#and he walked to the edge of the trees anyway and turned back to his little house like a boat and felt safe. FUCK
Note
could you do a james potter X misophonia!reader
i have misophonia and have been struggling recently due to it,
if your not sure on what it is it’s where certain sounds trigger you, for example eating or pens tapping. Maybe a fic where he comfort her, normally when i’m triggered i either end up crying and walking away form the situation or i flip out at whoever is triggering me
ITS okay if not !! THANKYOU BBY
hey, sorry this took me so long to get to! writing this was an interesting experience. not sure if i want to do reader fics often but i'm not fully opposed to them either? anyway, i hope this brings you some comfort and is accurate(ish?) to your experience :)) sending lots of love <3
(feel free to send more requests if you like this!) (also feel free to send feedback!)
here you go:
Hogwarts had been busier than usual today. If you had been at home, maybe you would’ve just slipped on some noise cancelling headphones. But that isn’t really an option here, so you deal with it the best you can, hiding it out in your dorm on most days. Again, not an option today. You had way too many classes and clubs to go to. In the few minutes between, you go to the library. It literally has to be quiet there, right?
Of course, this is the one day James Potter and his friends finally decide to study (for once in their lives). You’re friends with Remus, and he seems alright. James— well, you try not to think too much about James. Thankfully, they aren’t making much noise, probably already having gotten a warning from Madam Pince.
It’s alright for a few minutes. But then you hear someone’s wand—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You look over to the boys’ table. James, looking extremely focused, is tapping his wand on the edge of the table. He does look really busy. Maybe he’ll quit in a minute.
Nope. It just gets worse.
You feel a pressure in your head every time he taps his wand until it gets overwhelming. And then you snap.
“James, would you stop that?” you whisper-shout at him.
But you know it’s useless. You can’t study anymore anyway; you’re too overwhelmed. You pack your things and leave. You don’t notice James following after you until you’re outside the library and hear him shout after you.
“Wait,” he calls.
Despite yourself, you turn to him.
“Did I do something wrong?” James asks.
You bite back your immediate “yes”.
“The tapping was bothering me. It’s not your fault, though. I just—” you trail off, afraid he’ll laugh at you.
He’s got this weird look on his face, like he might.
“Remus hates it when I ‘chew loudly’,” James says. “Is it like that?”
“I guess? Listen, James, I just really want to be left alone right now.” You sigh.
“Ok, but before you leave— I think I might have a spell for you. We can go somewhere quieter?” James offers.
Reluctantly, you agree. James takes you to a spot on the Hogwarts grounds you haven’t seen yet. It’s a nice spot beneath a tree, with just bare grass and flowers blooming. You both sit down, and James points his wand at you.
“Woah, what’re you doing?” you shout.
“Just trust me,” James says.
You almost point out the obvious dangers of pointing a wand at someone’s head, but James seems so sincere and like maybe he’s done this before, so you let him.
He mumbles a spell and waves his wand in an unfamiliar pattern. Suddenly, it feels like your wearing your favorite noise-cancelling headphones, but so much better. You can’t even hear the light buzzing that you normally do.
“You have to teach me this spell,” you say enthusiastically.
The spell makes it a whisper to you, but the way James scrunches up his face tells you that maybe you were a bit loud.
“It worked then?” he asks.
You give him a thumbs up.
He takes out a piece of parchment and a quill and writes something down:
You know, I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while. Go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?
There’s two checkboxes underneath: yes or YES
You smile and check the YES box, adding a smiley face next to it.
The two of you sit at the peaceful spot until the sun starts to go down. You start to come with him here often, and he teaches you the spell right after your Hogsmeade date.
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actually really genuinely makes me so incredibly sick and sad to think of s1 will, who was terrified and losing his mind and no one helped him, especially not the people that he trusted. that line he has that goes "sometimes, at night, i leave the lights on in my little house, and walk across the flat fields... when I look back from a distance, the house is like a boat on the sea. it's really the only time i feel safe." and i think about how scared he was and how he had to leave that person behind, because he would've died, and in that sense he really died anyway
#hannibal#and it's hard because i do like hannibal as a character! and i know that's really what the show is about i.e showing that he doesn't have#the same morals as regular people and he sees will as incredibly vulnerable and with incredible potential. so he targets that potential#and will did grow into that dark potential! but in doing so he had to basically leave a significant part of himself behind#but he was SO SCARED. and completely alone except for his dogs. because every single person around him just wanted something from him#and he was losing his mind! i know in a diluted sense how incredibly hard it is to understand that youre acting crazy and understand that#everyone around you is losing their patience. and so he turned to hannibal. and hannibal betrayed him in really the worst way possible#because he wanted to see what would happen. agh.#and he walked to the edge of the trees anyway and turned back to his little house like a boat and felt safe. FUCK#what im saying is that it really isnt fair but there was no world in which it wouldve been fair really. even a world without hannibal#because the world isnt fair to will graham
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Born lucky, under a bad star.
Summary: Joel has always been lucky, in the worst of ways.
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader
Word count: ~13k (sorry)
Warnings: game!Joel, major spoilers for tlou part 2, angst with a happy ending, major injuries and recovery, anxiety, depression, relationship healing, mentions of death, mentions of violence, suicidal ideation
Disclaimers and A/N: Though this fic was based around some events in tlou part 2, almost all of the canon after the divergence from the canon timeline is thrown out. This fic is also based entirely around game events, characterization, and canon. This is honestly one of the most difficult things I've ever written. It took months and many many drafts, but I'm very proud of her. I hope you love her too, she was a labor of love.
As always, thank you for reading! I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!
Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
- Kait Rokowski.
The lights of the clinic are so bright they’re blinding.
Your hands are still shaking, covered in Joel’s blood. It’s been hours since you returned to the safety of Jackson’s walls but there’s still a frantic, frenetic energy in the air. Everyone is shaken. It feels a little like a thousand year old tree has been felled, like a giant has been swung at and leveled, like something monstrous and infallible has been brought to its knees.
You’ve seen it happen before. Rebar right through his belly. It should have killed him. It would have killed anyone else. You’ve pulled more bullets out of Joel than you would care to count, and swaddled him in probably several football fields worth of bandages over the years.
Still, nothing like this.
Because Joel has always been lucky, even when he hadn’t wanted to be.
Lucky, in all the worst ways.
That fucking rebar, you think bitterly. It should have hit at least one organ, should have severed his fucking spine. But it didn’t. He walked it off, really, mostly, at the end of it all.
This though — to see him tortured, beaten, bleeding to death slowly—
Your edge of your vision tips black, like your mind is already refusing to go back to that room, like you’ll pass out if you think of it for too long.
A part of you wonders if maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you forgot to stick lavender in his pocket before he left that morning, like you always do.
Someone pushes the door open, snow swirls in against the tile. Voices, rising and falling. The cold that rolls through the tiny waiting room is frigid.
It’s still so red, his blood, even dried and crusted around your fingers and up your wrists.
Tommy is still bleeding and even Maria hasn’t been able to convince him to sit down and let someone look at him. No, all attention needs to be focused on his brother. Anyone with any medical know how, has to be with Joel.
You agree.
Tommy, you, anyone else—can fucking wait.
Ellie is sitting next to you, looking just as numb and shocked as you feel, her fingers twined with Dina’s.
The chatter reaches a crescendo. Something about the worsening storm, something about tracking folks with that big of a headstart through a storm like this one, something about the rapidly deepening darkness, night coming on, something about well who could do something like that anyway? Who the fuck would we even send?
The quiet that follows is painful.
Joel.
Joel is the one you send. Joel is the one that could get a job like this one done, the one that could track people through a blizzard with a dogged determinism, with pragmatism and infallibility.
“What did they want?” Someone asks the room at large. You aren’t sure who asks, you can’t make the shapes in the room resolve into people you know. “Why us? Why Joel? They wanted something right? Who were they?”
You and Tommy look at each other, Ellie makes a half muffled, pained sound beside you. Joel crossed a lot of people, maybe there wasn’t any sense in guessing.
No one answers. You look at your hands again and wonder if the crimson will ever fade.
Someone says your name and you look up. A coat is tugged over your shoulders. You didn’t realize you were shivering and you don’t know what happened to your own coat. One of the patrolmen is looking at you, his name slips your memory but Jesse is standing behind him, Maria on the other side.
You feel the ghost of Ellie’s hand against your arm. Odd, you think distantly, because she hates you. She has for a long time.
“What happened?”
You look around, but Tommy isn’t where he’d been standing just a moment ago. Did they ask him, too?
There’s a dark hole in your memory.
“I don’t know.”
And it’s the truth.
There’s no one more dedicated, more involved, in keeping Jackson safe, than Joel.
Aside from Tommy, maybe.
Joel is an effective killer, like an executioner with a mission. It’s the thing that scared Tommy the most about his brother, and it’s also the thing that had kept him alive long enough to get his second chance in Jackson. It’s the thing you have always loved most about Joel, the violence born of necessity.
And, you suppose, that’s what he’d been. Dispatcher, destroyer.
Protector.
At the heart of it all, the meat of it is, that it had always been that with Joel. It had always been in the name of protect, provide, survive. He never shied away from telling you of his days as a hunter, or, something close to a hunter. And even then, it was keep Tommy alive, it was survive until Boston, it was we needed fucking food.
Survive and provide and protect.
Joel.
Jackson had been wary of him, at first. The stories of his dealings with infected and raiders alike at odds with the way he moved in the commune, with kindness and a certain gentleness, a competency and dependability, with something so soft in his gaze when it came to that little girl he arrived with.
That reticence and worry had dissolved as quickly as it had come.
They describe him as quiet and funny, because he’s prone to good natured teasing. They describe him as fierce and short to anger, because no one can say a word about him or his. They describe him as wonderfully dependable, ask Joel for something on a supply run and you would have it in short order; sigh about the state of something in your home and it would be taken care of, fixed, the very next day.
Jackson loves Joel.
Especially that softened up, gentle creature that had emerged in the wake of everything that had happened between Boston and Jackson. Joel had always had a soft interior, trotted out in brief glimpses over the years, but the shell he wore had been so thick and sharp it was near impenetrable, nearly unknowable.
Ellie is around plenty in those first couple of weeks after. She even takes to sleeping on the living room couch. She doesn’t say much to you or Joel, hardly anything at all, but she’s there and you figure that’s what matters. It seems like she isn’t sure what to say, and desperate for the connection that nearly shattered.
The first few days when Joel comes home from the clinic, someone knocks on the front door every couple of hours and you open it and have the same conversation over and over and over again. It’s always people worriedly asking after Joel’s wellbeing, dropping off food, expressing their anger that something like this could happen to one of their own, that it could happen to someone so widely and wildly beloved.
When the knocks finally stop coming, and you can convince Tommy to go home to Maria, before Maria has to walk over and collect her husband again, you take the stairs slowly up.
You’re exhausted. You hardly sleep and when you do, you have nightmares of Joel. Formless, mind numbing dreams that you can never remember when you wake up gasping. You aren’t sure if Joel dreams of it, too. He’s always mumbled in his sleep, eyes flickering behind closed lids, so it’s hard to tell.
And he hasn’t really been coherent enough, awake enough, to ask, anyway.
“Hey,” Ellie says when you round the doorway into the bedroom, lowering the comic book in her hands. She’s beside Joel, sitting on your side of the bed, back against the headboard. “Sleeping again.”
“Was he awake?”
“A little. Drank some water.”
Despite the tension of the last few years, you know she’s thinking of another time that Joel had slept a lot, injured and only half alive.
Now isn’t like then, but in some ways, it’s worse.
You nod and take a seat at the edge of the bed by her feet. “That’s good,” you reassure her. “It’s a good thing that he’s sleeping. He needs it.”
Ellie just holds up the comic in her lap and then jerks her chin at the box on the bedside table, Joel’s glasses and book about space pushed aside. “I, uh, found them in the study.”
You shrug. “He always picked up any he found on supply runs.” You watch her from the corner of your eye and then shift your gaze to Joel. The slow rise and fall of his chest is reassuring in its steadiness, though you hate how still he is.
The skin by his temple is puckered and red, the stitches a neat little row up to his hairline. It still looks raw as a live nerve, the swelling extending to his eye, purple and shadowed in a dark bruise that trails down his cheek and jaw.
“He never said—” She stops and shakes her head. “So stupid.”
“Well,” you scoot closer and pat her extended leg. “You didn’t exactly want to talk then. We tried giving them to you, once. Left them outside your door. They got a little rained on.”
“Yeah,” she says, mouth twisting to the side. “Some of them are. . .can’t fucking peel the pages apart.” In that moment, she sounds like that little kid you left Boston with, being told not to touch something and doing it anyway.
That might have been when you fell in love with Ellie, watching her snap at Bill, and watching Joel react like any father would. It had come back to him so quickly, so naturally.
There’s a long pause in which Ellie flips rapidly through the comic book and doesn’t say anything, her fingers nervous. She looks how you feel — exhausted. “Why don’t you go get some sleep in your own bed?” You ask, reaching out to twitch a fallen lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “You’re just across the yard. If anything happens, you’ll know.”
She looks up at you, eyes flicking over your face. “I was fucking mad at you too, you know,” she whispers suddenly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You drop your hand and shake your head before looking back at Joel. He sleeps deeply now, deeper than you thought possible for someone like him, even drugged and injured.
There’s a knot tangled in your chest, that only tightens further with her question. “It wasn’t my place. He didn’t. . .he didn’t say anything to me about it for a long time, either. Wouldn’t explain what happened while we were separated. He told me the same lie. And you were going to be mad at me, too, no matter what. It had to be between the two of you.”
“And you think he was right,” she accuses hotly.
“And,” you level your eyes to hers, “I think he was right.” You dip your head. “I wouldn’t change anything, Ellie. I wouldn’t. You know Joel wouldn’t either. You matter more than that.”
Her bottom lip trembles for just a second. “Even knowing this happens?!” She gestures around the room, maybe just the situation at large.
Some of the tension knotting up your shoulders bleeds away. “He’s still here. It’s not too late.” She glances away and sucks in a harsh breath. You wait until she meets your eyes again. “And Ellie, it is not your fault. It’s not. None of it.”
“It almost was.” Her voice is strained. “Too late.”
You shrug. “He knows you care. Trust me, he does.”
She scrubs roughly at her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie. “Yeah, uh, well, I’m still gonna sleep on the couch.”
“Why don’t you just stay right here, then? With Joel?” You ask and stand. “I’ll take the couch tonight.”
It is the ultimate admission of how scared she is, that she does not argue, doesn’t even try to.
For the first few weeks after the attack, Joel is in and out of consciousness. He sleeps much more than he’s awake.
And, it’s hard to tell, at first, why he’s sleeping so much. The pain medicine? That carefully doled out, nearly impossible to come by miracle drug — was it just knocking him out? Was he just sleeping because that’s what his body needed? Or, was it something deeper? Brain damage?
“He’s fucking. . .old!” Ellie says to you one morning around a mouthful of toast. It’s kind of odd, how easily she’s taken to old routines. And how weird the old routine is, because the third piece of your puzzle is missing, sleeping. “Old people take longer to heal, right?”
Right.
But he’s also Joel. And he isn’t that old.
It feels wrong, that he’s so still and silent.
“It’s not—” Her fist opens and closes. She sets down the toast in her other hand on the plate and turns, pacing the length of Joel’s kitchen, fidgeting with her fingers as she goes, white morning light slatting over her. You eye the toast. It’s hard to get her to eat, these days but you figure most of one piece is better than nothing. “His leg. It’s not infected or something, right? We’d know if it was.”
“It’s not infected,” you agree. When your own hands start to shake, you set down your mug, afraid to drop it or spill hot tea all over the floor, and make Ellie even more anxious in the process.
You don’t like to talk about it. You don’t like to think about it. The memories are like a hot brand.
The staircase creaks with the heavy thud of footsteps, before Tommy appears in the kitchen archway. You’ve always thought Tommy and Joel resembled each other, but now you see similarities in the kinds of expressions they make, too, the quirks in their movements that only siblings could share, and Tommy is sometimes a little hard to look at.
“Heading out?”
“Yeah, he’s, uh, sleepin’ again.” He leans against the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest.
Ellie doesn’t say anything, just slips past Tommy and heads up the steps. Tommy looks after her and then back at you. “She won’t say it but she doesn’t like leaving him alone,” you explain.
Tommy nods and then pushes away from the door to settle at the kitchen table. “Well, I don’t like the idea of it either. Good she’s with him.” He tips the chair onto its back legs and tilts his head. “How ya holdin’ up?”
“Probably about as good as you are.”
He huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Maria told me you want off partols.”
You swallow and look away from him as you take the seat across from him at the table. “I - I know we’re down people already but I can’t. . .Tommy I can’t even look at the goddamn gate without feeling like—” You shake your head. “I just don’t think I can do it. I’d get somebody killed.”
“All right,” he says, not unkindly. “We’ll figure it out. It’s okay.”
A burn starts at the back of your eyes so you stand again and swipe your fingers against your cheeks. “You want coffee before you head out?”
“Nah, save that for Joel.” Then, “How you think this is gonna go? When he’s awake more?”
“I don’t know. You’d know better than me.”��
Tommy laughs. The chair scrapes against the linoleum as he stands. He looks tired, and worried. It’s an odd look on him. It isn’t like Tommy at all. You and Tommy have always bonded over teasing Joel. There’s none of that now.
“Like hell. You’ve spent the last fifteen years with him, not me.”
“He’s your brother.”
“And you’re the love of his damn life.” He pauses and leans on the counter next to you.
That makes your mouth twitch, the pleasantly warm feeling in your chest consumed in the next second by a lancing pain that can only be an approximation of grief for someone and something that still breathed.
“I just can’t help worryin’,” he continues. “This might be enough for us, but not for him. If Joel can’t ever do anything again—”
“He just needs time, Tommy,” you cut him off quickly. Not able to stomach the thought. “We’ll figure it out. He’ll figure it out,” you say with more conviction than you feel. “We can probably figure something like a prosthetic out. People have been making them for thousands of years. We can do it. It’ll be fine. But it’s going to be different.”
Tommy’s right. You’ve spent the last fifteen years with Joel. You aren’t sure who you are without him anymore. You aren’t sure you know how to get along without him anymore. And you never want to have to find out. “He’s alive,” you finish with a nod. “Everything else, we can figure out.”
He nods. “You think we shoulda went after ‘em?”
“Maybe. But this is more important.”
Before he goes, Tommy wraps you in a hug. “So long as you and that girl stick around, it’ll be all right.”
“Ellie’s been playing the guitar up there,” you answer.
He nods and pulls back, one big hand clapping down on your shoulder. “See? Things might be all right yet. Always told Joel she’d come around eventually.” He releases you and heads toward the door then. “And get some sleep. Y’look terrible,” he calls over his shoulder. “Orders from Maria.”
For the first time in weeks, Joel wakes with some semblance of clarity. The bedroom is warm and dark, the tiniest pool of light washing over the form next to him from a little light plugged into the wall.
It’s the nightlight he found for Ellie when they first got to Jackson and her nightmares gave her more grief than she cared to admit to.
His whole body aches. He feels sick.
The sharpness of the pain is disorienting. He’s only been awake in brief, muddled flashes, the dulled fingers of drugged pain lancing through him and consuming most of his thoughts. He’d only been awake long enough to eat or drink or be helped to the bathroom like some kind of damn—
He remembers Tommy at his bedside. He hears the ghost notes of music in the air, your voice in his ear, the gentle slide of warm fingers over his skin. He remembers Ellie reading aloud, curled on her side next to him, like she used to do when she was younger, like when they’d stop for the night on the road.
That can’t be right, though. She hasn’t done that in years. She wouldn’t do something like that. Not anymore.
You’re next to him now, face tilted against the edge of his pillow. It’s hard to make you out in the dark, the shape and slope of your features hidden in the dim light.
When he says your name, you twitch, the slightest wrinkle to your nose, the tiniest spasm of your fingers against the sheets. “Darlin’,” he tries again. His voice grinds, catches and snags around his teeth. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in years.
He reaches for you and it’s agony, because his shoulder must be broken. His ribs contract painfully right, like the shrapnel of the bone is digging up into his lungs, piercing his heart. But your skin is soft and warm, pliant, beneath his fingers. It smells like you’ve been burning sage again. He wants to burrow his fingers beneath your skin, you’re so warm.
The cut of your cheekbones are sharper, the angle of your jaw reminds him of winter in the QZ, winter traveling with you and Ellie. Discolored circles line the space beneath your eyes like little hollows. You look exhausted, wan.
You blink, slowly at first, then more rapidly. “Joel?” Your voice is a whisper, like the dark is stealing it away.
Your fingers slide through the backs of his against your cheek when you shift closer, so careful about it, until you’re pressed to his side. “Joel,” you repeat, eyes sliding shut, forehead against the edge of his sore jaw.
He breathes you in, the warm scent of your skin, the smells of hearth and home, lavender and sage and woodsmoke. He closes his eyes for just a second when you shift up and tilt your forehead against his, breath whispering against his chin. “Joel.”
“You all right?” His voice still sounds rocky but clearing it doesn’t seem to help any.
Slowly, you sit up, hand still in his when you pull it away from your face. “You’re asking me that? You’re kidding, Joel,” your voice creaks. You’ve never really been a crier, but there’s a thickness in your mouth, softening out the vowels and snapping at the consonants. “Are you - We didn’t want you to be in pain. But you’ve been sleeping for so long, we gave you a lower dose so that—”
“I feel okay,” he interrupts your fretting, sweeping his thumb against the back of your hand. “Considerin’.”
You swallow and nod. “Hungry?” You glance at the window, where a gray, pale morning light is starting to leech into the room, the color of dirty snow.
“Yep.” He wishes you’d keep your eyes on him. “If you’ve got somethin’ ready.”
“We have anything you want,” you assure him. “Anything.”
Joel nods and attempts to push himself up next to you, chest and shoulder aching something awful. He bites back a groan but it still pushes past his teeth.
“Careful,” you say sharply. Before he can protest, you’re up and around the bed, one hand behind his back. “Your shoulder is broken in a million places.”
“A million?” He grunts.
“Three.”
“That ain’t a million.”
You don’t laugh and your hand doesn’t move from his back. “And broken ribs. Now lean back.” He does as you ask, real careful about it so you don’t worry.
An odd feeling creeps up inside his chest, dulled by the lighter dose of pain medicine coursing through his veins. It ain’t just a sick feeling, but something else. A helplessness, maybe. It feels wrong, in more ways than one.
Joel becomes acutely aware of what he already knows, every single injury, the graveness of them. He knows about the broken shoulder and ribs that had to be reset, torn skin that had to be stitched together, that he has internal bruising but by some miracle no internal bleeding. His face throbs suddenly, his temple tight with pain. He feels his heartbeat behind his eye and in the swelling in his cheek.
And, the worst of it, leg amputated to just above the knee. Sick crawls up the back of his throat. He doesn’t dare look.
The feeling in his chest swells until it chokes him.
Helpless, useless — something hard and fanged digs into his mind. It feels like grief, but what is he supposed to be mourning, exactly?
Everything, maybe.
His whole damn life.
“I’m fine,” he grunts suddenly. Sharply. “Quit fussin’.”
He feels like fucking crying.
“Just - shut up, Joel,” you snap back. “You almost fucking died.”
A fist curls around his throat, warm and tight. He almost can’t breathe through it. “Yeah,” he croaks, voice breaking the word in two.
“Yeah,” you snarl. “So shut up and let me fuss.”
You turn and leave before he can say anything else, footsteps rapidly descending the stairs. Voices trundle up, creased and folded, rising but muffled. You’ve always been mean when you got scared, ever since Joel can remember. You were mean as hell when he first met you, a hissing kind of frustrated, new to the QZ and new to trying your hand at smuggling.
You’ve softened up over the years. He hasn’t seen you like this in a long time, maybe not since you got separated in Salt Lake City.
More footsteps, this time heavy, stomping, coming upwards.
Ellie appears in the doorway a second later. Her hair is messy; her eyes are wild. She’s in sweatpants and a shirt that’s too big for her. She looks tired but unharmed. The knot tangled up around his lungs eases just a little. “Hey, kiddo.” He tries not to sound surprised.
Her eyes flick over him and then away. She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t leave either. Instead she picks up a book from the corner of the dresser and settles in the chair across the room.
A firm but unyielding presence.
He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the wall, and tries to push down the feeling of failure rising in his throat like a tide.
Joel’s fingers are clumsy.
He can’t walk, can’t work, can’t do much of anything without irritating every ligament and tendon and bone in his body.
But even worse than that, he can’t remember how to play the guitar.
And nothing makes him feel so helpless as that.
Even after not playing for twenty odd years, the notes and the placement of his fingers on the strings and frets had come back easily to him, almost like he’d never stopped playing at all.
Now, it doesn’t.
In part his shoulder is to blame. Even nearly healed, it’s stiff. But the other part of it is that he can’t remember how to play. Every note seems wrong, and he can’t decide if he’s hearing it wrong, if there’s something wrong with his hearing, his perception, or if the note really is just wrong.
Ellie plays for him, instead.
It’s easier than talking. Neither of them are really good at that, anyway. He’s just glad she’s around at all.
He can’t help but think of that last conversation he’d had with her on the back porch, that she wants to try to forgive him, even if she thinks she might never be able to. He supposes this is her way of trying her hand at that.
Sometimes he wonders if it would be like this if he hadn’t almost died, if he wasn’t collecting sympathy from everyone like there was some kind of shortage. Maybe that conversation on the porch would have meant nothing, otherwise.
The thought hurts him, no matter how glad he is that she’s there.
One evening, pretty late, as snow peppers down through the early winter black that curtains the window, she stops playing.
The living room is quiet, aside from their breathing and the crackle of flames in the fireplace.
“I was going to invite you over to watch a movie.”
The metallic twang of the last note she plucked hangs in the air.
“I was - I was going to fucking ask you to watch a movie with me. That night. One of those dumb action movies you like. Like the ones we used to watch, remember? Curtis and Viper 2.”
She doesn’t look at him. She stares at her fingers, idly, nervously, twisting the tuning pegs of the guitar. “Think I saw that one before,” he answers, voice a little choked. “Pretty good.”
Ellie rolls her eyes and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. “Yeah, you would think so, old man,” she replies eventually but still doesn’t look up, her mouth twisting to the side. “I just - don’t want you to think I’m only here because you—” She shakes her head, and props the guitar against the wall before she stands and paces the room twice, toying with her fingers in that way she always has. “I never wanted anything bad to happen to you. Even when I was really mad.”
“Ellie,” he says but she doesn’t seem to hear him. “I know.”
“Anyway, I meant what I said.”
“Ellie.”
“I wanted things to get better. I wanted to try. I was going to.”
“Ellie.”
She spins suddenly toward the front door, one hand on the back of her neck, rubbing awkwardly. “I gotta get going.”
“Kiddo.” This time she turns and finally looks at him. The scent of pine and smoke fills the room. The red of the flames flash across her face, so serious and anxious.
When they first came to Jackson, they spent a lot of nights on the couch together. His neck always ached the next morning from sleeping upright but he’d never complain about it. Then the distance between them had grown, and he doesn’t know when the last time something like that had happened.
But that same distance is slowly shrinking now, even if things might never, never be the same again.
So many times when he looks at her, he still sees that fourteen year old kid. He’d had the same problem with Sarah, looking at his twelve year old and seeing her at five and eight. It was just how it went, being a parent.
“I know, Ellie,” he reassures her. “I do. It’s all right. Even if you didn’t mean a word of it, it’s all right. I meant what I said, too.”
And even though she said she needed to leave, she nods and sits down again. She plucks a few notes out on the guitar when she pulls it back into her lap.
“D'ya still wanna watch it?”
She does.
Joel is whittling.
It is decidedly not going well.
He’s too distracted for it. He never realized how much pressure settled on his shoulder, how much it pulled at the muscle around his ribs, from doing something as simple as this, and he doesn’t like the nausea that comes with the pain.
But it’s something he can do, so he does it.
It’s snowing outside again, wind raking against the siding, rattling the window panes. There’s a thin stream of air coming in around the window’s frame, cold.
His hands are chapped and raw, blood pooling at the seams of his knuckles.
The fix would be easy enough, but everything he needs to do it is in the basement. And the basement is a near impossible location for him to reach, so he puts up with it, hands growing more frustrated by the second because he wants to fucking fix it.
You use the office, his work space, often enough, and it’s one thing for him to be cold and uncomfortable, but another thing entirely for you to feel that way.
But he can’t make it down to the living room without help these days, let alone down two flights of stairs to the basement, and then back up them, too.
“Joel?”
He glances over his shoulder to find you standing in the doorway. You have a pair of shears in your hands.
“Still want me to cut your hair?”
He wants to do it himself. But you’d offered earlier, because you’ve been doing it for him for a long time, for years and years now. And he’d always liked it because your hands are kind with it and you’re better at doing it, anyway. But now it just feels like one more thing he can’t do for himself, one more thing he’s relying on someone else for, and that makes guilt and shame choke him.
Joel can’t seem to do a damn thing, not for himself, but, worse, not for anyone else either.
“Joel?” You ask again when the silence stretches until it’s uncomfortable. “I don’t have to; you can do it yourself.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s all right, darlin’.” You start forward when he labors up from the chair, teeth gritted, but quickly stop when he meets your eyes, warning you away with a glance.
You don’t say anything else, just back out the door and pad down the hall to the bathroom.
He isn’t sure if your feelings are hurt or not, all his focus directed on hauling himself upwards and then limping down the hall with one crutch under his arm. Feeble threads of pain lance up his leg, centering in his joints, the hinge of his knee. The space under his arm is sore too, from the crutch, even wrapped in cloth.
Joel is used to pain. He’s used to temporary aches, the sharp stab of healing wounds, the quick rip of a bullet or knife through skin, chronic pains from age and long healed injuries. On cold days, his side aches something fierce, like that rebar never really came out of him.
But this pain is different, without origin, and he’s having a hard time adjusting to it. Or maybe he’s just having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that this is not a healable injury, at least, not in the way he wants it to be.
For the rest of his life, he will be disabled. He’ll never get back to himself, never be what he once was.
The bathroom light is gold. It washes his skin into a better color, not so pale and strained and pained looking.
He hates looking in the mirror now. Joel never considered himself particularly good looking, never thought about it much, really. And, for most of his life, looks haven’t really mattered anyway.
But seeing his reflection now is a reminder of his failures. It’s a reminder of everything he can’t do.
His whole body is nothing but reminders.
He is a patchwork quilt of scars.
He doesn’t know how you can stand to look at him. But you just brush your hands through his hair when he leans the crutch against the counter and sits heavily on the stool you dragged upstairs.
The bathroom is thick with the scent of lavender and earth. Every winter it turns into a makeshift greenhouse, all the plants that can’t survive the winter dragged inside for the season.
The feeling of your hands through his hair is soothing and the tension in his shoulders slides away.
“I can do it myself,” he grumbles, despite himself, and without conviction when you run a comb through his hair.
You hum under your breath, not really paying him any mind. You know he doesn’t really mean it. Even if he feels like a fucking burden for it, it’s something you’ve always done for him, so it’s a little easier for him to accept. “I know. I like to.” You tilt his chin up and Joel steadfastly avoids looking in the mirror. “Besides, I’m better at it. You take to it like it’s a hack job.”
The trim doesn’t take long, since he keeps his hair longer anyway. It’s mostly an excuse for you to rake your fingers through his hair.
“The window needs fixin’,” he says when you slide in front of him and set about trimming his beard without asking. That’s fine, too. “I know you been, uh, kinda cold in that room.”
“It’s not so bad,” you say when you finish with him, brushing your fingers against his cheeks and then through his hair. You smile, eyes crossing his face, tracing his features like a well known map, before you twitch a lock of hair away from his forehead. “You gonna fix it for me or what?”
“Mighty big ask of ya,” he grouses, irritation itching at the edge of his mind.
You’re still smiling faintly, touching his face, the curl of hair behind his ear, the scar along his hairline and then the one over his nose.
“I just can’t see how,” you say and Joel almost snaps. He wants to. He wants to say you don’t fucking get it, that you don’t want to get it, that it’s different now. He wants to say he’s not the man you’ve always known, that shit ain’t as easy as it’s always been. He can’t do shit for you, anymore, and isn’t that the reason you’ve stuck around all these years?
But then you continue. “I left that damn caulking gun on the side table three days ago.”
“You what?”
You shrug. “Thought you might have noticed it too. And I’ve always been so bad at that stuff.”
The guilt that settles in him is heavy, but familiar. The shape of it is different, but it's still like shrugging on an old coat, it’s so natural and intimate.
He must be destined for some kind of failure, born under a bad star, something.
Everything he touches falls apart, no matter what he does. Everyone he holds dear, leaves him, one way or another, somehow. His mama, Sarah, and then Tommy, and then Tess. Most recently Ellie, though maybe things there were being mended. Maybe you were next, soon as you came to your senses.
Joel has spent most of his life taking care of people. And when he wasn’t taking care of people, he was moving, working. He hardly ever sat still. He didn’t have time to sit still.
Not before the outbreak, and certainly not after.
Even in Jackson where the pace of the world is slower, he was always busy. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was on wall duty, looking after Jackson’s security. Or, he was fixing something for someone, building something, helping with the horses. If he wasn’t doing any of that, he was improving his house, he was working on a new carving, he was playing the guitar.
Healing up, it’s involved a whole lot of sitting still and feeling useless. It had involved a lot of other people fussing over him.
A lot of sitting still and feeling like he was failing everyone he knew. Like he had already failed everyone he knew. For all the effort he put into it, it would never be enough. He cares wrong, he loves wrong, and now he can’t even do that.
He fails you in this, too. Of wishing he could accuse you of all the things he thinks of himself.
Joel knows you think of it too, you just haven’t gotten frustrated enough with him to say it yet. You haven’t had the full weight of his broken, uselessness on you, yet.
That day will come. There’s no way it won’t, because he can’t do for you what he’s always done, what he was put on this god forsaken earth to do. The one thing he’s always been able to do. Not just for you, but for everyone. Ellie, Tommy and his family, Jackson at large.
It’s always been the thing he could point to and say look, this is why I am like this, this is why you need me, why I’m around. You survived because of me. Because I made sure you did.
So he’s not worth much now, really, and all the promises he made you and all the promises he made to himself, he can’t keep them anymore. And isn’t that why you stuck by him all these years? Despite all his shortcomings?
“Sorry, darlin’,” he cups your face in his hands, smoothes his thumbs over your cheeks, the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll get right on fixin’ that for you.”
“I know you will. Thank you, Joel.” The full weight of your head tips into his hands, and your eyes slide shut. His hands are large against your jaw, scarred and calloused, harsh. Reminders, maybe, of what he used to be. He looks at the hollows beneath your eyes, the raw, worried skin of your bottom lip.
You don’t sleep anymore and when you do you have nightmares. You hate to leave the house. And sometimes you flinch even when nothing is happening around you, like memories are snapping at your heels.
He did all that to you, too. Terrible gifts he’s given and can’t take back.
When he glances back up to your eyes, you’re staring at him, a worried, anxious kind of look lodged there that he absolutely hates.
“What?” He asks, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks and then the delicate hinge of your jaw.
“Nothing.” Your eyes shift away from his, and you twitch in his grasp. He already knows what you’re about to say, because you’ve never gotten better at saying it, just like him. He doesn’t need you to say it, but you do anyway, and he hates how much he likes hearing it. It’s like a ray of golden sun. “I love you, Joel,” you murmur and hook your hands around his wrists.
For a long time, you just look at him, the silence is heavy with unsaid words, but he isn’t sure which of you is the one not saying something. “That enough?” He eventually grunts. “For you?”
You frown. “Why wouldn’t it be? Do you think it’s not?”
It shouldn’t be. All those promises stack up in his mind again, everything he can’t keep.
“It shouldn’t be.”
You pull his hands away from your face with a shake of your head and lean in to kiss him. Your lips part softly against his, the hitch of your breath sweet against his mouth. The heat of you is so close and intoxicating, it’s something he never wants to have to give up, not when your thumbs are pressed to the pulse in his wrists, and not when you taste like apple, honey.
He shakes one of your hands away to wrap his arm around your back and pull you closer, until the warmth of your body is pressed securely to his chest. Your tongue slides against his, teeth nipping gently at his bottom lip. Something warm floods his cheeks and his chest goes tight.
When you pull back, you tug on a piece of his hair then touch the blush pinking on his face. “You look real handsome, Texas.”
He tucks his forehead against your collarbone, and you fold your hands against the back of his head. “It’s enough,” you say. “Always has been.”
The next day, he finds that most of his tools have been relocated upstairs, either to one of the cabinets in the living room, or to the office upstairs.
Either way, he no longer has to traverse two staircases down and back up.
He isn’t sure when you had the time to do it, or why he didn’t at least hear you doing it.
Joel’s chest swells with love for you, right alongside the guilt that does nothing but grow.
He fixes the window.
Some days are easier than others.
He has good days and bad, and some of the bad days are worse than others. He sows the feelings up inside himself, cocoons the bad away inside his chest. It’s easier that way. And it’s necessary now. It’s just another thing you’d have to deal with.
He’s never been good at saying the things that needed said, anyway.
He tries not to snap at you. He’s trying not to get mean, and he can’t just walk away like he used to be able to when his mind got messy. But he’s been failing because he wants you to fight with him, wants you to hate him.
Joel wants you to say that he fucking failed, that he’s been failing his whole life at the one thing he was supposed to be able to do. The one thing he’s really good for.
“Stop it,” Joel snarls one day in the spring, when you offer your hand down the steps to the living room.
He doesn’t mean to snap at you like that, but he doesn’t take it back either. He’s in too much pain. And he doesn’t want to admit it.
The smile slips off your face as you step back from him, a stoney expression sliding over your face instead. It’s routine, you helping him, and maybe that’s the problem. He grits his teeth, that look reminds him of Boston, reminds him of the time before you used to trust each other.
“I ain’t helpless.”
You raise your hands and take another step back, looking away from him as you do.
The breeze that comes in the landing’s open window is cool. It isn’t quite warm enough for the window to be open but the house needs airing out after such a long winter, such a hard winter. The air is crisp with the scent of pine and the lavender hung in dried clumps above each doorway.
“I know, Joel.”
When he looks at you, you visibly brace yourself.
A wave of self-hatred so hot it burns immediately follows the guilt. But it also doesn’t stop the angry, frustrated pulse beneath the surface of his skin, pressing against the back of his teeth.
“I don’t know why you didn’t just leave me there.” The words are bitter, poisonous. Accusatory. “You should have left me to fuckin’ die.”
Whatever you might be expecting him to say, it isn’t that. Your breath catches hard.
You can be cruel, too. He waits for your anger, the burn of words he deserves to hear, something mean and hateful but true.
But the words don’t come; your anger doesn’t come. You just look tired and empty, sad.
You pace the landing, the soft shush of your footsteps echoed by the creaking of the floorboards. Your silence pricks at him. He wants you to scream at him, blame him, for failing, for being so fucking stupid.
“What if it was me?”
Your voice is so low, he almost doesn’t catch your words.
The quiet of your footsteps come to a halt. “What if it had been me, Joel? It could have been. It could have easily been me. They knew who you were. We’ve done a lot of the same shit. We’ve made a lot of the same enemies over the years.”
Your hands are shaking, your breath comes in quick little pants. The acrid, bone aching feeling of cresting anxiety and panic floods the little landing. “Me and you and Tess, we were kind of a package fucking deal. So, what if it was me?”
The breeze sliding through the open window feels different now. Colder, older, more brutal.
“That’s fuckin’ different and y’know it,” he snarls.
“Why?” Anger floods your face, the curl of your fingers harsh against your arms when you cross them. “Why would that have been different? Because you think I always need to be taken care of?”
He doesn’t answer. He looks away from you, but he can’t go anywhere. He’s at your mercy and you both hate it.
Joel leans heavily against the wall, his right hand curling around his left wrist, a nervous, anxious tick he’s never been able to shake.
“Tell me,” you beg. “Say it, Joel. How is it different? Why?”
He shakes his head once, slowly, and doesn’t look up at you. “You can say it,” you continue, your voice eerily quiet. “You never trusted me to have your back.”
That ain’t it at all.
It’s not your failure. It’s his, in every single way. He doesn’t blame you or Tommy or Ellie or anyone else. He doesn’t believe for a second that you don’t know that.
It would have been better, probably, if he died.
He doesn’t understand the guilt you feel.
He can’t take care of you anymore, can’t protect you anymore.
Worse, he can’t do that for his kid.
If he’d died, maybe that final sacrifice would have been enough to make up for everything else. Maybe it would all just be done.
He’s the one breaking promises, not you, just like he always has been.
Sometimes, when he thinks of Sarah, he can only remember her final moments. He can’t think of anything else but her blood, how red it was in the dark. He can’t think of anything else than what could have been. He can only see the halo of that mounted flashlight glaring into his eyes, his own voice pleading. Please don’t.
If he’d just been shot, he would have died first, he wouldn’t have ever known how bad he failed in that moment. He would have died first, like a parent was supposed to. No good father should ever outlive his kid.
Maybe, this had been his second chance, to finally die first.
Born lucky, bad star, like always.
So, what would he do, if it had been you? He’d have taken care of you, just like you’re doing for him. But that is not anathema to him; that is just how things are supposed to go. It wouldn’t have been a failure.
He’s no use to you anymore, no use to anyone.
He doesn’t say any of that.
Instead, he nods.
“You’re right.” He shrugs and pain splinters across his shoulders. “It would have been different.”
Your expression flickers blank and you turn away. It would have been easier to stomach if you screamed at him, if you slammed a door.
But you’re just quiet.
Once, during the late autumn, when you were traveling with Joel and Ellie, you noticed Joel wasn’t eating.
Food was in short supply. None of the houses or buildings you looted turned up anything edible, and wild game had been elusive for weeks as the weather turned wetter and chillier.
You’d noticed him doing it a few times before, but nothing like then. Joel would dole out carefully rationed food and not allocate any to himself. The bags under his eyes deepened. His temper was shorter. He’d gotten pale and hollows appeared in his cheeks that meant he hadn’t been getting enough. Joel had always been huge, broad and strong and tall, with thick arms and thighs, but when he dropped weight, it always showed in those little hollows first.
Then, one evening, after clearing out a barn of infected, he’d stumbled, hand to his forehead, pale as you’d ever seen him. “Christ,” he’d mumbled.
“Joel?” Ellie’s voice had pitched up with worry. She’d looked at you, and said, “He hasn’t been eating.” The words were all a rush, accusatory and begging for you to do something.
“Ellie—” He’d growled.
“I know she’s right, Joel,” You’d interrupted with a snap. “You think we wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t notice?”
He’d gotten pissed off and marched off into the woods to the stream to refill your canteens. You’d given him a wide berth for several hours, making the newly cleared barn into something livable for the night with Ellie. When dark had started to set in you went after him, boots crunching through frozen leaves.
He’d been sitting by the creek bed, an inscrutable expression on his face. “We ain’t got enough,” he’d said, not looking at you. “You and Ellie need it more. I’m fine.”
“But you're not. You can’t just not eat. You can’t take care of us if you aren’t okay, Joel.”
The air had smelled like earth and decaying leaves and stagnant water and ice. The scent reminded you of better times, of apple cider and cinnamon and new beginnings, of autumn fairs and coffee shops.
You’d sat behind him, pulled him against you for just a moment, chin on his shoulder, and said, “It’s all right to let me look after you, too.”
You figure that even with the change in circumstances, things are still like that with Joel. He’s always doing the metaphorical equivalent of making sure everyone else eats first, even if it means he’s starving.
He’s never been one to give up or give in or let go. When Tess was bitten, Joel hadn’t wanted to leave her. He’d wanted to stay and fight. To fight a useless and unwinnable fight. That mindset was never going to fade.
You don’t speak for a few days. Guilt swallows the whole of your heart and leaves you dry and empty. Joel blames you, you think, even if he won’t say it.
He comes to you late one night.
It’s dark and the bedroom is overly warm. He sits heavily but without help at the edge of the bed. He’s getting better at that, even if he doesn’t think he is.
His hair is longer and it falls into his face when he leans over you, fingers against your forehead and temple and then your cheek.
“When I was real young,” he says. “My dad died. We didn’t have much money and my mama worked all the time.”
You turn on your back and try to make his face out but his expression is unreadable.
Joel hardly ever talks about his folks.
“I got my first job when I was fourteen, to help with the bills. Money was better on account of half of it not bein’ drank away, but we still needed the cash.” Joel pauses and you scoot over. It takes a minute for him to find a comfortable position with you but when he does, he continues. His voice echoes against your ear, the beat of his heart pounds against your cheek. His chin rubs against your forehead, one large hand splayed across your shoulders.
“Since she worked so much, I was always takin’ care of Tommy, of damn near everything else. And my mama, too, sometimes.” He swallows, and you feel the bob of his throat against your forehead. His chest is warm beneath your cheek, even through the two layers he always wears. “So I knew I was young when Sarah came along, but I didn’t really feel it. I took care of her and her mother, ‘til she went her own way. Just the way I always had.”
The rise and fall of his chest is steady. He cups his free hand around yours and tucks your palm against his heart.
“I know I’m not easy, in any sense of the word. I never have been.” A heavy tug of shame weighs his voice down. “Too mean and bitter, I guess.” There’s a long pause, and you want to protest but you’re sure if you interrupt, Joel won’t finish saying whatever it is he needs to.
“So anyway,” he continues. “I try to make up for it. By doin’ what I always have, even if it means I end up alone. I wouldn’t change anything. I don’t know what I’m good for if—” His hand slides up your spine, thick fingers resting at the base of your neck. “And I can’t do it anymore. Can’t take care of ya. So, it woulda been different, if it had been you. Because it’s you we’re talkin’ about.”
Joel goes quiet after that. His palm continues its nervous path over your spine. The bristles of his beard are soft against your temple. The rhythm of his breathing is still slow and even, but you feel the prickle of nerves in the way he touches you.
It isn’t easy for Joel to say the things he feels, even to you, even all these years later.
His body is so familiar to you, so warm and strong beneath you. Comfort, in short, in its purest form.
You aren’t expecting him to say any more, but he does. “Things. . .they always have a way of fallin’ apart, in the end.”
When you lift your head, he doesn’t look at you. You press a finger against the edge of his jaw, turning his head gently until his eyes meet yours. “Joel,” you touch your forehead to his. You aren’t good with words either, but you try. “You are more than that. More than what you can do for people.”
He’s quiet for a long time, eyes fluttering closed, his breath a calm pool against your mouth. “And I’m more than that? To you?”
“Joel, if I only wanted some guard dog, I would have gotten one that could listen better.”
He snorts, and a little of the tension melts away. “Yeah, I reckon you would have.”
The dark is a warm cocoon of things less easily said in the light.
“Yes,” you say quietly after a long, peaceful silence. “Joel. You’re so much more to me than that.”
It’s late spring again. The Wyoming air is mild, and heavy with the scent of blooming life.
Sage grows in dense clumps up in the mountains, deep between the ridges of the sharp peaks. The smell of it, earthy and crisp, chases itself on the breeze, all the way down to Jackson. It twines with the smell of flowers painstakingly planted along his front path.
Arrowleaf. Goldenrod.
Lavender, right by the mailbox, courtesy of some superstition held onto from before the outbreak.
It’s thick, cloying, pungent.
It’s overripe, rotting. It smells like death.
It’s making Joel fucking nauseous.
He squeezes your arm, a warning without words that he needs a break.
It’s the smell.
It’s the sun and the gentle breeze.
He tells himself the sick, crawling pain mixing sourly in his stomach has nothing at all to do with his newly fitted prosthetic leg.
Slowly, without a word, you turn and guide him back through his familiar backyard to the porch.
He sits heavily on the steps, just inside the cool pool of shade, and pulls in deep breaths that rattle in his lungs and do nothing to stave off the dizziness, or the pain.
Your hand slides up and down his back before your palm settles against the back of his neck and urges his head down between his knees.
Joel feels like a fucking kid. His hands are shaking.
“Damn thing is useless,” he growls after a minute when the nausea passes and he can lift his head, because it’s the only thing he can do, because it’s goddamn humiliating.
Everything is, these days.
You just bump your shoulder into his and hum low under your breath, used to his attitude, used to his bark that only sometimes has a bite.
You’re patient with him, but tough, not willing to indulge his foul moods. “It’s just something you have to get used to,” you assure him. “It’s not going to be like before.”
Joel doesn’t want to admit that he wants to take the prosthetic off. It’s like admitting defeat before he’s even gotten a chance to fight.
And he’s tired.
Exhausted, really.
“Hey,” you dig your nails into his wrist. He meets your eyes, pragmatic, practical, his match in everything. “We aren’t supposed to go at it so hard anyway, remember? You did really well.”
He doesn’t want to admit that, either, that your praise washes pink in his veins, that he likes to hear it, thrives on it. If he’s doing right by you, good in your eyes, things can’t be awful as they might seem.
That’s what he latches onto. Your pride. Your acceptance.
“This was just the first time, Joel,” you continue. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
He ain’t so sure about that, not with the way his leg aches. A leg that isn’t even there anymore, chopped off right above the knee, to save his life, apparently. It’s part of why it hurts so goddamn much. Feels like he’s pushing his calf into something it can’t fit in, like the long gone meat and bone are getting ground up into his thigh.
But if he gets the hang of it, then things will be better. He’ll at least be able to move on his own. He might be able to find some way to work again. Wall duty was looking pretty good, because all you really have to do is sit there and watch the horizon and be able to shoot pretty well.
There is hope in the future. There is hope in you reminding him of that, realistic to a fault, pragmatic to your core.
And unlike Joel, you’ve never had it in you to lie.
Joel tightens his hand on your forearm again, pressure on your sun warmed skin. It’s a poor substitute for the thank you that you deserve. You seem to get his meaning though. Your hand feathers through his hair again and the sun doesn’t feel so abrasive, and the smells of spring don’t seem so weighed down by death.
“Ellie’s coming for dinner,” you offer. “Said she’s got a movie or a game or something that she wants to show you.”
Yeah, so maybe the day ain’t so bleak as he thought it was.
“All right.”
You offer him a hand up, and slip your arm behind his back. He carefully drapes his arm around your shoulders, mindful, even now, of his weight against yours. “What a strong thing you are,” he comments, not able to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. You look so determined.
It’s the way you always look, when put to task.
You roll your eyes. “Lucky for you.”
“Lucky for me,” he says, soft about it.
The stairs are the worst part of getting back inside, but it's much easier than it had been before.
It’s a relief to collapse into the couch and take the prosthetic off. The phantom pains still ache and stretch painfully tight, like the skin is being pulled taut, like there was a knot that just needed massaged out. He grits his teeth and represses the urge to reach down and rub sore muscle that no longer exists.
It’s a relief to collapse into the couch, even if guilt punches him in the chest for it.
It’s an even bigger relief when you press yourself into the space next to him. He doesn’t know how you stand it sometimes. How you can look at him and still not hate him for every mistake he’s ever made.
“Knee always fuckin’ bothered me anyhow,” he comments, turning his head so his words brush against your temple. “Don’t gotta worry about it gettin’ stiff now, I reckon.”
You reward him with a snort, the scrape of your fingernails against his cheek, a kiss.
It’s easier to get around, with the prosthetic that he hates.
But he’s slow. Slower than he’s ever been in his whole life. And sometimes, most times, it frustrates him.
Being able to walk is one thing. It’s a fine thing. But he needs to be able to do more than that. Run, fight, shoot. A fucking pipe dream. But he’s back to building, carpentry, and that’s something at least. Something useful.
Joel has tried asking you about that day, because he doesn’t remember a whole lot besides the pain. But your chest goes fluttery with panic, the rise and fall of it unfamiliar to him. You don’t get nervous. You never have, not over anything.
But when he asks about that day, you mutter something about Tommy and blood, and he can’t get anything else out of you. Tommy does the same, eyes cast to the side, thumbs hooked in his belt, foot starting a nervous rhythm.
He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with either of you, what the goddamn problem is.
In some ways, Joel’s always thought you were tougher than him, a balance of brutal and rough and unforgiving with softened sweetness. Bash the skull of a hunter in with a metal pipe, then use your unsullied hand to stroke back Ellie’s hair, to offer help to strangers, to pat the nose of your horse gently.
He would never want to be on the other side of the wrath you kept wrapped up inside your heart.
But, now, you don’t leave Jackson anymore. You haven’t been outside Jackson’s walls since that day.
Tommy tells him you can’t even bear to take a shift on the wall, which mainly comprised of sitting at the top of the wall and doing a whole lot of nothing, looking at the horizon, shuffling your feet to keep warm.
It’s unlike you. You love to patrol, just like him.
That’s his fault, too. Your nightmares, your sleeplessness.
Ellie plays the guitar for him, even after he gets the hang of it again, even after he’s walking on his own again, the chords coming back to him easier and easier. They don’t have to talk much, that way.
She’s still mad, but he almost died, and she’s willing to try with him.
She comes over for dinner. She always brings a movie.
It gets easier.
And slowly, by the end of the summer, she smiles when she sees him.
He’s gotten the hang of walking again, which is never a sentiment he thought he’d have about himself. Joel always assumed he’d be killed before something like really old age could set in, or something like this, a disability he doesn’t want to learn to live with.
It’s rained recently and the yard smells like perchitor and the ever present mountain sage. The grass is just a little muddy from the many loops around the yard. “You’re going to fall and break your neck, old man.”
“Breakin’ my neck can’t be much worse than what it is right now. We ain’t goin’ around the yard anyhow. Now c’mon, put your shoes on, kiddo.”
“It’s still raining,” she complains.
“Means no one’s outside to see me humiliatin’ myself.”
Ellie only rolls her eyes but does it anyway. He doesn’t need a hand anymore, but he’s shaky sometimes and despite your best efforts he’s still refusing a cane. But he also hasn’t been using the track in the yard in weeks.
That, and he actually has somewhere to be these days, figuring out better security for Jackson, looking after the patrol teams, assessing who was ready to be put into rotation. Managing is what he should be calling it, though he doesn’t care for it. He and Maria butt heads too often for it to be anything close to enjoyable.
When they pass the mailbox, Ellie points to the lavender. “I never thought to ask about it before. It’s everywhere. Some nailed above the door and everything.”
“Some kinda thing about protectin’ the home,” Joel explains. “Far as I remember, it protects from bad energy. Somethin’ like that.”
“I thought that was sage?”
“Sage you burn,” he explains. “And we get plenty of that too. Whole damn house smells like it.”
“Seems like the kinda thing Dina would do,” she says and then seems to realize who she’s said it to. But she doesn’t change the subject. “Didn’t take her for the superstitious type. Doesn’t seem like it really works anyway.”
Joel shrugs. “She was before the outbreak, I guess.” He watches Ellie from the corner of his eye. She’s steadfastly not looking at him, but she also doesn’t usually say so much to him. “Didn’t have reason to think of it for a long time. Lavender wasn’t exactly in high supply in Boston.”
Ellie nods.
“She used to, uh, put some in your backpack when she knew you was goin’ out. Same with me, always put some in my pocket.”
There’s a long silence. Jackson’s streets are oddly empty in the pouring rain. Lights glow in the windows; inviting, homely. “She didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs and his shoulder only aches a little for it. “It’s just the kinda thing parents do, even if it don’t make any damn sense.”
“Yeah,” Ellie agrees as the turn toward the center of Jackson. “You wanna stop in the Bison?”
“Sure,” he agrees. “For a minute.”
“Full schedule?” She teases. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your sunset years?”
“Well, gotta have something to fill up the days, kiddo. Maybe one day you’ll actually be able to keep up.”
She just scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, whatever."
Joel tries not to smile.
Being mobile again, busy again, feels good.
It feels good, but it also means he’s in near constant pain.
He tells himself it’s good, that pain sharpens him, makes him better.
Until he’s slumped on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night, heaving his guts up from the ache in his leg.
You find him there, sweaty and panting, with a glass of water in hand. Joel pushes himself upright against the wall with a sigh as you close the lid of the toilet and flush it before sitting beside him on the cool tile.
“You’re overdoing it again,” you say, not unkindly.
“I ain’t tryin’ to,” he mutters and takes the glass of water when you offer it to him.
“I know.” You cover his free hand with yours. “Wanna get up?”
You smell faintly of peppermint, burned incense.
When he shakes his head, you stretch to flip the light switch over your head. He’s plunged into darkness, alone, for just a moment, before you settle again. The warmth of your head against his shoulder feels stolen.
For a long time, neither of you say anything. He breathes through the pain still crawling around his knee, the phantom flesh of his calf.
“I was a goddamn fool,” he whispers into the silence. “You know what I was thinkin’ that day?” He’s not sure where the words come from, the confession. It feels a little like the words are being pulled up out of his body, yanked right from the center of his chest.
“Tell me,” your nose is warm when it bumps against his collarbone.
“‘Bout Ellie. How I’d want someone to help her, if she needed it. So I helped that girl. Almost got all of us fuckin’ killed.”
You don’t answer, not at first. But eventually, you lean into him and say, “If you want me to blame you, I won’t. I will never find fault in kindness.” Your thumb strokes his knuckles slowly. “Never. Especially not yours.”
He brushes his mouth along your hairline, skin silken against his mouth. “Y’know when we was on the road, I was sure you’d get us killed. But y’always knew when to trust someone. How much to trust ‘em.”
“I. . .” you start and then trail off, fingers squeezing around his. “I was always lucky, and I always knew I had you at my back. If I messed up, you were always there.”
His eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the bathroom, and when he meets your gaze, he can see the glaze of tears in your eyes. You suck in a shaking breath and clear your throat but don’t continue. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t there the same way.”
“This ain’t on you,” he says. “Don’t think that. It’s me. It was a long time comin’ somethin’ would catch up to me.”
You settle in against him, one hand digging into the sore muscle of his thigh. The heat feels like, the flex of your gentle fingers even better. The pain that doesn’t exist fades just a little.
“And for the record, darlin’, you were there the same way.”
It’s autumn again when you go back onto the patrol rotation. There’s frost on the windows and on the spikes of overgrown grass in the front yard. He just got back from a night watch on the wall.
You’re taking his old routes with Tommy, and you don’t tell him about it until the morning of. Not a fucking soul breathed a word of it to him, and he’s the one figuring out the goddamned rotations.
And Joel realizes though he’d been worried about you not wanting to leave Jackson anymore, not even being able to go near the gates, he was glad you hadn’t wanted to. It meant you were safe. Even if he couldn’t keep you safe anymore, the walls of Jackson could.
“I’m not doing this with you right now,” you say before you leave, pretending like he can’t clearly see your hands shaking before you walk out the door.
He follows you onto the porch. He can’t remember what he says, just that you look upset and then hurt, just that you don’t say goodbye when you walk away and that you probably don’t have lavender tucked into your pocket like he always did.
“Please.” A word he hardly ever says, a plea he never gives into.
He says it to your retreating back as you pass the mailbox, but you either don’t hear him or choose to ignore him.
Maybe he didn’t say it at all.
That day is hell. It’s long and pocketed with anger and anxiety. If something happens to you, he isn’t sure what he’ll do. He doesn’t like that you left him upset.
Maria doesn’t entertain his outburst about it when he finally corners her after looking for her all morning. “She was ready.”
“I didn’t even know we were considerin’ sendin’ her back out!”
Maria just levels him with a glare that could freeze hell over. “That isn’t up to just you. And why do you think she didn’t want to tell you?”
He’s at the stables with Ellie that evening when you come home, waiting. It’s cold and his leg is aching something bitter and awful but he doesn’t move and Ellie doesn’t suggest going back home because she knows he won’t hear it. Dina stops by and he listens to them talk. Ellie’s face softens when she looks at Dina, cheeks a soft pink in the fading light, ducking her head and fidgeting with her fingers.
Joel tries not to pay them any mind, but it's hard not to find endearing.
When you and Tommy get back, it’s full dark. He wants to throttle his brother for not telling him you were going back out on the trails, but it’s too cold for much of that. All thoughts of strangling Tommy fly from his head as soon as he sees you, because you have a smear of blood on your cheek and down your neck.
“Goddamn it, what happened?” He demands, hands against your face before you’ve even fully dismounted.
“I’m fine.”
“That ain’t what I asked,” he sweeps his thumb over your skin, flakes of red shifting to the ground. The knot in his chest tightens as he watches it flutter through the air. “What happened?” He growls again. “Tommy?”
“The usual, Joel,” you pull his attention back to you. “It was just cleanup. A couple of infected. Nothing.”
“Uh huh,” he tilts your face one way and then the other.
“Just some splatter.” You shrug and smile at him; your mouth twitches, and he realizes you’re teasing him.
“Splatter,” he repeats flatly. “That ain’t funny. You ain’t funny. C’mon, let’s go home.”
Ellie and Dina have disappeared with your arrival but they aren’t far; he can hear their chatter as they walk along the street toward the center of Jackson, the echoes of their voices reaching back towards him. “I’ll deal with you later,” he says to his brother.
Tommy just raises his hands and says he’ll stable the horses. But he’s grinning and maybe that’s a good thing. It’s been awhile since his brother has seemed himself. It’s been awhile since the two of you have given him grief together.
“Leave Tommy alone,” you say as you walk toward Rancher Street. You seem steadier than you had been that morning, more confident, more yourself. It isn’t a long walk back, even with his leg, though he limps worse than usual because of the cold. You wrap an arm around his waist, your fingers digging into his back pocket, body warm against his side. “We did good together today.”
“Mhm. I’m sure you did.”
“You mad at me?”
“I wish you’d tell me,” he murmurs. “When you’re goin’ off to do somethin’ stupid. I need you to talk to me. Worried the whole goddamn day. You ain’t exactly in practice out there anymore.”
You hum and then nudge closer to him. “Put your arm around me.”
“I’m fine,” he grunts, maybe a little harshly.
“Joel,” you laugh and nuzzle your face against his shoulder. “C’mon. I’m cold and I had a rough day. Put your arm around me.”
So, he does. And he leaves it there until you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter in front of him, lavender plants stacked in the sink behind you once again as the colder weather sets in.
This is better. So much fucking better, than the other way around. This is right.
He cleans the blood away, finds the swell of a bruise on your shoulder and a cut lengthways over your collarbone.
It’s easy enough to take care of. It isn’t as bad as what he’d been imagining all day long.
He’s well in practice for this sort of thing, for bandaging and assessing wounds.
“Sorry,” he says as he works. “For this mornin’.”
“Mhm.”
“I worried all day. Not much I can do now, if you get into a spot of trouble.”
“I handle myself fine. Tommy was there. He’s a good partner out there.”
Joel grunts, dabs rubbing alcohol along the cut. “He is,” he agrees reluctantly. He supposes if you had to go on patrol with anyone, he’d prefer you go with his brother.
You touch him as he works, fingers patting over his jacket, the collar of his flannel, the frayed edge of the t-shirt beneath that. “I had to go back out, Joel. You would have argued with me and I can’t be afraid and useless forever.”
“Useless,” he scoffs and unspools a length of bandage. “You don’t know nothin’ about that.”
“Joel,” you say softly, exasperated. “Baby, you don’t know what it was like that day. I thought you were already dead.” Your voice trembles and you have to swallow harshly before you can continue. “Helpless and useless doesn’t even begin to cover what I felt. What I still feel.” You shake your head and cup your fingers around his. “I dream about it every single night and I still don’t really remember what happened. That scares me a lot.”
He slides his thumb along the gauze, your eyes wide and worried when he meets them.“I’ll never be who I was, sweetheart.” His voice sounds mournful to his own ears.
“You’re exactly the same man, Joel. I’m just happy you’re here and alive and you’re worried you aren’t alive the right damn way.” You shake your head. “I can’t ask for much more than what I have. Than what we do. Me and you. Ellie back in our life. A home. Food. Family. You,” you touch his jaw and smile. “Still here. Still taking care of me.”
There’s a lump in his throat, hard as a stone. “Yep.” He coughs in an attempt to clear his voice but he sounds just as wrecked when he speaks. “Patrol musta been real good to y’today.”
You just laugh, and the sound of it is wet. “Yeah. It was. I thought it would be terrible but I missed it.”
“I know you did.”
“You should come on a ride with me sometime,” you say slyly. “I bet it’d feel good to be back in the saddle. You’ve always been a good shot from the back of a horse.”
He has.
Maybe he should.
💞 If you made it this far, thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞
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*.•° 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 °•.*
pairings: poly!marauders x nymph!reader
summary: james introduces you to his two friends
warnings: implied “sharing.” do with that what you will.
a/n: who was gonna tell me that i actually have to check my inbox to know if i have asks 🙊 anyways this is set before pieces of me !! this is dedicated to the anon who asked me about nymph!reader back in august 😭
You tug roughly on James’ arm, mindlessly cooing as you pull him deeper into the cave.
He doesn’t understand anything that you’re saying, but still he nods along enthusiastically, intently focused on each syllable that leaves your mouth. You had been surprised when he showed up earlier than usual, especially when you realized he had brought others along with him.
The two trail behind uncertainly, their rising alarm resting sour on your tongue.
The long-haired one made you especially wary.
He doesn’t show any outward signs of being nervous but you sense emotions better than most. His wild energy puts you on edge. His aura is bitter, like the unripe fruit that dangles from the trees that tower over you when you journey into the forest. There’s also a hint of sweetness reminiscent of the nectar that the bees sometimes bring you.
If the long-haired one is the fruit then the tall one is the branches, balancing out his companions' wild nature with his never ending patience. That’s not to say he doesn’t have any chaos of his own. You can feel it writhing underneath his skin, especially when he shifts around every now and again, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort. Though you think that it might be because of how he’s forced to hunch over every now and again, the tips of his hair brushing against the jagged ceiling whenever the floor of the cave gets too uneven.
The taste of honey dew makes your mouth water, along with a richness similar to the dark colored treats James brings you every once in a while.
“Are we almost there?” James’ hushes them and a frown forms on both their faces. You peer at them with interest.
“James.” The tall one scolds, his throat raspy with sleep. “Don’t ignore us.”
He rolls his eyes, “Yes, yes, we’re almost there. Merlin, all you have to do is wait a few more bloody minutes.”
“Well excuse me if I decide to ask a couple questions when you drag me in the middle of the forbidden forest at this hour.” The tall one hisses back, looking far more lively than he had moments before.
You tug on James’ sleeve, straightening up as his attention instantly falls back to you. “Yes, love?”
You gesture to the cave, turning back to stick your tongue out at the two behind you. Although they're infinitely confused, there’s no doubting the fact that you’ve piqued their interest.
“Bloody brat.” The two mutter in unison.
James ignores them, trying his best to listen to your incomprehensible, but excited mutterings.
“Found the poor thing bathing in a creek when I was roaming around as Prongs.” James sighs, clutching his wand tightly as he walks the familiar path.
They stop just as you reach the entrance to what looks like a house, gazing around in awe as the glass bottles and mason jars start to come to life, fireflies moving around in them restlessly. The unnatural glow coming from the small pond by the back alcove couldn’t be from anything but magic. You lead them further into the room, pointing to the small collection of rocks and other random items, sorted in a chaotic manner.
“Wow.” The shorter one whispers breathlessly.
You push James on your makeshift bed, made up of moss and hay. You sidle up to his side with a contented hum. “Brought her some stuff when I could. But for now I figured I’d share her with m’best mates.”
They both pause at that.
“What?”
“Trust me, the poor thing can barely even understand us.” He assures his tall friend.
Seeing how unconvinced they still were, he sighs and turns to you. You perk up at his attention, letting the small stones you were messing with fall to the floor as you give him a bright smile.
“You’re just a dumb little nymph aren’t you?” He coos down at you. You nod along eagerly, eyes shining with adoration as he mocks you.
“Such a dumb girl, who’s my dumb girl, huh?” His voice was not unlike the voice one would use when speaking to a puppy and you just smiled along, practically bouncing in place at his upbeat tone. You latch onto his arm, fiddling with the fabric on his jacket.
James sighs at your actions, pulling you closer into him, your teeth making a soft ‘click’ every time you bite down on the material.
Sirius gives Remus a heavy look, the long haired boy looking doubtful when Remus walks over, hunching over you. His slender finger trails up and down your calf. “Such a pretty girl.”
You must’ve understood what he said because no sooner did those words leave his mouth, did your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him forward harshly.
With a speed that surprised even him, his arms shot out to either side of your head, letting out a loud groan as a few small rocks dug into his palms, just barely managing to stop himself from crushing you.
You let out a series of loud clicking and chirping noises, unaware of how improper your actions were. He lets out a huff, rising to his knees as you continue to babble nonsensically. “You don’t do that. You understand? Tha’s not nice and someone could’a gotten hurt.” His tone is firm and you squirm in place, peering up at him with wide eyes.
James had never spoken that way to you before.
Bashfully, you turn away from him, hiding your face in the crook of James’ neck. “Hey mate, don’t be rude to my best girl. Just cause I’m sharing ‘er doesn’t mean you need to be a prick to the poor thing.” He grumbles, petting your head softly.
Remus just sighs, shaking his head at you two before calling out, “Are y’just gonna stand there all evenin’?”
Sirius, who was still wandering around the cave, shook his head, as if coming out of a daze. “Sorry mate, s’just cool in here.” He moves to sit down, but freezes when your head snaps to him. You bare your teeth, hissing with furrowed brows as you eye the way he’s just a little too close to James.
James lets out a booming laugh as Sirius’ features morph into a scowl.
Remus slaps James’ arm. “Be nice.”
#hunnie posts ➷#hunnie writes ☀︎#poly!marauders x reader#poly marauders#james potter x reader#james potter blurb#remus lupin x reader#remus lupin blurb#sirius black x reader#sirius black blurb#james potter#remus lupin#sirius black#nymph!reader#pieces of me au
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CAT-EYES
PAIRING: Runaway Groom!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Thief!Reader
SYNOPSIS: What begins as a normal day of stalking the back road for wealthy carriages, turns into a walking nightmare spanning three days. Who is this finely-dressed man stumbling about your woods?
WORDCOUNT: 13.3k
WARNINGS: Blood, injury, light gore, pining, intense banter, sarcasm, insults, kind of enemies-to-lovers but eh, angst, protective!John, light hurt/comfort, bittersweet?, etc.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
You were sitting in the branches again.
Lightly swinging your legs from over the sides, the rough bark at your spine shifted as you let out a tiny sigh into the chilled air. In your ears, you’re hearing the bugs fly past, and the large hart about fifteen feet away pushing through the undergrowth—built body just barely there as the puff of his hot breath wafts upwards.
Twirling the arrow between your fingers, your bow sitting carefully in your lap, you close your eyes and listen.
The years had come and gone and yet you remained here in this small corner of nowhere—resting in this old gnarled oak tree with its branches and leaves giving protection from the elements when nothing else would. Sure, you had a small home to call your own in these very woods, but your windows didn’t give a view of the back road to the East. Barely anyone took it now, and you think you’re partially to blame for it, but, well, perhaps those pesky nobles shouldn’t have been too prone to flashing their coin.
So it was their fault, and on your failing honor, the money always went to a good cause anyway. Who wouldn’t want a poor woman to eat?
But, no. There are rules that every thief follows, no matter how unsavory. You never killed anyone; you never harmed them, either. Just the money—a brandished dagger or an arrow to the side of a carriage wouldn’t hurt anything besides pride, and many of those you stole from had enough to last them multiple lifetimes.
“Greedy fellows,” you sigh under your breath before you stretch like a cat, arching your spine and spreading your arms high above your head. The few rays of sun you get through the leaves dance across your face, but still, the thick layer of cold air is present all around.
Shuffling a bit in your shoulder-wrapping, you yawn and fall back once more—licking your lips and thinking of warm stew and fresh bread from the inn down in the town. Shivering, your fingers move to play with your bow, tapping along the bend of wood as the trees are brushed by a soft breeze. The hart below huffs louder still—hooves crushing across the fallen twigs, and you think it’s a bit strange the thing is still here despite your scent clearly in the air, but your eyes are more focused on the road than an animal.
Until it speaks.
“Hells fuckin’ bells, this damn get-up is going to be the death of me,” the words are barked out quickly—laced with heated anger as a branch is slapped by heavy hands.
Startling, your head snaps below you rapidly; heart jerking inside of your chest so suddenly that you nearly send yourself off the side of your perch. Scrambling for your bow to make sure it doesn’t clatter to the dirt of the Earth, you force down a loud gasp at what you see.
“Bastard things,” meets your ears as you stare open-eyed at a bulky man as he stumbles out into the small clearing below your tree, looking behind him as he pants. Your jaw goes slack at the extravagant apparel clothing this sudden stranger—a red, black, and blue tartan thrown over his shoulder, pinned with the silver image of a great boar head, and the kilt has more than one bramble stuck into it as it swishes with his turn.
He has a sporran as well, made of dark furs with three tassels hanging, the metal also silver, as your experienced eyes can tell as they narrow in confusion.
“What in the hell…” You breathe quietly, leaning just a bit more over the edge of your branch slowly.
There were black belts and buckles, rich shoes of leather, and your gaze slowly drags to the hanging body of a sword strapped to his waist, swinging as the man rests his feet and looks down at himself with a deep annoyance. There wasn’t an inch of him not coated in dirt, mud, or sweat—all that deer-ish panting and huffing escaping his mouth in condensed clouds.
“Fuckin’,” he stops himself from continuing the curse, holding up his hands as he glares down at his form. “Jesus, this’ll never come out at this rate.”
This comment made your lips twitch, eyebrow-raising as your sharp vision filtered from one detail to the next—learning the brown shade of his cut hair and the strange way it’s kept long down the center, and short along the sides. He had a strong build to him, and the boar broach, while it may be something to distinguish a family line as he seemed wealthy, perfectly reflected the individual.
He was a being of muscle and stubborn willpower. All tusk and bristled fur.
Your eyes linger a bit longer on the silver of that broach—the thing that glints in the light alluringly. You hum under your breath, tilting your head softly. Yet, your impression was made, and your wits are about you as sharply as they always had been.
This was a formal outfit, for a formal occasion. So, why was this important man trampling through the woods where you were set to ambush the next unassuming noble on the road? Why was he looking over his shoulder so tense-like? Your curiosity had piqued the second you’d figured out the rabid crunching from the bushes wasn’t a deer but instead, a wealthy-looking man who wasn’t, you admitted, too hard on the eyes.
Blinking, you smile, fingers twitching over your bow as the stranger brushes his vest rapidly, growling down at the large mud stains.
“Lost, then?” Your voice makes him startle, skull whipping forward to the tree trunk until you whistle and lean forward; moving your bow to push away the cover of leaves. “Up here, now,” blue eyes immediately lock with yours and you hum, chuckling, at the moment of shock that shines through. “Poor bastard, look at you and all that mud. You’ve been through hell, mate, eh? By the state of you, I’d say you fought a bear and found yourself at the end of an unfortunate outcome.”
Your words are smooth—nearly sly just as they always are. There’s intent leaking out of every one of them until all that remains is a layered purpose, like that of a butcher peeling away flesh from a hide. You have to process that skin: lay it to a rack to let it dry before it can be stretched to the desired firmness, and, finally, softened.
You took as much pleasure in the mental hunt as you did the payoff. Where there’s money to be earned, there’s also knowledge—you were a thief of all.
The man watches you with wide eyes, those blues glinting as they blink, glancing around rapidly to check for any others like you that may be hiding. He steps back, a hand brushing his sword, and you think to yourself slowly, he’s smart.
You breathe down chilled air. Before he responds he checks to make sure it’s not an ambush—the man understands he’s out of his element here. He’s on edge.
The both of you stare at one another, before your face shifts, brow-raising up on your forehead.
“What, did I startle you?” Legs looping to hang off the same side, your body feels lighter than a feather as you send yourself over the edge, knees taking the brunt of the force as your head catches up to your stomach—grunting as you hold your bow heavily in one hand. The jostle moves the limbs of your arrows, kept in a quiver at the small of your back.
Standing fully, you huff and set an easy smile to your lips, all teeth.
“My apologies, Lord.” Your free hand finds your heart, and you bend your spine forward. “I couldn’t help but see you down here below my tree.”
“Best to stay where you are,” the stranger grunts, only giving you enough of a glance to deem you unthreatening, apparently. Your form straightened. He watches you warily on the next go-around, attention always drifting to every snap of a twig off into the trees or the breeze shifting the leaves. “No need to apologize,” is the hurried reply, caught on a rough accent and a hissed gravel huff. “I’ll be on my way once I get my bearings. I don’t have time for conversation—and you should find your way home before long.” Eyes dart. “It isn’t good to be out today...or tonight, I’d say.”
If possible, your intrigue gains strength like a saint in Heaven.
The man’s square face raves in a clench of his jaw, tongue darting out to wet his lips.
“Are you sure you’re not lost, Lord?” You continue, undeterred, and shift your bow to sling it over your shoulder. “I live in these woods, I’d have no trouble directing you to the road. It isn’t far.”
“It’s John,” he grunts, glancing over, out of sorts. He was tired—his limbs were shaking with exertion even if he didn’t realize it yet. You think that perhaps if he were more focused, he’d ask why a woman had just landed in front of him from the branch of an Oak; dressed in trousers and a tunic, with just a woolen wrap to keep out the chill. Dirt over her face and a cunning edge to her words. Or, maybe he did know, you wondered, and simply didn’t care at the moment.
“Just call me Johnny. And,” he shakes his head firmly. “No. Go home to your husband, Bonnie, this doesn’t involve you.” He blinks, staring with a line across his forehead, stubble pulling along his cheeks. “I know this place—there’s a road just to the…” he turns his head to the direction of your trail, blinking at the coverage of thick foliage. “Fuck,” the dark-haired stranger growls, blues sparking up in a feral display of desperate weight.
You can only see the winding bends if you have a vantage point—that was why you chose your tree in the first place. Your smile grows.
“It’s that way, Lord,” you breathe, pointing in the opposite direction of the road, back to the small path of brambles and bushes that leads closer to your home instead. “We pass my property on the way, I can offer you some drink for your troubles.” A chuckle wafts the air. “You look like you need it.”
There’s a large moment of hesitation, in which you begin to wonder if this prize might be too big to catch, but, then, as there’s a flash of something over John’s face, he grits his teeth and sighs.
“Aye, fine,” he nods, looking to the side as he lowers his tense shoulders and clears his throat. You’re offered a sincere expression that borders on strained guilt. “Thank you, Dearie. I…” John pauses, frowning. “I hope I didn’t scare you too much when I burst through the trees like that—I’m in a bit of a rush if you can’t tell. I need to make for the shore.”
“My,” you huff, shifting your body and motioning him to follow—he does, setting his feet carefully ahead of him with experienced movements; keeping a respectable distance away. Johnny wasn’t new to the woods, then. He knew where to place his feet, at the very least. “The shore? That sounds exciting.” You conclude, hiding your creased brows as you stare forward. “Making for the South? I’ve heard handfuls are leaving for the weather.”
Looking over your shoulder, you make sure he keeps on your trail as you push through the bushes. “More agreeable, they say. Less rain.”
John chuckles, though he’s still visibly aware of everything around him. He spares you a look, a small smirk taking over his slightly chapped lips. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I just might.”
You’re surprised by the genuine laugh that fights in the back of your throat. Humming under your breath, you shrug it off as simply as a dog does a fly. It was painfully obvious neither of you trusted the other.
John’s eyes were stuck on the back of your head, and yours were eager to slide back to his form on the off-chance you had to use the dagger strapped to the meat of your thigh, carefully hidden under your trousers and accessible via a cut in your pocket. He was all muscle, and already you know that any attack coming to you would be unwise to try and retaliate—slash and retreat was a much better escape plan.
You could outrun him.
“So,” your words bleed curiosity, eyes imploring as you glance over your shoulder. “Why are you out in the woods, Johnny? In such a nice outfit as well. Is there something going on around here?”
The dark-haired man tilts his head your way, sighing long. “A wedding, actually. Horrible thing, if I have to comment on it.”
Your lips twitch.
“Oh, aye. I’d heard about it in town not two days ago—something about a marriage of advantage? Who was the unlucky pair, then?”
John clenched his jaw, hand coming up to push at the smear of dried blood on his cheek, which you’d just noticed wasn’t dirt and instead the result of a branch slap. Pale cheeks were wind-bitten. Lungs heavy. You narrow your gaze before stopping the surge of questions in your mouth.
“Some poor bastard, that’s who,” he responds slowly, mostly under his breath, before blinking. “How much further is the road, Dearie? No offense,” he grunts, staring seriously at you “but I'd rather not be here for much longer.”
The boar broach winks at you.
“Not far,” you smile coyly. “Forgive me, Lord John—”
“Just Johnny—”
“—But I do hope you’re not a fugitive.”
Blue eyes widen, sure feet faltering.
“.... Negative, Bonnie, no, I’m not running from the law. You don’t have to worry about any of that with me,” he breathes, and not once does he look away from you. You have to commend the man, he seemed an honest fellow, and those, you knew, were very rare indeed in your time. “I just need to get out of these woods. You’ll never hear from me again after I’m gone.” He takes a breath, looking past you. “You have my word.”
“Is it worth believing?” You push, smirking. “There’s few dressed like you that I can say it is.”
John licks his lips as you both pass a fallen tree, standing more side by side than previously now that the density of bushes had dispersed. He huffs, sending you a side-eye before he seems to study your face, brows pulling jokingly.
“I don’t think my answer would make much of a difference, would it?”
You pause, enjoying this man’s company more by the second. “No, it wouldn’t.” The both of you stare, before you grin and pull your sharp gaze away, chuckling. “Follow me,” you motion a hand. “Before you fall into a mud pit and completely ruin what little is left of your outfit that’s sellable—” You fumble, faking a cough as you clear your throat and finish off with tension now in your spine, “Salvageable.”
“If I’m bein’ honest, Bonnie,” Johnny grumbles, either not noticing the mistake or simply not registering it. “I wouldn’t fuckin’ care if it got covered in horse shit.”
—
You open the door to your home, shifting out of your bow and setting it against the wall with your quiver following to rest beside it as two siblings should.
“You’re lucky,” you hum, “I just went to the well this morning—freshwater is in the basin, cups on the table.”
John’s eyes give a firm once-over, fingers fidgeting above his sword’s hilt. He nods once, moving into the doorway, and immediately goes to where you describe and grabs onto a carved cup, tilting it in his hands.
“Thank you,” he mutters sincerely, hand dipping into the collection of water. “Eh,” John puffs a laugh, “I’d imagine I would still be stumbling along if it wasn’t for you, little Lady. These woods are larger than I remember them.”
“You come from around here?” You ask, brushing down your wool wrapping as you pull at the burs in the fiber. “Don’t recall your face in the town, though I’m not there often.”
“Hm,” he takes down the water, and you watch his Adam’s Apple bob as droplets slip from his lips to drop off his chin. Once he had drunk the entire cup, he removed it and wiped at his mouth with his forearm, blue eyes peeking above it. “I…wasn’t in town usually. Not really my place—the forests outside of my property took most of my attention.” He confesses, head tilting as the strange cut of his hair flops along with his skull. “Those, I could run blind.”
“I’m sure,” you puff a laugh.
While the air was somewhat calm, there was still an underlying hesitancy: Johnny didn’t know who you were, and you didn’t know what he was running from. Both were important questions that needed to be answered. Yet, John seemed the casual type.
“Doubt me?” His eyes narrow, a smile brewing.
“I never said that,” you walk past him, also grabbing a cup before dipping it into the basin. Your finger points. “But it would be interesting to test.”
“Unfortunately,” John breathes, setting down his cup, “I’m occupied at the moment.”
“A groom would be,” you tilt your head, casually sipping at your drink. “Your wife must be fucking fuming right now.”
The room flips on itself, and the man is instantly frozen.
Johnny stares, shocked, and you see his feet instinctually ready a stance to either blot to the door, or to take up his sword. His expression is layered with secrecy.
“...What was that?”
“I said your wife must be fucking fuming,” you say louder, slipping your hand into your pocket and shrugging to make it seem meaningless—your dagger’s hilt is smooth under your flesh. “Or did you not finish the ceremony? Betrothed, then, Johnny Boy?” Your eyes glint. “Hell, the event must have been absolutely laced with wealth. Did you have wine imported? New fabrics for your wedding clothes? I’d almost be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“That’s none of your business, Dearie,” he levels, glare heavy and firm while his face is stoic. You can clearly see his body wound up like a wild dog. “I think we’re done here.”
He backs up quickly, legs taking him to the exit until you’re suddenly right behind him, and the man feels the sharp press of a blade into the back of his spine.
Your lips are at his ear, and you chuckle. “Sorry, but we’re not done until anything valuable is in my hands and not on your body.”
“If you wanted me naked,” he growls, glaring from over his shoulder, as his form is rod-straight. “You could have just asked, Little Thief.”
“I’d call it heavy persuasion,” you chuff. “Sounds better, don’t you think.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Johnny barks, teeth gnashing. “Put the knife down before this gets ugly.”
“I’m not entirely sure I want to,” your answer meets the air. “There’s enough silver and fine fabric on you to feed me for an entire winter, even when the deer move to better grounds.”
John grits his molars, his neck bent as his fingers twitch at his sides, slipping along to his sword slowly.
“Money? That’s why you’ve got a bloody blade on me? Christ, my day just keeps getting better and better.” You glare, anger moving behind your eyes.
“Some people have to work for what they want, you—” Your hand is slapped to the side as John spins, and your dagger is sent along the floor in a loud clatter; a hand finding your upper arm as you gasp, and, suddenly, there’s the chilled edge of a blade at your throat.
Wide-eyed, you gape at John as the man smirks at you, yet his orbs are infected with annoyance.
“When you draw a knife on someone, you best know how to use it.” The edge is slightly pressed deeper and your body refuses to move. “You put it at the neck, Cat-Eyes.” John frowns, glaring. “Knew there was something about you—down to the bow and arrows.”
“What,” you growl out, a low embarrassment stemming in your gut as John’s puffs of breath move along your face. Your face burns, and your fingers jerk with anger. “A woman can’t have hobbies?”
“Not when I find ‘em up trees waiting to ambush any bastard that comes by wearing silver.”
“Mate,” you sneer, eyes glimmering. “At this point, you can keep your damn silver. It’s more of a reward to watch you stumble like a fool through the woods five feet from the road.” Johnny’s face tightens, yet there’s little time to fight like children anymore when the sound of breaking branches is echoing off the windows of the house.
Both of your necks whip to the door, yours a great deal more carefully as you’re slightly nicked by the sword's edge, but the drip of blood is voided. High voices carry over the air.
“Find him!”
“His tracks lead through here—get the hounds on it!”
“Here!”
Your brow raises, smirk getting larger as you chuckle under your breath. “Better get on your way quickly, then.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Johnny snarls, all at once ripping his sword from your neck yet keeping his ruthless grip on your upper arm. He looks nervous now—his eyes jumping from one place to another, thinking. “Where’s the damn road, you minx.”
You shrug, eyes sharp. “What road, Lord?”
The strong man rages, eyes burning with a thousand suns as the sword is taken from your neck and re-sheathed in one motion—a second hand staples itself to your waist, gripping tightly. You blink, saliva swallowed down thickly at the dig of heavy fingers into flesh as your heart stutters.
“You’re going to tell me,” John levels, shifting the both of you back as the sounds of fast footsteps are echoed by the bay of dogs. “As much as I would enjoy being away from you in any capacity at all,” you smile humorously to him through his dead-tone monologue, “I need a guide out of these woods and across the land. If you won’t help willingly, I’ll just have to make do.”
You blink, confused.
“Make do?” Your body is taken up, and you shout as you’re ruthlessly flung over the man’s shoulder with a hiked toss.
Johnny’s smirk is lost to you, but his chuckle is not as he dashes to the door and slams it open, taking a quick left and looping the house—diving into the foliage as if a fish to water.
“Unhand me, you brute!” You scream, clawing and hitting at the man’s back—kicking even, as your knee speedily finds his ribcage.
“Ow!” John laughs, his grin highly amused as he turns back to look at you. The shouts from the trees get larger, but that doesn’t help you much as you’re both soon going deeper and deeper into the woods. “Jesus, you have a pair of legs, don’t you?”
“If I were marrying you,” you bark down at him, struggling with all of your might as your home disappears from view. “I’d be running instead of the other way around!”
“Well,” Johnny calls, his sword bouncing off of his hip. “It’s a good thing you’re not, then, isn’t it, you bonnie little thief? Your husband would be dead and all of his coin in your dirty pockets!”
“Stop calling me a thief!” You send a closed-fisted slap to the top of his head, and he grunts, balking to the side. “Learn how to handle a fucking lady!”
“Lady?” He breathes heavily, shoving into another bush as leaves get tangled in his hair—twigs stuck in yours as you scowl rabidly. “If you’re a lady, Bonnie, then I’ve got a beast waiting for me back at my ceremony.”
—
He stopped when the light of the sun was low, and your constant attack of his spine left an array of large, fist-shaped bruises on his skin.
“Easy,” John grunts, dropping you with a huff to a down-turned stump.
It isn’t long before you shoot back up, hands clawing for his throat. “Hells Bells!” The man ducks, boyish glint in his eyes as he darts to the side, stepping out of the way as you stumble on tingly legs.
“I’m going to skin you alive,” you yell. “Piece of utter dog shite!”
“Now that’s a bit strong,” John breathes, panting from his mad run for his single life. “Don’t you think?”
You take one step forward, and he takes two back—stuck in a game of cat and mouse. Your eyes are like tiny fires, illuminated with only anger and hatred.
“Give me one reason why I should even attempt to help you,” your screams rise above the trees, hands splayed as John puts his hands to his knees, taking down breaths as sweat dribbles down his neck into his vest. “You-you,” your tongue fumbles, “kidnapper!”
“Technically, it would be an abduction, Dearie.” You slap him across the face and see the man’s cheeks go red from the blow. Shoving your nose nearly right into his, you sneer.
“Correct me again, and it’ll be your balls I hit next.”
He swallows, blinking, before he smirks and pairs it with a chuckle as his eyes spark. “Yes, Ma’am.”
You growl as he holds up his hands, moving one to rub at the back of his neck and itch at the shaved portion of his scalp. That damned smirk—you despised it.
“Get me to the closest port,” John settles, getting to business as his expression mellows out. “And I’ll make it worth your while, I give you my word.”
“What?” You laugh, shaking your head in exasperation the longer the silence falls; realizing how serious the man is. “Oh God in Heaven, this has to be a joke.”
“Anything you ask for, you can have from me when this is over,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his mud-caked shoes. “I don’t need more than the fee to secure a spot on a good ship sailing away from here, and whatever is left I’ll give to you if you want it. You win in this situation, and I’m not trying to hide it from you.”
Your sharp eyes hone in, unwavering in its heat.
“Christ,” Johnny breathes, “I’d even give you my damn socks if that’s what it takes—I need to get out of here. Quickly.”
You stare, sneering. “Is your betrothed a damn witch or what?”
Blue eyes blink, and his words are firm as they meet air. “Are you taking up my offer or not, Cat-Eyes?”
“Of course, I’m taking the offer!” You bark ruthlessly, rolling your eyes as you kick at the dirt. Rocks and grass fly as darkness settles heavier. “I’m not a fool.”
“Well,” he sighs in relief, looking to the shadows along the ground. “I can’t say you’re that, either, but you are certainly something.”
You narrow your eyes at Johnny but don’t waste your time any longer as you turn and study what you can see.
You had grown up here—in this land. The woods knew you just as much as you knew them. Already you could pinpoint a general map of this section based on the large cracked boulder to your right, and the tiny cluster of trees across the way. You knew the way to town, and from there, the port.
“It’s a three-day walk,” you grumble, side-eyeing the man as he moves to lean against a trunk. He wouldn’t be moving through the night—you didn’t complain on that front either. “You grab at me like that again, and I’ll—”
“Let me guess,” Johnny raises a brow. “You’ll hit me in the balls.”
Your thin lips tell him all he needs to know.
Shuffling past him, you frown and pull your wrapping closer, shuffling your chin into it. No fires for warmth, you know—not with people on your trail.
“I want an explanation,” you turn and dig into him, walking closer as John looks to the side. “If I’m sticking my neck out, I want answers as well as coin.” Poking him in his chest, you force your neck to find his gaze. “Why are you running?”
Johnny sighs, licking his lips as he nods with a low, “Fine.”
You tilt your head, and John moves back to sit against the stump, moving out his hands in an honest display.
“I was told I needed to marry and produce heirs if my house was going to survive, aye?” He states, and you know the story well. “My parents are gone, and my sisters are all married, but my estate is barren of anyone besides myself and the staff. To keep the peace, I gave my word that I would join into a union to secure my assets for my bloodline.”
It was all so formal, the talk of a wife and children—you never understood it. Why couldn’t people simply marry who they love and leave it at that? All this bloodline and assets. Don’t they ever get sick of it?
“What’s your last name, then,” you ask. “McDuff? Mackenzie?”
“MacTavish,” John shakes his head, rubbing his hand up and down the back of his neck. Blue eyes stay with yours. “John MacTavish, I have lands to the North.”
Your brows tighten, arms going to cross themselves. “You’re running from your home because of a union you can freely exit?”
“It isn’t free,” he grumbles, shaking his head firmly and setting his jaw. “My father’s wishes for his children were written down and sealed. I was to marry a daughter of Arthur Campbell when I came of age.” John chuckles face going a bit pink. “As you can see, I’m a good few years past that.”
You tilt your head, and while Johnny was certainly passed the normal age of a male in his position to be wed, it struck you as odd as to why he didn’t want to be in the first place. In marriage during these times, a man has little to lose when joined. Almost nothing else changes for them except another title is added to their long line of others already living under him.
John continues, and you stay your snake-like tongue for now.
“Wasn’t until I learned that by now, Mr. Campbell’s second born daughter, who was the only one near my age, had passed nearly an entire year ago—leaving only the oldest behind.”
“And?” You hum, intrigued to see where this goes. Johnny itches at his chin, scratching the stubble that lives there along with the dirt and grime. “What, I’d imagine the head of the Campbell family wanted to uphold the arrangement?”
“Aye, they did,” John grunts, nodding. “Fiona Campbell was the woman I was set to marry today.” He pauses, sighing heavily before looking to the side. Darkness had set, and there was little light by way to see the expression of guilt growing on his face. “I’m not lyin’ when I say I didn’t want to make such a mess of it, but there’s only so much a man can do when he learns his bride is not only twice his age,” John breathes, grunting, “but also just…” He stops himself, sighing.
You frown, gut swirling.
“She was blank, do you understand?” Johnny asks, motioning a hand in a display of unknowing explanation. “All she seemed to care about was children and wealth. A slate waiting to be filled with someone else’s thoughts and ideas. I didn’t want to be the one to fill it—I’ll not be some husband that runs a wife around like a dog. That isn’t right to me; it wasn’t how I was raised.”
Your mind twists on itself with an indefinable feeling—skin tight to your bones as if taken and tied by ropes. Your heart pumps blood a little harder, but just because this man seems less of a bastard doesn’t mean you like him. He’d dragged you into this hunting party of his grand problem, and the sooner you got your payment, the better and easier it would be to disappear.
“How noble,” you huff, rolling your eyes. Yet, your voice is hiding an under-the-breath shock. “So you bolted into the woods?”
Johnny rubs at his nose bridge, growling in annoyance. “Yes—it was the best cover I had. Been going through the trails since sunrise.” He slaps his hands to his knees and stands back up with a grunt and an ache in his thighs. His sarcastic voice peels the shadows. “Are we satisfied, now, Bonnie?”
“I won’t be until you’re out of my sight,” you level, moving forward. “So are you going to bed so I can drag you to the port or not?”
John’s body is heard shifting as you slip down the trunk of a tree, backside hitting grass as you settle in for a restless sleep—pulling your wrap tighter over your shoulders. Here you were: weaponless and in the company of a runaway groom still in all of his finery.
You wanted that damn boar broach.
“Sleep’ll be smart, we need to be up early,” John says seriously, his shoes shifting the leaves. Letting the chill seep in, you burrow into your fabrics and glare ahead. Johnny’s sly voice is so reminiscent of yours, that you have to wonder if the two of you were cut of the same cloth. “I won’t be opposed to a cuddle if you get chilly, Little Lady—”
“I should have stabbed you when I had the chance.”
Johnny’s low chuckles waft over the air, and then the silence settles fully.
Yet, you’re up far later than you anticipated…and you find this honest man’s confession to be bouncing inside of your skull like an enraged bird.
—
“Christ, did I do that?” A finger is pressed under your chin, tilting your head up as you strangle a gasp at the sudden motion.
Johnny looks at the tiny cut along your neck from the edge of his sword—the barely-there irritation of the skin that you’d been itching at as you walked forward through the trees.
He frowns, glancing into your eyes as your body stills at the feeling of warm flesh.
It was the first day of walking, and the silence between the two of you had stayed. Not only were you annoyed at the situation, but also John’s story—you’d been mulling it over since last night.
But below that anger, you might have even felt a little wrong.
“Who else?” You sigh sarcastically to the man, trying to hide the rising flood of heated shock. Thick digits drag along your esophagus slowly in study, and John’s face creases the longer he looks. He’s hunched near you, too—and you can smell the low scent of leather and earth.
Johnny pulls back with a huff and slips a hand into his sporran. Your eyes watch with blatant distrust until a relatively clean rag is taken out by a steady hand.
He motions with it. “Come ‘ere. Let me get the dirt out of it before it gets infected, eh?”
You sigh lowly but decide it’s a good idea at the very least before nodding—John’s fingers return as the light from above leaks through the branches. The morning was cold, but not unreasonable; the woods gave shelter from the otherwise abusive wind of the open country.
“Look at that,” you breathe, “The first nice thing you’ve done for me.”
“Ah,” John lightly glares. “Not quite right—I carried you away instead of making you run with me.”
Your eyes roll, and Johnny’s chuckle echoes off the surroundings.
“Such a gentleman,” you grumble, feeling the rag press into your throat and the soft scrape of it across your scratch.
“So,” the man hums, blue eyes stuck to your flesh as he takes care of it far more nicely than you’d imagined someone to be. “Seeing as I’ve shared my sob story, Cat-Eyes, I think I’d like to ask after yours.” His voice is full of amusement. “As we’ll be keeping one another company.”
“It’s less as in-depth than yours,” your fingers twitch as Johnny moves back after the cleaning is done—returning the rag to his sporran as he blinks.
“I don’t believe that,” he raises a brow, as you ignore the remembrance of his touch and continue, paving the trail as the dark-haired man follows a close distance behind. “Can’t say there’s many times I’ve seen an unwed woman wielding a bow and thieving someone out of their money. I’ve seen a lot of things, Bonnie,” he laughs, “but never that. Scared the hell out of me when you dropped down.”
“You can add me to the top of the list, I suppose,” you puff a teasing breath. After an expecting pause in the conversation, you grow bored of the nothingness.
“I’ve lived out here my entire life—I do what I have to. That’s all there is to it.”
John’s face gradually pulls into itself, only looking away from you to glance at the path to make sure he won’t fall.
“No family?”
“None,” you tilt your head, shimmying under a low branch and pushing leaves off your shoulders. They sway to the ground softly as you brush an arm over your forehead, sensing Johnny’s attention.
The man grunts. “M’sorry.”
Your feet stumble for a moment, pace faltering, until you cover it up easily. You turn to stare, narrowing your eyelids as open blues watch silently. John’s shoulder brushes yours.
“It’s life,” you blankly answer. “Least I wasn’t married off. Where you had to worry about a blank slate, I had to worry about becoming a broodmare for a man who most likely would never love me.”
Johnny licks his lips, eyes darting to the ground. “Can’t imagine you like that,” he mutters, but it isn’t some joke—he’s truthful.
“Perfect,” is what his ears twitch to. “Because I’d sooner act like you and bolt from my wedding as well.”
“Would that make me the thief in your story, then?” Johnny asks, chuffing as he smiles towards you, reaching a hand above him to push another branch out of the way—separating it from your form as you bend under. “I’m tellin’ you, I wouldn’t be very good at it. All that dropping down from trees would have my knees screamin’. Not that they don’t already.”
Your laugh pierces his chest, and the man sends a kind if not a bit startled, show of interest to you. It sounded like a bowstring slapping a wrist—harsh and telling all at once: something to be known and understood even if heard only once.
John blinks at you, and his heart patters along in his chest.
“I think it would be more fun to think about you with a dagger,” you narrow your gaze at him, smiling. “A small thing like that would disappear in your hands, Johnny Boy.”
“Disappear?” He tilts his head, raising his hands to hover in front of him. “Ah, they’re not that big, are they?”
You shift, and, nearly without thinking, you slip your hand to sit above his. Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes going wide as you reference the size of his grip under yours, but allows you to regardless. A blue gaze slides to your face, openly imploring, before they dart back down to your shared hands as the roughness of his callouses scraped against your flesh.
“Care to compare?” You smirk, lifting a brow.
Johnny’s lips parted quickly, blinking a few times as he tried to find the words to accompany his running mind. He clears his throat, but the small sheen of red pigment on his cheeks is undeniable.
Laughing, you detach the connection and pull ahead, leaving the man behind as he stutters with a fast pulse.
“You’re the strangest woman I’ve ever met,” is what he decides minutes later, a large grin on his face—he was enjoying this, for whatever twisted and flawed reason, he was. John’s adrenaline was pumping, his heart was pounding, and his feet were passing over the earth, yet, even better, his brain was sparking at a mile a minute for the woman who walked only three feet ahead of him. He watches you take these trails like an expert, not having to look down at your feet as stone and wood are passed as if you were water above them, whispering and nearly silent.
“At least I’m not boring.” Your eyes meet him, and in them, they create some horribly beautiful amalgamation of twin flames—two sparking fires that feed from the same ember. “You would never catch me becoming a housewife, Johnny Boy.” Your gazes never break. “There are far too many things to steal in this country, and so very few men who can keep up.”
John’s chest moves in the beat of his pulse—his attention wholly transfixed upon the sight of this wild-born woman whom he’d only met yesterday. There were leaves in your wrap, and brown-black mud coated up to your ankles, even sweat sitting at your temple, yet you moved with grace befitting a Lady: never seeming to tire of jokes or firm surety. Yet…you weren’t cruel—you weren’t without purpose.
Any accomplished thief would have just stabbed him and taken what they needed in your house. You offered John water, however, you chose to give him a chance to comply. It was such a small thing in the grand scheme, but Johnny was always one to analyze how one feather on a bird can affect the flight pattern, so to speak. One action that speaks volumes.
You liked creating games, and, lucky for him, John loved to solve them.
And that glint in your sharp-slitted eyes was becoming more and more enjoyable every second, he found.
Pushing back the strands of his wayward hair, John keeps up with you for every step, not unfamiliar with how to traverse unsteady terrain. He wasn’t lying in what he told you—he had spent most of his life in the forest beside his home: hunting, fishing, riding. There wasn’t an activity he didn’t enjoy when he was outside, though his mother was always heavy on him about the mess he brought back.
Blue eyes drop back down to your dirt-laced pants, and the man can’t help but give his best, lip-pulling smile.
Hell, if he didn’t know any better, he would say that you were something that made so little, and at the same time so much, sense to him.
“Well, maybe they just aren’t accustomed to hiking, Little Cat-Eyed Thief.”
There was something special in the glances you two would throw one another.
—
Your hands dip into the clear water, fingers open to feel the current drag through them gently.
“If you want a sip,” you say, cupping the liquid and bringing it up to your lips, “it’s safe. This river flows down from the hills—not perfect, but there’s only a small chance it’ll make you sick.”
John comes up and hums as he sits down beside you, folding his legs under him and leaning forward to submerge his arms up to his elbows in water. He sighs, and you hear the river gurgling as the man begins to rub up his flesh, getting rid of all the grime.
“Good to know.” Blue eyes spare you a look as he continues. “What’s this one called?”
“Woodney river,” you answer. “Old Man Jack Woodney ran a water wheel on this river a long walk West. If this place had a name before that, it won’t tell.”
Johnny washes his face, scrubbing at his stubble as the scratch of it plays in the side of your ear. You watch along the opposite shore, eyes going from trees to birds—even to the shadows of fish that quickly swim past. Sighing, you have to admit the beauty of this adventure. There were few times you could say you’d gone this far into the woods with no wealth to trade in with the townspeople.
You side-eye John and study him just as heavily as you do a wild animal.
He wasn’t unattractive, you admitted. Strong—sturdy. Johnny was capable in a way that most Lords wouldn’t be, some, you guessed, would already be complaining about the uncomfortableness of their clothes or the flesh of their blistered feet. But John was bright-eyed; more than once you’d seen him actively watching the stretch of the trees for any sign of his pursuers. He never complained. Not once.
“You’re not as insufferable as I thought you’d be,” you say. Frowning, your hands push back into the water and cup some of the chilled liquid. You let it drip before you extend your hand to your neck and feel your eyes droop in relaxation.
Johnny laughs, staring at you for a minute as he slowly raises a brow. His face shows amusement.
“Am I supposed to be insulted or not?”
“I leave that for you to decide.”
John cracks his knuckles and shakes his head as he stands. “C’mon,” he drags, but the smile in his voice is clear. A hand is set in front of yours. “Sooner I get out the port, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”
Your face softens slightly.
“Am I ever going to get an apology for being tossed like a sack of potatoes?” Skin meets skin as you slip your hand into his, and the man pulls you to your feet as you smile. Calluses brush yours, and yet again, you find you enjoy this game—perhaps more than any other you’d played before.
And you don’t understand why.
Johnny’s fingers are firm over yours, curling as water drips to the ground below in reflective droplets, and you think back to the first time you’d met him—panting breath and rapid eyes. Your eyes glance to that boar broach, and find it attached to a man that is suddenly more of a mystery than a closed book.
“Easy,” John mutters, steadying you by your shoulders as you remember where you are. The dark-haired man squeezes your flesh and looks into you.
Blue eyes glint, and that smirk, you find, is always followed by a tiny tint of his head. “And what’s that look for, Cat-Eyes?”
“You called me strange.”
John’s brows furrow. “Aye. I did.” He looks you up and down slowly. “You are.”
You do the same to him, not wasting more than a moment. “And I find it funny that you haven’t said the same thing about yourself. You’re far more strange than I’ll ever be.”
“Guilty,” Johnny smiles, nodding slightly. His hands are still on you, and he doesn’t seem to even notice. “I don’t think a normal one would fuck off from his own wedding, would he?”
“Or kidnap a woman as a guide,” you state, pulling out of his warm hold even as your stomach flips as you brush past
“Again,” John’s hand motions through the air. “Abduct.”
“You’re just saying that because it sounds slightly better,” you grimace over your shoulder. “Like comparing a dog to a wolf.”
Johnny is hot on your heels, and when the river-eroded stepping stones to the other side of the water are the clear path to take, he’s already on the first and holding out his arm for you as a true gentleman would. You glance at him and hop to the first stone, liquid sloshing at your shoes.
Your smirk is stuck with his like two pieces of a quilt, and neither of you realizes it.
“You put a knife to my back first, Dearie.” John puffs and his face is right next to your ear as you both cross the stones—you lean into him and elbow his side before your arm slips into his. The man grunts, blinking as he chuckles above the slosh of water.
“So? Maybe I only point knives at the men I like.”
“Then I’d say you have every right to put one right at my throat.”
Feet move carefully over rocks and the spray of the water that coats them—a dance of wit in their own right. It was like animals circling one another, all sharp eyes and pulled lips trying to find weaknesses. Deadly flirting and addictive banter.
Where annoyance was such a common emotion, now there was a near expectation of jabs; of tantalizing quips for the glimpse of another's mind.
Neither of you could understand the other, which was exactly why you both reveled in the brush of warm flesh.
“Careful,” your feet meet the hard ground once more on the other side, and John only lets go when he knows that you don’t need him to steady you. “You’re engaged, Johnny Boy.”
Your tease slips in one ear and out the other, and the man watches you turn and begin walking again with sly eyes. John’s wide gaze stays stuck there for a moment—mouth eager to continue any conversation given. Watching you walk, his heart beats speedily.
“I think my, ah, reputation has all but ruined my chances on that front—”
There’s something unique about the sound of an arrow sinking into flesh that can’t really be forgotten. John had heard it many times—even been behind the bow that shot it; the slap of the string across his forearm, the set of his shoulder blades widening until the arrow disappeared.
But there’s something worse knowing that the sudden expulsion of air from lungs, in fact, belongs to you and not some wild animal.
You’re hit in a fraction of a second, down on the ground in less than that—your mind not even understanding above the immediate pressure and the slam of earth. You gasp loudly, and then the pain hits.
Hand snapping to your left bicep, your eyes slash down to stare as grass and mud fly into the air, rabid sounds escaping the back of your throat at the image that strikes you. An arrow was stuck deep into your skin—sticking out as blacked feathers flutter at the end of the shaft. The adrenaline hits rapidly, but the expression of horror still remains.
“Cat-Eyes!” Johnny yells, rushing forward, and unsheathing his sword, the sound of metal on metal harsh, but not as harsh as the sound of blood in the man’s ears.
You see the swelling of crimson, and, from under your fingers, the red of blood slips as your breathing gets hoarse. Biting into your lip, the quick sound of an under-the-breath groan of agony ripples.
But you’re not stupid.
Scrambling to your feet with the arrow still poking out of you, Johnny gets to you and pushes you behind him just as your shaking legs straighten—-your eyes slashing the woods in panic. Pain can wait.
The runaway groom spares you quick glances, pushing you further behind as his raging gaze darts this way and that. He yells into the trees, anger and order infecting his voice, “Show yourself!”
Just as suddenly, there’s a relieved call and a moving shadow. You clench your eyes tight and grit your teeth as a wave of pain rockets through you.
“Fuck,” you grind out, lost under the louder voice. Blood drips to the ground.
“My Lord!” Men burst through the leaves, bows, and swords aloft. “Quickly—to us!”
Johnny’s face is stiff; there isn’t an ounce of care, but the flash of recognition is swift, and in his chest, his heart, once beating so quickly, drops to his stomach.
Knights. His knights. Christ, the two of you hadn’t been fast enough.
“Stand down!” John spits, and cares little now for the thought of robbery or assault on his person—these men wouldn’t hurt him, but they were tasked to bring him back. “Fucking bawbags, the lot of you.”
His sword is sheathed by twitching fingers, and no sooner were those digits around you instead.
You pant hoarsely, face tight as your vibrating body tells you to run—eyes locked onto Johnny’s, the man in front of you ushers you over to the trunk of a tree hurriedly, uttering, “Just breathe now, Dearie—listen to me. It’s alright, aye?”
“What is this?” You raggedly push out, flinching as your spine meeting the bark jostles your arm painfully.
Your teeth grit, tears collecting in the corner of your vision.
“Knights,” John mutters as if his words are chased by wolves. “They’re after me—probably thought you were either holding me hostage or trying to lead me into an ambush.” The colorful fabric of his pinned tartan is dragged off from over his shoulder and shoved into your weeping flesh, and you lightly moan in agony, head falling back to the tree.
Tears slip from over your cheeks.
“Easy.” John’s concern is palpable. Worried eyes dart from your face to your wound. “Jesus,” he utters under his breath, anger flashing.
“Who is this?” One of the knights asks, taking a step forward as Johnny holds the fabric to your wound and speaks to you lowly, utterly ignoring the people behind him.
“I need to break the shaft off, okay?” Blue eyes try to keep even, and John’s other hand captures your cheek. He levels your face right in front of his, breathing lowly. The man clears his throat as your tight gaze flutters, tightening his grip. “Hey,” Johnny breathes. You grunt, voice a low grind.
“Just make it quick.”
John’s lips thin. “Yes, Ma’am.”
His large hand swiftly moves to the arrow, gripping around it just where flesh meets wood, you hiss loudly, spitting and raging as your vision partially blackens. Pain sparks up and down your spine, racing like a cat after a mouse.
“Lord,” one knight tries again, coming closer and reaching out for Johnny’s shoulder. “We need to get you back to Castle Campbell—we’ve been hoping to find you unharmed for your future wife’s comfort. Everyone is in a panic!”
“I’ll count down to three,” Johnny whispers to you, breathing heavily as he swallows and steady himself, hand lightly clammy. He wished he had his hunting gloves with him, but this was the best he could do. “Eh,” the man grunts, eyes steady, “You listening, Bonnie?”
“I don’t care what you count to,” you nearly bark, orbs flashing. “Just break the damn thing off—!”
The wood snaps with a defining splinter, and your scream afterward has the man having to hold you up with his arms around your waist, muttering into your ear with his lips against the shell.
“It’s alright, you’re alright,” John hears the clatter of the shaft to the grass just as the knight’s hand is heavily placed on his shoulder. “Breathe. M’right ‘ere.”
You sag into Johnny taking in the scent of sweat, blood, and dirt—the musk that stays even as your ears start ringing and the voices start getting louder.
“Best get your hands off o’ me before I break ‘em, Mate” Johnny grunts from deep in his chest, shifting your body to the side and effectively ripping his flesh out of the knight’s hold.
All the others shift nervously—hands on their swords and looking back and forth between the strange scene.
Who were you? A mistress? A bandit luring their Lord away? Why was he with you out here; going in the opposite direction of where the ceremony was supposed to take place? They’d been given orders, and a knight is no good unless he can follow them.
John MacTavish was needed, and their duty was to see it through.
Johnny’s tartan had fallen to the ground behind the two of you, getting kicked by feet as they shuffle and as your blood slips off of your limp fingers. Mind failing, your pain-addled form shakes even as the knowledge of imminent danger is present.
You needed to figure out a way to get out of here.
Pushing your head up from Johnny’s shoulder, your eyes flutter but manage to analyze what little you can see clearly—adrenaline can take care of most of your agony, only leaving a dull ache as your heart continues to rage.
A group of four knights have their hands on their swords, and all of their eyes are on John.
Run, a deep part of you urges. Your legs are still good. Take off—none of them know the terrain like you do. You’ll be free.
You pant, your nostrils flaring with every breath as your sweat trickles off your jawline. Johnny’s grip on you tightens, head shifting back and forth, unknowing where to anchor itself, not understanding which is more important—your state, or your safety.
Free, free, free.
Your mind flashes to an empty house: silent woods. How you would go months without seeing another human face, but that was your own choice.
Wasn’t it?
Your eyes slip to Johnny.
“We’ve been tasked with bringing you back, My Lord,” the first knight says, looking heavily upon the runaway. “We have our orders. Please understand.”
“And I’m telling you your orders are utter shite,” John spits. “So back the fuck up and drag yourself out of this place. Now.” He glares, teeth snapping. “Those are my orders.”
Your arm is numb, and your chest expands as it sits on John’s own. And you think.
You knew you were a selfish person.
There was no debate about it—even when you’d stolen enough coin to feed you for weeks, there was still a part of you that longed for some chase; some challenge to your senses. You liked stealing. You liked the looks on people's faces when they realized they were being swindled for every valuable item they had in their possession. But there was something you liked even more than all of that—a challenge.
Johnny, to you, was that challenge. He was the largest challenge you’d ever faced. A Lord who was running from a bride, a man who held his beliefs higher than praise or standing…a blue-eyed stranger who matches your poking jabs word for word.
“Damn,” your growl, and John takes it as an exclamation of pain.
He grits his teeth and studies you, opening his mouth as his concern grows at the smell of blood.
“We need to tie it off,” he utters. “Bastards made me drop the tartan—I’m sorry, Dearie.”
Your lips are near his ear.
“When I say ‘go,’ run to the left.”
Johnny halts, attention snapping down. His fingers flinch around you, face open until the mask of sudden knowledge flies over it like a curtain. But it’s gone just as quickly—hidden by intelligent eyes that glint.
He doesn’t question you, and, in the crux of your shoulder, you get a near-infinitesimal nod from Johnny’s head.
The guards grow suspicious, all mulling closer by the second the longer you two remain so close—on opposite ends, you feel your heart mirroring John’s in a rapid and ravaging pulse: Thump-thump, thump-pump, thump-pump-thump.
Your attention is split three ways.
One: the rising numbness of your limbs and the heat of your brain. Two: the spread of Johnny’s panting breath across your sweat-slick skin and his hands tightening. Three: knights and the clatter of their armor. How they slide their hands across their weapons like intimate partners—the tension building in a hemp bowstring and the sound of arrows hitting off one another; one taken and played with between fingers so similarly to how you would act.
Your tear-stained eyes glare at the knight who’d shot you, your expression building into an act of hatred.
They take a step forward.
“Cat-Eyes—” Johnny begins to warn slowly.
“Go.” Your words are no shout. They don’t echo off the trees, which all hold their breeze in expectation, they don’t ring in ears except the ones of the man holding you. But they’re like the personification of a sword strike—like the release of an arrow and the impending thump of it hitting home.
The knights dash forward with calls for their Lord to stand down, but John’s already flinched away with a heavy grunt.
You do the same, your plan already formed—you would run the opposite way as Johnny, only slipping off when the cover of bushes had enshrouded the both of you to create two sets of tracks. With any luck, the guards would break off into two groups and pursue the both of you, and you could easily lose yours.
From there, circle back and find John: get your bearings before—
Arms never detach from your waist, and you’re once more tossed into a strong grip.
Eyes bugging, your focus breaks as gravity leaves and your head goes light. Johnny dashes away, and, just as the last time, you’re in his boar-like hold.
“You idiot!” You bark, the only difference to your predicament now is that you’re held in a bridal grip and not slung over his sweaty shoulder. There was only a small sliver of relief before the annoyance overtook you.
Johnny’s body crashes through the leaves, the shouts of the knights following as he gruffly raises his voice to the wind. The trees shake with amusement.
“Thinking you could hand over some directions, Dearie?!”
“Thinking you could put me down?!” You shout back, your arm sparking with pain as your opposite wraps the man’s neck firmly. “Damn.” Your lips twist in response. “My legs work just fine, you know—I wasn’t shot in the arse!”
“Acting like you were,” John grumbles, a branch slapping his cheek before you can. Despite it all, he chuckles wholeheartedly at his own joke.
An arrow whizzes through the air, and you yelp, ducking behind his body even more as your skull fits under his jaw. Your eyes snap to the visible terrain as Johnny’s legs push from one side to the other, running in a zig-zag pattern to avoid any more injuries.
“There,” your brows rise, fighting past the pain to find the familiar slash of a gnarled willow tree that whizzes by in brown and dark green.
Your head rises to see more of the woods, only to be pushed back down by an all-expansive hand as John utters a fast-breathed and firm, “Not the best idea.”
He shoves through brambles, and the sounds of rampaging knights are gaining. The second John sloshes through a low pool with a loud curse, you know instantly where you two are.
“Take a left near the overhang with vines coming down!”
“That one?”
“Yes!”
And so this game continued long after the knights had been lost to the woods, stumbling about without any sense of where they were, and the two of you came to a panting halt an hour later. Deep night was setting in on the second day, and, as your shaky feet hit the ground, John kept a heavy eye on you.
“Steady,” he mutters, sweat pouring off his face; saturating his clothes. He worriedly stares, looking you up and down.
Your vision swirls, the glade around you the exact place you both needed to be. There were hills here—surrounded by thick trenches carved by rivers long dried. The stars were out, and the moon was shining down; one thin trickle of a river was feet away, the sound of water on rocks addictive to your pounding ears.
All of it was null to the way your gut flipped at the humming agony of your arm.
Your hand snaps to the puncture and the flood of blood is enough to leave your fingers dripping with crimson glinting in moonlight.
There’s a heavy ripping sound, and then you find yourself sitting down in the grass as Johnny shoves the torn fabric of his suit into the small river. You hear the splashing as you glance down at your arm before rapidly looking away, biting at your lip as your spine hunches.
“Christ almighty,” you growl, glaring to the side as your fingers quiver. Tears well.
“The arrowhead is keeping pressure,” John hurries to speak, trying to distract you just as his own exhaustion is bare to see. The rung-out fabric is looped around your arm, tying off until you have to strangle down a scream at the tightness on your flesh. “We have to keep it there until there’s enough sterile material to fix it up.”
“Your knights are pieces of work,” you hiss, more from the wound than anything.
John gives a little look, blue eyes darting up until falling.
“Aye, they are.” His strong jaw clenches. “This shouldn’t have happened, Dearie.”
You stare as he finishes up, and you feel his fingertips slipping along your arm. Your eyelids droop, closing as your nostrils suck in shaky air. You take a moment to take in the silence that follows, John’s eyes not straying as your face is illuminated.
He watches the streaks of dirt along your skin, and, in a soft attempt to fix this, he stands and moves to the river once more—cleaning his hands. Johnny takes the rag out of his sporran and wets it, coming back to your body as the grass waves back and forth.
“Let me…” the man says slowly, and your eyes open back up as the chilled item is pushed to your cheek.
Wide orbs staring forward, you swallow as John concentrates on cleaning your skin carefully.
“Infection is my immediate concern,” the man says with a sigh, yet continues as your tongue stays tied; face growing more heated by the second. “But you mentioned it takes three days to the town, aye? That’s not unmanageable with two already under our feet.”
Blood, dirt, and sweat slip away with every drag of the fabric, and, stuck into his suit, that boar broach still sits—crooked now, but still there.
Your attention is momentarily taken by it, and your fingers twitch before you notice how very close John’s face is to yours.
The man focuses, relaying a plan as you’re stuck mute; your arm holding its own heartbeat as the grass shifts.
“I’ll use what I have to get you into a doctor. Make sure there’ll be no problems before I get going.” John blinks, tilting his head. “‘Course, that’ll decrease the amount you’ll get in turn.”
“Fortunately for you,” you breathe, voice strained, and blue eyes stick to yours. John pauses, brows slightly pulling up on his face. “I value my own life too much to complain about a man paying for my care.”
John’s rag stays where he placed it, right on the swell of your cheek as, this close to one another, you can see the scar on his chin—one that curves to the muscle and bone.
He was handsome, make no mistake about it. You knew it; you understood it. A lord with morals and the smarts to go along with the strength—now that was utterly unheard of. You liked that, truthfully. Someone who could think, and plan.
And, of course, follow directions.
“You’ll be fine,” John mutters, glancing to the side, yet his head doesn’t move back. He clears his throat with a sigh.
You roll your eyes, moving out and grabbing his hand with the rag. Johnny’s expression startles, arm tensing as you steal the dripping fabric from him. Water runs down your neck.
“I know I am.” You huff, smiling.
You push the rag onto his own face, and begin your cat-like approval of his character, washing away the grime just as he had your own. A blue gaze stays firmly on your flesh, the man’s shoulders loosening until he’s sitting just in front of you. Verident grass whispers in a language like a soft breeze, and you study Johnny’s skin until everything becomes a mosaic of scars and blemishes—stories woven into sinews holding as much history as the tines on an elk or the chipped tusks of a boar.
Two days and he’d become even more of a mystery than he had been before. Or maybe he always had been, and now your previous contentment had grown into an addictive curiosity.
He’d called you Cat-Eyes.
You couldn’t love a title more—not even if Lady were on the table.
“I settle my scores,” you grunt, tilting your head as you push back mud from his forehead, leaning in. “You wash my face, I wash yours.”
“Literally, then?” A sarcastic eyebrow makes you huff.
“Is that not what I’m doing, Johnny Boy?”
“Seems so, Cat-Eyes.”
Your matching glares hold no venom.
Smirking, you lean back after the last swipe at his forehead, pushing Johnny’s skull back as he chuckles, moon-lit visage something you would see scrawled on the parchment of an old story-teller's sketches. A man not made for this age.
Your face softens slowly, and it is a strange thing sitting atop the sharpness of your eyes.
John’s chuckles fade, and his breath catches in his throat.
“You’re an odd fellow, John MacTavish,” you say, here, with blood from an arrow wound drying to crack along your skin.
Your head tilts, eyes narrowing.
John’s lips slowly pull upwards, and the water on both of your faces drips to the listening earth. This place is alive with possibilities, and all of them stem from the growing draw of twisted human souls.
A just Lord and a cunning thief.
A sharp-eyed cat and a strong-bodied boar.
A future and a past—riddled with arrow marks; long sword slashes.
“Well…then I’m thinking we make quite the pair, Bonnie.”
—
The third day was spent on the latter half of the journey. Re-correcting the course and giving the best directions you could with the numb ache of your arm spreading up your shoulder.
But the town came easily as the midday sun rose to crest your heads.
“Want to lean on me?” Johnny asks, standing close by, but you’re already shaking your head.
“Feels better to keep myself focused,” you mutter, grimacing. You look at the entrance to the town, and as you both walk it, the stares are immediate—shocked residents looking at the haggard appearance of two individuals.
“Alright,” John sighs, side-eyeing you. “Just let me know if you’re goin’ to keel over, yeah?”
“Duly noted,” you tilt your head his way. Your lips smirk like a smug child. “You’ll catch me, won’t you?”
Johnny chuckles, shrugging his wide shoulders as his tattered finery is chock-full of brambles and leaves.
“Can’t say no to that.”
The Lord kept his promise—the doctor took the arrowhead, cleaned, cauterized the wound, and sutured you back up. For payment, as you lightly touch the bandaged section of your arm, you find your eyes freezing as a silver glinting reflects off the light through the window.
Johnny hands over his boar broach to the doctor.
Widely staring at the prize being pawned off for your health, your heart stutters in heavy greed.
No, you rapidly think. No, that was the one thing that I—
Your eyes inexplicably snap to Johnny.
The immediate thought is that he looks angry, but, the next and more accurate one, is that he looks sad.
John’s blues continue to follow the broach as it disappears into the doctor's pocket, and you see the weight fall back to his chest and arms—sitting heavy like a stone. The man’s feet shift along the ground for a moment, and he looks like he’s about to say something before he grits his teeth and shakes his head to himself. John grunts, fixing his nose.
You blink, and then your heart twists in on itself for no reason at all.
Or maybe there was a reason.
“C’mon, Cat-Eyes,” Johnny sighs heavily, tilting his head as his arms cross. “Time to see me off, then.”
He walks out the door, and your eyes follow like a loyal dog.
Standing there for a moment, your lips contort your face into a deep frown, sharp eyes gaining a sheen of light anxiety. Yet, there was no mistaking it—it had been said a million times—if there was one thing you could do, it was play a game.
Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.
“Oh my,” you mutter, putting a hand to your head and stumbling.
The doctor starts forward quickly, grasping at your un-injured arm. “Careful now, Woman. Don’t rip my sutures.”
He tells you, getting you fully up as you chuckle, placing your hands above his thigh, fingers twitching on the fabric.
“Apologies, apologies,” you mutter, retracting your hand and cupping it against your abdomen with a meek smile. “Just a little lightheaded. Thank you, Doctor.”
“Best be off, now,” the man grumbles, and you’re out the door swiftly.
Your shoes meet the cobble as you shift your hands into your pockets, shifting your body to look along after the large form that leans against the home waiting for you.
“Ready?” Johnny asks, though his attention is firmly planted on the ground five feet away, lost in thought.
“Aye,” you sigh, nodding your head to the East. “Port’s that way—let’s get this nightmare over with.”
“Hm,” Johnny agrees, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Quite the adventure for a runaway.”
“You can’t have thought it would be easy?” Your brows furrow. “You’re heir to the MacTavish lands.”
“I never said I thought it would be easy,” John moves at your side, a great hulk of honesty. He hands over his attention at last as you fiddle with the smooth item in your pocket. He huffs. “Just that it was an…experience, to say the least. One I’m not sure I’d want to go through again.”
“You’ll miss me,” you say confidently, meeting eyes with a smirk and a cocky shift to your form despite the lessening pain.
Johnny watches. He smiles, eyes crinkling. “Aye. I will.” You pause, expression stilling. The man hums, and you swear there’s something special in the way you can describe his look as delicate.
“You were the one part that I don’t regret,” he says lastly to you as if the words aren’t spears laced with poison.
Your breath gets caught in a way it never has, and John seems not to notice as he pulls ahead, muttering about him seeing the docks. The smell of salt water slaps your nostrils.
The legs under you slow until they’re stopped, and you look after the man as he begins speaking to workers along the port, asking for a spot on the large ships that sit in the water, rocking with the winds.
Your eyes trail, seeing the way he talks with such confidence—openly offering physical labor as his payment for even the dark quarters with the other laborers.
After what seems like hours of watching, you see him shake another man’s hand, and, just like that, passage is earned. He jogs back over, smiling.
You open your mouth to say something, but find the words null and void. You don’t know what to express. For once in your life, everything seems to be moving horrifically fast.
“Well,” John’s expression slowly sombers. “I suppose this is it then. I said you could ask for anything, and, I suppose,” he shifts the sword on his belt off after a moment, looking down at it. He holds the item, testing its weight. “I suppose this is all I have left.” Blue eyes slowly meet yours. “If you’ll take it.”
Always a thief, never a saint.
“I suppose it’ll have to do, Johnny Boy,” you sigh, the pain in your heart outweighing the one on your arm. “Hand it over.”
The sword is transferred and slipped to your waist. Many a man on the docks gives you strange looks, and, you find you welcome it—none could compare to the admiration in Johnny’s.
You lick your lips.
“Do one thing for me, hm?”
“Anything,” John mutters, not blinking.
You move forward, and place a firm kiss to his lips.
The man freezes, fingers twitching at his sides, before he sags and bends into you—his great hand capturing your cheek until all that remains in the sear of his heat and the scent of the earth.
You softly pull away, though not far enough as to where you can’t feel his breath on yours. Gazing into his eyes, you smile the widest you can remember.
“Don’t go running away from another wedding anytime soon. I can only save so many Lords until my reputation gets slandered.”
“You’re ruthless,” John growls, smirking as his eyes glint, looking you up and down. “Little Thief.”
He leans in for another kiss, but your hands only shift above his sporran before you dart back, chuckling.
“Always,” your hands brush his sword on your hip as you walk backward, grinning behind the strange pressure in your heart. If someone asked, you wouldn’t even know how to describe it.
John takes a step after you, face open and raw—an emotion you feel like mirroring if not for your excellent control.
Not yet.
“I’ll take care of this,” you call, patting the weapon.
“Good,” Johnny calls, taking one more step forward before stopping himself. One of the shipmates calls from the dock, and his eyes snap there with a jaw tense. He looks back at you and blinks, brows pulling in. In the heat of the moment, he exclaimed, “I’ll be back for it one day, Cat-Eyes!”
“Lovely!” You yell, back turning. “I’ll be waiting for you then. I do hope you’ll be able to get through the woods, and, please, don’t keep a woman waiting! You’re much too handsome for any of that.”
And then you’re gone.
Johnny stares at where you were, his smile large and his face heated, and after a louder call from the dock, he’s forced to turn and jog to the ship, hurrying up the board until he can stand on the swaying deck with his two feet.
He looks around, chuckling to himself, and still, his eyes shift back to land without fail; hoping for a glimpse—a small shadow.
Shaking his head at his own foolishness, the man reaches into his sporran for his rag, intent to clean and set it to dry when he’s able to get the chance to settle in. It’s one of the last items to his name no matter how pathetic.
Yet, his hands touch something far more precious.
Johnny’s body goes as straight as a tree when his fingers caress smooth metal, and, slowly, his grip pulls out the silver of his broach.
It glints in his palm as he sets it there, and his breath is stolen in one great bound of shock and confusion.
“What in the…” He already knows.
Johnny’s feet take him to the railing gently, and his body stands there—torn wedding clothes and all looking over a town that begins to move as the ship sets sail. He holds the broach carefully, not intending to let it go for an age. He just needs to lay low for a while. He needs time.
John smiles.
“I won’t keep you waiting,” he mutters to the moving homes, and he swears he sees the glint of a sword from between the buildings, and two sharp eyes digging into him.
You’re there, of course. Hidden as always.
You want your trees back, and you think that a day of sitting in your Oak is a good idea.
There’s dirt on your face again—your lips are chapped and your face is bitten by the wind; scars and blemishes that time won't heal but make all the more visible as the ages pass by on bird’s wings and cat purrs. Yet here is an action held immemorial.
A gift given freely by a thief is one to be treasured like pure gold, and the man on the ship knows that more intimately than any other as he clips the broach to himself with a hum.
You both watch the other from opposite, distant points until there’s no sun in the sky left to see with. Just a faint hope lights the way: the hope that your eyes will grace each other's visage, at the very least, just one more time in your life.
There was never a story so willing to be experienced than that of a runaway groom and his cat-eyed Thief.
TAGS:
@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot
#cod#cod x reader#cod x you#call of duty#x female reader#call of duty x you#cod mw22#mw2#mw2 2022#johnny mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish#john mactavish x you#john mactavish x reader#john mactavish#soap mactavish#soap call of duty#soap cod#soap mw2#john soap mactavish#soap x reader#soap x you#x fem!reader#cod x female reader
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somethin' stupid [ii]
"and though it's just a line to you, for me it's true and never felt so right before"
===+++===
pairing: wednesday addams x reader
summary: it's all her fault, and wednesday can't help but feel it in her bones.
warnings: mentions of blood, the police (gross), hospitalisation, crying
word count: 4.8k
A/N: thank you all for the love and support you have given to this silly little story of mine. it is absolutely insane. red font denotes the thoughts of those around you. kind of worried i may have rushed the ending, but i hope you like it anyhow. right, anyways...
===+++===
It took an additional thirty four minutes and twenty eight seconds after the beast sunk its claws into your chest, for Wednesday to come wandering out of the line of trees stretching to the cloudy sky and onto the nearby mountain street, still wearing your bright yellow raincoat bunched around her wrists.
Finding the cave had not turned out to be entirely as difficult as she had expected, and she managed to find its charred remains just as Eugene had said. There was no evidence to gather, really, and there never had been to begin with.
In the far away distance, only lightly covered by the rain, it sounded as if a flock of birds were screaming at each other and fighting, and the noise rang throughout the forest before settling in Wednesday’s ears. She had already been annoyed and frustrated enough tonight. The extra noise just set her even more on edge than before.
It took another sixteen seconds and a few steps closer then, for Wednesday to realise the noise bleeding from around the bend in the road wasn’t in fact, a group of birds. Instead, it was the worst sound Wednesday could ever want to hear.
Within an instant, Wednesday took off running, every sickening realisation clicking at once. The vision that had been plaguing her nightmares and every interaction with you came back in full force. Her stomach began to churn as she went, heart burning and ears ringing. She knew.
When Wednesday rounded the curve, she saw the cars and their sirens.
The red and blue lights bounced off of the dirt and pavement even from far away, reflecting in the rain water as it pummelled to the ground. Five police cruisers sat strewn every which way along the shoulder of the road, headlights on and pointed into the underbrush. Officers wandered the clearing, pointing their flashlights into the dark and yelling loudly to each other in an attempt to overcome the rain.
As Wednesday rushed towards the vehicles, a man stepped out of the closest car to her, wearing a plastic blue poncho that did mostly nothing to stop the merciless pounding of the furious rain. He spoke into a little radio on his shoulder, staring out into woods at his men while they searched.
Wednesday’s loud steps from her thick shoes warned him of her nearing, and the man turned, hand dropping from his radio. She was immediately displeased, greatly so; the man was Sheriff Galpin. He looked just as unhappy to see her, frown drooping into a wry glower.
“Addams what are you doing out here??!” He shouted at her over the storm, hands placing themselves on his hips. “It’s sure as hell past your curfew, now go back to Nevermore, dammit!“
Wednesday walked right up to him then, tugging him roughly by the poncho and his collar, which she balled up dangerously in her fist. It was a warning, and she meant it. Potentially, she meant it more than any threat she had previously given. “Who did you find.”
Sheriff Galpin’s eyebrows lowered, a line appearing in his forehead as he stared her down. “That’s official Jericho Police Department business, missy. You need to-“
Her grip on his clothing tightened. “Now.” Her voice shook a little. “Who did you find.”
He looked at her for a moment in the flickering blue and red of the dark, examining the look on her face. Her eyes were shining, though she would never admit to it. The old sheriff sighed. “Some kid from Nevermore was attacked. You might have known ‘em. Name was like, (Y/n) or something.”
Wednesday’s hand went slack, dropping back down to her side. “Were…,” she swallowed, attempting to cool the heat rushing to her face. It felt as if the Earth had just broken away from its orbit, to float off directionless into space. “Were they killed?”
For the first time, Sheriff Galpin seemed almost soft. He bent down to her a bit, patting her on the shoulder awkwardly as if to say ‘there, there.’ He had never liked the Addams girl much, though that seemed highly irrelevant in the moment.
“Uh, luckily no, though the camper who found them said they were awful close. The EMTs got here just in time. They’re headed to the hospital.”
Wednesday pulled back, tensing at his hand. “Give me a ride to the hospital,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. The sheriff shook his head.
“Nuh uh, no way. You’re going back to school, kid. It’s too late for you to be out here anyways, and I’m sure Weems would like to know why the hell you were out past curfew in the first place.”
She glared. “I need to be at that hospital.”
The sheriff rolled his eyes at her, any moment of softness gone upon remembering why he disliked her and her family so much. “Like hell I’m going to take you there.”
Wednesday blinked at him.
===+++===
The night was still dark but no longer raining, when Sheriff Galpin speedily dropped Wednesday off with her bloody fist at the front step of the hospital.
Punching the tree again and again had hurt, the sharp bark slicing through the skin of her knuckles, but it also meant she needed a nurse and potentially stitches, and there was only one place capable of offering such services. Suffice to say, the sheriff wouldn’t become her fan any time soon.
The clock had slowly crawled to four in the morning, and though Wednesday was exhausted, and Enid and Thing were potentially freaking out back at the school as to where the hell either of you were, Wednesday was a bit more concerned with figuring out where in the hospital your room was. Oh, and maybe aiding her fist, which was now dripping blood onto the patterned green carpeting as she went.
Upon entering and striding right up to the front counter, Wednesday had gotten straight to business. She held up her bloody fist, placing it with a 'thud' on top of an infographic that sat on the reception desk. The previously sleepy-looking teenage receptionist stared at Wednesday with a look of wide awake, abject horror. “Tell me where the ER is,” she said.
"Uh...over there?” said the girl, raising a weak finger towards the doors in the far left and unable to pry her eyes away from Wednesday’s hand.
Wednesday nodded a single time before walking off, leaving the receptionist to lean over the counter and watch her go. The sign over the door was marked 'ER,' and Wednesday followed down the brightly lit hall until she arrived at a new waiting area. The people in there looked much worse for wear than the empty entrance at the front.
Nervous parents sat cradling their obviously sick children, a construction worker was repeatedly coughing in the corner with his head propped up, trying to stay awake, and a woman in a pantsuit was cradling her foot in a cast and wincing. If this was an omen to who was in your company, it was certainly a bad one.
Wednesday did just as she had before, walking right up to the desk with her hand and showing it to the nurse at the front. Only this time, the woman gave her a worried look, picking up the black phone to her right immediately and dialling a few numbers into the keypad.
“Uh, stay right there, ma’am,” the woman said. Wednesday nodded. She didn’t intend to go anywhere anyways.
The nurse who had come to find her was an older woman, with smile lines crinkling around her mouth and winging off the corners of her eyes. She looked almost like a grandmother, except the electric pink afro she had curled off of her head in coils that spoke of youth and vitality and fun. Enid would have liked her, and Wednesday knew you would have too, but she hated the colour pink just as she (mostly) disliked fun people.
The woman had gotten straight down to business, pulling Wednesday into a room with a metal tray of supplies already picked out and holding up her hand.
Even being someone who enjoyed pain as she did, the antiseptic stung when it was placed over the scratches on her fingers. She hissed a bit, and the nurse glanced up at her with pitying eyes, grabbing the supplies for her stitches off of a metal tray.
"You said you punched a tree?"
Wednesday was suspicious of the woman's sudden interest, but nodded. The nurse could probably tell her where you were anyhow. She didn't like making friends, but she could at least make allies. She had called you one of her allies when you had asked. Remembering that hurt now.
"Yes,” she replied, a bit annoyed with the question.
"Why'd you do that, then?"
"I needed to come here. It's important." The nurse began to stitch her up, and Wednesday flinched at the sudden contact.
"What’s important about here?"
Wednesday glanced down at her soaked, dirty shoes. "There's someone staying here I need to see." The nurse looked up at her then, studying her carefully.
"You're here for that kid that came in after being attacked." Wednesday swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. The nurse sighed, wrinkles filling her forehead as she finished up Wednesday's middle finger and moving to her ring finger, holding up the pad to the light. "They were rushed into emergency surgery about twenty minutes ago. You'll have to wait here a while, and just to warn you: it isn’t pretty." Wednesday sent a small glance to her, one that spoke of a timidness the situation had drawn out of her that wasn't previously there.
“Why don't you go home for the night? Get yourself cleaned off and dry."
She shook her head at the woman, frown deep and telling. "I need to be here when they wake up. They don't have anyone else. Both of their parents are deceased, and I need to be there for them."
"I'm sure they would appreciate you coming this far, honey. They're very lucky to have someone who cares for them as much as you do. I've been a nurse for a loooong time, and trust me when I say you've done plenty."
She certainly had not. Wednesday was not immune to the morbid irony of the situation at hand. In reality, she had cared all too much, pretended that she cared not at all, and tricked you for the longest time into thinking she cared too little. Caring had gotten her nowhere- worse, it had gotten you into an ambulance.
"I'm...worried," she struggled to spit the word out at the nurse, who looked at her with soft eyes of encouragement. "I've said some things, that I don’t think I’ll be able to apologise for."
"Shhh," the nurse hummed, finishing Wednesday's final knuckle and taking out some bandages to wrap around the raw skin. "You'll get the chance."
“I’m not sure I will,” Wednesday's frowned deepened. Her lip threatened to quiver a bit, but it was true. She had been so foolish to bring you along- so selfish to allow you to push the bounds of your own safety. It sat lodged in her stomach like a tumour, growing and growing.
If this is what it meant to love you, Wednesday wasn't sure she was ready.
The older woman gave her a sad smile. "Look, there's no shame in making mistakes. The shame is in being too proud to ask for forgiveness for them," she said, standing up from her chair. "They'll be in room 304, I think. Should be out of surgery in a couple hours, in case you want to…”
“I’m not leaving,” Wednesday insisted. And she didn’t, for a while.
Very little could spook an Addams, especially one such as Wednesday, but she had decided it was all too much, seeing you after surgery. It was an utterly horrific sight. Had it been anyone else, Wednesday would be staring at the intricacies of the scars waiting patiently to form, marvelling at the magic of twisted skin and scabs. But no, it was you in that bed, wheeled right in, and she felt the rare urge to vomit.
You were hooked up to so many machines. Buzzing, whirring, and beeping were the only things keeping you alive, and it served as a painful reminder for everything that could have been lost.
A ventilator sat over your mouth, covering your soft lips and strapped to your jaw. Live, it said, as did the several needles and monitors that were hooked into the skin of your hands and arms. There was too much surface area covered. Wednesday, even if she had wanted to, couldn't have held your hand.
Blood was still very much crusted to the planes of your skin in parts, or at least what was visible of it behind your bandages. The white cotton sat in squares and rectangles, taped to your chest and along the stretch of your cheeks and face. You would never be the same, and Wednesday knew it then.
Always, you would bear the evidence of the attack when someone saw you for the first time and winced a bit, and Wednesday held herself as partially responsible. Her love was too thick to sit in. Wednesday Addams swallowed the tears she would deny crying.
She sat with you an hour, then she walked down to the payphone on the corner and called Enid as the sun finally settled for the morning sky.
===+++===
In the three weeks since your attack, you had yet to wake up. The doctors said it was a coma, and that they had no idea when you would wake, if at all, and that only made Wednesday feel worse. She had gone to visit you before, after, and sometimes even during class. Her own hand had healed nicely, though there would be a permanent scar over the knuckle of her index finger from a particularly nasty cut,
On one visit, Enid had said it was as if you "were sleeping," but Wednesday couldn't disagree more. When you slept, it was on your side with your mouth, open, snoring softly. No, instead, you looked like a dead body. Even after acquainted with the room, Wednesday still felt a great pain in her chest upon seeing you every day like that.
Principal Weems had been more than angry, discovering another student had been hospitalised as a result of Wednesday's actions. She was also worried, and annoyingly tried to sign Wednesday up for more sessions with Kinbott.
That wasn't what Wednesday needed, and she shrugged it off as such, every time Kinbott tried to bring up what happened to you, like she was waiting for her to burst into tears. An Addams didn’t cry. Instead Wednesday let the guilt eat her alive.
She also hungered for vengeance. Strewn across her floor was a giant mental map of everything involved in the case, from photos of the bodies (Enid had fainted twice) to crime scenes, and even potential suspects, all laid out accordingly.
As soon as visiting hours were over, she bid you adieu and threw on your yellow raincoat that still smelled like you, before heading out into the dark to solve the mystery. Maybe it was a way to say she was sorry, maybe it was a manifestation of you potentially never waking up- Wednesday didn't know.
What was even more frustrating was how she knew you held the final puzzle piece. She wasn't a fool- your ability to see into the thoughts of those around you was probably what had caused the attempt on your life in the first place. You had intentionally placed yourself in harms way, then, turning off your abilities for her.
You were incredibly powerful for one so laissez-faire about life- a fact that only offended Wednesday more, as you had been the target and not her, or someone else. You, who had just worn your heart on your sleeve to her, listened to her throw it away, and then immediately gotten attacked. You didn't deserve that, just as much as Wednesday didn't deserve you.
Then came the question of what you did deserve to hear when you awoke. If she was such an excellent writer, why couldn't she think of what to say to you if that ever happened? It still didn't feel good enough, no matter how many times she rewrote the letters or changed the order of the sentences. Nothing seemed to feel good enough.
===+++===
Around the fourth week, Wednesday began to leave you long thoughts, like diary entries. She didn't even know if you could hear her, from in there. You had been taken off a ventilator and it looked as if you were finally starting to level out a bit. Wednesday didn't know why, but she suspected you could hear her thoughts.
So she started thinking to you.
It had started small, at first. 'Today is the twenty-sixth day of you being asleep, you know. If you don't wake up, I swear I'll kill you.' She didn't even know if you could actually hear her, or if you'd want to, considering your last interaction. Wednesday itched to talk to you again, and her recounts grew longer and longer.
'Today is the twenty-eighth day of you still not waking up. Mayor Walker passed, yesterday. I have my suspicions of Xavier. He seems to meet with Dr. Kinbott frequently, and it's possible she's Laurel Gates. I'm not sure if I told you about this yesterday, but I summoned my ancestor a few days ago, Goody Addams, and she warned me of the Gates Mansion.'
'Today marks an official month, 31 days, of you not being awake yet. My Uncle Fester is in town. He sends his regards, by the way. He's the bald one I spoke of before, and he was eager to meet you... Enid and I visited the Gates' Mansion with Tyler. We were attacked and Tyler was injured. I know that may alarm you, but I assure you, I'm fine... If you don't wake up... I'll curse you forever.'
She didn't mean it.
‘Today is day thirty six and you’re still not awake. Enid will be waiting with you while I go confront Xavier and have him arrested. You must forget this when you wake, but I miss you… I’m not proud of it but I do. I said I wouldn’t care for you this way but look at me now. You didn’t spoil anything, (Y/n). If you said you loved me now, I would say it back. Give me the chance to say it then, or else.’
Wednesday waited patiently for another minute, hoping even a little bit that her mind would spark you to life. When nothing happened she sighed just as she had every previous day. Enid gave her a sad smile.
“Go get him, Wends. We’ll both be here when you get back,” she said. Wednesday glared at the use of the nickname, but grabbed your yellow raincoat off the back of her chair, shrugging the oversized jacket on and heading out the door. If there was one thing she thought would make amends, it would be catching your attacker and achieving revenge all on her own.
Of course, thirty seconds later, when Wednesday was long gone, you shot up right like a rocket, and Enid let out a scream.
===+++===
You were climbing, it felt like. You weren’t sure what, but you were pulling yourself up and out of something, pads of your fingers gripping the surface and lifting. It was one clutch after the other, and you had no idea how long or where you could possibly be climbing to.
Were you dead? That was entirely possible. You had blacked out with Tyler’s claws ripping and tearing at your chest and come-to in the back of the ambulance as it sped towards the hospital. A nervous-looking paramedic stood over you, casting a shadow over your eyes, and from there you had passed out again. Maybe you had died then.
Of course, it was a possibility. Not a welcome one, but it was still a possibility. Either way, you had to figure out a way to warn Wednesday about Tyler. Maybe if you just kept climbing. Time seemed to slow down, and it was one hand after another.
There was definitely sound coming from the outside world, and it wrapped around your head in mumbly nonsensical jargon. You recognised the voice, that was definitely Wednesday, and she was definitely close. Every now and again small words like 'Xavier,' or 'Kinbott,' would peek through the mist and you were left to wonder as to why they were relevant.
You climbed a bit harder. The voice would come in and then out again, and you were left wondering if days were passing or maybe it had just been an hour. All you knew was to keep climbing. Your fingers felt raw, your arms ached to stop, but you kept going to keep Wednesday safe, wether she wanted you to or not.
Before you knew it, a hand came forward for the last time, and it was like a button had been pressed. Suddenly, you weren't in any void, or any back of an ambulance, you were in a bland hospital room, sitting straight up and looking right at a mortified Enid.
"Oh my god!" She yelled out, pointing at you in surprise. "OH MY GOD!!!" 'WHAT THE FUCK!!!!'
"TYLER!" You yelled back.
"WHAT?!" Enid yelled.
"IT'S TYLER! And hi!"
Enid fainted again, just in time for a nurse to rush in upon noticing you were awake.
===+++===
One thing you had missed dearly whilst in a coma were fruit cups. You sat rather contentedly, eating a mango fruit cup in your soft hospital bedsheets and leaning back against a checkered pillow. From around you in the hospital, noise buzzed in your mind. It felt good to have your blinders off for once, even if it meant you had to focus in on Enid and the noise directly in the room with you.
"Thirty six days???" you asked. Enid nodded.
"Wednesday- I mean all of us 'But mostly Wednesday', were worried sick that you wouldn't wake up. Are you okay? What was it like in there?" 'How the hell are you still alive???'
You shrugged. "Not really sure. I just remember my arms hurt and I was in this void-thing, trying to pull myself out..." You grew serious. "I need to speak to Wednesday."
Enid leaned forward. "And you're sure it was Tyler? He doesn't seem like he could hurt a fly."
"I saw him, Enid. He was covered in blood and he was in his own head thinking about the attack and how pleased Laurel would be for him to succeed. It's him."
"Wednesday thinks it's Xavier," she said. You shook your head.
"She's wrong. I know she's sweet on Tyler, but-"
"-She's not sweet on Tyler, (Y/n). 'You CANNOT still believe that after all of this...though I guess you were comatose' I've said this since the beginning of the year, you bozo. She's sweet on you, and you two are such idiots running around and pretending like you don't know."
The painful memory of your final interaction before the attack came back in waves, pulling you under and tugging you into the deep. You cleared your scratchy throat, still sore from its lack of use. "Enid, Wednesday made it perfectly clear how she felt about me."
Enid rolled her eyes. "You two, I swear you're going give me grey hair. Oh! Speaking of appearances," she sat up. "You haven't seen how you look yet!"
You frowned, not entirely sure you wanted to. You knew you had facial scars- the sharp slashes to your nose and cheeks were enough to know that now, but you weren't sure how much you wanted to see them. Enid pulled out her phone camera, flipping it around to selfie mode.
It wasn't as bad as you thought- a giant twist of a scar curved around the apple of your cheek before reaching up through the lateral third of your eyebrow and stopping shortly after. Another crisscrossed over the bridge of your nose. Still bad, though. They were noticeable, and those were only the ones on your face. You frowned, and Enid seemed to regret asking to show you them. 'I just messed up, didn't I.'
'Oh my, cara mia' said someone's noise in the doorway. You looked up, hearing her arrive, and there she was. Wednesday stood looking almost nervous, hands crossed over her chest awkwardly, like she was uncertain if she was welcome. You tensed. "You're awake," she said.
You nodded. Then you did Wednesday a favour and turned your own noise off to give her the privacy she coveted. Wednesday sent a look over at Enid who just stared. When the werewolf didn't take the hint, Wednesday cleared her throat.
"Oh! Sorry, sorry," said Enid, standing sheepishly. "I guess I'll just go get some food from the cantina...even though I already ate and want to see how this happens," she muttered. Wednesday sent her a much sharper glare, and Enid scurried out of the room.
The moment the door clicked shut, Wednesday spun to you. "If you died, I would have killed you."
"I know," you nodded. "Enid told me you were here all the time." She frowned.
"Never speak of that again," Wednesday said, seeming almost embarrassed. "Enid wasn't supposed to tell you that."
"She's not really good at keeping secrets. You probably shouldn't have told her anything if-"
"-Did you hear them, when you were in there?" She asked, cutting you off mid-sentence with what she had really been wondering the entire time, but too nervous to ask. You blinked.
"Hear what?" If she had been saying important things to you whilst you were under, you didn't know what she was referring to. The look on Wednesday's face was unintelligible.
"I said some important things, (Y/n)," she said, fidgeting with her fingers. "I sent them through my thoughts."
"You also said some important things before I was attacked, Wednesday. You called me a lost puppy."
"I know," she replied. "I was worried this very thing would happen if I didn't."
You snorted cynically. "Looks like it happened when you did, actually." She looked wounded by that, and now you felt bad. "I didn't mean it that way, Wends, I'm just trying to warn you-"
"I love you too," she said.
Any thoughts or words you potentially could have come back with were lost, slipping through your fingers and tumbling to the floor. Wednesday took a step closer, placing her hand on the bed next to you, flipping it over to show you her knuckles. A few small pink scars littered the skin there. You picked it up in your own, brushing over them with your thumb.
"I meant it. I love you too. Even with your scars- which are magnificent." Wednesday thought for a moment, then looked you dead in the eyes. "I love you with a love that is more than love."
"That's Edgar Allan Poe," you whispered. She nodded, then she swallowed, forcing the words out.
"I see now, that I was...wrong. I have been deceitful, and I have been unkind. I pushed you away when you deserve much more than that- likely much more than me. I cannot express how earnest my regret is, and just how much I want your forgiveness-"
"Yeah yeah, stop talking like an old English guy," you said with a laugh, pulling her scarred hand to your lips. You sat up a little bit more, and though it hurt, you pressed your lips to her palm. When you pulled away a moment later, she kissed you full-force. Her hand moved to your neck, playing with the hair there and delivering the perfect amount of gentle longing that made you fall back against the pillow.
She pulled away all too soon again, but the small smile that teased the corner of her mouth spoke of future ones to come. "You said you were going to warn me of something?" She said in between attempts to catch your breath. You raised your eyebrows, remembering the dire information at hand.
"Oh, yeah, Tyler attacked me," you said, leaning your neck back against the pillow.
"What?!" Wednesday said, pulling away with her eyes as angry as ever. "Why didn't you lead with that??" She didn't want to believe it, but she knew you wouldn't lie.
"I got there eventually, and you needed to apologise!"
Wednesday sighed, shaking her head. Though she would never admit it, she did truly miss your ridiculousness. "Anything else?"
"The master of the creature-"
"-It's called a Hyde," Wednesday corrected you.
"Yeah, that. The master of the creature wears red boots. I saw it in Tyler's vision."
The girl in black stood up, heading for the door. "Thank you, cara mia. I'll be back when this is over."
"Go get 'em tiger." She turned to you, unimpressed.
"Shut up."
"Yeah yeah, love you."
After a moment she sighed. "I love you too."
thank you all so much for your support on this story! i absolutely will be writing again, and am here to stay. i cannot thank you all enough, and as always, PLEASE tell me or message me about any typos as i will fix them ASAP. i'll definitely come back and change this later if i feel like it. i tried not to rush the ending but was also majorly conflicted as to where i should leave it off. so if it bugs me later down the line, i'll change it.
#jenna ortega x reader#jenna ortega x you#wednesday addams x reader#wednesday netflix#wednesday addams#jenna ortega#jenna ortega imagine
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little fic inspired by this post by @murdrdocs - no editing because i pumped this out in half an hour and i want people to know how much i would pay for someone to do this to me
tw: MDNI! 18+ content, slight blood kink, dacryphilia, face fucking, slight dubcon if you squint, semi-public sex, reader is obsessed with being clean
your dad had an obsession with cleanliness. when you were a young girl, you never noticed a speck of dust on the counter or a crumb on the floor. you did chores frequently, and you were always lectured when you had a hair out of place or an untucked shirt.
perhaps that’s where you had gotten it from. the slightest indication of something being messy, of something going wrong, sent you over the edge. plans were meant to be made for specific times, and routines were the best way to structure things. so you’d wake up at 5:30 each morning, dressing in a pink sports bra, pink leggings, and matching pink trainers. you finished it off with a pink bow folded left over right, in the same direction you applied your lipgloss. you walked towards the sword fighting arena, reaching the doors as soon as the clock hit six.
you walked over to your usual area, setting your metal water bottle down with a soft clanging noise.
you were thankful that the dirty gym floor was not your only option, instead choosing to bring your own yoga mat. the pristine pink rolled out over stained blue, covering up years’ worth of demigod training. you’d prefer to work out over something less icky, but the aphrodite cabin was crowded enough - and this was preferable to the bare grass.
you pretended not to notice the hermès’ boy in the center of the arena. a layer of sweat coated his skin generously as he dove back and forth, practicing intricate techniques you couldn’t even fathom using.
he peeled off his camp shirt slowly, turning towards you and meeting your eyes. he sent you a wink, clearly aware that you had just been ogling him. you blush deeply and look down, choosing instead to pick at the skin on the outside of your thumbs.
that was the first sign he noticed. your pristine image could be worn down. he wanted to use it against you.
the first night he grabbed your wrist while you were picking at your skin. he brought your bleeding fingers up to his mouth and wrapped his tongue around them firmly, maintaining eye contact as he sucked. he nearly combusted at the pretty little whimper you let out, clenching your thighs together. you were wearing those light pink leggings you loved, so he could see the wetness forming anyway. he let your fingers go with a ‘pop’ noise, laughing softly as he watched you furiously wipe your fingers down on your thighs.
“do you have hand sanitizer, luke?”
the next time he was a little bolder, wrapping one hand around your throat and trailing the other one behind your head, smiling widely at your gasp as he undid the perfect bow. he watched your hair fall around your pouting face with glee. when he let go of your throat, it was to tie your wrists together in a similarly neat little bow above your head. he was going to tear you apart, but the least he could do was give you something orderly to focus on while you drooled and sobbed over his violent thrusts, choking on his cock a little bit more each time. he liked the way you looked like this, mascara running down your cheeks and doe eyes looking up at him with desire.
the third time he caught you after a workout, pulling you into the woods and pushing you over a tree stump. you began to complain about the scratchiness on your stomach, only stopping when a forceful yank to your ponytail caused you to wince. within seconds he had torn the fabric of your pink leggings, thrusting into you relentlessly as he watched the hole rip wider and wider. you whined loudly, annoyed at the mess but in a state of pure euphoria. luke palmed at every inch of you, slapping your cheeks with his rough hands and pushing your pink sports bra down your shoulders to bite at the skin of your breasts. you cried as you came, the force of your orgasm causing him to release inside you. he knew you would despise the sticky feeling of his cum coating the skin of your thighs, and he adored that.
the next morning, people were shocked when you walked into the mess hall with your hair down, one of luke’s camp shirts covering your pajama shorts. you wore slippers, a tired look in your eyes, and several massive hickeys on your neck. he was delighted when the first thing you did was walk over to him and grab him by his arm, dragging him to your empty cabin for a round two. or three or four, depending on how much you felt like being ruined that particular day. there was something so captivating about being so free, so unclean.
#luke castellan#luke castellan x reader#cal's writing!#pjo series#luke castellan imagine#luke castellan x you
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indelible scars, pivotal marks
pairing: luke castellan x implied apollo!reader
summary: you might be the only person who actually knows luke castellan. you don't think anyone else is willing to try.
a/n: what if i told you i got yelled at a lot after writing this. enjoy! oh this is also my first x reader in the 5 years i've been writing who cheered. have fun !
Luke is fourteen the first time he can remember sleeping through the night. He’s barely been at Camp Half-Blood for three hours, skin still splotched purple and blue, Thalia’s yells echoing in his skull. There’s no silence, a steady hum of nature that’s leveled by the voices of people he doesn’t know, and he knows he shouldn’t sleep. They’ve lost Thalia, left her just beyond the borders of an unknown place, and it’s a risk to welcome the flimsy pillow they gave him. He does it anyway, eyes closing to the sound of Annabeth’s soft breaths.
The respite lasts one night.
By morning, he’s recounted the last five years more than he ever wanted to. Annabeth clings to him then, a known comfort. She knows the broad strokes of the story, could recount them herself, but there’s gaps from before her time, and there’s things Thalia made him swear not to tell. If she notices, she doesn’t comment, just keeps her fingers close to her side. He knows that’s where she keeps her dagger - he wonders if Chiron can tell as well.
Chiron brings them to Thalia, explains what happened and how lucky it is. Luke looks at the tree, the first time Thalia has stood taller than him since they met - something she always swore she would do one day - and leans back against it as Annabeth sobs into his shoulder.
Mr D sends Annabeth to the Athena cabin before lunch. Luke doesn’t need to be told to make his way to Cabin 11. He knows who his father is. His backpack is left at the base of a bed in the far corner of the room, a group of boys gathered around the area turning to watch him the second he walks in. They move away but they don’t stop their stares.
Sleep doesn’t come as easily to him that night.
*
You meet Luke Castellan when you’re fifteen, standing on the edge of the lake as a golden sun rises in the horizon. It’s your first morning at camp, your first morning admiring the sunrise in months, and you think you could find a home here. Within the hour, you��re sure the calm won’t be the same – too many kids in the same space, swords and satyrs and strawberries guiding the day along – but for now there’s sunlight.
“Breakfast isn’t for two more hours,” someone says from behind you. It should be scarier than it is, put you on high alert with the way he creeps into the space without a sound. “Just in case someone forgot to mention that.”
He’s pretty. Strong chin, dark eyes. On most people you’ve met, that’s where pretty ends. Not him. There’s this way he stands in your periphery; comfortable in his worn camp t-shirt, like he was made to live in it, to have it define him for an eternity. Very few people are pretty in a way that speaks of forever.
“I like to watch the sunrise.”
He hums. “I’m Luke.”
He waits, steps away, until you offer him a seat beside you on the grass. It was something you were told once, an eclectic art teacher draped in shawls and chunky jewelry, how the sun is only as beautiful as it is when shared with another. As Luke sits next to you, you enjoy the quiet you’re positive isn’t built to last.
*
Luke becomes a counselor that summer. Everyone saw it coming, the way he’s known to everyone and not just the Hermes kids. Whispers of a legacy, of a potential legend in the making, followed him already, two years at camp creating grand ideas for his future – counselor status just helps to further them. It’s not that big of a deal normally. It’s potentially defining when you’re the best swordsman in almost three hundred years.
You find him on his way back from the Big House that evening, heading in no particular direction but with a clear idea of where he doesn’t want to be. It’s something you’ve learnt to read in the last few weeks, the way Luke fluctuates. How he dips in and out of personas as if it’s possible to switch them out. It comes with renown, you suppose.
“Counselor Castellan, is it?”
He smiles something bitter. “So they tell me.”
Without hesitation, you take hold of his hand. It’s warmer than yours and you feel the difference in your bloodstream. Luke doesn’t look at you, doesn’t comment, and you lead him away from the cabins and down to the lake.
There’s maybe an hour until sunset. You’re almost attuned to it now, mornings spent watching it with rapt attention. Luke normally joins you, sword dropped between you. Some mornings, the thud of metal onto stone is the only reason you know he’s arrived, still so silent in his arrival that you wonder if it’s on purpose.
“Does it make you anxious?” You ask when the silence stretches on for too long, when Luke stares unblinkingly at the horizon for longer than he should. He blinks, irises shifting from a glassy bronze and back to muted brown as the film clears. “Did they even ask if it was something you wanted?”
He scoffs and you wonder if this is where everything changes. Luke always has things he wants to say, balancing on the tip of his tongue until he figures out how to swallow them down and burn them. It’s like you can see it play out in real time, his jaw shifting, arm tensing.
“Mr D told me it was a great honor. Chiron told me it was long overdue.”
“You weren’t given a chance to say no.”
It’s a pattern you’ve noticed, not just within camp but with all the Gods. Clarisse was sent a spear with no note, but everyone knew who had sent it. Annabeth’s hat was exactly the same. Gifts. All gifts. No receipts or return addresses provided. Life at camp was something to be grateful for, always, considering the alternative most of you had already been forced to live. To comment on it would make you an enemy of those too powerful to consider.
Looking at the tense set of Luke’s shoulders, you kind of want to say it anyway.
“I’m about to have all the glory Camp Half-Blood could offer me,” Luke says and the sun begins to dip below the surface of the lake. His palm is warm in yours again. “Why would I complain?”
*
There’s a flurry of new arrivals no one anticipated the next summer They come in pairs, mostly, with the odd trio. Always one unclaimed within the group. Always one who gets marched to Cabin 11 in the middle of the night, sometimes after hours of questioning.
You know the nights that it’s happened, taking in the way Luke’s movements are less sharp, the way he breathes more shallowly. A conservation of energy. It doesn’t affect you much until it does, the sharp sting of Luke’s sword on your arm as he loses his footing, turns too suddenly at the sound of your footsteps.
“This is insane,” you say as you press your shirt into the cut. It’s not bad, something that will heal quickly and fade into nothingness, but Luke locks his gaze on the red dotting your skin as if he doesn’t understand how it got there. “They can’t keep waking you up in the middle of the night for this.”
“The only other place they can go is the med bay and none of them have been beaten up badly enough to be worth waking an Apollo kid.”
“I’ve seen some of the kids when they’ve gotten here, Luke,” you mutter, shirt hem dropping as the wound stops bleeding. You glance up at him. “They could do with being patched up.”
He sinks down to the floor. You stay on your feet. “This is what I signed up for when I took the position.”
There’s this way Luke’s voice gets sometimes, sharp and low and just a little spiteful. A build-up of years with little mercy granted. That’s how it is now, speaking through clenched teeth, completely biting back the vitriol and pretending there’s no heat to his words.
He’s always been pretty in the sunrise, from the day you met, but you think he might be prettiest right now – lying to himself more than he can lie to you in the moments before there’s any sunlight at all. When you would let darkness spill into itself, Luke forces light to filter in. If you caught him at the darkest hour, you wonder if that would remain.
Taking in the way he digs his nail into the fabric of his pants, you doubt even he would know how to stop himself then.
*
You aren’t chosen for Luke’s quest. He finds you after the ceremony, face pulled taut and bag thrown over his shoulder already. There’s no regret in his eyes, no determination either. You stand straighter when you hear him approach, grateful that he cared enough not to take you by surprise for once.
“Don’t be mad at me.”
“Why would I be mad?” You say. It’s disingenuous to your own ears, the way it pitches, so you fold your arms across your chest. “Chris and Ethan will be great questmates. A band of brothers.”
Luke swallows. “Is that really what you think this is? That I wanted to make my quest a guys trip?”
“I don’t think anything of it, Luke.”
In the middle of the day, you can see him clearest. See the golden boy of Camp Half-Blood the way everyone else does. In broad daylight, there’s few things more noticeable on Luke Castellan. The slope of his nose, the straightness of his back, the comfortable weight of his sword on his hip – almost a tether to who he proclaims himself to be. It’s your least favorite version of him.
“I would’ve chosen you. In a heartbeat, I would’ve chosen you,” he says, brown eyes shifting from dim to desperate in moments. A plea to be heard. You know you’re the only one to ever truly listen when he speaks.
“Doesn’t really seem that way.”
“I just needed a reason to come back when it’s over.”
It stills the air around you. The words tangle themselves together in your brain, drown out the archers in the distance, the birds overhead. They echo and twist and they maintain their tone, the low pitch Luke uses when he’s decided to say something he doesn’t want to be heard. They bury themselves in the corner with the other times he’s used it, forever ingrained, and you don’t know what to make of them. How to define them at all.
He waits, gaze firm, until you nod slightly. You keep your chin low, determined to give little satisfaction to the situation. To Hermes giving Luke a reused quest, to the possibility of losing him because you aren’t there. It curdles deep in your gut, refusing to remain unknown.
There’s a moment where Luke hesitates, his hand twitching slightly, arm moving minutely higher from where it hangs down by his waist. Instead, his fist clenches and he exhales long and low.
“Promise to be here when I get back?”
“I’ll be really annoyed if you’re not the one knocking on my cabin door.”
He turns back to face you after he joins Chris and Ethan at the border. They’re all capable, with a history of working together. They’ll succeed, return to praise and glory and everything they deserve to have. The sun beats down on Luke as he nods goodbye and you wonder if it shines on anyone else at all.
*
The scar becomes a part of him.
It fades into his skin with time, going from raised and rotten to a streak of pale across his cheek. You overhear some of the Ares kids praising it as symbolic of his win, a prize of sorts, and some of the Aphrodite kids saying it makes him more appealing, makes him look stronger. You’re not sure what you think of it, tracing it with gentle fingers as it heals.
It becomes a habit, running a knuckle down Luke’s cheek each morning. Feeling where the skin tied itself back together. He never comments. You want to ask if he minds, that you’ll stop if it’s too much. The first few times you did it, in the days right after his return, he had flinched, features pinching together. Your hand had dropped, all too aware of the matted skin, how it probably still ached but Luke had taken your hand and placed it back where it had been.
His scar becomes a statement, a badge of skill that everyone at camp can recognise. There had been little debate on the truth of his swordsmanship before but now it hardly existed, undeniable proof the first thing people noticed when introduced to him.
Most people don’t bother to ask Luke about it. Percy Jackson isn’t most people.
“You got attacked by a dragon?”
It’s the first time in years that anyone has joined you and Luke at the lake this early. Annabeth used to, on the rare occasions the worst of her nightmares returned. It’s different with Percy, like being close to the water rewires him completely. It makes sense days later when you watch him push open the door to the empty Cabin 3.
“Last year,” Luke hums, one hand resting softly in yours and the other keeping a loose grip on the sword handle in his lap. Percy had wanted to see him in action after hearing the stories, so you’d both obliged. “I made a wrong call and I paid for it.”
“At least it looks pretty cool.”
The way Percy says it is different to everyone else. It’s not ingrained with this odd lust, whether for adventure or the story or Luke himself. It’s more muted, a fact of life. He’s not saying it to make anyone feel better – he’s saying it to disregard. A scar is just a scar to Percy Jackson, as if he’s known too many to care.
“I guess it kind of is,” Luke says and the three of you listen to the morning begin.
#🖋️ abi writes…#luke castellan#luke castellan x reader#percy jackson and the olympians#pjo#luke castellan x you
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The Harvest
Mob Au to @//clownsuu
Penny to @cherrythepuppet
Vince to @cloudy-dreams
TW: Spooky scary scarecrows send shivers down your spine! Rotting meat.
Grover sat at the bar, keeling over a hearty glass of rye whiskey like there was no tomorrow. He felt miserable, grabbing at his chest and struggling to breathe. His mind spaced out, and when he came back to reality, Penny was sitting beside him.
“Ugh… what do you want.” He groaned, slamming back another cup. Grover let Howdy finish pouring him a new one before he turned back to Penny.
With the changing of the seasons in full swing and clumps of leaves layering the ground, she had now taken a poofy feather boa oon her bare shoulders. The little lady raised her eyebrows at him as a snarky grin graced her lips.
“Hi.” She said quickly, turning to Howdy and raising her finger. He nodded silently and started to prepare a Shirley Temple.
“Doesn’t answer my question.” Grover grumbled worthlessly, sinking into the bar stool like his roots were planting into the ground.
“Well, Scarycrow—“ Penny began before a cough from Grover interrupted her.
“Not my name.” He growled. Penny rolled her eye.
“Yeah, anyway, Boss told me to tell you ‘Feed him’ So. Feed him. Whatever that means. Has he started talking in third person?” She questioned, looking down at the pear bracelets over her opera gloves. Grover perked up. He looked out the window, downed his drink, and stood up.
“Where are you going?” Penny asked, reaching for her drink that Howdy had just finished shaking and topping with whipped cream and cherries. Her eye followed Grover as he grabbed a coat.
“Out.” He said. This piqued Penny’s curiosity. She’d heard from Antoni that Grover wasn’t allowed ‘out’ without permission. She hopped from her barstool, chasing Grover into the night.
“You’re not allowed out! Boss said-“
“Boss told me that I need to go when he gives the word. Where the fuck are those birds..” He growls, eyes on the skies as he listens for a distant cawing. His eye spots two birds, barely visible behind the night sky as they cry from their branch. Grover huffs, turning to Penny.
“You’re helping me make a delivery.” He said sharply, practically dragging her by the arm to one of the cars.
“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” She shouts, struggling against his grasp.
“Help me make the delivery and I get you whatever treat you want.” Grover replies, getting her in the car. It’s not the usual continental that he’d drive. It’s a pickup truck, back covered with a tarp. Penny sits in the passenger seat, holding her arm nervously.
“Fine.”
And they drive off into the night. Penny watched as the lights from the city began to dim. The truck passed by the warehouse that marked the edge of town and drove farther than that and parked at the tree line. Grover got out of the truck and took the cover off the truck bed.
It was a cacophony of flies, buzzing over the top half of a deer. It had been ripped in half, and smelled like it had been a long time since it had died. Its guts had stained the bed red and maggots had begun to creep through the deers skin and pelt. Grover looked down on it, grabbing it and easing it out of the truck. It hit the ground with a somehow wet squelch. Something leaked from the deer.
“Help me.” Grover said, and when Penny got around the truck she screamed. It alerted the crows which dotted the trees, and Grover slapped a still wet glove against her mouth.
“Shut the fuck up. Vince don’t like noise.” He commanded. Penny stared at him with a wide eye, shivering in her unfit-for-weather dress.
“Grab the back.” Grover said, looking over his shoulder into the tree line. Penny squirmed, reaching down to try and carry her half of the weight. It was unfair, Grover had to lean all the way down and walk backwards into the trees with Penny trying to direct him in the dim light. He was pricked by several brambles and stabbed with sticks.
When the pair passed the tree line and entered the clearing, it was like walking into the world’s most terrifying sculpture park. The figures were all in the midst of fleeing. To the untrained eye it would look like wood carvings, but the way that the flies landed on them and how new branches grew from they eye sockets and mouths of these people made it obvious that it wasn’t just sculpture.
Grover and Penny carried the deer, sticks crunching under their shoes. The two approached the center of the field and Grover dropped the deer. He looked around at the stillness, searching for something in the trees. Penny felt uncomfortable, her head on a swivel as she looked through the field. She could have sworn she saw one of the bodies still breathing.
Grover whistled, taking a step away from the dearly departed deer.
“Watch em feast.” He said with a little grin on his face. The crows flooded from tree line, swooping at the carcass. Grover laughed, and Penny turned over her shoulder to see a hunched over figure with dark eyes and an elongated mouth. She screamed, grabbing onto Grover who looked down at her.
When his eyes landed on Vince in the darkness, reaching out to grab Penny, Grover swatted his hand away.
“No, Vince. I get’cher real hungry to have someone new join ya but not her. She’s family.” Grover said, staring at Vince as the cut noose swayed around his neck. They held eye contact. Vince opened his mouth and murmured something in a low, unfamiliar tone that sent chill down Penny’s spine.
“Look, how bout next time I bring one here fer ya I’ll letcha do yer tree thing an’ all that. I like them screams too, gotta admit..” Grover said with a low chuckle. Vince had a raspy laugh, not saying a word but staring at Penny. Grover looked down at her again.
“Her names Penny. I needed an extra set a hands pullin’ the deer. I know ya like a bit of a scaredy-cat, but I got reprimanded by Wally when I had brought Poppy out here. You ‘member her, Vince? Real tall bird broad?” Grover said. Penny had a look of horror plastered on her face as she kept a grip on Grover’s pants. Vince did not respond, reaching out a finger to graze against Penny’s skin. The taller of the scarecrows grabbed at the other, holding his gloved hand tightly.
“I’ll see what I can fix up fer ya. But not her. Not her.” Grover said protectively. The crows behind him cawed as they finished their feast and flew back into the trees. The plot was silent again, save for Vince’s ragged breathing. Penny stared up at Grover, then at Vince.
“D’ya need help spreading the bones across the field?” Grover asked. He gave Penny a little pat, a nonverbal way of telling her to head back to the truck. As she began to walk away, Vince turned his head with an audible creak. Grover kept his attention, talking to him calmly.
It took over an hour for Grover to return to the pickup truck. Penny was asleep, her head against the window. Grover glanced out the driver side window at Vince who stood just beyond the tree line. He waved goodbye, then turned around on the road to drive home.
From just under Penny’s opera glove, a small leaf began to sprout.
#welcome home oc#grover haymaker#penny peaches#vince vineyard#mob au#welcome home au#welcome home mob au#mob grover haymaker#mob penny peaches#mob Vince vineyard#planty stories
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jj coming home from work or hanging out with the pogues to see you in the backyard laying on a tanning chair with your tinyyyyyyyy pink string bikini and he just can’t control himself he’s just a man 🤷♀️
-🪞
thinking about this but it’s with bsf!jj who you’ve done sexual stuff with maybe one or twice? but you never spoke about it afterwards and he kinda doesn’t know what the two of you are and if you’re ever gonna let him do it again ?? so he’s constantly just on edge w loads of sexual tension and mm !!
⋆˙⟡🥥♡🤍౨ৎ🍥˚˖𓍢ִִ໋
it’s late afternoon when he’s arriving back at the chateau to stay. john b was driving off somewhere following a lead, and pope and kie had gone home for the day so it was just going to be jj. jj and you.
he walks right past you at first, swinging his set of keys round his finger and humming, well — rapping to himself. ice ice baby, you seem to recall? you were in a doze, laying on your front on the lawn on a towel, brain barely picking up on his presence. he’s whistling the chorus as he strolls towards the shack, before noticing you, and doing a full 180 to walk back towards you, the whistling drawing closer.
“w—hey there, pretty lady.” he calls out, pulling his shorts up boyishly as you lift your head, a little sleepy from the amount of time laying out in the sun.
“hi, jayj.” you hum, pushing up onto all fours so you could stretch your back, arching it and letting out a sigh through your nose as you come back to reality. he blinks rapidly like he’s trying to take screenshots of his eyes, gazing over your soft form in your ever so tiny pink bikini.
“what’cha doing out here all alone?” he digs his boot into the grass, differentiating between eyeing you up and looking at the ground like he just couldn’t handle it.
“was just soaking up the sun but i think it’s going behind a cloud now. what time’sit anyway?” your voice is all soft and sleepy and it makes it hard for the blonde to focus, blinking at you a few times before hes realised you’d asked him a question and he jumps into action, pulling up his wrist to theatrically look at his clock.
“it is… just comin’ up on 5– i’m sorry just to… circle back real quick,” he scrunches his nose, drawing a quick circle in the air with his finger pointed up. “i have not seen that bikini before is it — is it new or?” he rests his arm casually against a rogue tree branch standing at the height of his ribs, nearly missing it entirely at first, fingers rubbing below his nose, antsy.
you look down at yourself, taking it upon yourself to adjust the pretty pink triangles on your chest, jostling your tits as you do so, making sure they’re fitted perfectly over you. the act in itself seemed genuinely innocent from your part, but jj’s eyebrows jumped up as he shifted desperately on his feet, clearing his throat — it’s as if his sudden movement were to direct his blood flow to literally anywhere else, diverting it from where it was inevitably headed.
“yeah! it was on sale. d’you like it?” you’re looking up at him with those cutesy doe eyes from where you knelt on your towel and it was taking him everything to control himself. why did he have to be such a guy?
“uh, do i have a working set of eyes? yeah… i love it… takin’ like… mental polaroids here.” he trails off before he says something crazy, swaying on his feet, indulging himself to take another look at the way the two piece clings to your body. you climb to your feet happily, taking your time to pick up your belongings that laid out beside you, your sunglasses, water bottle and phone. once you’d gathered them into your arms, you walk up to jj casually, already smiling.
“so do you wanna help me out of the bikini? or…” your grin grows when you see his jaw drop right there infront of you, holding his gaze for a moment as you walk past him, heading towards the chateau leaving him frozen for a few seconds.
“wh— uh, yes— yes ma’am.” he nods, turning and jogging after you.
⋆˙⟡🥥♡🤍౨ৎ🍥˚˖𓍢ִִ໋
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you're not jonathan
for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt 'no upside down au'
rated t
wc: 997
cw: recreational drug use, language
tags: meet-ugly turned meet-cute, flirting, somewhat ambiguous ending but we all know what's gonna happen
🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿
Steve was not supposed to be the one picking up the drugs for the party.
He wasn't even going to the party.
But Jonathan couldn't get it from his usual guy, said he was back home in California for the summer, and it wasn't like Robin had a hookup.
Eddie Munson didn't technically deal anymore, but he made exceptions for previous customers, and Jonathan had been a regular during high school.
It wasn't shocking news to Steve, but what was shocking was hearing all these stories about how Eddie didn't even usually meet someone during daylight hours. Except today, apparently.
Steve tripped over another branch, barely caught himself before falling on his face.
"I better get so high off this shit," he said to himself.
"I only sell the good shit."
Steve froze.
Somehow, he'd missed a person walking up to him, probably when he nearly ate dirt.
"Is there any reason a hike is required to get some weed?" Steve asked, brushing his hands on his pants to get the remnants of the tree trunk he saved himself on.
Eddie crossed his arms in front of him, raising an unimpressed brow.
"No. Jonathan suggested the place."
Hard to believe the guy who hated being outside for more than a few minutes would have suggested a half mile trek into the woods, but Steve didn't really care to argue.
"O...kay. Well, I've got the cash if you wanna get this over with," Steve said as he reached into his pockets that were..."Fuck."
He started patting his pockets, his shirt, looking around him at the ground to try to find his wallet.
"Everything okay?" Eddie asked, coming closer.
"I lost my wallet. Shit!"
"Alright, I can help you look, man. It's not a big deal. Gotta be somewhere, right?" Eddie started looking around him, though it was half-hearted at best. "What's it look like?"
"It's brown. Um, leather?" Steve suddenly forgot any other details about his wallet. How convenient.
"Okay, so the color of the ground. Should be easy."
Steve snorted.
Eddie was smirking as he walked the way Steve came, checking the ground around him as he did so.
Steve followed behind, but he was pretty certain they wouldn't find it.
After ten minutes of looking, Eddie sighed.
"We should just smoke a bit. Take the edge off. Ya know?"
"I don't think that's a good idea. I can't pay you until I find my wallet," Steve said as he continued looking, bending down to get a closer look at a spot that seemed like the color of his wallet.
"On the house."
Steve stood straight up.
"Really?"
"Can't really kick ya when you're down, can I? Plus, I planned on smoking after you left anyway. We can share," Eddie shrugged, like it was no big deal.
Steve had never gotten high outside of house parties, the comfort of his own home or a friend's home soothing his anxieties about losing his inhibitions.
But out here? With Eddie? It didn't seem like a smart thing to do.
"Alright," Steve shrugged back.
Eddie must have sensed something about him, though, because he didn't let him take more than three puffs of the joint before he put it out and found a collection of boulders for them to sit on.
"You ever think about how trees are alive but they don't have ears?" Steve asked a minute later.
"Oh, you're that kind of high." Eddie poked his hand, making him look over at him. "You eat today?"
"Maybe. I've been busy. Do you think trees get hungry?" Steve replied.
Eddie searched his face before letting his pinky rest against Steve's hand on the rock.
It felt like fire.
"They do."
"But they don't have pancakes or cheeseburgers. Like, we can't grind it up and put it in the dirt for them, right?" Steve's jaw dropped. "Can we?"
Eddie watched as Steve looked over at some of the trees surrounding them.
"I don't think we can, no."
"A shame. They're missin' out. You know who else is missin' out? Jonathan! He made me come here and he didn't even tell me you had long hair or like the nicest eyelashes. Which is weird because he didn't shut up about anything else about you but he forgot about the eyelashes!" Steve's hand curled around Eddie's pinky. "And you look warm."
Eddie's brows raised.
He wasn't sure who Steve was. Jonathan had just insisted he was cool.
But Jonathan hadn't mentioned that his hair looked softer than silk, or that his eyes were wide and innocent despite his lip curling up in the corner in annoyance.
Jonathan seemed to have left a lot of things out.
"Well, it is summer. It's pretty warm," Eddie gulped. "But you do look a little cold."
"I get cold easy. Robin says it's because I don't eat enough red meat or something. Low irony or something."
Eddie was so endeared.
"I could help you stay warm? Walk you back to your car if you want?"
Eddie did not want that, but he knew Steve probably needed to walk off some of this high before his friends started to worry about him.
"Don't wanna walk," Steve leaned his head on Eddie's shoulder. "My head is walking."
"Should I try to head back and get one of your friends?"
Steve shook his head.
"Be fine in an hour."
"Okay," Eddie put his arm around Steve's shoulder, surprised to find that Steve was shivering. "Hey, you okay?"
"You do have good shit."
"That's not an answer," Eddie chuckled.
"I'm good. Best."
Eddie let him burrow further into his side and waited for his shivering to subside before he suggested heading back to his car again.
Steve still refused, and Eddie didn't have it in him to push.
Not when they were finding shapes in the clouds and he was holding Steve close.
He'd definitely owe Jonathan a lot of product if this went the way he wanted it to.
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𝕧𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖'𝕤 - dark!raider!joel miller x reader
complete masterlist
words || 𝟛𝕜
summary || in which the reader wants a valentine's gift, but Joel's not exactly her boyfriend
a/n || i'm so shocked i haven't written dark!joel before?? i love him, your honor. also, for the raider!joel concept, though overall popular for fanfic, i was personally super inspired by @toxicanonymity and @romana-after-dark. they both have fantastic raider!joel content, please check them out!!
➵ warnings for specific content before the divider, please heed them, this may be triggering content!
➵ technically ooc to joel in the show, but his dark past is hinted at so yeah
➵ not proofread
➵ comment/message if you'd have a request
warnings || smut/dark (dddne)
➵ !! reader is held captive and is experiencing stockholm syndrome. other women to which the same this is occurring are mentioned !!
➵ dubcon sex
➵ unprotected sex
➵ manhandling
➵ controlling dynamics
➵ slight degradation
“you have to do something for her.”
joel wonders how, as his younger brother, tommy always seemed to be nagging him, instead of the other way around. his face pinches in a scowl.
"the fuck i look like? cupid?" he growls back at his brother, rifle sagging on one of his shoulders, forcing him to readjust. tommy rolls his eyes.
"ya even have john and michael doin' somethin' special for their girls." he reminds joel how the other men in the group, with their own souvenirs, at least showed their consideration of the humanity of these girls on valentine's.
"she probably don't even know." joel grumbles, and tommy snorts.
"oh, she knows what valentine's is. the other girls told her. said she'd have liked some clothes."
"the fuck she need clothes for, ya sayin' i can't dress my girl?" joel, ever defensive, hates being talked down to by his little brother.
he hates more the fact that she seems to tell tommy so much more about herself than she does joel.
"y'can dress her, joel." tommy sighs. "but it won't hurt if she wears somethin' other than yer crusty flannels once in a while."
joel rolls his eyes, but he, luckily, doesn't have to entertain the rest of the conversation. a deer rustles the branches of a tree in the distance. joel's a better shot than his brother, always has been. but he's also less agile. as he's about to shoot, his foot crunches on a stick.
the shot still hits the deer's back, but it's a far cry from the headshot he was aiming for. he swears under his breath, but him and tommy are both already stalking the wounded prey, the same glow of determination and predation in their eyes.
they were still family, after all.
she used to never be able to sit still. pre-apocalypse, that meant she was always either fiddling with something, reading a book, or talking but... in the past few years, it meant a lot more silent stimulation. it was okay, she got by counting petals of flowers to herself or tracing the veins of leaves with her fingers to keep her mind occupied.
but the one thing she'd never given up was company. she'd had family, or friends, in every walk of this horrible turn of events, until 6 months ago.
when she was snatched away from her cruel life by an even crueler man. stripping her of autonomy and privacy were mild in comparison to her loss of company. the only other people in the house leered or jeered in her presence.
she was usually locked away from them anyways. in a tall tower she couldn't even use her hair to escape from; kept captive for the satisfaction and pleasure of a bad, bad man.
that's what made her head spin, though. because he wasn't always. yes, he was always sullen, and scowling, rough around the edges and calloused in his touch. but he wasn't always bad.
he'd fixed the bathtub of the house they were squatting in so she could revel in warmth if he wasn't around.
he risked his life for a new pack of cards and even a few books so she could keep her occupied.
and he would sometimes press gentle kisses to her forehead when he slept beside her, unbeknownst to himself, and without realizing the effect he had on her.
when the other men had started getting antsy about her being the only girl around (with her obvious off-limits status), joel relented and let them bring back their own. it was to avoid mutiny and maintain control, sure, but... it gave her company, too. and that was important to her.
the women would confide in her. first, of their fears and then, of their growing affections for their own men. it made her happy, vindicated.
she wasn't alone in her stockholm syndrome.
she's looking at the flowers that michael got for jessica. it's almost comical, with that kinda man and their kinda relationship. but jess liked it - really liked it - and that's all that mattered. john had promised anna something too, which she was talking about as the front door opened.
a dead deer was carried in by the miller brothers, and then some of the other men helped bring it out back to the shed, where they'd scavenge enough to feed the group for the week. as she always does, she approaches and stands in front of joel, greeting him in a low voice. he regards her with a once over, nodding, before his head tilts incrementally up, signalling to his bedroom.
she nods shyly, retreating to the room on the upper floor as joel delegates some tasks, before coming up to join her. she's looking out the window - barred, 'for her protection'- and he finally speaks up.
"what did ya do?" he asks gruffly, referring to the events in his absence.
"played some cards." she smiles softly as she faces him, "talked to anna and jessica." that makes him grimace a little, and she's confused.
"what about?" she shrugs.
"stuff. john and michael are gettin' them things, i guess?" she says it unsurely, "they say it's for 'valentines'?" she says the word curiously, as if wondering if it was something the 4 had made up, or if it was a real celebration. his grimace worsens: he hates when tommy's right. feigning innocence, he continues,
"what's that, then?" she looks at the floor shyly.
"like... a celebration? of... relationships, partners, that sorta thing." it's vague, but it's all she knows.
"huh." joel doesn't continue it further, and he goes silent, as he looks around the room to change out of his dirty clothes.
she sits on the bed, watching him move around, and with every passing moment of silence, her worry grows. did she say something wrong? was he mad? what happened?
when he finally goes to join her, he manhandles her to face away from him. that only makes her more upset, and she feels the prickle of tears in her eyes, as she lays down, and he joins her a moment later.
laying behind her as she feels a tear roll down her cheek, he doesn't realize how upset he's made her: he'd only asked her to turn around so he could fall asleep with the scent of her hair.
she wakes up after he's already left.
she sighs, rubbing her eyes, that always ended up a little inflamed after she cried. there's a little wetness on her pillow, and she flips it so joel doesn't see.
tommy's downstairs, having saved a fruit for her breakfast. she takes it gratefully, cutting it up and fiddling with the bite-sized pieces.
there's something on her mind - tommy, he notices these things. he wished his brother would, too.
"he's getting supplies." he assures her, knowing what was agitating her. she snaps out of it.
"hmm?" she pops a piece in her mouth, sweetness exploding on her tastebuds as she bites into it, "oh. right, yeah." she realizes what he's saying, "didn't he just get some?" tommy shrugs.
"he likes to go out to the abandoned mall - it clears his head." that makes her squirm.
"is he mad?" she mumbles, and tommy pats her shoulder.
"at you? never."
it wasn't exactly true, she thought. he's gotten mad before: if she talks too much to the others, when she doesn't listen to him, or when she finds herself in danger.
tommy knows joel's not mad in those moments. he's just terrified of what could possibly happen to his girl.
after finishing her fruit, she curls up under the blanket upstairs, wanting some time to herself. humming a melody - she thinks it's one that the guys will sing in an off-key fashion when they get particularly drunk - she tries to occupy herself by counting each of the little plaster bumps in the ceiling, and then all the small flowers on the dingy wallpaper of the room.
she gets to 78 when the door swings open. jolting awake, she makes eye contact with joel, who's looking down at her form under the covers.
"somethin' happen?" his voice is less gruff than usual, and she shakes her head.
"nope. just waiting." she gives him a weak, shaky smile. he doesn't return, but he doesn't click his tongue in annoyance, either. it's a win in her books.
he's got a backpack, and it looks pretty full. she wants to ask what's inside, but she knows he'll tell her if he wants to. he sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. she scoots over so he has space.
"let me see you." he instructs, and she sits up, crawling out of the covers. sure enough, she's wearing one of his flannels for warmth, and had slipped into a pair of his boxers instead of her otherwise nonexistent pajama shorts. he's silent for a long moment, before he brings his fingers to examine the material. goddamn, was it old, frayed almost everywhere, and the chest pocket had a hole. he sighs, finally speaking, "comfy?"
she blinks, confused, "huh?"
"'re ya comf'rtable?" he repeats, voice gruffer. she lets out a nervous exhale. was it a trick?
"ye-yes. yeah, i'm comfy." she assure, and he hums.
"heard ya want somethin' new." he finally looks her in the eyes, something he doesn't do all that often. she shuts her eyes, cheeks heating in embarrassment and worry. dammit, tommy, she thinks, knowing the younger man had told joel about her offhand comment on clothes.
"it's fine, i'm happy with this." she splutters out quickly, hoping she won't upset him. he sees right though it though.
"yeah, yeah." he scoffs, waving a dismissive hand, as he gets up. her heart clenches, wondering if he was really angry, when he reaches for the backpack, throwing it at her.
it's not an aggressive throw, and lands on the mattress beside her.
"open it." he instructs, and she swallows thickly, unsure what to expect. the zipper is a little worn, but she eases it open... only to find not only clean but colorful clothes inside. she looks up at him in confusion.
"what...?" and for the first time in a while, there's just a hint of a smirk curling at his lips.
"go try 'em on." he encourages. giddily, she beams as she gets up, taking the bag of clothes into the cropped bedroom. he slumps back on the bed, trying to will away his fatigue. it'd been a hassle to collect all the clothes - more so, to find clean one he thought she'd like - so he leans back, waiting for her to return.
she lays out the clothes on the cramped sink counter space, starting with a simple pair of slightly flared jeans, pairing it with a light blue cropped cardigan. she goes out to show him, an obvious pep in her step.
he looks up as she enters, eyes trailing up and down her body, including the way the outfit fits her curves, and the slight glimpse of midriff.
"don't you look pretty?" he drawls, and, though it almost sounds sarcastic with his hard features, a light smile plays on her lips. she tries on 4 other outfits she could make out of the 10 articles of clothing he got her, and he seems to like each one even better. sure, he'd taken the initiative to ensure all of them were a little revealing - he deserved an eyeful for his hard work, after all - but she seemed genuinely happy, and the bright smile on her face almost rivals the cleavage that she shows off in some of the outfits.
when she shows him the final outfit, he pats the space on the bed next to him, and she obliges, sitting beside him.
"happy?" he finally murmurs, pulling her closer by the hem of her pants, and she nods excitedly.
"very." she assures, softening, "thank you." she doesn't need to clarify her sincerity, as it pours out in her tone. he caresses her cheek with his calloused thumb.
"good girl. you make sure to tell the girls." she almost laughs, knowing she'd show off the gift in the same way jess and anna have been with theirs. he wanted it to be known that fucking michael and john couldn't treat a better than he could, "got one more thing f'r you." he pulls her so she's standing, procuring two more pieces of small fabric from his pockets.
she inspects them, eyes widening a little when she realizes it's lingerie. he glances back at him, and he has a brazen and unashamed glint in his eyes. she's about to make a joke that this one seems more a gift for him than for her, but refrains, obliging with a small nod of her head, and taking it to the bathroom.
she strips out of her clothes, pulling up the lace fabric. the panties are practically a thong, shaping her ass nicely, while the bra enhances and perfects the curve of her tits, a small, red bow in between the cups, matching the bow on the hem of her panties.
she looks hot, and damn, is his taste good.
going back outside, a noise escapes his throat - like a guttural growl. he signals her to turn, and she does, giving her an ample view of her ass. he grabs her by the hips as she does, and she squeaks, as he pushes her down on the bed.
"oh!" she gasps, trying to sit up, but he's on top of her in a moment, mouthing at her neck roguishly, a sloppy trail left in his wake.
her skin erupts in goosebumps, but she knows better than to touch him when he gets like this - his need for dominance forbidding it. her hands grip the covers to ground herself, as his lips trail downwards, cheekily biting the bow of her bra, and taking a nip of her skin along with it. she moans, jolting, and he slaps her thigh - but gently. he's not meaning to hurt her - and trust her, she can tell when he is.
"stay still." he hisses, finally parting from her torso to marvel at her, "good lord, gonna fuck you in all this, sweetheart." he mumbles, more to himself than anything else, as his hands cup her breasts framed in the bra, squeezing softly so as to not damage the material.
usually, he'd revel in pushing her down to choke on his cock, and, when he was feeling more generous, he'd go down on her like a ravenous man.
but he was a simple man, who had been generous enough tonight. and he wasn't putting her in a position where he can't see her in the whole get-up, so the blowjob was out too.
fuck it, he thinks, reaching for the belt of his pants, i need her.
she gets up to help him undo his pants, but he forces her back into laying down, "wanna see you." he grumbles, finally undoing his pants. already hard, he palms his cock, eyes rolling back, "fuck."
he lowers again to shift the slit of the panties to the side, exposing her arousal, swiping his fingers through her mess, making her bite her lip. he wipes it gently on her cheek - a wholesome act, with a backdrop of degradation and depravity. he presses a soft hiss to the bow on her panties, making her shiver, before rising to his full length.
"you want it?" he grunts, as he strokes his cock, adjusting so it's lined up. she whimpers, as he's prolonging both of their suffering just to highlight her need for him. pathetically, she nods, and he laughs - barking and cold. "i can't hear you."
"yes!" she gasps out, unable to hold back anymore. he smirks in satisfaction, shifting his hips forward to bottom out in one stroke.
she cries out, eyes rolling back and head lolling onto the mattress, trying desperately to adjust to the stretch. he doesn't have that same decency, animalistically beginning to move his hips.
a squeal gets caught in her throat, and she cave to her instincts, gripping the wrist of the hand he's holding her waist with, squeezing as an indication of not her pain, but her pleasure.
thankfully, the adjustment was quick, and her surprised squeaks morph into pleasured moans, as he grunts on top of her, eyes raking the way that her tits try to bounce in the confinement of the bra. unusually, he's not annoyed by her touch, and it only makes him move more aggressively, as he can tell what makes her pleasure increase - as she'll squeeze his wrist harder.
"who's making ya feel this good?" he growls, "who takes care f'ya, sweetheart?" she chokes, garbled, broken moans escaping her.
"y-you!" she manages to gasp out, "o-only you, no one else, you - you take care of - of - oh, fuck!" she squeaks, feeling the pressure of her orgasm, "gonna - can i please - please-?!" she begs nonsensically, but he understands her - of course he does. she's his girl, after all.
"cum, sweetheart." he assures through gritted teeth, "who's making you cum?"
"y-you-" she cuts herself off with a cry as she cums, body stilling and legs trembling, as he continues to thrust and she rides out the orgasm.
he follows right after her, the squeeze of her cunt around sending his body into overdrive. collapsing on the bed beside her, the two remain silent for a minute to catch their breath.
finally, he clears his throat, getting up, and pulling her up, too. "go, clean up." he instructs, voice less gruff and softer, asking her to do something for her own good as opposed to his, "then change. don't think i can do another round right now." he knows that if he sees her in the outfit for longer, he'd get hard again.
with a woozy head, she does as he says. when she changes, though, she decides against the clothes that he bought her. she loves them, of course, but their either too coarse or flashy for night-time wear.
besides, they don't provide the precise comfort of stability that the flannel and boxers she puts on again does. though she tells herself she's not sure why joel's clothes seem more comforting than the new clothes, she's lying.
she feels more comfy in them because they smell and feel like him.
he's already knocked out when she exits, sleeping on his side, having evidently left the perfect amount of space for her to curl into his side, pulling his arm over to cradle her.
she knew he would always take care of her.
#joel miller#joel miller oneshot#joel miller imagine#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#dark!joel miller#the last of us#tlou#tlou hbo#pedro pascal#valentines 2024
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Love to Hate You - Theo Nott
Requested? No just my late night ramblings...
Word Count | 1800
Warnings | MDNI | Smut, breeding kink, begging, dom!Theo, sub!Reader, use of Y/N
Theme | Enemies to maybe lovers? 👀
If there was one thing you were certain about during your time at Hogwarts, it was that Theodore Nott was a pain in your ass.
After a hex you’d cast went rogue and hit him instead of your intended target, he’d teased you mercilessly. He’d never let it go, even though it happened in your third year, while you were both now in your seventh year.
“Watch where you’re going (Y/L/N).” Theo hissed as you almost bumped into him, he gave you a shove for good measure, causing you to drop the books you were carrying.
“Piss off Nott!” You yelled back, bending down to pick your books back up.
“Or what?” He rasped, slamming his foot down on the last book you were going to pick up. You straightened, coming face to face with him.
“Don’t make me hex you again.” You could feel your adrenaline kicking in, your heart rate picking up at the thought of a potential fight with Nott.
“Try me, see how far you get.”
You hated Theodore Nott.
“Honestly Luna! He’s infuriating!” You spoke animatedly to your housemate, regaling her with the details of your morning run in with Nott. “And then he told me to try him and see how far I got. What does that even mean?” You sighed, exasperated.
“Honestly (Y/N), it sounds like you like him.” You almost spat out your pumpkin juice.
“I hate him!”
Luna just smiled at your reaction as she looked past you, she could see the brunette staring at you from across the Great Hall. He had a look in his eyes that she couldn’t pinpoint, but whatever it was, she knew it was aimed at you.
“I’m not dealing with this right now.” You stood up from the table, dropping your cutlery onto your plate. It landed with a loud clatter, drawing curious looks from students who were sat close to you. You stormed out of the Great Hall.
You loved to hate Theodore Nott.
As the sun was setting for the day, you made your way up to the Astronomy Tower. You’d been frustrated all day and needed some time to calm down without being surrounded by people.
As you took the last few steps, you were grateful to see that the tower was empty. You walked over to the edge of the tower, sitting down and dangling your legs over the edge. The sunset was a beautiful mix of reds and oranges, it almost looked like they were dancing with each other, intertwined.
You leaned back on your arms, legs still dangling as you kept your gaze on the rolling hills and sprawling trees.
It was so calm.
You didn’t notice the footsteps on the stairs until you heard his voice.
“What are you doing up here?” He rasped, his voice husky.
“Come to push me off Nott?” You quipped, rolling your eyes but standing up and stepping away from the edge regardless. He let out a laugh, it was a laugh that you hadn’t heard directed at you since your third year.
“And kill my favourite person? You know me so well.” He spoke, sarcasm dripping from his words.
“Either sit in silence or leave. I’m not in the mood tonight.”
“And why’s that principessa?” Luna’s words had been playing on your mind for most of the day.
“Don’t call me that. I’m not your princess.” You spat, you felt your anger rise up. He smirked, knowing he’d hit a nerve.
“But principessa, why not?” He mocked, your anger rising with every passing word he spoke.
“I’m warning you Nott. Stop.”
“But you love it so much principessa.” You felt something snap inside you, quickly closing the gap between you, you slapped him. His head snapped to the side, a faint red mark apperaing on his cheek. As he turned to look at you, you saw a spark of some form in his eyes. The mark on his face, glowing slightly brighter. A sinking feeling lodged itself in your stomach. Shoving eachother was one thing, but Theo had never hit you in anyway.
“Nott. I’m sorry.” You apolgised. He smirked.
“Don’t worry principessa, I liked it.” He whispered. Your eyes widened at his words.
Moments later, Theo advanced towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist. His lips were on yours in seconds, pulling you into a harsh kiss. You could feel him biting at your bottom lip, silently begging you to open your mouth. As soon as you gave in a little, he pushed his tongue into your mouth and one of his hands found your hair, tangling his fingers into the strands.
“Fuck, Nott.” You whispered as he broke the kiss moments later. He smirked at your flustered expression. He stepped back from you, releasing his hand from your hair.
“Next time, principessa.”
You hated to like Theodore Nott.
Your occasional trips to the Astronomy Tower became a regular occurrence. You had a little hope that he’d return there and on your sixth night of sitting there alone, he did.
“Principessa.” You heard him say from the top of the stairs. You glanced over to him, an unreadable expression on your face.
“Nott.” You replied as he walked towards you.
“Did you come back for more?” He whispered in your ear as he got close enough, the feeling of his breath on your neck was indescribable.
“Maybe.” You looked up at him as he wrapped his arms around your waist again, placing one hand on the small of your back, the other just above your ass. You sucked in a breath. Theo raised an eyebrow.
“You like that?” He whispered. You nodded, stretching up on your tiptoes and nibbling his earlobe.
“I wouldn’t do that principessa.” His voice sounded strained.
“And why’s that?” You teased, maybe Luna was right.
“Because you’re making me want to do terrible things to you.”
“Try me.”
The look in Theo’s eyes darkened at your word, a smirk appeared. He guided you backwards in his arms, pressing you up against a wooden beam.
“Tell me you want this.” Theo whispered into your ear; his hot breath sent a chill down your spine.
“Please, I want this.” Theo pulled your robes up and bunched them around your waist, revealing a lacy black thong. You heard him suck in a breath. He placed his thumb against your clit and rubbed small circles through your underwear. You couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your mouth. You heard him chuckle slightly at the sounds you were making as he continued his movements.
“You’re enjoying this principessa.” He whispered, you moaned in response as he increased his pressure on your clit. Your moans flowed out of you freely, the pleasure you felt from Theo’s thumb on your clit was unlike anything else you’d felt before.
“Let it go (Y/N).” He whispered, it was like the band that was holding you together snapped. You fell apart, with only Theo grasping you around the waist to support you. You shuddered through your orgasm, gasping as he continue to rub your clit.
“Nott, please.” You whispered, your clit becoming sensitive to touch.
“Please what?”
“Please, fuck me.” Theo’s eyes widened slightly but his reaction was quickly replaced with his usual cold demeanour.
“You want me to fuck you principessa?”
“Please.” You begged. Theo smirked again. He made quick work of his belt with one hand, still supporting you with the other arm. He whipped it off and cast it aside, moving onto his trousers, struggling with his button and fly.
“Let me.” You whispered, reaching between the two of you and undoing the button with ease. His breath was hot on your neck again as he released himself from his trousers. You felt him push against the fabric of your underwear, catching your clit with his tip. You let out a small whine at the feeling, you wanted more.
“Needy thing, aren’t you.” Theo smirked, pulling your legs up to wrap around his waist one at a time. His body held you in place as you wrapped yourself around him. One arm wrapped around your back, the other moved towards your soaked underwear, swiftly pulling them to the side.
“I’m not going to be gentle with you principessa. I hope you’re ready.” He whispered as he lined up with your soaked pussy. You moaned at his words. You felt him slide into you, a guttural groan escaping him.
“So tight, fuck. You’re perfect.” He moaned as he began to thrust into you. You felt a slight pain to start with but soon Theo was hitting something inside you that made you cry out.
“Fuck, please!” You moaned, urging him to go faster. His hips thrust, pistoning in and out of you. He was almost feral with the way he was fucking you. You threw your head back, another moan escaping.
“Say my name.” He whispered, the sound of him slapping against you almost drowned out his words. You mumbled his name softly.
“Louder.” He rasped, sliding all the way out to the tip and pushing back in again rapidly.
“Theo!” You yelled as he hit something inside you again. He grinned, smug at the reaction he’d gotten from you. He caught your lips in a heated kiss, slamming into you as hard as he could. You whimpered into his mouth, feeling your orgasm building.
“Are you going to cum for me principessa?” He moaned, feeling your walls fluttering around him. He wasn’t far away himself.
“Yes!” You moaned, he kept hitting a spot that was making you see stars. You used your legs to pull him closer to you each time he thrusted, taking him to the hilt. He groaned as he sank all the way into you, your wetness and warmth enveloping his cock.
“Do you want me to cum in you?” He whispered again, pounding you hard against the wooden beam. You nodded, unable to get your words to form a sentence.
“Want me to breed you love? Stuff you full?”
“Please Theo!”
“Cum for me.” He whispered, as you came for the second time that night, squeezing around his cock and pushing him over the edge. He gasped as he came inside you, filling you up. He held you for a moment, gasping for breath.
“Shit (Y/N).” He rasped, looking into your eyes, his chest still heaving. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. He gently slid out of you, a trail of semen following as he placed your legs back down on the ground and released you from the hold he had on you. You leant back against the beam you’d been pressed up against as your robe dropped from where it had been bunched around your hips.
You hated to want Theodore Nott
My first work for the HP Fandom and the first time in a long time that I've written smut! Constructive criticism is welcome 💞
Requests are open!
#theodore nott#theo nott#theodore nott x you#theo nott x reader#slytherin imagine#slytherin smut#theo nott smut
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Eddie Munson x fem!reader
[33K] summer camp, a few almost kisses, that friends to lovers shit and your own personal rule: no boys.
I want you to want me.
The man in front of you seemed stressed.
The fax machine was whirring, the phone was ringing and there was a large glass jar on the desk that was stuffed full of dollar bills, a faded label on the front that said “therapy kayak money.”
Jim Hopper, your new boss and camp leader, handed you a set of keys and a shirt, sighing as he scrubbed a hand over his moustached face.
“Michigan? Right?”
You weren’t sure if the man was asking where you were from or blessing you with a new name because he couldn’t remember your real one. But either way, you nodded.
“Look kid, I’m sorry but things are crazy here today. The dumbass delivery truck is lost and we’re already a few counsellors down until the road through Martinsville opens back up.”
You raised your brows, confused.
“Fallen tree,” Hopper waved his hand, “it’s fine. Listen, the campers don’t arrive for another three days anyway. Can you get yourself settled? I’ll find someone to show you the ropes soon, I just gotta answer some calls.”
You nodded again, clutching your faded shirt in your hands. The collar and cuffs matched the same sun bleached green that the word “staff” was printed in and the keys had a tab with “cabin thirty one” attached.
Hopper must’ve seen your worried face because he sighed again, softening a little despite the way he was desperately shuffling papers and files.
“You’ll be fine,” the man told you. It was almost reassuring. “The rest of the counsellors are great - well, the majority of them at least. Don’t talk to Billy. Anyway, the kids are easy enough and Bob actually makes some decent food in that old kitchen.”
Jim looked at you with kind eyes and his voice softened even further, despite the way the phone was still ringing. “Grab some breakfast, tell him I sent you, yeah? And take the morning to explore.”
It was alarming, the way you’d found yourself in the middle of Yellowwood State Forest, a whole other state away from home. But after graduating high school almost two years ago with absolutely zero idea of what you were supposed to do next, and an ex-boyfriend you so desperately wanted to avoid, you figured a few months in the wilderness wouldn’t do you any harm. Especially if you were getting paid for it.
And besides, you were good with children.
“Welcome to Camp Upside Down, kid, don’t eat the mushrooms,” Hopper smiled somewhat tiredly and then you were on your own.
Fuck.
Stepping out of the cabin, the warmth and smell of a new summer washed over you. The forest was quiet in the early morning but still very much alive, soft chirps and buzzes from hidden animals, insects that lurked in the too long grass by the edges of the lake. Something splashed by the dock, and in the distance, you could hear a car approaching, maybe two, one louder than the other.
The dirt paths were empty, the lack of kids running around making Camp Upside Down seem almost serene. It was still early, the sun a little golden, the sky a little hazy and the light that shone through the tree canopy made pretty dappled patterns on the forest floor. Everything smelled like morning dew, damp grass and tree moss.
And then your stomach grumbled. Deciding that your bags could stay in your car for a little while longer, you took Hopper’s advice and headed towards what you assumed was the mess hall. The dirt paths led the way through trees, past the unlit camp fire that sat proud in the middle of the forest clearing.
You could smell coffee as you approached, maybe bacon, some maple syrup too. It cut through the scent of pine and leftover rain but then there was smoke and the familiar smell of weed and then - fuck - the solid frame of someone slamming into you.
“Oh shit.”
Or did you walk into them? You weren’t sure, but whoever it was had been hiding around the corner you were turning, their back pressed to the old, moss covered wood of an unused cabin. You dropped your keys in surprise, catching your staff shirt before it fell into something that looked more like sludge than mud.
But the person, the boy, you’d ran into picked up your keys before you could, your eyes a little wild because the forest had been so quiet and you hadn’t expected to see anyone. Not yet.
“Cabin thirty one?” the boy asked you, holding the silver back out by the keyring. He was smiling, kind, wide, a slow and warm stretch that showed off the dimples in his cheeks.
Oh fuck, he was pretty, and he was a lot more man than boy.
You took the keys from his hand, smiling in thanks but your breath was stuck in your throat because this guy in front of you was far, far too nice to look at. Dark, messy curls, bangs that were falling into the biggest, brown eyes you’d ever seen. They looked a little soulful, bright, full of mischief and they blinked at you when you didn’t say anything.
“Fuck, thanks,” you managed and then you gestured back to the the corner you’d turned, “m’sorry, I must’ve not been paying attention, I didn’t even s-”
The boy grinned, brushed away your apology with a hand that was still holding a lit joint. He winced and stubbed it out on the side of the cabin, winking at you as he did.
“Nah, s’fine, don’t worry about it,” he told you. “I was totally lurking. Definitely in places I shouldn’t be.”
He wasn’t wearing a staff shirt, you noticed. Instead, his was black with a band logo for Metallica on the front. The sleeves had been entirely cut off, the sides of the cotton gaping around his waist, tattoos showing through the slashes and there was so much bare skin.
It didn’t look like a counsellor uniform. Nothing about the way this boy looked like it was by the book. More tattoos littered his arms: some bats, a spider, some kind of dragon, a scary looking puppet. His black jeans were ripped, his belt too long and the end of it hung by his knee. His big boots were creased and worn, black and already layered with mud and pine needles from the forest.
And then he tucked what was left of his joint behind his ear and he was smiling at you in the softest way; big, brown eyes and dimples too. He suddenly wasn’t as scary as you thought he was trying to be.
“You're the new girl, right?”
You twisted your lips, nodded, because you had to be right? No one else stood with you at orientation - if you could call it that - and Hopper hadn’t mentioned any other new counsellors. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned anyone.
“I guess?” You replied, smiling a little more warmly when the boy grinned, tucked a curl behind his other ear and shoving his hands in his back pockets.
His arms flexed and you swallowed hard.
You told him your name, clutched your keys and your shirt a little closer to your chest because the boy was looking at you with those eyes that seemed to see through your fucking bones. Did you have a soul? You were sure he could see it if you did.
“I’m Eddie,” he told you, kicking stray rock. Was he blushing? “Eddie Munson, I teach music here.”
“So you do work here,” you squinted at him, eyes narrowed on the slashed up shirt, the ripped denim. “I was starting to wonder if I was just talking to some random dude in the middle of the forest.”
He laughed, tilting his head to look at you, “well that just tells me you’re far too trusting.”
“Or just up for a little trouble,” you replied too quickly.
His answering grin was nothing short of scandalous.
“Where’re you from?” Eddie asked, moving in a way that told you he had a problem staying still. He walked into a burst of sunlight that lit the forest floor, came alive under the glow of it, his dark hair turning a little lighter, his pale skin showing a little more signs of being touched by summer.
“Michigan, a small town you probably wouldn’t have heard of,” you told him. “You from around here?”
“Nah, Philly,” he replied, still smiling at you like he’d found his new favourite thing to do.
You gasped, all faux shock like you’d stumbled across a celebrity. “Ooh, a city boy, in the woods? Do the papers know?”
Eddie laughed again, a proper, lovely laugh that made your cheeks heat up ‘cause you felt like you’d achieved something.
He hummed, leaned against the cabin he’d been using for his hiding spot and crossed his arms over his chest. You tried not to stare at the way his muscles moved, or how the collar of his shirt shifted to show off a glinting, silver chain around his neck.
“Sometimes it’s nice to just touch a tree, you know?” He smiled, almost flirtatiously if it weren’t for the fact his cheeks were rosy and his eyes were downcast shyly. “Plus, my parole officer says I gotta do at least another four summers here.”
“Par- what?” You tried not to let the shock show on your face. You weren’t sure you’d succeeded. “Oh.”
That grin was back, that wide, slow spreading one that showed off the dimple on his right cheek. It made his eyes flash, made them look darker than they were when he stood in the sun and Christ, fuck, he was a menace.
“I’m kidding.”
“Oh.”
“Or am I?”
You stood, slack jawed and unsure because this boy was still a stranger and even though he had nice eyes and a pretty smile, you didn’t really know him.
He must’ve sensed your hesitation though, because he was suddenly stricken looking, curls bouncing as he shook his head at his own last words. “No, no - shit - I really was kidding.”
Maybe it was something in his face that made you believe him, that awfully earnest shine in his eyes. He looked concerned, worried that he’d scared you away so quickly but then you were snorting, not the most attractive sound, but it made the boy light back up.
He was watching you carefully after that, your little sound of amusement leaving a pretty smile on your lips and he mirrored it, swaying a little on the spot like he was too excited to stay still. Then, a hand, not really offered for you to hold, but a gesture for you to follow him. Silver rings flashed in the sun, skulls and demons and was that a pig?
It didn’t matter, your feet were moving and you were following him.
He seemed as surprised as you were, looking over his shoulder at you with a big smile, catching your elbow when you tripped on a root. You would’ve been embarrassed if he didn’t do the same almost five seconds later, both of you snorting as his boots slid on some damp moss.
“First time at camp?” he asked as a way of distraction, hands shoved back into his jean pockets, like he had to stop himself from reaching out to guide you through the forest.
You nodded, finding your footing with him as he led you onto a narrow pathway, the wooden signposts pointing you both towards the mess hall.
“Uh, yeah, figured I’d try something new,” you said.
Eddie grinned like he’d heard that answer before. “What’re you running from?” he asked.
His words made you stop, shoes pushed to the pine needles and you felt a little warm, a little shocked, that he’d figured you out so quickly. And if Eddie sensed your surprise, he didn’t show it, he just leaned up against a tree trunk and waited for you to say something, even if it was to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business.
But instead, you shrugged and told him the truth.
“Tiny town with not much to do and nowhere to go,” you squinted at him in the sun, a humourless smile on your lips. “And maybe some people that get hard to avoid in a place that has a population of like, seven hundred.”
“A boy?” Eddie smiled knowingly.
“Presumptuous,” you shot back but he saw the heat on your cheeks and the way you stared at the tree behind him.
“But not wrong,” he countered. That smile was still there. He didn’t push at your silence though, just tilted his head further down the bath and said, “c’mon, trouble.”
“Have you worked here before?” You asked, scrambling to keep up with his long strides. It was obvious from the way he was leading you that he had, but you didn’t know what else to say. You winced in embarrassment. “Of course you have, I meant how ma-”
“This’ll be my fourth,” Eddie told you, putting you out of your misery by ignoring the way your cheeks were warm. “Started off as a lifeguard before I realised I can’t really save myself in the water, never mind some kids, and then Hop let me run my own music workshop instead.”
You were impressed, even though you tried to hide it. “A whole workshop, huh?”
Eddie smiled as he led you round another corner, passing empty cabins that would soon be filled with sticky handed kids. A larger building was finally in sight, with big windows and a pitched roof, a wooden sign with ‘mess hall’ above the door and the smell of fresh coffee coming from inside.
He hummed, a sound of confirmation and as you both strolled towards the hall, Eddie told you all about his job.
“A whole workshop,” he repeated, “I teach guitar, drums, a little piano and I’m working on getting some more percussion stuff in for the kids who are… lacking rhythm.”
“Oh, I’m definitely a percussion girl,” you cracked. “A triangle would be a challenge.”
“I give private lessons, if you need them,” Eddie murmured and you weren’t sure if you imagined the way his voice dropped a little lower, the way he seemed to be looking at you through his lashes.
You stalled, stumbled, close enough to the mess hall now that you could hear the hushed hisses of coffee machines, the clatter of some dishes. If your cheeks hadn’t been pink before, they certainly were now. You could feel the heat there, a rosy beam you were sure.
“Uh-”
“Ohmygodno,” Eddie rushed out, eyes wide and hands in front of him, like he was warding off a cornered animal. “No, no! I actually do give lessons. Private lessons.”
You were still staring, lips parted. The whole forest was quiet, like it was listening in too.
“Guitar.” Eddie’s voice was short. Strained. God, his cheeks were pink too.
“Oh.”
You were both silent. A beat passed, maybe another, and somewhere above, a bird called out, mocking. It suddenly felt so much warmer than it already had, the sun climbing, Eddie’s eyes trained on your shoulder, too shy to meet your eye.
The air felt thicker than it should’ve.
But then the boy was clapping his hands together, the noise sharp enough that it made a squirrel leap from a nearby bush and disappear up a tree. Eddie swung his arms, limbs clumsy, a little on edge and finally, finally, he looked at you again.
“So, this is the, uh, the mess hall.” He pointed to the sign that said as exactly such and clicked his tongue, closing his eyes in more awkward embarrassment. “Yup.”
You nodded, clutching your shirt a little tighter in your hand, keys clinking as you have an equally pathetic thumbs up to the boy. “Yeah, that’s great, yeah… thanks, Eddie.”
He clicked his fingers, pointed them at you like a fake gun and then he was groaning, thumbs pressed into his closed eyes as he stumbled blindly away from you. You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled in your chest, tried to hide it with a twist of your lips but it made your cheeks sore, in the nicest sort of way.
“Uh, yeah, so roll call’s at eleven sharp, Hop hates it when we’re late and uh-” Eddie stood a little away, what he seemed to deem a safe distance from you. “I’d offer to help you find your cabin but I’ve already proven myself to be an absolute sex pest, so-”
You really did laugh then, a choked off sound that made Eddie grin and you smothered your own behind you fist.
He was sweet, cute. Really pretty. Even sweeter when he smiled at you like that, eyes sincere and so bright, his lips stretched out soft like he was amazed he’d gotten you to laugh at all.
“They’re back past the firepit, right?”
The boy nodded, hooked a thumb over his shoulder and told you, “yeah, just follow the path that veers off towards the lake. You’re not that far from mine. If you come to a, like, massive cliff, you’ve gone too far.”
You tried to hide another grin, squinted at him in the sun and wondered how you were going to get through the summer with Eddie Munson and your own self appointed rule:
No boys.
—————
Hopper's office was packed when you slipped back inside just before eleven o’clock. The fax machine was still whirring but the phone had stopped and you realised as you sat down, that a man you hadn’t seen before was holding the cable for it in his hand, unplugged and blissfully silent.
He stared at you through thick framed glasses, clipboard in his other hand and he scanned his paper.
“Michigan, right?” He asked you.
You mumbled your own name, nervous to speak too loud with so many new faces staring at you. You spotted Eddie across the room, lazing on an old couch next to a pretty boy with wild hair and an even prettier girl on his lap. Eddie grinned at you, lifted his hand from his lap and wiggled his fingers in a wave.
But the older man was huffing, scanning what you realised was your staff file and he brushed off your reply.
“Yeah, uhuh, Michigan, that’s what I said.”
You didn’t argue, didn't dare, ‘cause every pair of eyes was set upon you, so you dropped to an almost empty sofa and stared at your feet. Next to you, a girl with short hair and a backwards cap leaned in. She had a warm smile, sleepy eyes and freckles across her cheeks, and knee nudged yours.
She felt like a friend.
“Unless you wanna be known as ‘new girl’ for the next six weeks, I’d let Murray call you Michigan.” She grinned, voice soft. “I’m Robin.”
Before you could reply, Hopper was standing back up, clapping his hands together and motioning to his camp assistant. “Okay kids, let’s go. Murray?”
“Roll call, shitheads, look alive!” Murray barked, grinning wildly like this was his favourite hobby. “Chrissy, welcome back, we missed you last year. You’re back on gymnastics, but we’re gonna need you to report to Joyce for a first aid refresher, okay?”
A blonde by the window grinned and nodded, eyes wide and bright, features perky and flushed pink.
“Steve, Hawkins,” Murray pointed to the two on the sofa, neither really paying attention to him as they whispered to each other. “You’re both on games too if you can promise to behave-”
“-and to not break anymore goddamn kayaks,” Hopper cut in. The room snickered and the couple rolled their eyes, grumbling something about the quality of boats at camp.
“-and Harrington, you’re off the lifeguard rota since you and Hargrove can’t play nice. We want you on orienteering and Jason, you’re on lake duty now.”
Two blonde boys who stood by the window fist bumped, and from the way one of them wore all denim and sunglasses indoors, you had a feeling that he was the Billy your boss had warned you about.
“Argyle,” Murray barked and a long haired boy jerked awake from where he sat sleeping against the back wall. “Woodshop…let's keep it to bird boxes and kitchen utensils, yeah? Mrs Harlaw didn’t appreciate her son coming home with a custom rolling tray last summer.”
“Sure thing, my dude,” Argyle nodded, smiling happily.
“Buckley, you’re back in the kitchens with Bob, the kids love your sloppy joes, who’d have thought it, huh?”
Robin gave an unenthusiastic salute, spinning her hat the right way around so she could pull the brim of it low enough to close her eyes and not be seen.
“Munson, we’re gonna need your workshop schedule by tomorrow, please and thank you,” Murray handed Eddie some sheets of paper, “and you have seventeen new sign ups for private lessons. If you can make it twenty by the time the first week is out, we’ll look at negotiating pay.”
“Yessir,” Eddie murmured, flicking through the list he’d been handed. His eyes found yours and you warmed at the realisation you’d been caught staring.
He tilted his head towards the sheet, smiled and mouthed, “wanna sign up?”
But then Murray stepped in front of him, barely looking as he said, “Edward, stop flirting with the newbie,” you burned at the laughter, looking at the wall that held a mess of Polaroids and crayon drawings, paintings that were dated back ten years plus. “Nancy and Jonathan should hopefully arrive tomorrow, once the road has opened back up, so in the meantime, please for the love of god, don’t make me have to babysit you all.”
The man turned back to you and grinned, almost menacingly, eyebrows raised in a challenge. “New kid, Michigan, whatever your name is…” Murray searched down the list for your information, a finger scanning over the page. “Okay we’ve got you on arts and crafts with Nancy and if Chrissy needs help in the gym, you’ll be working Fridays there too, got it?”
You nodded, smiling a little tight ‘cause everyone in the room was still staring at you.
And just like that, Hopper plugged the phone back into the wall and Murray clapped his hands together, a signal for everyone to gather their things, schedules clutched in their hands as they stood. The ringing started again, the fax machine whirred and you were pushed outside with the rush of the small crowd.
The morning sun caught you the same time a hand did, just as warm on the small of your back, right before you stumbled over old roots that had grown too wild. You turned to find Eddie, smiling kindly, a little shyly, holding you until you found your footing again.
“Doing okay there?”
You let out a sigh that you hoped he couldn’t hear shake, squinting a little in the sun. “Yeah! Yeah— just, just a little overwhelmed.”
He nodded like he understood, taking his hand away but you still felt the burn over your shirt, cheeks feeling just as warm as he kept smiling that smile. There was a boy hovering behind him, smirking a little, brown eyes on both of you as he pretended that he wasn’t listening.
“Just wait until the kids arrive, you really gotta watch out for the ones that bite,” Eddie grinned when you laughed, hands shoved in his pockets and he hoped he didn’t look as flushed as he felt.
“Are you speaking from experience?” You asked him, feeling lighter than you had inside the cabin. The air smelled like pine and the creek you knew that flowed nearby. “Should I have made sure my shots were up to date before I came?”
“Oh yeah, rookie error, sweetheart,” Eddie grinned wolfishly, “it’s the little ones that’ll get you, the five year olds that can still reach your ankles.”
You snorted and suddenly you were pushing at his shoulder, hand on his bare skin and he was warm and soft under the tattoo ink and nonono, you weren’t supposed to be flirting.
So you cleared your throat and took a step back, eyes searching the moss at your feet and the forest seemed so much warmer than it was before. Before you could say anything else though - before you could dig yourself any deeper - the boy that seemed to be waiting for Eddie interrupted.
He had wild hair and a staff hoodie that had a girl's name stitched on the chest instead of his own and he was smirking.
“Uh, not to interrupt this little,” he waved a hand between the two of you, “thing, but if you want my help moving the amps, Eds, we gotta get it done soon.”
“I hope you can sense the irony in that, Harrington,” Eddie shot back and the other boy - Steve, you were sure - just grinned. “But yeah, I’ll get you at the van.” Eddie threw a set of keys at his friend and then it was just the two of you once more.
“So, uh, there’s a staff party tonight,” Eddie explained, bringing one arm up to mess with the curls at the back of his head, squinting down at you like the sun was too bright and he was too casual to care about the words he was saying. “S’usually down by the dock, the beer is shit but it’s free. I’ll see you there?”
The boy was looking at you so earnestly that you couldn’t possibly have said no. Big, brown eyes, lined with impossibly thick lashes that blinked prettily at you as he waited for an answer. It wasn’t until you heard too much birdsong from the tree canopy that you realised you were staring at him, lips parted and saying absolutely nothing.
Then you were nodding, trying hard not to smile too much because the boy’s grin was contagious and he was too pretty with the way the sun shone on him.
“Yeah,” you told him. “I’ll see you there.”
—————
The lake was framed with the stacked kayaks, the sand so much cooler now that the sun had dipped below the mountains along the horizon. There was a din of music, laughter, conversation dulled with the sound of the lake lapping at the shoreline and the idea of this space in the forest being your home for six weeks, didn’t seem so bad.
You wandered closer with arms crossed across your chest, wary and unsure of the unfamiliar faces and the smell of weed in the air that mixed with the pine needles. But a blonde girl that you recognised from the morning meeting caught your eye and waved, ponytail swinging as she walked over to you.
“Hey! Michigan, right?” She smiled, cheeks and lips a matching bubblegum pink.
“Uh, yeah. Apparently,” you smiled, not bothering to correct her, especially when she was handing you a red cup of something strong. You sipped, grimacing at the taste of cheap beer, lukewarm at best. “You’re Chrissy?”
You prayed you’d remembered right and when the girl grinned and nodded, you let out a sigh of relief.
“How’re you finding things?” Chrissy asked, nodding towards the small fire that someone had made on the sandy knoll, to the group of counsellors sprawled around it. “Did you get settled okay?”
You walked with her, edging around an old dock that seemed ready to sink into the bottom of the lake, waving shyly to the people who greeted you, the music too loud to really exchange anything more. You leaned into the blonde, mouth near her ear as you replied.
“Yeah, yeah— it’s been good!” You shrugged, somewhat unsure. “It’s different. Quiet.”
And it was. Your cabin was the last one in the row of counsellor homes, far away from the main offices and mess halls, almost hidden by the overgrown shrubs, wildflowers growing up the sides of the porch stairs. Everything outside was birdsong and the buzz of insects you couldn’t see, a tiny trickle of water from a creek that ran by the back wall window.
Chrissy smiled and patted your arm, “enjoy it while it lasts, the kids will destroy the peace soon.”
“Looking forward to it,” you said wryly and just as you went to take another long sip from your cup, the girl's eyebrows shot up and she tilted her chin to something behind you.
“Someone’s waiting on you.”
You turned, heart picking up in an embarrassing fashion as you spotted Eddie lingering by the dockside, a matching red cup in his hand as he spoke with Steve and another girl, who were debating animatedly about something you couldn’t hear. But he was watching you.
You looked from the boy and back to Chrissy, hoping you didn’t look as flustered as you felt and Chrissy grinned, nudging at your arm with her elbow.
“Go say hi,” she said and her voice was too sweet and small to sound commanding, but you did so anyway. “I’ll see you tomorrow? We can go over the gym schedule.”
You nodded, already walking across the sand to where Eddie was standing and you wondered if you imagined the way he pulled himself up a little straighter at your approach. He met you halfway, seemingly eager to get away from his two friends who were now too busy making out, hands pulling at each other's belt loops.
“Hi,” you smiled, wondering how he looked as pretty in the moonlight as he did under the sun.
“You made it,” Eddie greeted, tapping his cup against your own. “Makin’ friends?”
Eddie waved at Chrissy over your shoulder, ignoring how she looked at your back and winked, shooting him a thumbs up in response to a question he didn’t ask.
“Uh, yeah,” you nodded, following him as he led you both over to a dried out log that sat a little away from the fire - and an apparent audience. “Yeah, Chrissy seems nice.”
“She is,” Eddie agreed, sitting close enough to you that your legs brushed. It seemed to be accidental, ‘cause he flinched and moved a little, leaving enough room between you both that you felt the cooler nip of the night air. “Most of the guys here are.”
“Most?”
Eddie scrunched his nose in a very endearing show of disdain. “Jason is questionable,” he stage whispered to you, leaning back in so you could smell his cologne and campfire smoke that clung to him. “And Hargrove is more than questionable.”
You snorted, eyeing the boy in question. Billy Hargrove was lit up by firelight, a can of beer held to his lips and his denim jacket was almost too tight across his shoulders. He was blonde, blue eyed and dangerous looking, the kind of pretty that was too good to be true, the kind your mother told you to stay away from.
And with good reason, you noted, ‘cause the boy caught your gaze and even though he grinned, you realised there wasn’t much kindness behind those pretty baby blues.
“Yeah,” you agreed mildly, “I’ve been well warned about him. I’m not interested in knowing more.”
Eddie seemed a little surprised, hiding his smile behind his cup as he took a sip. There was a rolled up joint tucked behind his ear that he seemed to have forgotten about, curls less wild than earlier now the heat in the air has fizzled out, a too big sweater on top of his previously slashed up shirt.
“Not your type?” Eddie asked, aiming for casual. He was staring out at the lake, taking quick glances at you from the corner of his eyes as he waited for a reply.
You huffed out a laugh and it sounded more like a sigh, the boy noted and the smile you gave him was a tired around the edges. You dug the heel of your sneaker into the sand, kicked at a rock you unearthed and tried not to sound too self deprecating when you explained:
“No one’s really my type, right now.”
“Oh?”
You wondered if you misheard the disappointment in the boy’s voice, if Eddie really did look a little sadder than before when your gaze met his again. He was smiling, soft, eyebrows raised in question and his knee nudged your own.
“I’ve sworn off relationships,” you explained, shrugging. The memory of a boy you wanted to forget was still lingering in the corners of your thoughts and it made your skin itch. “Kinda over boys, nothing but trouble, unfortunately.”
Eddie grinned wryly, placing his empty cup at his feet and fiddling with the silver rings on his fingers instead. You tried not to stare but the moon and the surface of the lake was glinting off of them, making you gawk at long fingers and wide palms, tiny silver scars that lit up in the low light.
“Trouble, huh?” Eddie asked, head turned to you so you could see just how brown his eyes really were. “That’s a shame. I’m good at trouble.”
You inhaled on your drink, beer hitting the back of your throat at his words and you could feel the heat in your cheeks as you spluttered. Eddie was laughing quietly when you swiped the back of your hand across your lips and glared at him, embarrassment making your chest tight.
“No boys,” you told him, choosing to ignore his reply. You didn’t really know what to say to that, not without being able to drag him back to your bunk afterwards — and that was the opposite of the plan. “I need a summer to just… recalibrate.”
Eddie was still smiling and he nodded, everything about his soft and gentle and lit up by the stars. There was a dimple on his right cheek you wanted to put your lips on.
“Seems like a good plan,” he murmured, eyes flickering down to your lips and Jesus Christ, the night seemed as warm as the day next to Eddie. He brought a thumb to your chin, sliding upupup until the pad of it swiped at the corner of your mouth, wiping away a little drop of beer you’d missed.
You swallowed, hard.
“Still a shame though,” the boy told you, sighing dramatically, letting his hand drop away. Eddie stared back out to the lake, grinning when you frowned.
“It is?” You weren’t sure where he was going with this.
“Oh yeah,” Eddie assured you, nodding emphatically. Everything the boy said and did seemed to be dripping in drama, glitter and theatrics. It made you smile even when you didn’t mean to. “I had a plan, you see.”
It was your turn to seem intrigued, brows raised, shoulders leaning into him. “Oh?”
Eddie sighed again, just as playful as before, heavy and over exaggerated. “We were totally gonna fall in love,” the boy explained, trying hard to keep the smile off of his face, but his lips were turning up at the corners and his eyes looked like brown sugar, glittering and warm.
You scoffed, a sharp noise of surprise bursting from your chest and it made Eddie beam. He was all soft edges and softer eyes as he looked at you, ignoring the way his friends were watching, his gaze trained on the way you were grinning for him.
“We were?” You laughed — you’d forgotten to be shy, you’d forgotten you didn’t really know this boy, not yet.
But Eddie nodded again, curls springing, bangs falling into his eyes with the movement and you were closer again, knees brushing, toes of your shoes touching his in the sand.
“Totally,” he told you solemnly. “Was gonna be a whole thing, we had the meet cute, right?”
Your cheeks hurt from smiling, a lovely ache that reached your chest. You nodded, aiming to look as serious as the boy did but failing miserably. You remembered the way you’d slammed into each other, morning sun and a tumbling in your stomach that you didn't want to acknowledge. “Oh, of course,” you agreed.
“And then we were gonna spend all summer doing that totally annoying ‘will they, won't they’ thing, y’know? Maybe a couple of almost kisses, an interrupted moment or two—”
“—wow, you’re a real romantic, huh?”
Eddie ignored you, but his smile grew bigger. “—but I guess we’re gonna have to change up the script. Start off as friends, do that slow burn kinda shit.”
“We are?” You hated that you were still playing along. You hated that you were so close to the boy, that you liked the way he smelled, like smoke and cologne and cheap beer and the way the lake smelled at night. “Do I need to learn lines?”
Eddie’s grin changed to something softer, gaze falling from your eyes to your lips and back again, his cheeks pink and his dimples deepening. He shook his head. “Nah, you’re a natural.”
Eddie was all pink cheeks and soft smiles, honey brown eyes and curls that made him seem like he’d just rolled out of bed. But he was looking at you like a new friend, a new something and the smell of campfire smoke and damp moss was the new scent of home. It clung to Eddie like it did you and it made your brain a little fuzzy, it made you forget about home and ruined plans and nine to five jobs in brick buildings and boys who broke your heart.
This summer tasted like cheap beer and it felt like sand in your shoes, like sunburnt cheeks and a new kind of boy who seemed to like to make you smile.
For the second time that day - your very first day at Camp Upside Down - you were struggling to remember why swearing off boys had seemed like such a good idea.
I need you to need me.
The kids arrived that Saturday and brought chaos with them.
They poured out of the out of service school buses, sunshine yellow amongst the trees, parents cars filling up the usually empty parking lot. There was luggage everywhere, backpacks abandoned on benches and at the foot of trees, forgotten about as friends greeted old friends.
Chrissy had been right, it was loud. The sounds of the forest drowned out by shouts and chatter, the overlap of parents yelling at their kids about the importance of vitamins and bug spray, all whilst Hopper, Murray and Nancy stood near the unlit fire and tried to yell out names.
It was a little mad and you were clutching your own clipboard, a list of kids on it that you’d never met before and suddenly you were terrified that the bunch of preteens you were responsible for keeping alive would hate you.
The kids ran rampant, already hanging from tree branches and trading god knows what from the hidden depths of their backpacks and Christ, someone was blasting ‘Sex Machine’ by James Brown from a boombox no adult could actually find within the crowd.
As if he could sense your panic, Eddie appeared at your elbow. He greeted you with the same smile he had on the first day, that slow, soft spread of his lips that made you feel too warm. His hair was pulled back today, a haphazard bun that kept the heat away from his curls and you could see more of his face; strong jaw, the slants of his cheekbones, the line of his neck. He wore the same staff shirt as you, long sleeves rolled to the elbow with his name printed on the front of his chest and there were a few patches sewn underneath.
A guitar, a skull and crossbones and a small teddy bear.
You grinned, reaching a finger out to poke at the last one. “Cute,” you said in lieu of a greeting.
Eddie frowned, or at least you think he tried to. His lips were turned up at the corners, nose scrunched as he batted your hand away with no force behind it. He was standing close, close enough that you could smell the shampoo he must have used that morning, close enough that you could hear him over the roar of the camp.
“You couldn’t have noticed the more metal ones, huh, sweetheart?” he acted offended, chin tucked to his chest so he could peer at the red guitar stitched near his name.
“Not a chance,” you laughed and Eddie lifted his head at the sound, gaze landing on your mouth as if he could see your happiness. “Why the bear?”
“Because--” Eddie hummed, scanning his list of names before finding the culprit on your own sheet. “--This little guy called me Teddy for his first two summers.” He pointed to a name on the bottom of your paper, someone called Dustin Henderson.
“Even cuter,” you told him and he shrugged, cheeks pink and seemingly enjoying your attention.
Eddie stretched, all faux bravado and charm his side brushing your own and you tried hard not to stare at the way his shirt lifted, a slice of bare skin peeking out between it and his jeans. “I know,” he sighed dramatically, like it was a hardship. “Fallen in love with me yet?”
You snorted, an awful noise that should’ve made your cheeks flush with heat but Eddie only grinned wider.
“Not yet,” you told him and you rolled your eyes when the boy grabbed at his chest with two hands, as if your rejection wounded him.
“There’s still time,” his reply was quiet and close to your ear, a brush of a stray curl over your cheek that made you shiver. “Anyway, what hellspawn have you been left with? Need help?”
You were grateful for both the change of subject and the assistance, handing Eddie your clipboard when he held out his hand. He chuckled at the list and nodded to himself, scanning through the names before giving it back to you and smiling kindly.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he told you, “you’ve got a good bunch.”
You blew out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, smiling back at him, “yeah?”
“Oh, yeah,” the boy assured and he nudged your arm with his elbow, squinting through the sun and the mess of loud colours at the kids that swarmed the main camp area. “And if they give you any trouble, you can just tell them your friend Eddie will sort them out.”
His words warmed you more than they should and the word ‘friend’ sounded lovely on his lips.
“Friend?”
Eddie peered down at you from behind his bangs, curls hanging messily in front of his eyes and it made him look a little younger than he was. There was that smile again, the wide, slow stretch of his lips and it was warmer than the sun, the summer, the June heat lingering even in the early morning hour.
He looked at you as if you’d told him a joke and he scoffed, “uh, yeah? This summer romance has to start somewhere, sweetheart.” He said it lightly, prettily, soft enough that you didn’t really want to correct him.
Besides, he was joking. Wasn’t he?
But then he was gone, reappearing ten minutes later with a gaggle of kids that were apparently a part of your group, smiling triumphantly when you visibly sagged with relief. The campers were still chattering, but they dutifully raised one hand and yelled out some sort of confirmation when you called out their names.
Dustin Henderson.
Mike Wheeler.
Maxine Mayfield.
Erica Sinclair.
Janie Evans.
Adam Johnstone.
Eddie was walking back into the crowd to find his own kids just as Maxine was telling you that you were to call her Max and only Max. In fact, the redhead pointedly informed you she’d ignore you if you called her anything else. But you caught the boy’s gaze just before he disappeared, returning his wave with your own raised hand and you mouthed a quick ‘thank you.’
He winked and then he was gone, swallowed up by campers, parents with bags of medication and inhalers, lists of allergies and yells of the yearly battle of who had the top bunk.
—————
The second week went as quickly as the first, the kids were happy to get to know you, each one nosy and inquisitive, challenging and entirely too entertaining. You spent the afternoons in one of the wooden cabins by the lake, sheltered from the heat of the sun and covered in paint and glitter, guiding the campers through crafting sessions and hoping Max didn’t glue anyone else’s hand to a table.
(Mike was still cursing a small chemical burn and Murray had insisted you could handle it, ‘cause the man admitted he was quite frankly, terrified of the young girl.)
Breakfasts were rushed in the mess hall, a noisy start to every morning but you got to say hi to Robin as she slid you extra strawberries in your yoghurt and Nancy always saved you a seat beside her and Jonathan. Every now and then lunches could be had in solace, a sandwich and a stolen carton of OJ eaten at the lake, the sun making the water glitter, toes dipped in the shallows.
You got your bearings quickly, six days in and able to navigate the forest easily enough, from the gym hall to the last of the kids' bunks. You got used to the noise of the tannoy each morning, the moss that grew on almost everything you touched, the ever present smell of chlorine, sunscreen and bug spray.
It was best at night, you found, when the kids were asleep - or at least pretending to be - when all the lanterns and torches were off, when the stars were the brightest thing around and you could find fireflies by the shoreline.
And then there was the walk back to your cabin after dinner was done and the benches were cleared, after you and Steve had taken your turn at hosting story time around the fire pit and Robin’s s’mores had been demolished.
Most of the kids were sent to their cabins for down time, to play cards, read books, share mixtapes and swap the candy they’d hoarded from home. Some went to Nancy for summer school classes, learning Spanish and Calculus to make up for failed grades.
Others went to the cabin near your own, a small wooden structure that leaked out sounds and songs, guitar and piano and sometimes drums - some pretty, some questionably out of tune. But if you timed it just right, you’d walk by as the last of the kids were leaving, guitars on their backs and drumsticks in their hands, leaving Eddie on the small porch, lit up by the lamp inside.
And this night, you’d strolled by in the evening heat, warmth still lingering in the air that smelled like cedar and leftover smoke, passing Dustin and his guitar on the pathway. The young boy stopped you with an excited grin, sheet music in his hand and he pointed out each new chord that he was able to play.
It was easy to get caught up in his joy, his pride and you gushed over Dustin as he did his guitar. But you couldn’t ignore the feeling of eyes on your back, a heat that didn’t come from summer that was still trapped in the night.
When you sent Dustin off after messing up his curls with an affectionate hand, you turned to find Eddie, just like you knew you would. He was leaning on the porch railing, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips, an amber glow in the dark.
He wiggled his fingers at you in a wave, a smile hidden behind the smoke he breathed out. His curls were loose and wild, his staff shirt swapped out for a Metallica tee that was cut shorter across his stomach. More skin flashed between his top and his jeans and you couldn’t help the way your gaze faltered, looking down.
“Hey, new girl,” Eddie greeted and his voice was low and raspy from shouting intrusions at his students over the thrashing of bass drums and cymbals.
The air around you buzzed with cicadas and something else, something unknown but not unwanted, fizzed alongside it.
“Hey, city boy,” you called back and you felt admired from where you stood, Eddie a little above you on the porch, towering and broad and pretty. “Lessons over?”
Eddie grinned and stubbed out the cigarette against the wood, swinging himself around the post to come a little closer. He lingered by the door, hands shoved in his pockets. “Don’t have to be,” he smiled.
You told yourself it would be rude to not follow him, that friends could hang out and it didn’t matter that you thought he was too pretty for his own good. It didn’t matter that you liked his curls or his tattoos or the way he smiled at you each morning, it didn’t matter that you liked his silly teddy bear patch or the way he chased the younger kids around camp with a stupid ‘monster voice.’
It didn’t matter. No boys. That was your rule.
You could spend time with him, you could chat, hang out, maybe steal a smoke and listen to some music. You didn’t have to kiss him. You didn’t.
You didn’t.
The inside of the cabin was different from the larger one they held the main music workshop, the neat shelves of percussion instruments and chalkboard of music notes swapped for low light and a couple of chairs, a beanbag in the corner, a drum kit stacked by the door and some guitars and amps on an old paisley patterned rug.
It smelled like Eddie’s cologne, a little like smoke and rain, and there really, really wasn’t a lot of space. Eddie gestured to the chair across from him, sliding a tin out from underneath one of the amps stacked against a wall and he wiggled it at you.
“Can I interest you?”
You nodded with a grin, dropping down onto the chair and relishing in the way silence hugged the camp again. If you listened carefully enough, you could hear the lake lap at the shore, water against the moored kayaks and the whispers of the kids through open cabin windows. And then there was the flicker of a lighter, the sizzle of something burning and Eddie sighed, slow and soft.
“Long day?” you asked him, leaning in a little to take the joint he offered you and you tried really hard to not think about his lips when you place it between your own.
Eddie hummed, watching the way you took a drag, not as long and deep as his, but he smiled when you managed to blow the smoke to the ceiling without coughing. He was stretched out lazily on the chair that looked more suited to the kids than his lean frame and his spread knees almost knocked against your own.
“You could say that. Been chasin’ kids all day after Billy slept in and didn’t turn up for his hiking group and Hop’s been riding my ass about getting extra sign ups,” Eddie took the roll up back from you and smiled, looking at you from under his lashes in a way you’d become familiar with. “S’lookin’ up now, though.”
You tried to hold his gaze, you really tried. But those big, brown eyes still managed to pierce right into your soul and it made you dizzy, it made you feel too warm. You huffed out a shy laugh and ducked your chin, eyes on the floor just for a second - enough for you to try to collect yourself.
“Are you flirting with me, Munson?” you didn’t sound as bold as you wanted to, your words coming out softer, a little breathier.
But maybe it worked all the same, ‘cause Eddie had turned pink and was hiding behind his curls, joint forgotten about. He brought his fingers to his lips instead, rings glittering in the low light and he looked thoughtful, like he was deciding what to say.
“I’m trying,” he chuckled, “but honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing.”
You wanted to tell him it was working anyway, that he didn’t even need to try. ‘Cause it had been a week at Camp Upside Down, a week of knowing him and you were already too far gone on his charm and his hair and his smile and his teddy bear patch and--
“You remember my rule, right?” you said instead, trying to smile about it, like you weren’t cursing yourself and your ex for making you so opposed to even trying with another boy.
“Mmm,” Eddie hummed and nodded, bringing the half burned joint back to his lips so he could relight it. “You mean your ‘no boys, no fun, no summer fling’ rule?”
He grinned, smug.
“I never said I wasn’t going to have fun,” you protested. “I’m just-- planning on staying away from anything that can break my heart.”
The tone in the cabin shifted, the air in the small space becoming a little heavier but you didn’t feel suffocated. In fact, when Eddie stubbed out the joint in one of his empty coffee mugs and leaned onto his knees, you didn’t feel the need to do anything but move closer too. Your foot nudged his and one side of his mouth quirked up into a small smile, his eyes careful on you.
“Wanna talk about it?” he asked quietly.
You shrugged half heartedly and watched the way the lights of the camp slowly started to switch off, one by one, until you and Eddie were the only ones still bathed in warmth. “Not much to tell,” you murmured, “not without sounding like a cliche.”
Eddie’s knee nudged against your own, deliberate this time, and it made you look over at the boy. He was smiling, kind and so lovely.
“I don’t mind cliches, remember?”
So you sucked in a breath and told him about life in Port Austin, how there were only really a few parks, the lake and a farmers market to look forward to on Sundays. You spoke about your job at Murphy’s Bakery on West Spring Street, how you volunteered at the gallery on weekends because you loved paintings and watercolours and wanted to go to an art school when you could afford it. You dropped your voice and tried to keep your tone light when you told him about the boy that stole your heart when you were fourteen and how he promised you the world when you were eighteen.
You really wished you still had the joint when you huffed out a laugh that held no humour and whispered how you found him in bed with a girl you used to be friends with when you were nineteen.
And then there was another year and a half of your mom trying to make you stay with him because his parents ran the town committee and how were they supposed to show face when you made such a scene in their yard? And ‘didn’t you want to get married? Didn’t you want to settle down and have a family? Did you really want to have to start again? Is art school really a productive use of your time?’
Eddie, for the most part, stayed silent as you spoke, only frowning when necessary. And when you were done and your cheeks were a little damp and you sniffed without meaning to, the boy slid his foot along yours and held it there, the silence deafening. Night had finally set and the air smelled like oncoming rain and the remnants of smoke and Eddie Munson offered you his hand.
You wondered what it meant, you wondered what to do but when you looked at his face, his expression was soft and kind and open. You took it, palm sliding against his own and his skin was warm and rough, rings cold, fingers littered with guitar string calluses and they curled around you.
His hand was so much bigger than your own but when he gave it a squeeze, it was the most gentle thing you’d felt. You sucked in a breath and felt it stutter and hitch in your chest, gaze finding his in the low light and he smiled at you, a little sadder than before.
“I’m really sorry that happened,” he whispered.
It was nothing but sincere, the way he said it. Sweet and lovely and quiet, and god, you believed him. So you sniffed again, a little embarrassed and you wiped at your cheeks and eyes with your free hand - you didn’t dare take your other one from Eddie, not yet.
You didn’t bother with the usual responses, none of the ‘it’s not your fault’s’ or ‘it’s alright.’
“Thank you,” you said instead, just as softly as Eddie had spoke, your smile a little watery. “M’sorry… I really didn’t mean to blurt all that out. You didn’t have to listen to it.”
Eddie’s smile was soft and understanding, and it made you so ache. He was looking at you with those big, brown eyes, shining with kindness and he was bold enough to not look away when you stared back. In fact, it only made him grin wider.
So you had to be the one to break the moment, break the spell, gaze shifting to the wooden cabin floor and you let out a sigh that felt too loud for the space. You sniffed one last time and dabbed your fingers under your eyes, erasing any evidence of upset. You tapped a foot against Eddie’s converse, your toe touching the doodles he’d inked out along the sole.
“What about you?”
Eddie eyes you somewhat suspiciously, corners of his lips lifted in a shy smile and without the joint, he started to twist his rings around each finger. You tried not to watch, breath caught in your throat ‘cause his hands were big and wide, his fingers long andandand—
“What about me?” Eddie asked.
“Well,” you shrugged, smiling, “we can’t all be hiding out in the middle of the forest ‘cause a guy broke our heart, right?” You blew out the breath you��d been holding and tried to act normal.
“How presumptuous of you, sweetheart,” Eddie’s grin was wicked and it made you flush, heat travelling from your cheeks to your neck. “But I guess you’re right, I’m just here for the money.” The boy swung a leg over the arm of his chair, slumping down low and he tipped his head back lazily, watching you from under his lashes. “And I s’pose the kids are alright.”
“You don’t wanna be hanging out in the city each summer?” You asked him, hoping you didn’t sound too nosy. The idea of a city as large as Philadelphia was foreign to you. “Aren’t you missing out on concerts and stuff?”
Eddie hummed and smiled at you in a way that made you feel shy, like he thought you were all kinds of cute. “And stuff, yeah,” Eddie agreed but then he was pulling at the ring on his thumb, a large skull and his brows furrowed. “It’s not as exciting as you’d think. It’s just my uncle and I - Wayne - we’re not exactly living the high life downtown, you know?”
You didn’t say anything, you just leaned in a little, silently coaxing the boy to keep speaking.
“My mum left when I was pretty young,” Eddie explained, “don’t remember her all that much, not really, sometimes it’s easier when I see a photo or something. She dropped me with Wayne and just… didn’t come back.”
Eddie sucked in a breath. “The dude that got her pregnant didn’t even hang around to see me being born, apparently,” he snorted but his laugh was humourless. “So he doesn’t get the title of dad.”
“That’s fair,” you replied quietly.
“We didn’t have much money when I was growing up,” the boy continued. “Still don’t, I guess. But I remember being, like eleven, and really wanting to go to summer camp. I was obsessed with the idea of climbing trees and learning new shit in the middle of nowhere.”
Eddie’s voice was lifting, gaining back that happy undertone and he was smiling again, a little shy, but it was there. His eyes glittered as he looked at you.
“Wayne couldn’t afford it but he would take me to the park and create these treasure hunts for me - hell, he taught me how to play guitar too, never yelled at me once and Christ, he should’ve, I used to annoy the shit out of that old man as soon as he got home from work.”
You laughed and Eddie beamed, eyes meeting in the brief silence and the summer air felt warmer than ever, the open door seemingly incapable of letting in what little breeze there was.
“So I guess I like it here,” Eddie admitted, “as much as I need the money too. I wanna help Wayne out, y’know? But it’s nice to be able to do it somewhere like this.” The boy gestured to the small room with its tower of amps and carpet of wires and sheet music like it was home.
You leaned onto your elbows, close enough to the boy that you could tap your fingertips to his knee, once, twice, a small smile on your face that reached your eyes and Eddie thought it was lovely, the way you looked at him like he had every ounce of your attention.
“I think that’s a really nice reason to be here,” you told him.
And god, Eddie wanted to kiss you. He wanted to kiss you really, really badly - ‘cause your hair smelled good and your eyes were real pretty and he was damn sure you were looking at his lips the same way he was looking at yours. But he was so aware of the heartache you had just shared with him, your self appointed rule of ‘no boys,’ and Eddie Munson was very much a boy.
Maybe even more man than boy, you’d argue. And perhaps that was worse.
So instead he pulled back and your hand dropped from his knee and it was enough to make him miss you. Eddie looked at you thoughtfully, head tilted, smile shy and his cheeks were still tinged pink and all of it was awfully endearing. You cleared your throat, suddenly self conscious and Eddie stood.
“C’mon, sweetheart, lemme walk you to your cabin.”
It was easy to say yes. It was even easier to walk close enough to Eddie that your shoulder bumped into his bicep, arms pressed together and hands painfully apart.
You whispered and laughed as you followed him through the forest, down the narrow trails that criss crossed through the camp like heartstrings. And when the ground got a little uneven and the night was too dark to see the roots that snuck out from the forest floor, Eddie’s hand cupped your elbow and everything about his touch was warm and rough and electrifying.
The camp was quiet and it seemed like the world was made just for the two of you, the lake sitting like glass on your right and the soft silence of the woods and the trees on your left.
He was pretty in the moonlight. Prettier when he stood at the bottom of your cabin steps with his hands behind his back as he smiled and said goodnight, like he couldn’t and wouldn’t trust himself to move closer to your door.
‘Cause standing outside on a porch in the dark with a pretty boy surely led to a goodnight kiss, didn’t it?
Didn’t it?
And just before you closed your door, on the moon and the forest and the boy, Eddie called out to you by your name and hid his grin behind his curls, rings glittering in the low light.
“Happy first week at camp, sweetheart,” he told you softly, sweetly and you grinned in return. “M’happy to have you as a friend.”
Your heart stuttered and dipped at his words, a pretty warmth spreading over your chest and cheeks and you were ready to reply in like. And then:
“Just don’t, y’know, yell at me when you do fall in love with me.”
You barked out a laugh and hid your grin behind your door, too big and too wide to let him see, because goddamn it, he was getting to you too easily.
“I’ll be sure to keep the yelling to a minimum,” you told him, voice mild and too casual.
Eddie shrugged, still smiling lazily, “it’s inevitable.”
You rolled your eyes and shook your head, the rejection softened by the way you grinned too, eyes fond and stuck on him. “Goodnight, Eddie.”
—————
“She makes me—” Eddie let out a strangled noise that ended in a sigh and Steve frowned. “I feel— fuck.”
“Use your big boy words, Eds,” Steve commented mildly and from behind him, lying on the boy’s bed, Hawkins flipped a page of her magazine and snorted.
Eddie has scrambled back to his cabin after standing before your closed door for a few seconds too long, eyes fond, his smile dopey and his heart beating a little too fast.
And it was like the forest knew how he felt ‘cause the insects buzzed a little louder and there was something in the air that made it feel like a storm was on its way. He found Steve at the desk they shared, headphones around his neck and music playing quietly through static. His girlfriend was on his bed, flat on her stomach and too busy with her reading to really look up at Eddie, but she seemed thoroughly amused by the whole situation.
“You know that song? The cheesy one? The one that’s like ‘I can’t fight this feeling anymore?’ That one?”
Steve blinked, staring at Eddie for a second before he smothered a smile with his hand. He coughed, hiding a laugh. “REO Speedwagon?”
Eddie threw himself onto his bunk and whined, dragging his palms over his face. “Yes,” he replied mournfully. “Every time I see her it’s like that song plays and the wind picks up and everything is in slow motion.”
“Does she suddenly have wings too?” Steve countered.
“Fuck you.”
Hawkins laughed again and instead of flipping another page, she groaned and stretched out, moving lazily to the desk chair that Steve occupied, throwing herself down onto her boyfriend’s lap.
“Have I missed something or is there a reason you’re not asking her to hang out?” The girl was staring at Eddie earnestly, one of her hands buried in the hair at Steve’s neck.
“We do hang out,” Eddie protested. “We just did.”
Hawkins rolled her eyes at the same time Steve did and Eddie wondered if being in love with someone made you as annoying as them.
“Like an actual date, Munson.” She shrugged and gave him a smile that told Eddie she knew she was being annoying. “Some people brush their hair for it, maybe wear jeans without holes in the knees.”
Eddie huffed and let himself roll across his bed, face squished to his pillows to muffle his low groan of despair. For good measure, he kicked his feet against the mattress too. Finally, he resurfaced, cheeks pink and a little downturned and he said to his friends a little mournfully:
“She doesn’t date. Or, I guess, she doesn’t want to date.”
Steve looked perplexed. “Why?”
Eddie heaved himself up and sat against the wooden headboard, kicking his sneakers off until they thudded to the floor. “Uh, there was a shitty ex,” he explained. “Which I totally get… I just wish— I don’t know.”
Hawkins threw a pen at him, soft enough that it barely bounced off of his thigh but Eddie still sent her a look of offence.
“Ow.”
“Shut up,” the girl huffed. “You better not be pestering her, Eds, if she said she’s not interested—”
“I’m not!” Eddie defended himself. “I’m not. I just like to remind her that she’ll eventually fall in love with me. Eventually.”
Steve choked on a laugh and tried to cover it when his girlfriend frowned at him.
“Eddie!”
“What?” The boy answered petulantly. “I’m not serious about it,” Eddie lied, “I’m being, like, totally cute, s’fine.”
His two friends levelled him with a stare.
“And besides! I like hanging out with her. She’s cool. And pretty and funny and she— it’s fine,” he repeated, almost to himself. “We’re just friends.”
Despite the conviction Eddie said it with, neither of the three people in the cabin believed him.
I’d love you to love me.
The third week brought a split lip, a sprained wrist and thunderstorm that lasted two days
The kids were more than antsy with having to spend most of their time indoors as the rain flooded the camp grounds, the banks of the lake tested as the water kept rising and the winds shook the trees. Leaves lived permanently in the air, whirling on the harsh gales, branches scratching at cabin windows like the soundtrack of a bad scary movie.
So some activities doubled up, with more than the normal amount of campers crammed into cabin classrooms instead of being out on the lake or taking hikes into the mountains.
It’s why you and Nancy were nearing your limit with over forty kids inside the arts centre, the summer air still humid enough to make the room sticky and heavy, to make everyone cranky and uncomfortable. The rain of the metal roof was a musical reminder of how there was no chance of escape.
There were wars over glue sticks, more paint on the floor than on any paper and half way through the activity block, Argyle squelched in with another fifteen kids, all soaking wet and clutching wooden bird boxes in various stages of completion.
“Cabin four is leaking, my dudes,” he explained with a smile.
And that’s how Max tripped over Will’s bird feeder, how she slipped on some spilled watercolours and went careening into a kid named Josie. Josie had wire framed glasses that were entirely too big for her tiny head and Max’s lip got caught and split on the corner of them.
With blood dripping down her chin and a smattering of colours on her bare knees and jean shorts, she looked a little startled, eyes wide at the red that came away when she wiped her fingers over her mouth.
But Mike Wheeler was fourteen years old and a boy, which meant that Mike didn’t really know how to act in public yet and when he laughed at Max, the girl responded by shoving him into a shelf full of paint cans and pots of glitter.
So the classroom was in chaos, Will was mourning his broken bird feeder, Max was bleeding and enraged and Mike was clutching his wrist that he claimed was broken all while pink and lilac glitter poured from his hair.
When the tannoy rang out at one o’clock, you sighed in relief and watched as the kids ran out the door towards the mess hall, the smell of pizza pockets and macaroni and cheese making the campers scamper happily through mud filled puddles and towards the large building.
Argyle wandered out after them, slow and lazily, like the rain that still poured didn’t really bother him and he didn’t seem to care that much when Dustin jumped into a puddle at his side and splashed mud up his slacks.
You and Nancy worked diligently to clean up the mess left behind, crawling under tables to retrieve forgotten paint brushes and pens that were missing lids. But you’d barely managed to make a dent in the chaos before Hopper’s voice crackled through the tannoy system.
“Can Hawkins report to the office, please,” the gruff voice was muffled between static. “—hit, Hawkins one, the good one, the first one… Nancy. Can Nancy report to the office.”
The girl rolled her eyes as she stood but there was a fondness there that told you she didn’t really mind, years of working for Hopper making her more than familiar with his bad habit with remembering names.
“Pretty sure he wants to go over next week's schedule,” Nancy told you, brushing glitter from her knees. “I’ll be as quick as I can, okay? Sorry to leave you with all of this.”
The girl did look regretful, brows pinched as she gestured to the mess around the room that only seemed to grow as more paint leaked out from tipped over pots.
You shook your head and smiled, “it’s fine, don’t worry. I’m alright on my own, mess hall duty can't be that much tidier, right?”
Nancy snorted a quiet laugh and hummed in agreement, “put it this way, lunch time clean up is usually reserved for punishments.”
“Poor kids,” you mused, crawling over to scoop up a fallen bucket of stickers and felt sheets.
“Oh, not the kids,” Nancy smiled wryly. “Just ask Steve or Hawkins, I’m sure they’d love to tell you.”
Leaving you confused, the girl left, clipboard in hand and you watched out of the rain streaked window as she ran across camp, daintily avoiding the muddy puddles that were already getting larger as the storm rolled on. So you stayed on the floor, bare knees a little cold on the old linoleum and you were swearing softly at a bright blue patch of paint that didn’t seem to want to budge.
You didn’t hear the door open again, not over the sound of the rain hammering down on the roof. In fact, you didn’t hear anything until someone let out a low whistle and started to speak.
“Unless one of the little demons suddenly got real talented, you weren’t kidding about art school, huh?”
You narrowly missed bumping your head on the table edge as you shot up at the sound of Eddie’s voice, heart hammering and stomach flipping in that way you were still trying to ignore.
The boy was perched against the edge of one of the small tables, legs crossed at the ankles and a too big sweater swallowing him whole. He looked cosy, the cotton a deep maroon and it had the camp logo on the chest, a small tear at the collar and leftover spots of rain over the shoulders. Eddie held up a notepad that you thought you’d placed face down, but he was showing you your own drawings.
“Architecture,” Eddie was scanning over the sketches of buildings and parkways, tiny trees inked out in black, dotted with what little green paint you could sneak from the kids. “I didn’t expect that.”
You blinked at him, still kneeling on the floor with glitter on your palms, paint on your knees. You lifted a hand and brushed back your hair, blowing out a breath with how flustered you suddenly felt. The large cabin felt warmer than ever and the rain only seemed to get louder.
It felt like the forest belonged to only the two of you.
“Uh, yeah.” You nodded awkwardly, feeling shyer than you expected at the sight of your work in Eddie’s hands. It was hardly a portfolio, just a few quick sketches you were able to manage between squabbles over paintbrushes and stolen pens, but it was something. “Most people don’t.”
“You’re good,” Eddie replied and his voice was the most serious you’d heard it. But he was still smiling, corners of his mouth lifted as he scanned over the paper, pinky finger tracing the outline of a building that had wild ivy growing up the brick. “Really good. So, art school, huh?”
You nodded and clambered to your feet as gracefully as you could, leaning against the table across from the boy. If you stretched out your legs enough, the toes of your sneakers almost touched his boots.
“That’s the plan,” you said and gestured to the camp in all its messy glory, mud and rain and paint and glitter. “I’m hoping this place can get me enough cash to even consider it.”
Eddie placed the book back on the desk with the same care you’d watched him handle his guitars with and the sight of it made your chest ache.
“Which one?”
The question made your brow furrow, ‘cause so many other people in your life had asked the same question - albeit with a lot more exasperation and condescension than Eddie had. But you gave him the same answer you’d given your parents and your senior year guidance counsellor and shit, even your ex.
You have a half shrug, eyes to the floor and picked at a fingernail. “I don’t really know yet.” You looked up at the boy and found him looking right back at you, brown eyes soft and warm. “To be confirmed.”
Eddie nodded slowly, pushing off the table and shoving his hands into the pocket on the front of his sweater. He stretched it down over his hips, grinned at you playfully and the mood inside the cabin lifted considerably, like he’d meant it to.
“You know,” he mused, “there’s a great art school in Philly. One of the best, in fact.” Eddie raised his brows at you suggestively, all whilst doing his best to play coy - you weren’t sure how he managed it, but he pulled it off.
You let out a laugh, rolling your eyes at him in a way that now seemed to be routine. “Is that right?” You asked him, putting on the same overly casual voice he had. “How strange, isn’t that where you live?”
Eddie gasped, ripping a hand from his pocket to grab at his chest instead, damp curls bouncing as he took another step towards you. “Holy shit, you’re right, I do live there.”
You were grinning, not that you had any control over it and Eddie was beaming right back, moving so he could stand in front of you, finally toe to toe. He kicked softly at your sneaker, looking at you fondly from under his lashes.
“What a coincidence,” he murmured softly.
“You’re flirting with me again,” you replied just as quietly and you tried to sound admonishing but your words came out just a little too breathily.
He was too close.
You watched him lick at him bottom lip, tongue peeking out for just a half second but it kept your heart ticking on a too fast beat for much, much longer.
“If I was flirting,” Eddie started to say, speaking slowly, voice a drawl, as if he were picking his words carefully. “I’d tell you about this nice little spot round the corner from mine. How I’d take you there between classes, split a cheese steak and let you show me all your badass work.”
You were entranced, eyes bush tracing the shapes his lips made as he spoke, the dimple that came and went on his left cheek when he tried not to smile between words.
“You’d graduate in the summer…” the boy mused and his voice picked up a little, lips stretching out into that wide smile you’d come to love. “We could totally have a fall wedding. I was thinking about early October?”
The spell was broken and you barked out a laugh, a hand shoving at the boy’s shoulder and Eddie grinned at the sound, letting you tip him backwards before he caught himself and acted wounded.
“You’re an idiot, Eddie Munson,” you told him but there was affection laced behind the jab and Eddie could hear it, his chest swelling at the sound.
“But autumn tones suit me so well,” he quipped back and he laughed when you shook your head and moved past him, hiding your amusement by picking up ripped paper that hadn’t quite made it to the trash.
“What a shame, I think I’m a spring,” you sighed dramatically and you didn’t have to look over your shoulder to know the boy was grinning. You could feel it, it lit up the room, it made you feel warm. “Guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
Eddie snorted and pushed himself back onto the table, narrowly avoiding a wet splat of blue paint. “Well, if you won’t come to Philadelphia, how about Chrissy’s cabin tonight? Staff get together.” Eddie enticed, legs swinging. “More shit beer, Steve’s awful taste in music and probably some weed if Jonathan and Argyle manage to get into town after dinner.”
“More shit beer?” You repeated, gasping dramatically as you made your way back over to him. You tapped at his boot with your shoe, like you weren’t able to help yourself from reaching out to touch him in some way. “How shitty?”
“Like, the shittiest beer you’ve ever had,” Eddie replied, “very room temp, some would say warm. Definitely flat and the label probably has some questionable tagline on it.”
You were smiling and so was the boy, too warm and too close and Jesus Christ, had you been moving forward? Eddie’s boots brushed your shins and if you took another step, you’d be between his legs that he had most definitely spread for you.
“How could I say no to that?”
Eddie shrugged, his smile all coy, cheeks a little pink and he was looking at your lips when he replied softly, “how could you say no to me?”
Your lips parted, breath caught in your chest and god, did he hear the way it hitched? Could he hear the way your heart rattled against your rib cage? Surely he could, it felt louder than the storm.
He didn’t let you reply, not that you knew what to say, not that you could seriously articulate words. Eddie was still smiling, looking as flustered as you felt, like he hadn't meant to flirt, like he didn’t know what to do now that he had.
Eddie gestured to your cheek, unsure, pulling back just before he touched you. His gaze was settled on the curve of your top lip and he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“You have, uh, some paint,” he murmured, “little dot… just there.”
You wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand, suddenly self conscious, wondering what kid managed to splatter you with god knows what colour. You caught your lip, bringing your hand back still clean and you looked at Eddie.
The boy still looked so unsure, a different kind of shy, but he tilted his chin and said, “c’mere.”
You weren’t sure how you heard him over the rain, the roll of thunder, the way the world outside seemed to roar for you both, like the forest was excited, waiting, watching.
You moved, hips bumping into Eddie’s knees as he coaxed you forward, a cautious hand on your chin, holding you still so his thumb could smooth over the spot of paint, the pad of it grazing your top lip.
Eddie’s touch was slow and soft, careful with it, his eyes lowered as he watched what he was doing and you were almost sure he was holding his breath.
You were.
“Got it,” Eddie whispered but his hand was still on your cheek, thumb resting on your chin and he was staring at your lips again, eyes hooded and a dark honey.
You made a quiet noise, maybe an agreement, maybe a thanks, maybe you were just disappointed, but neither of you moved away. Your own hands rested on Eddie’s knees, soft, worn denim under your palms and Eddie murmured your name like a question, head tilting forward—
The door bounced against the wall as it opened, the wind blowing rain and some stray twigs inside, causing you to stumble backwards, your eyes as wide as Eddie’s.
Murray was standing in the doorway, dripping wet from the rain, glasses smeared with water and he sighed, disgruntled. He flicked his arms out from his body, rain splattering to the cabin floor as he inspected both of you with suspicion.
Nose wrinkled, he appraised you from over his thick glasses: Eddie’s pink cheeks, the way you couldn’t look at anything but the floor.
“No,” the older man barked out, indignant. “No, I’m not doing this shit again, for Christ’s sake.”
Murray turned, leaving the way he came with no explanation to his appearance in the first place. He wrestled with the door handle, the old wood sticking in its frame and he cursed. “You’re all rampant. Goddamn kids and - Christ, this door - and their hormones, it’s like living with animals.”
The door finally shifted and slammed, shutting out Murray and the storm, the only evidence he’d been there was a puddle on the floor and some leaves that had blown in, sticking to the streaks of spilled paint.
Eddie looked at you, heart still thudding in his chest, only to see you busy tidying once again, head ducked down so he couldn’t meet your gaze.
Whatever had been going to happen, was over.
—————
Unfortunately, Jason Carver was the one to open the door to Chrissy’s cabin. You hadn’t seen much of the blonde boy around camp - not that you had minded - as he spent most of his shifts at the lake and preferred to disappear into town at night with Billy.
But he held the door as you and Robin walked in, arms full of the leftover pizza slices the other girl had managed to sneak from the kitchen as she finished dinner service.
“New girl,” he greeted, taking the time to rake his eyes over your frame instead of helping with the Tupperware. “Buckley. Still not like dick?”
“Go fuck yourself, Carver,” Robin shot back, rolling her eyes and ushering you into the room, dumping the food onto Chrissy’s desk. She grabbed two beers from the obnoxiously large stash, passing them both to Steve to open with the car keys he fished from his pocket.
“Shame,” Jason called back over the low music, ignoring the way Chrissy swatted at him, cheeks pink with embarrassment as she tried to get him to stop. “You and your friend could’a kept me company later.” His beady eyes settled on you, mouth curled into a smirk. “Gets cold at night, doesn’t it?”
Steve coaxed the beer back into your hand, one arm thrown around his girlfriend’s shoulders and he shook his head at you, grimacing. “Ignore him, he’s swallowed too much lake water or some shit.”
Robin took a swig of her own drink and smirked, nudging a friendly hand to Steve’s shoulder as she said, “we’re ignoring assholes now, huh, Harrington?”
There was a private joke, a hidden story you didn’t know there, and Hawkins grinned too, covering her smile with her cup.
“His fighting days are over,” she declared, pushing a hand to the boy’s cheeks with such affection that it made you feel like you shouldn’t look.
Steve scoffed, all false bravado. “Says who?”
His girlfriend smirked and squeezed at his chin a little firmer, just until his lips fell into a pout and she was able to tug him down to her for a kiss. “Me,” she told him as she pulled away and Steve just grinned, no argument left in him.
“Are we talkin’ about how whipped Stevie is?” Eddie appeared at your side, a beer already in hand as he grinned and dodged the other boy’s fist, snorting when it skimmed his shoulder.
You tried not to react when his arm brushed your own, when everything suddenly smelled like smoke and rainwater and Eddie. He hadn’t looked at you, in fact, he was actively trying not to, his curls hiding his eyes and when you turned to him just slightly, he ducked his head and took a long pull from his drink.
“Always,” Robin replied, matter of factly and she grinned at you as if to include you in these plans. “Where have you been, anyway?”
Eddie took another swig from his beer, gulping down the amber liquid almost too enthusiastically for how shit it did actually taste. He was stalling.
“Uh, private lesson,” he explained grimacing. He still wasn’t looking at you. “Ran a little over.”
It was a lie, it was a huge lie - you knew it - and the truth made your face burn. ‘Cause Eddie had stood frozen after Murray had left, watching you carefully from where he was still by the table, chest hammering.
He’d been so sure you’d almost kissed him. He was almost positive you had been leaning into him the same way he tilted his chin down to you. But the door had slammed, Murray had yelled and left and the silence that had taken over was more deafening than the rain on the roof.
So Eddie had coughed a little awkwardly and waited for you to stop cleaning up the mashed glue stick from the carpet and look at him. You’d stopped, sure. You’d even stood up from where you’d been kneeling but you didn’t quite meet the boy’s eye. And when he asked you:
“What just happened?”
You had toed at a forgotten pencil case and shrugged, your hands in the pockets of your shorts and replied, “nothing just happened, Eddie.”
And even though you still didn’t lift your gaze from the floor, Eddie had nodded, lips downturned and eyes sad, before he muttered something that sounded like ‘sure’ and left.
You’d watched him walk away from the camp, away from the direction of the music workshop and the canon where he held his lessons. In fact, despite the rain, he walked towards the lake, his hood pulled up over his head and his hands shoved in his pockets, the maroon fabric turning darker and darker the further he got from you.
And now he was standing next to you in the small circle you and his friends had created and he was trying so hard to pretend he couldn’t feel your bare arm pressed against his own, that he couldn’t smell the perfume he knew was yours.
He took another gulp of his beer, lukewarm and bordering on sour and he could sense your gaze on him. He caught Steve’s eye instead and his friend quirked a brow, gaze searching between him and you, questioning.
Eddie shook his head, an almost barely noticeable movement but you lifted your beer to your lips, making your arm brush Eddie’s and the boy went pink.
Steve started humming the opening bars of REO Speedwagon.
Eddie glared.
But then Billy was pushing into the small circle, all blonde curls and sharp, blue eyes, his smile even sharper. He clapped Eddie on the shoulder and wrapped an unfamiliar arm around yours, squeezing you into his side. Across from you, Steve and Hawkins scowled, busying themself with grabbing some cold pizza slices.
“Truth or dare,” Billy announced and he smelled like smoke and whisky, a far cry from the cheap beer everyone else had been left with. “C’mon assholes, look alive.”
Eddie shrugged the boy off and took another beer that Steve offered, eyes hard and staring at the floor as Billy kept his arm around you. You were too polite to move away, too conscious of all the eyes that were on you but you huffed out a laugh and asked:
“Truth or dare? Isn’t that kinda childish?”
Chrissy’s cabin was cast in little light, only a few lamps emitting a low, too warm glow and Billy looked positively dangerous in the shadows as he grinned at you. He tutted and moved to sweep a stray lock of hair away from your face, acting sweet for you.
“Not the way I play it, darlin’,” he grinned, all teeth and bad intentions and from beside you, Robin pretended to gag.
“Gross,” she muttered.
“Revolting,” Hawkins agreed and when Billy scoffed at her, she flipped him the bird and leant against Steve, her back to his chest.
“That’s a little mean of you, isn’t it, princess?” Billy pouted at her, “considering I’m the damn reason you two are together.” He pointed a finger at the girl and Steve, looking smug.
The rest of the room groaned, as if Billy taking credit for this was a regular occurrence.
Again, you felt like you were missing out on a joke that you weren’t privy to, an inside story from a summer that wasn’t yours. So you turned to Billy and raised a brow, questioning.
“What?” You asked, just as Steve pinned Billy with a stare and said:
“Don’t call her princess.”
But Billy ignored him and kept his arm around you, grinning wider than ever and he leaned in just a little, enough for you to smell his cologne and the nicotine that stuck to his lips.
His voice was all flirt, a soft drawl that made Eddie's nostrils flare. “Haven’t you heard?” Billy asked and he looked at you like he wanted to sneak a bite, like he wanted to know what you tasted like. “I’m practically Cupid.”
The rest of the group snorted and scoffed, all varying sounds of derision but Billy ignored them and just kept smiling, looking too handsome for his reputation, all the stories you’d been told about him.
“Got your eye on someone, Sugar? I can shoot an arrow or two, see if it sticks,” he winked and god, you didn’t mean it, you couldn’t help it.
Your gaze flickered to Eddie and fucking hell, he was finally looking back at you too. Billy’s grin turned bigger, wider, sharper. Neon signs flashed in your head and you swore you could hear your mothers voice. Danger! Warning! Retreat!
“Well ain’t that interesting,” he smirked, finally letting go of you. He stole your beer instead, wrapped his lips around the neck and drained the rest, smirking and wiping at his mouth when Steve muttered something that sounded like, ‘fuckin’ prick.’
“You sweet on the new girl, huh, Munson?” Billy was outright sneering now, turning to Eddie to poke and prod until he broke.
“Get fucked, Hargrove,” Eddie replied lazily, his voice a soft drawl as he leaned against Chrissy’s desk but you could see the way his eyes narrowed, the way his shoulders were set.
Everyone in the cabin was silent now, eyes on Eddie and Billy as the blonde boy took a step forward and smiled, baring his teeth in a way that could only be taken as a challenge. Your skin prickled.
“Truth or dare, Teddy bear?” Billy whispered.
“I’m not playing,” Eddie grunted back.
“Ooh, forfeit,” Jason laughed from the door, “toilet block duty for a week, Munson, better tie your hair up.”
But neither boy listened, both Eddie and Billy still squaring up to each other, eyes narrowed and jaws set. You looked at Steve, silently asking him to do something but Steve seemed to be waiting for the exact time he needed to jump in.
“Hey now,” Billy murmured to Eddie, all soft condescension and false friendliness. He looked back at you and licked across his bottom lip, glittering eyes giving away his true intentions. “If you don’t wanna play, I’m sure someone else will happily give her a little bit of attention.”
“Grow the fuck up, Billy,” Robin snapped and her hand slid over your wrist, guiding you towards the door. “Let’s just hang out in my cabin,” she told you softly.
“Aw, c’mon!” Billy jeered, holding his arms out like he was surrendering. The majority of the room shook their heads at him, not ready to entertain his antics. “I’m Cupid, remember? Y’gotta trust the process.”
The music stuttered and the tape got stuck, the last few notes of whatever Blondie song fizzing with static before it stopped, just as Eddie slammed down his beer and shouldered past Billy. He walked straight towards you, his eyes on yours for what seemed like only the second time that night.
You saw something wild in them, something new and something different. You realised then that Eddie Munson didn’t do well with being challenged, and with the way Billy was still smirking behind him, it seemed like he knew that too.
So the thudthudthud of Eddie’s boots on the cabin floor matched your heart beat and Robin let go of your wrist as the boy approached. He’d taken his sweater off from earlier but he still smelled like the storm, like leftover rain and pine from the forest, like a burnt out campfire, a little like a new home.
The toes of his boots touched your sneakers and you had to tilt your chin up a little to meet his gaze. He looked torn, kind of panicked, pretty in the way he always did but he’d lost the softness that he’d gazed at you with earlier, with paint on your face and glitter pressed to your palms.
You thought he was going to kiss you.
His eyes dropped to your lips and nobody spoke, but you heard Billy let out a huff of laughter, a dark chuckle that made your stomach dip and you weren’t supposed to let this happen, even if it was just a stupid game, ‘cause fuck — Eddie was never going to be a hangover and a bad decision you’d try to forget the next day.
He was standing too close.
You steeled yourself, wondering if you’d be mad if he kissed you like this. If he kissed you at all. Would you be more angry if he didn’t? This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. This wasn’t supposed to happen at all.
You felt yourself closing your eyes, lashes soft on your cheeks, just for a second.
And then he was gone.
—————
Eddie was sitting outside of his cabin.
The party was long over and you’d stayed behind with Robin to help Chrissy tidy up, keeping your head down as Billy swept past, a leftover beer in his hand and a satisfied smirk on his lips as he got into a car with Jason.
And when you walked through the forest, hearing the whispers of the kids in the cabins as you passed, you noticed a tiny light on the porch steps, the orange red dot of the end of a cigarette in the dark. Eddie stood when you approached, stubbed the end of the smoke out on the railing and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Nerves rolled off of him in waves and he took a step forward, old leaves and pine cones crunching under his boots. You shook your head and kept walking, the light from your own cabin a warm glow only a few dozen feet away.
“Hey, hey, listen,” Eddie coaxed softly, “can we talk?”
“I’m tired, Eddie,” you began, still taking slow steps towards your own home.
(And embarrassed and confused and frustrated, but you didn’t say that.)
“We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?” But then you made the mistake of stopping and looking back at the boy and he was all soft curls and softer eyes, sad and glittering.
He caught your wrist, a gentle hand with careful fingers and his touch was warmer than the night. You looked down, watched his thumb rub at the back of your palm and suddenly you weren’t as sleepy as before.
Maybe Eddie could sense the sway in you, maybe he was already a little too in tune with the way your body leaned into his. His hand slipped down, fingers skimming over your own and he wasn’t quite holding your hand but it felt just as nice, just as lovely. Eddie pinched your thumb between two of his fingers, looked up at you through his lashes and smiled, too sweet.
“Can we talk?” Eddie tried again. “Please?”
So you nodded because it was getting harder and harder to say no to the boy, to keep away from the boy - and you knew deep down that you were more angry at yourself than at him. ‘Cause you kept breaking your own rules and you knew fine well that you would’ve let Eddie kiss you. And to be mad at him for doing exactly what you asked him to - to be friends - wasn’t fair in the slightest.
But he was smiling now, soft and lovely, too sweet to seem real and his hand moved to cover your own and it left you wondering for the hundredth time: would it really be that awful to break some rules?
Eddie led you away from the cabins, hand in yours, fingers tangled in a way that made your skin feel too warm and you were both tripping through the trees in the dark until Hop’s office lights lit up the ground and you could see Eddie’s van parked a just away from the edge of the clearing.
He fished out his keys from his pocket, wiggled them in the air and quirked his brows. His hand was still in yours and you wondered if he could feel your heartbeat through your fingertips, if you were looking at him the same way he was looking at you.
Earnest, hopeful, with too much fondness.
“Wanna get out of here?” Eddie asked quietly.
You chanced a look at the cabin behind you, the warm glow from the window letting you both know that Hopper was still up, maybe even Murray and Joyce.
“Are we allowed?”
Eddie smiled, a soft grin that made your stomach flip ‘cause it was full of nothing good, all mischief and trouble. The night seemed so much warmer, like it was filled with more than just summer, more than the linger heat of the sun. You wondered if it was possible for another person to make you feel like this, like teenagers at your high school locker, nerves like the anticipation of a first kiss behind an oak tree, a passed note that you kept in your drawer for years and years and years.
He shrugged, too nonchalant. “No,” came the reply.
You bit your lip to try and hide the grin you gave back, unprepared for the feeling of complete and utter excitement that clawed at your stomach at his words. Eddie’s hand tightened around yours.
“Okay,” you whispered back.
It felt like a daydream when Eddie helped you clamber into the front of the van, the inside still stuffy and warm from the afternoon spent sitting in the sun and it smelled like him. Like coffee and rain and smoke and spice, and you grinned at the mess on the floor. An old sweater, the lanyard that was stitched with the camp's logo that only Nancy wore, wrapped around the stick shift. There was an open box of guitar picks on the console, a couple empty cans of soda, sheet music with footprints on it, one drumstick, too many cassette tapes - none in their cases - to count.
But every inch of the space screamed EddieEddieEddie and it consumed you. You didn’t hesitate to shuffle over to the middle of the bench when the boy sat behind the wheel, close enough that your thigh almost touched his.
You shouldn’t have.
You didn’t need to.
You couldn’t help yourself.
He rolled the windows down as he pulled out of the car park, the headlights off until he reached the main road and neither of you heard Hopper’s truck screeching after you.
Despite the late hour, there was still a pink tint to the sky, barely there and only making the horizon glow, a leftover streak of colour from where the sun had sunk. The rest of the night was dark, inky black and littered with stars and when the van picked up speed, warm air funnelled through the front of the cab and it picked at you and Eddie’s hair.
You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t ask. God, you found that you didn’t really care.
So you let the wind cool down your sun warmed skin and you smiled when Eddie hit the button for the radio, a song coming on soft and low, an acoustic guitar and lyrics that were much sweeter than you expected. Neither of you said much, but Eddie tapped out a beat on the steering wheel and your gaze went between his profile and the trees that blurred at the side of the road.
You drove until the wilderness became a little more tamed, until the darkness fed into streetlights and the roads got a little bigger. Toy sized towns sprung up from the forests, gas stations with two pumps, sleepy sidewalks and neon signs that flickered in the night.
Eddie pulled up to a diner, one with wrap-around windows and red, leather booths, an aquamarine sign that flashed ‘OPEN 24/7.’ It was easy to follow him into the building, to get swallowed up by the smell of fries and coffee. The floors were a little sticky and the waitresses looked tired, the three other diners barely glancing back at you both as the bell above the door signalled your arrival.
The boy ordered two milkshakes, one chocolate and one strawberry and he batted away your hand as you tried to push some dollar bills into his. There was a smile on his face as he did it, soft lips and soft curls and even softer eyes, and he gave no explanation as he took the large cups from over the counter and headed back outside.
“You not letting me pay seems an awful lot like a date, Eddie,” you called out across the parking lot.
He barely looked back at you as he headed to the van, a soft laugh caught in his throat as stood in front of the driver’s side door and grinned. When he did turn to face you, he looked like trouble, holding up the two shakes as he nodded down to his waist.
“Grab the keys for me, sweetheart?”
It sounded like another dare.
You could’ve taken a milkshake from him. You really could’ve. In fact, all common sense told you that that’s exactly what you should’ve done. But you took a step forward and then another and another, toe to toe with the boy until you were both bathed under the aquamarine light, Eddie’s cheeks shades of pink and blue.
Maybe he didn’t think you’d do it. Maybe he was only joking.
But he held his breath and you could feel the air change when you curled your fingers around his jeans pocket, tugging a little cause the denim was too tight and Christ, you could feel the expanse of his thigh underneath when you fished for the car keys, the metal jingling in the quiet. He stared at you the entire time, sugar and strawberries filling the air and you gazed right back, chin lifted up to meet his eyes almost defiantly.
You weren’t sure what you were trying to prove, but you were pretty sure it was the opposite of what you were supposed to be doing.
The lock clicked and you didn’t look at Eddie as you walked to the other side, climbing back into the van that suddenly felt so much smaller than before. You kept your back to the passenger door this time, further away from the boy who was looking at you like he was scared you might take up cross country in order to get back to camp.
He offered you both shakes, smiling and nodding when you took the strawberry with a quiet thank you. You both drank in silence for a minute or two, the parking lot emptying of what little vehicles remained and when the clock on the dash hit two, you and Eddie were alone.
“Are you mad at me?” Eddie eventually asked, soft and a little apprehensive, looking over at you with worry in his eyes. “For not kissing you?”
Your breath shook as you let it out.
“I mean, I didn’t know if— ‘cause you don’t want to kiss me, right? Or anybody, really, I s’pose— you have your rule and I totally get it but you seem like you’re mad at me and—”
“Eddie,” you tried to shush the boy, but your voice was too soft and too small and Eddie kept rambling.
“—and maybe I’m crazy but in the cabin when it was raining… it seemed like you wanted to kiss me then too, but shit, maybe I’m just being optimistic, ‘cause I know you don’t wanna get involved in anything and I respect that and I’m happy to be your friend- so happy - but I don’t know what I was supposed to do—”
“Eddie.” You’d moved suddenly enough to surprise him, his words falling short as you shuffled to the middle of the bench, sitting on your knees as you gazed at him imploringly.
You smiled around a sigh, a soft, sad noise that made Eddie’s lips turn down and you were gentle when you took his half empty cup from him, sitting it on the dash along with yours.
“I’m not mad at you,” you explained when you turned back to him, your fingers pulling at a thread on the hem of your shirt, stomach tumbling at the thought of telling Eddie too much. “I’m pissed at myself, actually.”
Eddie’s brows shot up and a boyish confusion took over his features. He shook his head softly at you, as if to explain he didn’t understand. But he sat quietly, waiting for you to continue.
“I’m annoyed ‘cause I think I did want you to kiss me,” you closed your eyes briefly at your admission, not wanting to see the way hope flashed across the boy’s face. “And I shouldn’t want that ‘cause I told you I wasn’t getting involved with anyone and that’s not fair to you.”
You sighed again and it sounded even sadder, a huff of breath that hitched in the middle but you kept going, the cadence of your voice pitching higher as you rambled, the same way the boy had.
“It’s so entirely unfair and I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of bitch who’s leading you on, ‘cause I’m not! Or at least, I don’t mean to be - fuck - and I’m sorry if I am and I don’t want this to be confusing or complicated or, or, shit I don’t know.” You took a pause to breathe, blinking at Eddie who just stared back, eyes too pretty to look away from this time round.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” you said sullenly, as if meeting the boy before you was the worst thing in the world. Maybe it was. “And I’m sorry ‘cause I’m being real selfish, ‘cause I don’t wanna stay away from you and I like it when you call me nice things and when you meet me for breakfast and I think about ki—”
You broke off again and squeezed your eyes shut tight, like that would keep your secrets in too. And when that didn’t seem to work, you groaned and brought your hands to your face, fingertips still cold from holding your shake and you pressed them meanly over your lashes.
“M’really sorry, Eddie.”
You heard a soft laugh, barely there and not unkind, an even quieter tsk before two strong hands wrapped themselves around your wrists and tugged gently. You let Eddie guide your palms away from your face and when you opened your eyes, he was a little closer than before.
“You don’t have to say sorry,” he whispered. “And you’re certainly not a bitch.”
You blinked at him, trying to keep the frustrated tears you wanted to let out at bay.
“I like being around you too,” Eddie continued and he was looking at you in that way that made your stomach twist. “And if you only think you wanted to kiss me—”
You let out an embarrassed groan and Eddie grinned.
“—that’s okay. I can wait until you know for certain. And if you don’t, then we can still be friends, like we are right now.”
Nothing about your relationship with Eddie felt friendly. Every look and every touch felt electric, like the air around you both knew more than you did, ‘cause it fizzed and buzzed every time he was around. It felt like something else, something more.
“But for the record,” Eddie whispered conspiratorially, pink in the cheeks
despite the way he tried to act all theatrical for you. “I wanted to kiss you.”
You ducked your chin to your chest to try and hide the way you smiled, an embarrassing scrunch of your nose but Eddie saw and he grinned wider, you could feel it, you could sense the way the space between you turned lighter and heavier all at once.
When you looked back up, Eddie was watching you, head tilted and curls a little messy and wild. He was still holding your wrists, his wide hands covering some of your own and you weren’t sure if he even realised.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for something else yet,” you told him and you hated the way you sounded scared. “My last relationship was so— so shit.”
“That’s okay too, well - the first part is. The second part is definitely shitty,” Eddie said, so soft it hurt and god, you believed him. He licked his lips, nervous and unsure, parting them as if to say something else but he stopped.
“What?” You prompted and you flipped your hands in his, palm to palm, so you were able to touch a thumb to the underside of one ring.
“Would it be so bad?” He asked, almost too quiet to hear. “To try?”
You took a breath, held the question and the answer in your chest until it burned and you wondered if it would be. Logic ceased to exist as you thought about leaning forward and pressing your lips to Eddie’s, the idea of your mouth parting slowly against his own was enough to make heat creep up the back of your neck.
You wondered what he’d taste like, if he’d kiss you soft, if he’d kiss you rough, like all his patience had run out and he just had to have you. You thought about his hands, if he’d be soft with them too, if he’d hold you sweet by the waist or if he’d cup your jaw and pull you closer to him. Maybe he’d make pretty sounds for you, maybe he’d groan and sigh low and sweet when your tongue touched his, maybe he’d pull away to whisper in your ear, run his mouth like you knew he was good at.
You were leaning in.
You didn’t even realise.
Eddie was too.
Hands still tangled and resting on your lap, his breath mixing with your own as his forehead touched yours. A curl tickled your cheek and when the bridge of your nose bumped softly against the boy’s, your lashes fluttered as your eyes closed and your heart was thumpingthumpingthumping.
Your brain was yelling. It sounded like your mother, like your ex and it sounded like you, shouting at them both that you didn’t need a relationship and you didn’t need boys and how this wasn’t supposed to happen.
Maybe you pulled back, maybe you just stopped. Or maybe Eddie just knew you better than you thought, ‘cause it had been three weeks of camp and he knew how you liked to visit the lake at least once a day, how you always woke up early and you liked it best when it rained through the night so you could sleep to the sounds of it.
Eddie sat back in the seat, took his hands with him and left yours feeling colder than they should’ve.
Before you could panic, before you could say sorry again and again, before the tears you felt thicken the back of your throat, Eddie smiled. He handed you back your milkshake, a little more melted than before.
“You don’t have to kiss me,” he said gently, and his words hurt your chest but he kept talking. “You don’t have to prove anything to me - or yourself,” he added.
He took a second to lean back in, just a little, the hand not holding his shake lifting to your face so he could push back a piece of hair that had fallen across your forehead. You think he just wanted a reason to touch you, and you realised then you’d let him do that as much as he wanted.
“I don’t want you to kiss me if you’re not sure,” he explained. “And I don’t want to make you feel rushed or—”
“You don’t,” you interrupted and your voice felt too loud for the front of the van, for the soft quiet, the blue light and strawberry air. “You don’t make me feel like that at all, Eddie. I just— I feel…”
Scared, torn, nervous, hypocritical.
You looked at him, sad, doe eyed and nervous, and if you chewed at your poor bottom lip any longer, Eddie was going to have to save it with gentle fingers.
“How ‘bout this,” Eddie said soft and lovely, like a secret, “if you work out how you feel, and you work out what you want…” he trailed off, felt brave again and took your hand back in his, a thumb running over the back of it. “Come find me, yeah? Let me know.”
You nodded, fingertips pushed to his palm, across the tiny guitar string scars and rough calluses.
“‘Cause I really like you,” he whispered.
“I like you too,” you whispered back and Eddie smiled, wide and bright and adorably shy.
“Good to know,” he nodded but his cheeks were flushed and he let go of your hand for the last time, curling his own back around the steering wheel. “We, uh, we better head back before Steve starts a search party for us.”
“For you, you mean,” you snorted.
“Don’t be jealous,” the boy quipped back but he was smiling. “This is gotta be the part of the script where the van breaks down on us, right?”
You laughed again, a soft huff and sounded so fond that it made Eddie’s chest ache. You were busy clipping your seatbelt back in, your shake almost empty and wedged behind your thighs and Eddie tried not to stare, he really did.
“And then what happens?” You asked, peering over at him, wondering if it was safe to ask, if you wanted to know.
Eddie shrugged, gave a sort of half smile that told you he was already thinking it over. “Depends what horror movie you like best, I guess.”
You scrunched your nose and watched the lights turn Eddie from aquamarine to a too warm orange as he rolled out of the diner’s parking lot. “A horror?”
‘I thought this was supposed to be a romance,’ you wanted to say.
You didn’t.
“Yeah, pick your poison sweetheart,” Eddie laughed, gaining a little more speed as he left the town behind and the only light came from the moon. “Ghostface with a knife? He gets me first when I go look for help,” Eddie wiggled his brows at you theatrically. “Or how ‘bout a good old fashioned zombie mob, huh? They surround the van and I obviously sacrifice myself to save you.”
You snorted, too amused. “Obviously,” you tell him.
“But once I’m all zombified, I turn on you,” Eddie grinned wide when you gasped, overly dramatic, just for him. “Start nibblin’ on that pretty neck like a chicken tender.”
You shake your head at him, still laughing. “You’re horrid.”
The boy shrugged, drove the van slowly through the skinny, dirt roads back into the forest. And when he stopped and killed the engine, silence settled over you both in a way it didn’t in town. Something far away chirped.
“Yeah, I know,” he appeased. His gaze settled on you, wide and bright even in the dark, a lot more hopeful too. “But you like me.”
PART TWO
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson x you#eddie munson#eddie munson fic#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson smut#eddie munson blurb#eddie munson imagine#eddie munson oneshot#stranger things fic
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ECLIPSE ON SATURN.
1.5k words and a whole lot of fluff.
“Come on, we’re gonna miss it!”
“Oh calm down,” you laughed as your friend pulled you along to your university’s courtyard. “I don’t see why this eclipse thing is such a big deal anyways.”
Han turned to you, gummy smile exposed and a light in his eyes that was so bright you could see the universe in them. He had been boasting about the whole eclipse thing all morning. He had even made sure to get you both those cardboard glasses with special lenses just so you could properly see it. All that came out of his mouth was eclipse this, eclipse that. You had no idea where this sudden infatuation had come from. But when he looked at you like this, there was no reason to question it.
“Hey,” he shrugged, “it got us out of class so I’m not complaining.”
The both of you walked hand in hand until you reached the center of the courtyard. It seemed as if everyone had gotten the memo that the best place to see the sun and moon overlap would be at the heart of the university, as almost half the school was there as well.
Han looked around until he spotted the guys and waved to them before dragging you over to the fountain that sat in the center of the yard. You asked him why you both weren’t sitting with them, and he just simply replied that where they wanted to be for the eclipse wouldn’t be as magical as where you guys were.
It was strange, very strange.
But then again, this was Han Jisung. Your best friend who you knew always wanted to make his experiences memorable. And seeing as the next eclipse probably wouldn’t even be happening until you were both merely in your forties, it sort of made sense why he was acting weird.
He wanted the moment to be magical. But little did you know, he wanted the moment to be magical for you more than anything.
The two of you sat there at the edge of the fountain as Han vigorously bounced his leg impatiently. You let out a chuckle upon noticing how anxious he was. It was a big contrast to your surroundings.
The small murmurs of people around you, the rushing water of the fountain, the light sound of the trees shaking because of the wind…
Someone had even pulled out their bluetooth speaker and was playing music so mellow it could practically put someone to sleep.
And through all of that, there was Jisung; staring up at the sky and practically vibrating throughout his entire body in a fit of self-inflicted anxiety.
His hand lay against the concrete of the fountain, gripping onto it for dear life. You placed your hand atop his, smiling at his immediate reaction of rubbing his thumb over yours without even looking at you.
“Jisung,” you stated, causing him to flinch before snapping his head in your direction.
His pupils were dilated to their fullest extent and his signature confused pout sat atop his lips. He was so pretty you thought you might die if he looked at you like that any longer then a few seconds.
“Ji, calm down. It’s just an eclipse. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Maybe not for you,” he leaned forward for emphasis, “but I slept through the last eclipse. I was like, what, seventeen then? I can’t miss it again.”
His hair started to move with the wind and you watched as his long, curly strands wisped across his eyes. You reached over and tucked a strand or two behind his ear. He prayed you couldn’t see how red they were.
“You always look so cute when you’re excited,” you said looking into the boba pearls staring back at you. “Your eyes always get so big.”
He grinned, widening his eyes and bringing his face even closer to yours. You shied away, playfully pushing him away in the process. His eyes crinkled as his smile reached his eyes.
“Your eyes are pretty cute sometimes too.”
“Why thank you,” blush began to slowly creep its way onto your cheeks as you tried to continue joking around. “My parents worked really hard to create this beauty.”
You watched your friend roll his eyes, but the grin he had never left his face.
At this point, Jisung’s shaking had stopped as all his focus was suddenly on you.
And how your hand was still on his.
A brief silence fell between the both of you that felt like lightyears despite it only being a few seconds. There was a sort of tension there. You could feel it. Jisung could definitely feel it. And neither of you wanted to let it linger away.
So, Jisung spoke.
“You know, a lot of people use the eclipse as a way to symbolize new beginnings.”
“Is that so?” you asked.
He nodded.
“Yeah. It’s kind of like… whatever happens in the dark will become beautiful in the light. A lot of secrets are revealed in rare moments like that.”
“Oh yeah?” You turned to face him, smirking. “What are you trying to say then, hm? Are you hiding any secrets from me Jisung?”
He sat there, looking at you as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. And the moment he opened his mouth to speak, it appeared it was time.
“IT'S HAPPENING!” You could hear someone yell, and the entire courtyard went silent.
All you could hear for a brief moment were the trees, the water, and the beginning of a twinkly instrumental starting to play.
… if there's another universe, please make some noise…
Han’s gaze was still glued to you for a good second before the panic began to set in for him again when he realized neither of you had your eclipse glasses in hand.
“Shit,” he swore under his breath, attempting to reach into his back pocket to grab them but failing.
As he reached back, he seemed to lose balance and almost fall into the fountain. In an effort to not completely embarrass himself, he used all his willpower to force his body forward. He fell onto the pavement instead this way, which in his eyes was better than having to walk back to his dorm drenched from head to toe.
You felt bad for laughing, but stuff like this was pretty much the norm for your friend. Which is why when Jisung turned back to you, this time viewing from a lower perspective as he was on bended knee in front of you, he couldn’t be mad. He just joined you in your laughter and apologized for being a clutz.
… sick of this head of mine, intrusive thoughts, they paralyze…
He looked up at you, pulling out a pair of glasses from his pocket and unfolding them. His hands held the cardboard temples as he slowly reached upward to put them on you. But midway through, the thought of hiding your beautiful orbs seemed foreign to him and all he could do was stare into them. It was like staring into the sun but not being able to look away because the colors burning into his retinas were too beautiful.
You were too beautiful.
His hands dropped and the both of you were once again in silence. The thoughts in his mind were going in different directions, appearing and disappearing into a void lost by your beauty like every word in his mind was levitating in an ethereal plane.
The moon had begun its mission of hiding the sun, but he couldn’t do his mission hiding his.
… life's better on Saturn, got to break this pattern of floating away…
“Jisung?” You asked, both a feeling of confusion and slight lust washing over you as the slow approaching darkness began to fill your peripheral view. “You okay? Is something wrong?”
Han shook his head no, but he still couldn’t speak. And then, as if something had taken over his body, he began to lean into you.
You watched for a moment, contemplating if what was happening was really happening.
But it was.
And not long after did you find yourself leaning in as well.
Your palm found Jisung’s jaw as you began to rub small circles against his cheek. One of his hands found your waist and began pulling you further down towards him. Your fingertips traveled upward through his curly locks as the sky completely turned dark and a sigh escaped Han as your lips collided. You couldn't help but grin through it.
This wasn’t how he was intending to expose his feelings for you. Hell, he had been losing his shit all day trying to figure out how he would ask you out. He wanted to give you a whole speech comparing the moon and sun to you both, pouring his soul out until it lay helplessly in your hands hoping for reciprocation in return. But this was better. Way better.
Han didn’t get to look at the eclipse that day, but he got something even greater. From that day on, he would write songs and tell people about how the two of you finally got together. And he would use the same wording almost every time.
“The day the sun and moon collided, so did we.”
#➴collisvng writes#han jisung#han jisung drabbles#han jisung thoughts#stray kids imagines#han jisung imagines#han jisung fluff#han jisung x reader#stray kids#stray kids drabbles#stray kids thoughts#skz fluff#skz x reader#solar eclipse#the eclispe was too pretty to not write about#eclipse#spotify
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— in another lifetime ! ★ | edition: archons, version 1.0
ft. venti, zhongli & ei x fem!reader
content. heavy angst, mentions of alcohol, death, blood, details of injuries, illness. refers to their story lore. spoilers for inazuma’s archon quest.
✉️ mail received! sender: venti
you had every ounce of reason to believe that the boisterous bard was in fact not a mortal. he knew mondstadt like the back of his hand - i mean seriously, do all bards recite the crevices of a cliff face the way that he does? - and even drunk he could blabber for hours on mondstadt’s history, occasionally mentioning things that were not public knowledge.
therefore you knew you’d be swallowing yourself into a mess when you fell head over heels for that playful giggle, the lingering taste of wine on his lips between kisses and how he always seemed to reassure you so perfectly - regardless of whether you worshipped the archon of anemo or not (he doesn’t mind anyways!)
you remember the day that he finally gave up his secret well. it was carved into your memory the same way venti had every inch of his country burned into his mind, the rocks, the lakes, the trees he rustled with familiar, warm breezes as you walk under them. you’d been ill for months, seeking help from a multitude of doctors to try pinpoint exactly what was wrong - it turns out you didn’t have long left to live. in a bout of emotion, venti exposed his true identity to you underneath windrise, not far from a statue of his own person.
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a gasp falls from your lips, another coughing fit shaking your body as venti perches himself down beside you on the picnic blanket, his hand rubbing your back warmly. you flash him an appreciative smile, to which your boyfriend returns as he presses a kiss to your head. weakly, you raise a tissue to your mouth as you continue to cough, as if something is stuck in your throat.
it’s becoming harder to breathe and when that lump in your throat finally hacks up, the white tissue in your hand stains a bright red. venti’s eyes notice it before you do, the hairs on the back of his neck standing in a panic as his breath hitches - no, you couldn’t possibly be leaving him this soon?
it was as if celestia was mocking him for falling in love with a human in the first place. a mortal with an archon? a concept so amusing in the eyes of those who live forever. it was bad enough falling for you knowing you too would leave him one day but it was even more of a stab to his chest when you were ill with mere months left.
“windblume?” venti whispers, concerned when you don’t respond straight away. your breaths are staggered, weak and wheezing somewhat. it feels like your lungs are filling with liquid, drowning out your vital organs as you become dizzy. your vision is darkening, static around the edges as you look over at your boyfriend.
he’s crying; rivers of precious, glittering tears are dancing down pale cheeks as he stares at you in fear. there’s no reassuring him now. you know that venti has seen his fair share of death, you couldn’t lie to him in such a scenario.
“in… another lifetime, okay?” your voice cracks, you’re running out of oxygen when your chest tightens and constricts like there’s a heavy weight pressing on you, “i-i love you.”
“wait- no!” venti cries out, catching you as your body slumps forward, your eyes unblinking. he squeezes you close, burying his face into your shoulder when he can’t hear your struggled gasps for breath anymore, “i love you too…”
✉️ mail received! sender: zhongli
he figured he’d done a good job of hiding his status as an archon, especially when he tries to emphasise that he is retired - xiao will always send him a straight, deadpanned look in response to this that makes you giggle. you’d seen through it all, namely because you’d been familiar with xiao prior to meeting zhongli. you knew the last remaining yaksha well, on friendly terms.
you knew xiao wouldn’t just respond to anyone the way that he does zhongli. you’d seen first hand how the adeptus responds at the voice of the taller man - obedient and loyal. not to mention, you’d heard plenty of times when xiao stumbles on his words, referring to zhongli by his archon name before his cheeks flush and he stutters out his human name instead.
zhongli thought the idea of love mediocre. it never seemed to impress him - you suspected that there had been a past lover involved but neither xiao nor zhongli confirmed or denied your suspicions. you also knew however that zhongli had every right not to return your feelings. what would an archon ever want with a human anyways?
but the benevolent turned archon cracked under your smile and contagious energy, admitting that he was an archon the same night he had said his true feelings out loud into the night of guyun stone forest - where he had taken you to delve into liyue’s history. it was a personal favourite activity to do with you, your eyes glittering whenever he’d speak of events long ago.
sadly, zhongli knows that he had delved too deep into too many scenarios for his own good, trusting the fatui within liyue at what cost?
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guyun stone forest was as peaceful as ever, the waves rolling up the sand beaches in melodies you wished you could paint on a canvas. zhongli knew you particularly loved this spot - he’d offered to take you to jueyun karst this evening but you was hellbent on coming back to guyun stone forest, a harsh reminder of the archon war to the tall male.
yet as peaceful as it was, a solace that the two of you would cherish any other day, there was the struggled gasps of your breath that broke the silence, meshing with the crash of waves and the whip of the wind on liyue’s coastline.
golden eyes stare at you, panicked and dilated as he takes in the way your blood is staining your attire, painting it red in the shade of jueyun chilis - would he ever look at the specialities of his own country the same again? let alone the location that he held the most memories at, especially with you, the only one he’d truly let close again?
“zhongli?” you whisper, watching the way he’s clutching his polearm with such vigor, brandishing it in anger after having fought off your attackers. if he wasn’t wearing his gloves, you’d see the way his knuckles are turning white.
“how are you feeling? does it hurt?” his polearm clatters to the stony pebbles of the beach you stood on, the very pebbles that are splattered in blood - not just yours but of numerous fatui lackeys zhongli had put to rest in your defence. he rushes to your side, gloved hands cupping your face as he makes you look up at him.
“it burns, li,” you wince, breathing is starting to hurt. it’s starting to take its toll paired with the blood loss zhongli knows he can’t stop, “i’ll be waiting for you in our next lifetime.”
zhongli grimaces at your words, not willing to grasp the concept of you dying yet - no, he possibly couldn’t. he was prepared for much longer time with you, he couldn’t have it cut so short. but he watches the way the sparkle is dying from your eyes, chapped lips parted as shallow breaths leave them.
“perhaps, then we will get this whole thing right, my love,” he reassures, a hand falling down to your waist when your knees buckle weakly under you, protecting your fragile body from the stones below, “i love you, y/n, always.”
✉️ mail received! sender: ei
following the traveler’s escapades in inazuma, ei wandered inazuma city many days to bask in the sunlight she hadn’t seen in decades. she’d hang around a particular café, one where you worked as a waitress delivering cups of hot matcha to tables of smiling elderly couples, dying old together until their last days. ei would sink deeper into thought whenever she saw you, some days even managing to run into you when you wasn’t working - it truly was accidental!
you would be a fool to not recognise her as inazuma’s archon, to which you do. she knows this when you respond to her in polite, formal gestures and yet you never fear her. you never cower in her presence or shake and shiver. it’s a peace she had yet to experience in her time out of the plane of euthymia.
when she announces her feelings to you, under the dazzling, colourful displays of naganohara fireworks in a quiet spot of tenshukaku’s gardens, she makes it clear that you will leave this realm of existence before her - without her. you do not fear this idea either, the same way you do not fear her. ei finds it courageous that you do not fear death as others around her do.
you do fear her capabilities as an archon, the destruction she can cause in mere seconds and the enemies she makes in the blink of an eye but ei never meant for it to turn out this way, they were her enemies to deal with, not yours.
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“ei…?” her name falls from your lips within seconds of your attack, a red river trickling from the corner of your mouth as ei lowers you to the grass below, kneeling at your side as she holds you close in her arms.
“shh, my dear, it is okay.” ei coos, raising a shaking hand to brush her thumb against your cheek, collecting tears yet to fall from your eyes although she can see them sparkling in rhe moonlight. thunder roars over head, lightning flashing around you in the midst of ei’s anger and worry.
it is the first time she has seen you so fearful with eyes wide as you choke on your own blood, coughing it up. it splashes onto her pale skin but she does not react, watching you helplessly as her grip on you tightens.
“this is it, isn’t it?” you ask with a raspy voice, a single tear rolling down your cheek that ei wasn’t quick enough to wipe away in time. ei flashes a sad smile down at you, not wanting to say the words you crave to hear.
“you belong with me - you know that, yes?” she suddenly states, her voice firm but there’s a slight waver in her tone, “maybe in another world or lifetime but i know you belong with me.”
you choke on a sob at her words, succumbing to your injuries as they burn and sting, red drops of blood dripping to the ground below and staining blades of grass. ei presses her lips to your head in a silent reassurance, knowing that nothing she could say would bring you calm now. nothing would bring you the divinity you feel when the two of you would sit under a shared parasol in tenshukaku’s gardens or wandered in the shallow waters of inazuma’s coastlines barefooted.
ei keeps her lips pressed to your clammy skin until your sobs and cries of how painful it is subdue, leaving her with your lifeless body in her arms. only then does the woman cry, screaming out into the night sky in a battle with the thunder - who truly felt more anger in that moment? she wails, wondering if she’ll ever live without the ones she loves getting taken from her so brutally.
© https-furina 2023.
#꒰꒰・♡ cold cases#https-furina#genshin#genshin impact#genshin angst#genshin impact angst#genshin venti#genshin zhongli#genshin ei#ei#venti#zhongli#ei x reader#venti x reader#zhongli x reader
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