and long dark hair through the window.

“Yes, as it happens!”, I lied. I was actually going nowhere near Warwick but had completed all my appointments for the day and had nothing waiting for me except an empty motel room.

“Jump in”.

“Great! Thanks a lot!”

She opened the door and dumped her pink backpack on the floor of the car. It looked familiar somehow, but I couldn’t think where I’d seen one like it before.

“Well, no harm done. You’re safe now, I can drop you off wherever you like”.

“Cool, thanks again! I owe you! By the way, I’m Honey.”

“Pleased to meet you Honey, I’m Matt”.

“Oooo...I like this one!”. She reached forward and turned the radio up. “Perfect” by Exceeder.

“1, 2, 3, 4, let me hear you scream if you want some more. Like ahhhh, push it, push it, watch me work it, I'm perfect” she giggled, arching her back against the seat and pouting.

“You are very cute”, I ventured, trying not to make my leering too blatant.

“Awww! Thanks! You’re not so bad for an older guy!” she smiled. “And I really would like to thank you properly.”

I swerved to narrowly miss a traffic island. Fuck. There was nowhere to pull over though, I’d just have to keep going.

“Let me find somewhere to stop before we crash”.

“OK!”, she smiled, and ran her finger across her bottom lip.

She looked up, a string of saliva connecting her lip to my cock. “I want all of it”. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Classy.

“Fuck yes!” I blurted out. “Fucking suck it”. She looked up at me as if to signal yes, and I felt her tongue touch my ballsack. Yes, she was good…

“Thank you, Sir”.

Wow, I love being called Sir. Especially by sluts.

“Get up and turn around”.

“Yes, Sir”.

“Please fuck me”.

“Fuck yes! Please!!”

“Please WHAT?”

“Please SIR!”

I pushed, it sank in easily. That familiar wet grip, so perfectly designed, the flesh so firm, yet yielding.

“Oh!!” she gasped. I grabbed her narrow waist with both hands and pushed again, deeper.

“Oh my god, I love it….please”.

“I’m going to….going to….” she whimpered, before reaching back with her hand and dipping her middle fingertip into her asshole. I felt her cunt contract, then she started bucking.

“Oh...oh….YES!! Fuck it! Harder!”

I was seconds behind her. Gripping her waist hard to maximise the length of my thrusts and pulling her onto my cock, using her whole torso as a fuck tube.

“Wow”, was all I could say, before slipping out of her.

We made our way to the street where I dropped her off without saying much, just smiles mostly.

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misssophiachase · 4 years

Text

For @klaroline-events KC Bingo - School on FF and AO3

When his Porsche convertible blows a tire, private school student Klaus Mikaelson needs it fixed. Enter townie and daughter of the local mechanic, Caroline Forbes.

The Preppy and the Townie

Friday PM, Forbes Garage, Exeter, NH

“Excuse me?” Klaus hadn’t frequented this part of town all that much during his time at Phillips Exeter Academy and given the outdated exterior he wasn’t sure if it was still operational or if he’d stepped back in time.

It was eerily quiet and the small gas station on the outskirts of the town centre seemed unattended. He’d blown the tire on his Porsche not far down the road but had managed to get there just in time.

Given he attended the local boarding school, cars weren’t usually allowed on campus but his father had sent it the other day in lieu of his presence. Mikael Mikaelson never quite understood the concept of fatherhood and considered monetary gifts an alternative way to show affection.

Klaus also knew there was another reason for his guilt but pushed it to the back of his mind, it was easier that way.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was gruff, bored and almost resentful of the intrusion. Klaus turned to the source not expecting her to be so indescribable.

And he meant that in a very good way.

Her denim shorts were frayed at the edges, her white, fitted tank covered in black, grease stains and a red, checked shirt tied around her waist was doing nothing to hide a delectable pair of creamy, toned legs.

“Hey jackass, my eyes are up here,” she barked.

Yes, they were. Blue, expressive and teamed with her golden waves pulled back into a high ponytail, Klaus didn’t think he’d seen anyone so breathtaking in his life.

He didn’t usually stare so obviously at girls, generally it was the other way around, but he couldn’t stop if he tried.

“Is that how you speak to all your customers?”

“Only the ones who look at me like that.”

“And how exactly am I looking at you, love?”

“You know exactly how you’re looking at me,” she countered. “You’re not the first and I know you won’t be the last. Also, I have a name but before you do the completely predictable thing and ask what it is, I’m not going to tell you.”

“That’s quite a speech you seem to have prepared there,” he offered. “Is there any point in me asking about my tire then?”

“If you can’t fix it, then sure, I can do that for you.”

“Are you insinuating that I can’t change a tire?”

“Well, if the shoe fits,” she responded, shrugging her shoulders. Klaus wanted to be offended, he wanted to dislike her immensely and tell her so but there was no hope in hell of that happening.

“Actually, I can change a tire but I don’t have a jack on me,” she snorted by way of response. “You are incredibly judgemental, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Oh, p-uh-lease,” she drawled. “Your type swan around this town like you own it but, newsflash, you don’t. We’ll all be here long after you’ve finished school and left town.”

“I don’t swan, number one,” he replied, “and number two, I don’t think I own your town, even though it is lovely, especially during the Fall.” He held her gaze, and he could see her face soften slightly. But, unfortunately, it didn’t last long.

”How about we just stick to the tire,” she murmured begrudgingly. “If you’re lucky, I’ll even give you some pointers.”

Saturday PM, Front Row Pizza

“So, tell me more about this hottie from Philips?” Kat asked, handing a customer their slices on a plate.

Katherine Pierce was her oldest friend and the two had been working at Front Row the past two years. Saturday was their busiest night of the week but thankfully business was starting to slow down.

“Shhh, would you keep your voice down,” she hissed, wiping the counter and keeping her head down to avoid any embarrassment. “You know how small this place is at the best of times.”

“I didn’t name names, mainly because you haven’t told me yet,” Kat muttered.

“He’s your typical, preppy jock, nothing groundbreaking around these parts. And I never said he was a hottie, nor would I ever use that term.”

“No, I found that out when I visited the garage this morning and spoke to your DILF.”

“Kat, please don’t talk about my dad like that, it’s extremely disgusting,” she growled. “And when exactly did he decide that Klaus was...”

“Oooh, he has a name. So, tell me more about him and his Porsche?”

Caroline fought the urge to roll her eyes. As much as she loved her best friend, Kat liked the finer things in life a little too much. Sure, their upbringing was relatively simple in comparison to people like Klaus but Caroline didn’t need money to define who she was and what she wanted out of life.

“He blew out his tire.”

“Wow, how exciting,” she pouted. “You never tell me anything.”

“He’s English and his surname is Mikaelson, happy?”

“Not in the slightest, next thing I know you’ll tell me his favourite colour,” she pretended to yawn. “Okay, one last question and then I’ll leave you alone for a full five minutes. How would you score him on a scale of one to ten?”

“It’s blue, well actually it’s more of a french navy if I’m being specific,” a familiar voice interrupted. Caroline closed her eyes wishing she could melt into a puddle on the floor. Of all the times for him to just show up. “As for a score, I think it’s probably best Caroline takes that one.”

She really shouldn’t have told him her name. Why did it have to sound so good rolling off his tongue too? Damn his English accent and those dimples. Why hadn’t she noticed just how disarming they were yesterday?

“If it isn’t the hottie,” Kat smiled, turning to face Caroline giving her an extremely indiscreet thumbs up. ��It’s okay, no score necessary, I can work it out just fine on my own.”

Before Caroline could really die of embarrassment, Katherine had conveniently flounced away to make it even more awkward.

If she thought he looked good yesterday in his school uniform sans tie with his shirt sleeves rolled up, he was absolutely gorgeous today. Dark jeans, sitting low on his hips and a navy henley that only accentuated his eyes.

“She’s, uh, friendly.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Caroline agreed. “Are you following me or something?”

“Someone has an incredibly high opinion of themselves,” he said, cocking his left eyebrow. “Maybe I was just hungry, did you ever think of that?”

“Did my dad tell you where I was?” She asked, arms crossed over her chest. “I noticed you two talking yesterday, but here I thought he was just drooling over your speedster.”

“He may have mentioned that Front Row has the best four cheese pizza in town,” he shared. “You know, while he was drooling.”

“Just because you think you can charm my father with your expensive car, doesn’t mean I’m powerless to your charms.”

“My charms?” He smirked, leaning closer. “Are you trying to flirt with me?”

“If you think that’s flirting then I need to teach you more than how to change a tire,” she scoffed. “Now, would you like to order something? The kitchen is going to be closing soon and I can only take so much of your over inflated ego in a confined space.”

“Your customer service skills really are second to none, love,” he laughed, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She wanted to hate him so much but Caroline swore those crimson lips had superpowers of some kind.

“Sorry, what?” She asked, noticing he’d said something but not quite sure what it was.

“My over inflated ego and I would like a four cheese pizza to have here,” he joked, his knowing smile telling her she’d been caught out.

“You are taking it to go,” she demanded, scared of what his lips might do next.

“I think I’m going to nominate you for employee of the month,” he suggested, taking a seat and making himself at home. “There’s something about your rare skill of being charming but rude at the same time.”

“Kat, can you tell the kitchen there’s an order up,” she called out, not bothering to respond to his remark. “To go.”

“If I agree to leave this fine establishment, how about you do something for me?”

“I changed your tire yesterday and I’m now serving you pizza today,” he attempted to interrupt but Caroline continued. “And before you try to be cute about my impeccable, customer service skills, it’s abundantly clear that, if anything, you owe me, Mikaelson.”

“I was getting to that part,” he promised. “I was hoping you could come to the river tomorrow morning and help me out with my rowing?”

“Excuse me?” Caroline wasn’t expecting that. “I’m curious about what exactly the preppy needs help with?”

“Motivation,” he murmured, his double meaning not lost on her. “Coach says I won’t be up to championships if I can’t improve my times. So, I figured what better way to do that then have you yelling at me from the bow?”

Katherine let out a not-so-subtle groan from the nearest table. Caroline really shouldn’t have been surprised she was eavesdropping. “Be careful what you wish for, french navy.”

“I’m willing to take my chances, Katherine,” he smiled in her direction before returning his attention back to Caroline. She really wanted to hate him and his smug, good looking ass but it was becoming more and more difficult. Now, she knew why her best friend and father were so easily convinced.

“Can I push you in the water if you annoy me?” He took her by surprise and laughed. Caroline had to admit she liked hearing it.

“I think we’ll need to define what’s annoying from the outset but you’ve got a deal.”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

Sunday AM, The Exeter River

“You need to keep your back flat and make sure your core is engaged,” Caroline offered from the front of the boat.” Now that instruction Klaus wasn’t expecting.

“Trust me, my core is very engaged,” he teased, unable to help himself.

Klaus was still shocked she’d agreed to come today, he figured it had everything to do with pushing him in the water. Which luckily she hadn’t done...yet.

“I think we decided that innuendo was annoying.”

“You decided that and who said it’s innuendo? I was merely confirming the fact that my core is, in fact, engaged. And let’s not forget you asked the question.”

“It’s textbook rowing technique and that smirk you gave me was a dead giveaway.”

She looked stunning today, the breeze blowing through her blonde waves that were loose and flowing. Her make-up free face, simple t-shirt and shorts only highlighting her natural beauty.

“How do you know so much about rowing?” Klaus was surprised, given she didn’t indicate any interest the night before.

“I might have dated one of you before.”

“One of me?” Klaus was immediately offended by her reply. “I didn’t realise I had a twin.”

“He went to Philips and was on the rowing team too. But instead of a Porsche he had a Mercedes.”

“Wow, you really know how to hurt a guy,” he shot back, unable to disguise his disappointment. “Is this why you’ve been so hostile?” He stopped rowing needing to know the answer.

“I haven’t been…”

“Yes, you have,” he interrupted. “I don’t know what this guy did to you but…”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Perhaps not but I’d hate for you to unfairly judge me based on some idiot who couldn’t see what was right in front of him.”

“I’m a townie, yes my house is only a few kilometres away, but we lived in totally different worlds,” she murmured, her gaze downcast. “He had a trust fund bigger than I could ever imagine and I work two jobs just so I can afford college if I don’t get a scholarship. I stupidly thought that someone like him actually liked me.”

“Well, he’s an idiot and you’re not stupid.” His hand was on hers before he had time to think. “I get you’ve had a bad experience but I’m not who you think I am.” She faltered, her eyes finding his again. “Ask me anything.”

“Can I push you in the water?”

“Cute.”

“On Friday, you didn’t seem to care too much about your new car, why is that? At first I assumed it was the fact you had another ten of them waiting at home in your garage.”

“Only two,” he admitted. “But I’m not really that enthused about them either.”

“What happened?”

“My mother died last year, my siblings are scattered around the country at different colleges and schools and my father sent the car in lieu of his presence at Philip’s family weekend. We’ve never been that close but I guess I thought…”

“He’d want to see you.”

“It’s ridiculous I know.”

“It’s not,” she smiled, placing her other hand over his. “You know what is silly though? How lazy you’re being, now get moving before I push you into the water, Mikaelson.”

Turns out they both ended up in the water that day but neither minded. Klaus won the rowing championship with plenty of core engagement instruction from Caroline. He also sent back the Porsche to his father because he didn’t need it anymore, he had everything he needed right there.

#kcbingo2020 #klaroline drabbles #klaroline fanfiction #klaroline fanfic #klaroline #misssophiachase #my writing #the preppy and the townie

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sleevesareforlosers · 3 years

Note

hey how did you do the red/brownish panel on the back of your denim vest? i really like the way it looks and would like to do something similar with my own jacket

okay SO funny you should ask bc that ad the dark denim on the collar are the ONLY things abt the vest that i didnt add. i got it at value village (corporate thrift store) and im guessing the previous owner had put those on. but i can tell you how i THINK it shouldve been done (bc the previous owner very obviously didnt know how to sew and cut the vest up to do it :(

(also this is what i did to cover the back of the collar which is essentially the same thing but smaller)

basically you wanna trace out (either on paper or direct to ur cover fabric) the shape that you want to cover, add about a half inch seam allowance all the way around, fold that under (so theres no fraying visible) and then pin it in place and stitch around the edges.

you can just do a straight or zigzag stitch right at the edge if u have a machine or (what i did for the collar) handstitch using a slip stitch (doesnt have to be as perfect as in that tutorial lmao i always pick up more than 1-2 threads) between the folded over edge of the cover fabric and where it lies on the original jacket

using a machine is way faster but your stitching will be visible while doing it by hand takes like. so much more time but u can have the stitching be invisible (or close to it) so its rlly up to you!

goodluck!!!! send some pictures if you decide to cover it!! (if u want to ofc)

#diy #i suppose #exhausted-asterism

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ninzied · 4 years

Photo

things you said with too many miles between us

happy belated birthday to my dear cherished friend @redbelles. i am eternally grateful for your wit, wisdom, and way with words. please accept this humble fic offering as a token of ALL MY LOVE for you :)

[ao3]

The moment Frank crosses the bridge back into the city, he wonders if he’s made a mistake.

Everything suddenly feels too close – the buildings, the view, the vague smell of garbage polluting the truck cabin. He rolls up the windows and cranks the AC instead. He reaches for the volume next, to drown out as much of the street sounds as he can.

He misses the fresh, clean air of the mountains, all that wide open space on the road with nothing else between him and the horizon.

There’s not enough room here, for him and his thoughts. Not enough time for them, either; when he’d been driving with no destination in mind, his thoughts had been prone to wandering, too, and it was fine if they returned with no answer, because there was always more time to work them through.

He could feel the longing more acutely then, but at least he could also feel free to hope.

Here, the city feels too impatient for that: the stop-start of it all, the pressure to keep shifting gears that seems to close in on him from every side. As he maneuvers his way through the rest of the city, he thinks about all that sky still behind him, endless, and blue, and beckoning him to turn around.

And then he thinks about what brought him back, and drives on.

…

Frank does a double take when he sees Amy waiting for him on the steps of Curtis’s trailer. She vaults up with an ear-to-ear grin as the truck rolls to a stop out front.

He closes the door and says, “How did you know?”

“I could just tell.” She skips up to the truck, and flashes a couple of postcards from the inner part of her jacket at him. There’s Mt. Rushmore on one of them, the St. Louis arch on the other. “You were starting to sound a little homesick.”

Frank shakes his head. “Curt told you, didn’t he.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. And then she bursts out, sounding smug, “But also, the dates on these, look – you weren’t heading west, you were going the opposite. Clearly you were making your way back to something.”

Frank grabs up his bag from the cargo bed of the truck, slinging it over his shoulder. “Okay, detective. C’mere.”

She jumps up at him with a crushing bear hug, and he can’t help but smile before pulling away. “Yeah, I missed you too.”

“You get some good thinking done out there?”

He pulls a noncommittal face. “Sure.”

“Great. Can’t wait to hear all about it.” She’s beaming at him, and that’s not really something he knows how to say no to. “I was gonna meet up with some friends for dinner, but I was thinking I could help you unpack until then?”

“You have friends?” He grunts as she jams her fist in his shoulder.

“Got at least one right here,” she says. “Sorry to be the one to break it to you.”

…

“It’s spring break, anyway, so it was a good excuse to make some of them drive up here with me.” Amy’s cross-legged on one of the chairs, munching on snacks she’d found in the cupboard that Curt must have left there for Frank.

“Spring break, huh? Shouldn’t you be on a beach somewhere instead?”

Amy gives him a look. “Dive school, remember? That’s all we do all day. Be on the beach.” She holds out a bag of chips to him, and he sets his duffel aside.

“Let me guess – guns, guns, more guns. And a steady rotation of the same three black hoodies.” She gives one of the side pockets a playful little nudge, and a corner of cardstock pokes out of the zipper.

“What’s this?” Amy asks, reaching in and pulling out a frayed stack of postcards. Before Frank has a chance to say anything, she’s already plucking the rubber band off. It’s cracked in the middle, and falls to the floor in one long broken strand. “Jeez. That thing is almost as ancient as you are.”

“Hey. Quit that.” He makes a move for the cards, but she’s shooting onto her feet with a speed that would probably make him proud under any other circumstances. “Hand ’em over, all right?”

“Just a sec.”

She starts thumbing through the cards like a kid who’s just been trick-or-treating, taking stock of all her spoils.

“I’m serious. Hey.”

But the amusement has already faded from her expression, and then she’s clearing her throat and carefully realigning the cards, like they’re something sacred that she knows she had no right to see.

She doesn’t resist him when he takes the cards back, tucking them carefully into his bag.

“Frank…” She shakes her head, baffled, and when he glances back over she looks genuinely upset with him. “Why didn’t you send those?”

“Wasn’t the point of writing them.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But just to clarify. You wrote those freaking beautiful, heartfelt little notes, specifically to just…keep them all to yourself?” She throws her hands up in the air with abject confusion. Words seem to fail her momentarily, which suits Frank just fine.

He turns away, unpacking the rest of his things. He’s checking the status of the fridge next when she starts in again.

“Wait, hang on.”

Frank cracks open a cold beer, and sends a silent thank you to Curt for looking out. He sinks into one of the chairs by the table as Amy rounds on him accusingly.

“Are you telling me that that day in the hospital – was that seriously the last time you spoke to her?”

“Wasn’t telling you anything.”

“Nice,” says Amy. “Okay. Sure. Do that thing where you push people away. That’s obviously been working so well for you.”

“Maybe I was just keeping a diary.” He shrugs, ignoring the dig. “Pretty sure people are allowed to do shit like that when they travel.”

Amy is unimpressed. “Is your diary also named Karen? Because that would really be some coincidence.”

“Look, I didn’t write them to be read – by her, or by anyone.” His tone is harder than he meant for it to be, and he catches Amy wince a little in his periphery.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

“’S’okay,” he tells her. “It’s done.”

She comes over to sit next to him. He chugs down some more of his beer, and they’re both silent for a while.

“You kept them, though,” Amy finally insists quietly to him. “That means something.”

“Yeah,” says Frank. No point in denying it.

“And for what it’s worth,” Amy tells him, “she looks at you the same way.”

“That was a long time ago,” says Frank, getting up to go scrounge for anything resembling real food. “Tell me about these ‘friends’ of yours. The one who drove you all the way up here – he been treating you right?”

“How did you even—” Amy protests, and Frank swats away the bag of cookies she lobs at his head.

…

After Amy’s gone to meet up with her friends, Frank finds his phone and, for the tenth time that week, hovers over Karen’s number before setting it back down.

Everything he’s come here to tell her – she deserves to hear it from him in person. But calling her, if she even picks up, feels like cornering her into something she has every right to say no to, and at the very least think about before she says yes.

He picks up his phone again.

Hey, he types into the screen. It’s me. I’m back in town. Would like to see you, if you would be okay with that.

He texts her the address, and reaches for another beer.

Karen’s response comes a few hours later:

Didn’t realize you had left again.

And then, after ten long and excruciating seconds:

I can come by around 3 tomorrow.

Okay, he texts back, and leaves it at that. …

He hears her car pull up just before 3 the next afternoon.

He meets her outside, waiting for her to step out. She’s shielding her eyes from the sun, so he doesn’t get a good look at her face right away. She’s dressed in dark denim, and a sweater made out of some soft-looking material.

The image stirs up a strange, almost painful sensation in his chest. He realizes he’s never seen her not dressed up for work before. He’s never seen her as this. Just Karen.

“Hey,” he says, approaching as she does. They end up meeting somewhere in the middle, standing awkwardly together in that gravel lot. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure.” Karen gives him a small smile. “You look good, Frank.”

“Yeah?” he says. “You too.”

He’s about to invite her inside when she slips her hand into her bag, and then she’s holding something out to him. “Here. I wanted to return these.”

He looks down.

“Christ,” he says, feeling like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

She has a small handful of his postcards – whatever Amy must have thought she could get away with stealing out of his bag when he wasn’t looking.

He recognizes the one on top. It was the last card he’d written to her – with a picture of some woods up in Oregon, where he’d been hiking when he realized he had it all wrong.

“Not sure you meant for them to get sent.”

“No,” says Frank, swallowing. They’re dated, but he’d never bothered to stamp or address any of them, only starting them each with a single, scrawled Dear Karen. “No, but they’re yours.”

She turns the cards over in her hand. “Heard your song on the radio as I drove here,” she reads aloud. She flips to another one. “This coffee could give that other place a run for its money.”

He grimaces to hear his words out in the open like this. But she’s gentle with them, and with each postcard too, grasping them delicately at the edges as if they might crumple with too much pressure.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she reads on the back of a card he’d grabbed from the souvenir shop at some grungy Seattle motel. “About how we’re all just trying not to be lonely. To be honest, I think about it all the time.”

There’s a slight hitch in her voice at the end, and he finds himself swaying forward a little, remembering where he had been the night that he wrote it. How he’d almost picked up the phone and called her. How his throat had closed up at the thought, and everything he would’ve said ended up on a stack of cards at the bottom of his bag instead.

“Are there more of these?” Karen asks.

Frank nods. “They’re not – I mean, some of them are just – like the one about the coffee. Pretty meaningless.”

She’s looking at him like they’re anything but. “Could I see them?”

“You can have them.” He doesn’t know how to take his eyes off of her. “You can have all of them.”

Karen traces a finger over the Oregon woods before turning the postcard around. “Wish you were here.” She seems to keep her gaze trained purposely down as she asks him, “Did you mean that, Frank?”

Something breaks inside him at the question. He ducks his head to catch her eye, lifting a knuckle to ghost over her chin. “I did,” he says, hoarse but resolved. “Still do.”

Karen’s quiet for a moment as she regards him, like she’s coming to a decision of her own. “Okay,” she says finally. “So let’s go.”

He thinks he couldn’t have heard her right.

But as he’s standing there, feeling overcome, she’s already halfway to her car. Frank watches, dumbfounded, as she pulls a bag out from behind one of the seats and closes the door behind her.

“You’re serious,” he says. “You don’t have work?”

It’s everything he hadn’t even thought he could hope for, but he doesn’t want this disrupting her life either, taking her away from all the things that matter to her.

“I think Matt and Foggy can agree that I’m long overdue for a vacation.” She walks back up to him, but his expression seems to make her pause. “If that’s all right with you.”

“God, yes.” Frank moves closer before stopping himself. Steady, he thinks. There’s no need to rush anything. They have time. They have time. “That’s what I came here to tell you I wanted.”

She’s the first to reach out and touch him, just a brush of her palm to his chest. It’s brief, but gentle to go with her tone as she teases him ever so lightly, “Looks like you already did.”

“Looks like,” says Frank, and he could just stand here all day, with the soft way she’s gazing at him right now. “So we’re doing this.”

“Looks like,” says Karen, and he looks away, smiling.

“I’ll get my things.” But he’s loath to move away from her, and after a split second’s hesitation he leans in and lets his forehead rest against hers. Karen’s hands come up to his shoulders, and everything else stands still for a moment. “Remind me to send Amy a postcard when we get there.”

She makes a small humming sound. “And where is this ‘there’ going to be?”

“Anywhere,” he says. “So long as you’re there, doesn’t matter.”

“Mm. I like that.” Karen pulls back and looks a little slyly at him. “Think that could go on a card somewhere too.”

Frank shakes his head as she laughs and goes to toss her bag into his truck.

#kastle #kastle ff #kastlenetwork #kastledaily

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cyphertrip · 4 years

Text

pairing: yoongixreader genre: multi-chapter romance word count: 3,330 warnings: increasing sexual themes as chapters go on, vague mentions of violence note: this is a reuploaded story from my original blog. I will continue to reupload the chapters every day or two to avoid flooding the tags. if you remember this story and would like others of mine reuploaded let me know.

... He won’t kiss you. You don’t know why it is. He so often teases you with the notion that you could cry for all the near misses. His mouth comes so close only to leave your own aching at his absence. He doesn’t kiss you anywhere, barely touches you. The suggestion of touch is always present, a ghost of fingers in your hair, a hand at your back when you traverse stairs. Yoongi reaches for you only to snatch his hand away at the very last second with carefully guarded consideration in his eyes. He has his reasons, reasons he’d share if you dared ask; reasons that would sound like the sonnets of a heart so wasted in love he’s too afraid to offer them on his own. But you never ask.

You think maybe it’s not to him what it is to you. It’s hard to determine your relationship when the basis is sparse words and looks so intent you can barely assess them without feeling your skin go hot, forcing you to look away from the intensity of it. He looks like its love, or at least a deep infatuation, and your own feelings are hardly secret. You have crooned his name so many times its familiar, a sigh from your lips in the morning, an exasperation at the almost kiss goodbye at night. The fact that you continue to show up on his doorstep should say everything he needs to know but he doesn’t seem to realize. He always looks so surprised to see you, as if one day he expects you’ll not. You can barely help yourself. In spite of the uncertainty your feet traverse the path to his place without you needing to consciously decide it’s your destination. It would be generous to call the space anything more than a room with an adjoining bathroom, it is cluttered and open, littered with papers that have his scrawl all over them and collections of sheet music strewn about the place. There’s an upright in the corner, a mattress on the floor, a rack of clothing and beaten up boots and sneakers thrown about. It is a physical manifestation of what you imagine his mind to look like. He keeps his mouth so very shut, his thoughts so very private that you imagine behind his quiet expression there’s an immense chaos begging to be sifted through. If you could you would pry him open like a book and read, over and over until you had every part of him memorized. As it is you’re the one who opens up. Somehow he knows so much about you and you seem to learn so little of him in return. It’s by his own design. His history is littered with stories he’s ashamed of, brutalities committed by and against him. He’s sure his stories would send you running and for that reason he feels he should tell you but he never does.Eventually he opens up with his hands, for once not sending you away through a gap in the door when he’s injured. There’s a blossoming of purple and blue across his cheekbone, blood on his knuckles. You’re not sure if it’s his or someone else’s. You clean him up, your fingers insensitively taking advantage of the opportunity to touch. You brush through his hair, cleaning cuts and placing bandages though your brows are knitted together in worry. He’s silent the whole time, his eyes following your face as the expressions shift, softening and hardening as your thoughts tick through exasperation and worry. When you ask how, why, Yoongi finally touches you. There are fingers under your jaw, a thumb on your chin as he tilts your head up, catches your gaze. “Let’s not talk about it.” His fingers brush against your jaw and you find yourself conceding to his request. Deep down you know he’s trouble but you feel it’s already too late. You care for him too much to turn back now. Everything you’ve heard about him is so hard to reconcile with the boy you know. He’s so gentle and patient with you that it’s impossible to imagine him capable of laying a violent hand, though you know he is. His hands, when they do begin to regularly come in contact with you are always a combination of soft and calloused. Every touch he lays on you is pedestrian and complete. There is no stroke or linger that he leaves possibility within. It drives you crazy. For the longest time you had craved his touch but to finally have it now is to learn that you’ve surpassed your previous desire. You always seem to be in need of him and it makes you nervous that Yoongi doesn’t appear to be struggling the way you are. Every brush of his fingers makes goosebumps raise on your skin, a noise of yearning tucked away in your throat that sometimes escapes. He memorizes every one of them and lets his mind recite them when he’s alone. He remembers the way your hair had fallen away from your shoulders when he touched your neck, head tilting to the side, or the way your lips had parted when his thumb had run along your mouth. Your body tells him that he’s not alone in wanting but still he restrains himself from mapping your body and claiming it as his own. If eventually you decide he’s not the one he supposes it will be good for you to go as you came to him; untarnished and complete. He has no business stealing both your heart and your virtue if you’re only to fall out from under the spell you seem to be under for now. Surely, he thinks, it can’t last. He doesn’t know what you see in him; you’re so good and sweet, so very fair, and he is… well, he’s not sure. It occurs to him one day that he is the kind of boy you’ll remember fondly in your later life, a wild, torrid, exploit of love before you found someone better, more stable and secure. Months and months pass though and you continue showing up in his doorway. The yearning he has for you has reached the point of mild insanity. He can feel his mind fraying at the edges at the simplest gesture. The exposed measure of your neck has him hungrily baring his teeth before he thinks better of it and your gathered strands fall back into place soon after. When you fall asleep amongst his sheets the swell of your hip makes his fingers fidget, begging to touch, a sliver of your skin peeking out from beneath your shirt threatening to banish his resolve entirely. He wants, wants, wants. He wants so much he’s mad with it and you’d blush down to the tips of your toes and virginal fingers if you even knew.It begins to rain one night when you’re on your way to see him. He’s not expecting you, in the same way that he never is, when you show up. You’re shivering and wet, your clothes sticking, leaving droplets of water across the wooden floorboards beneath your path inside. His door is usually left unlocked in the event that you show up and he peers up at the sound of the door, the storm echoing in around you. He looks in wonder at your sodden finger, your hair curled around your face and shoulders, rising loftily to his feet from his seat at the piano his fingers had paused over. As if he forgets his tact his hands are suddenly everywhere, tucking your hair back, running up and down your shoulders. He looks at you in an admonishing way and sighs in a way that’s both disappointed and fond. He’s pleased to see you, though he questions your choice to travel in such horrid weather. When he wordlessly reaches for the bottom of your shirt and begins to lift it, only thinking better of it and pausing with the soaked fabric between his fingertips, searching your face for assent, your breath catches in your throat. You’re not enough of a fool to think that this will be it and he’ll finally give in, though you lift your arms anyway and let him pull the shirt away. He’s careful not to touch you too intimately though he continues to rid you of your wet clothes, peeling the denim of your jeans carefully from your thighs, crouching as he does so. He’s soon on his knees before you and Yoongi thinks that it’s so fitting, kneeling before you like this. He’s begun to consider you devoutly, an altar to which he obligingly worships. His fingers smooth along the shape of your calf, along your thigh until he rests his hand against your hip and stands again. He looks at you with dark eyes, his shallow breaths a match for your own, pressing keenly into the silence that beats between you. You can feel your heart hammering in your chest, an intoxicating mix of anticipation and nerves rattling around. The entirety of your body absolutely aches with longing, your skin warm beneath the cool layer of wet that makes your skin sheen under the gauzy florescent lamp light of his room. You’re leaning in instinctively, following his lead as he too inches closer. His fingers slip into the hair at the nape of your neck and then his mouth is next to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, the shirt he’s wearing a faint ghost against your chest. He runs you a bath before things have a chance to go any further. You’re simultaneously disappointed and relieved. The hot water is soothing as it envelops you and knowing he’s mere feet away from you while you relax languidly in his tub gives you a thrill you haven’t experienced before. You feel particularly bold when, after softly calling your name, he comes in with some clothes to place them down on the sink. Though you aren’t bold enough to make a move more than baring the uncovered expanse of your back, your breasts loosely concealed by the arms you fold over your knees, a strangled noise escapes him when he sees you. There’s a hint of color in his cheeks and he averts his gaze swiftly, forcing his words to come out smoothly when he excuses himself and retreats to the relative safety of the other room. His mind swirls with thoughts of temptation while he tries to regain his bearings but it’s of little use. He feels reduced to a young boy again, so excited at just the sight of you, that he’s on his feet the moment he hears you call his name. Knowing nothing good can possibly come at this point he has, to some degree, accepted fate when you suggest he join you. You can see the hesitation in his eyes although he chooses to push it aside. He pulls his shirt over his head, carefully unbuttoning his pants and once they’re a discarded heap on the floor, removing his underwear. You’ve never seen quite so much of him before and your eyes drink in his moonlight skin greedily before he steps into the tub. He takes the space at the opposite side, of course, and then impulsively offers to shampoo your hair. It’s all perfectly innocent, his fingers embedded in the soapy tresses of your hair, massaging your scalp in a way that makes your breaths sound out listlessly in the quiet atmosphere. He makes no move to advance things though at this point your reservations are so far gone you know you wouldn’t stop him if he did. You want to do things with him that you’ve never wanted to do with anyone else. You want to do everything with him, only he won’t kiss you and you still don’t know why. A deep breath pulls between your parted lips and you sift your fingertips through the water. “Yoongi?” his name falls from your tongue in a soft and curious lilt. You can feel him sit straighter behind you, an acknowledging hum sounding from his throat in response. A moment passes as you gather your courage, suppressing the innate silliness you feel for even asking. You stare unseeingly ahead of you. “Are you ever going to kiss me?” In response, surprised you’ve finally brought it up, Yoongi laughs quietly, a sweet short harmony echoing around the bathroom. He leans forward, resting his forearms against the edge of the tub as he drops his chin to your shoulder. His answer comes easily; “Yes.” Satisfaction steals its way across your face momentarily before curiosity laps at your fingers and reels you back in, imploring you to press in a bit of a whine, “but when?” Yoongi smiles to himself and reclines against the back of the tub, forcing you to turn enough that you can see his face. There is a lazy contented smile on his lips though he answers solemnly; “When I have laid waste to your heart the same way you have laid waste to mine.” You can feel yourself blushing, your head ducking. In a small voice you admit, “It’s far too late for that.” Yoongi hears the question that you want to ask instead and without prompt he provides you a sentiment you can understand though it doesn’t drive you any less crazy. “I could kiss you now, I could have kissed you a thousand times, but imagine, now, when you want it, and later, when you need it.” The sweet torture of it all isn’t a hardship to endure. His fingers more readily seek out your skin these days and you’re not shy in doing the same. Your fingers are well acquainted with the spaces between his ribs, the underside of his jaw. When you’re feeling particularly brave you chance a soft venture of fingertips over the inside of his hips, satisfied with the way his throat moves with a loud swallow in response. He draws patterns into your back, stomach, arms, legs. He traces the curve of your knee while you watch tv, the slope of your neck whenever you wear your hair up. When you sleep in a tentative tangle of limbs you’re assured of his want when he unwittingly presses hot and hard against you. Before Yoongi had come along you had always worried sex was just another thing you wouldn’t get to experience, a language you would faintly recognize but never be able to understand completely. He wanted to be your dictionary; he wanted to open you up and teach you, pen desire along your thighs, longing inside your mouth. The idea of it all made you listless, a collection of limbs and lust encased in skin that was beginning to feel too tight to contain you. It felt as if, the weeks dripping by, you might burst into flame at any given moment. Your increasing familiarity with one another was, as he’d so hoped, driving you into a state of need, a state you thought might end in take. You didn’t want to push, he seemed so content to traverse the bounds he had set carefully, one at a time, but… He wasn’t playing fair. He was looking at you too earnestly, too intent. His fingers were in your hair or on your neck, his breath warming your skin, but he wasn’t kissing you. He was pulling you astride his lap, pressing his face into the curve of your neck, breathing you in, but he wasn’t kissing you. He was rolling you over in the gauzy morning hours and pinning you beneath him with sleep mussed hair and soft, mischievous eyes, but he wasn’t kissing you. It became all too much when you arrived at his place before he did, letting yourself in with the key he had eventually pressed into your palm. Yoongi wasn’t long behind you, sweet nothing messages keeping you company until he fell through the door. The tension between you was a familiar presence by now, thick and intoxicating, making you feel so strongly that the slightest touch felt electric. Your anticipation was mounting so highly that surely, surely you had to be almost at the peak when his hands were suddenly on your hips, driving you backward, pressing you into the wall, steadfast and sure behind you. Yoongi pressed into you, dark eyes boring into yours as his thumb parted your lips. Feeling your eyelashes flutter you attempted to meet his gaze just as strongly though your eyes fell away with a heavy sigh. “You’re not playing fair,” you complained, a note of irritation in your voice, creasing your brows. Yoongi smiled. “Who ever said there was anything fair about love?” He strokes your jaw, his thumb still brushing your lower lip. “How do you want it?” he asks and you think this could be it, the moment he finally gives in. You suck in a breath, your mind reeling with possibilities as he lays them out for you. “Soft, gentle,” his mouth draws so close it’s a faint whisper against yours as his thumb slips away. Your hands twist together behind his neck, eyes falling shut. “Or rough, demanding?” His hands slide up your arms and untangle your hands, twining your fingers together. He raises them above you, using his leverage to press you back against the wall and fit his body against yours in a way that’s so direct you feel dizzy with it. “I want…” your throat feels dry, your voice strangled as you try again and only succeed the same two words. You don’t know what you want exactly. “I just want you.” Even as he releases your hands you leave them raised above you, shivering while his fingers traverse the bare skin of your arms, dipping over the indents of your elbows, further down to your sides. He comes so close to the edge of your breasts in his descent that you feel yourself pressing forward greedily, needing more, needing something, anything.He obliges your need with a sudden grasp, picking you up only to tumble down onto his beaten mattress. You fall onto him heavily, scrambling to shift your weight, catch your breath, though Yoongi barely gives you a chance. His hand snakes into your hair and then his teeth are on your neck, carefully grazing over the soft skin. His free hand lays pliantly over your hip, keeping you anchored in place. He bites, licks, sucks at your neck until you’re a trembling mess above him, fingers scrambling for purchase. Eventually they sink into his sheets, grasping at the thin cotton helplessly. His name leaves you in a breathless whine that’s so light on your tongue you’re not sure you actually said it until you hear his answering hum, a curiosity intoning the sound yet he makes no effort to extract himself from you and listen like he normally would. The two of you, still tangled together, roll enough that you’re each on your sides, facing one another. Yoongi shifts forward to press his mouth against the hinge of your jaw, his fingers slipping beneath your shirt. He strokes the taut skin of your stomach, making you shiver while his mouth moves along your jaw, his hand along your hip and down your thigh. He takes purchase at the back of your knee, bringing your leg over his waist so he can occupy the space between your legs. The pressure, faint and teasing, against the apex of your thighs makes you sigh and unexpectedly Yoongi swallows the sound, his mouth finally pressing to yours, languid, damp and imploring. His lips glide over yours with an ease that you know hints at the practice he’s had before you. He moves at a measured pace, carefully prying your mouth open to lick his way inside. He kisses you so deeply you’re sure you’ll feel it for days and it is bliss.

#yoongi scenario #suga scenario #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #bts scenario #my writing #all your lights are red #001

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