#freshman year of college is kicking my ASS

[velvetcake96]

Working on a lil Oscar redesign

Big ears even bigger heart/imagination. Love the little farmer boy! >.<

#rwby #rwby art #rwby fanart #rwby headcanon #(?? maybe??) #rwby redesign #rwby rewrite #rwby oscar pine #rwby oscar #oscar pine #he’s just a funky lad #gosh dang it velvet #I just kinda crawled out of nowhere #freshman year of college is kicking my ASS #He’s cute and his design gives off more of his personality/the culture in this #Rwby never seems to have much culture #like different languages or cultural differences between areas so I wanna change that #like… Native American culture because I’m a Creek/Cherokee native

[unfinishedslurs]

gay bar (steddie)

“Well, well, well,” says a voice from behind. “Steeeeeeve Harrington. I must be dreaming.”

Steve turns around to see a guy, dressed in black and chains. Rings decorating his fingers, studs in his ears, curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. He’s hot, yeah, but something about him has Steve squinting, trying to figure out why he looks so familiar. 

“I know you from somewhere,” he says, pointing out the obvious. The guy knows his name.

The not-a-stranger snorts. “Of course you don’t remember me. Why would the likes of King Steve stoop to—“

As soon as the nickname leaves his mouth, Steve’s brain lights up. “Munson!” He exclaims, snapping his fingers. “You used to climb on the lunch tables to give speeches.”

It was so obnoxious, too. The kind of thing that had him and Robin reminiscing late at night, celebrating some of the weirder shit about Hawkins that didn’t come from monsters, or Russians, or government conspiracy. Remember that one asshole? Yeah, he stepped on my lunch one time!

Condolences to Robin’s pb&j. She never sat at that table again.

Munson’s whole face turns pink. “Seriously? That’s what you remember?”

“It was pretty fucking memorable, dude. Like, gross, doesn’t this guy know not to put his feet where people eat? Dustin thought you were so cool for it too. I had to nip that in the bud before he started imitating you or some shit.”

“Oh,” he says, voice gone flat. “Because God forbid some poor kid try to immolate the freak.”

Steve gives him his bitchiest, most deadpan stare. “Feet,” he says slowly. “Nasty, fifteen year old boy feet. On my kitchen table. He almost slipped and cracked his skull, and I would have sent you the hospital bill.”

He had to get creative to make him stop, too. Stood there, hands on his hips, and made Dustin tell him exactly how many germs he thought were on his shoes. Then when he tried to do it barefoot, decided the only course of action was to stuff Dustin’s abandoned sock in his mouth and ask if he wanted that shit with every meal. Erica still has the photos. 

Munson has the decency to look embarrassed, face flooding an even brighter red that wouldn’t be out of place in a tomato patch. “What are you even doing here, Harrington?”

What does he think Steve’s doing here? It’s a fucking gay bar, it’s pretty self explanatory. “My friend is here somewhere,” he says, waving out at the crowd of people. “She’s going through a dry spell, so…”

“Right,” Munson says. Steve squints at him. Does he look disappointed?

Eh. Doesn’t matter. 

“You gave my kids the best freshman year of their nerdy little lives,” he tells him, because he knows Dustin would want him to. Plus, the guy was Mike’s gay awakening. He should probably get some credit. “So thanks for that.”

He lights up. “Yeah! How was Hellfire in my absence?”

“I had to hear them bitch and moan for months about how it ‘wasn’t the same,’ but it’s doing pretty all right. Erica Sinclair is running it now.”

“Erica Sinclair…” Munson mutters, snapping his fingers. “Lucas Sinclair’s little sister? Lady Applejack?” He beams when Steve nods. “She kicked ass. Best finish to a campaign my entire high school career. How’s Lucas, anyway? And the rest of the runts.”

“He’s doing great,” Steve says. “College basketball at Yale. Pretty sure he’s dying under the workload, but that’s what you get for majoring in physics. Dustin’s at MIT, and Mike’s taking a gap year.”

He whistles lowly. “Yeesh, I don’t blame him. How about Byers?”

“Which one?”

“Zombie boy.” Steve’s hackles raise, but Munson just grins. “God, that nickname was badass.”

“How do you even know about that?”

Munson taps the side of his nose. “A magician never reveals his secrets. Besides, all it took for you to remember me was calling you by your high school nickname.”

“That wasn’t my nickname.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Literally three people ever actually called me that, and you were one of them.”

He has a feeling it was Tommy who started it, bitter and vicious. Told himself Steve was self possessed, high and mighty, above it all. That’s why he left his old friends behind. Not because he was in love, or because he wanted to be better. No, King Steve just sits alone in his castle, looking down on the peasants with contempt. 

Billy must have taken his angry ramblings and run with them. After all, what better way to get a start in a new town than declaring yourself royalty? Never mind that Steve hadn’t cared about anything like that for almost a year by then. 

Munson had just been a drama-loving asshole. 

“That can’t be right.”

“I stopped being popular in junior year. Why the hell would anyone call a sophomore King?” Steve points out. 

“You were Prom King.”

“Again, in junior year. Pickings were slim. Who else would it have been? Tommy?” He has to laugh. 

Luckily, Munson takes the hint and swerves the conversation into new territory. “You know, I always figured you’d be homophobic.”

Steve snorts. “What, and get kicked out for nothing?”

Munson stares at him, and Steve furrows his brow, looking into his glass like it will have the answer to why the hell he said that to this guy he barely knows. He just decided he wasn’t going to spill all his daddy issues to a near-stranger in a dingy bar, dammit. Is he already on his fifth drink?

Actually, this might be his sixth. That tracks. 

“What?”

“My dad caught me kissing a boy,” he says. If he’s going to give Munson his life story, he might as well commit. “Can you believe that boy ruined my life in three different ways? Two of them didn’t even have anything to do with the gay thing.” 

Maybe four ways, if you accounted for the way he broke his goddamn heart, but everyone and their mother saw that coming a mile away. Even Steve. Especially Steve. 

No offense to Jonathan. None of those things were really his fault. Or actually life ruining, but it sure fucking felt like it at the time. 

He should give him a call soon, actually, see how he and Argyle are doing. He misses the guy. Maybe he and Robin should save up for a visit to Cali. Get Nancy on it. They could see San Francisco while they were there, that’d be cool. Apparently it was the queer capital of the country. 

He’s thinking about asking the bartender for a napkin and a pen to write down the plans he’s forming when Munson speaks up again. Steve honestly forgot he was here. 

“I thought you said you were here for a friend.”

What?” Steve blinks, confused, and then catches on. “Yeah, to get her laid. I’m not in the mood right now.”

Munson cocks an eyebrow. “Wearing that? Could’ve fooled me.”

Steve looks down at his Springsteen T-Shirt that Robin cropped, and picks at the frayed hem of his shorts. Okay, yeah, they’re on the skimpy side, but in his defense it’s summer and even if he’s not cruising Steve likes being looked at. “Yeah, yeah. What about you? Here for anything in particular?”

“Just to talk to some pretty boys,” Munson says, leaning on the bar to flag down the bartender. Steve smirks, reaching out a hand to tug at the hanky in his back pocket. Pinned, damn. 

Munson whirls around, a flush starting to crawl onto his ears. 

“Wearing that?” Steve echos snarkily. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He swears that for a minute Munson’s eyes darken. 

He’s almost tempted to follow through, high school reputation be damned, when someone crashes into his side and nearly sends him careening. 

“Steeeeeve,” Robin yells happily into his ear. “This is Bernie, she’s gonna take me home, see you la—oh, hi!” She says, noticing Munson. “I know you from somewhere.”

“Eddie Munson,” Munson greets. “Steve and I went to high school together.”

“Munson! That’s it, you climbed on tables and had shit music. I’m Robin. Okay, I’ll call the apartment and leave a message when we get there. Bernie’s waiting on me, it’s-nice-to-meet-you-bye!” Just like that, she’s gone. 

Munson’s mouth has dropped open. “You told her I had shit music?” He demands. “Wait, you talked about me?”

“She went to school with us, dumbass,” he says, as if he can talk. He still barely remembers her as more than a vague, glowering figure in his peripheral. “It’s not my fault you blasted your screamy music for everyone in the parking lot. Such a fucking headache, God.”

Munson turns his nose up. “Sorry for having offended your jock sensibilities.”

“Oh, I don’t play anymore,” he says, and knocks on his head. “Concussions, yanno. Apparently brain damage will fuck you up. Who knew?”

“What, like the fight you had with Byers? He did you that bad?”

“He did me just fine,” Steve blurts out, before he can stop himself. Munson chokes. “Shit, sorry, I’m kind of a horny drunk.” Weird thing to say, Steve. “Also, I cannot stress enough how much I needed to be punched in the face. It was a monumental moment for me, you know. Started me on the path for changing my entire worldview. Plus, he was my first guy crush.” He swirls his empty glass, lost in thought, before brightening up. “I should call him!”

Munson is staring at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish. 

“What?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Well, yeah. Duh.”

“I should probably stop you from booty-calling the guy who punched you in the face.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “It wouldn’t be a booty-call,” he says. “He and Argyle are happy together, man. I’m not gonna ruin that.”

“Oh, so you’d call him because…”

“I call him all the time,” Steve says, confused as to why this is such a big deal. “We’re friends.”

“Jonathan!” He yells happily into the pay phone. Munson is standing to the side, looking on in annoyance. Whatever, it’s not like Steve asked him to do this. “Jonathan, man, how are you?”

“…Steve?”

“Yeah!”

“It’s like…” he hears something clatter in the background, like Jonathan is looking for something, “two in the morning there. You okay?”

“I’m doing great!” He exclaims. “How about you? It’s been ages, man, I miss you.”

“This is so fucking weird,” Munson whispers behind him. Steve ignores him. 

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” he says. “Well, maybe a little. Do you not miss me too?” He pouts, and Jonathan sighs loud enough he hears it over the phone. 

“I just talked to you yesterday.”

Steve frowns. “Yesterday? That can’t be right, it’s been, like, forever. Oh, hey, have you heard from Nance lately? How’s your mom? I love your mom, she’s so fucking cool. Does she know I think she’s cool? How’s Will? It’s been so long, is he taller than me yet? How’s Argyle doing with his degree? I miss you guys.”

“We miss you too, Steve.”

“Awww, Byers, getting soppy on me? Gross, man.”

“You literally just—yeah, okay. Are you alone?”

“Nah, I’ve got this guy with me, he’s walking me home. Oh! Dude, do you remember Munson?”

“Munson?”

“Yeah, Eddie Munson! From high school! The one who used to climb on tables and shit, remember him?”

“Jesus Christ,” Munson groans. “Please let that die.”

“No one is dying,” Steve informs him seriously, and turns back to the phone. Munson sighs. 

“Wasn’t he a drug dealer?”

“Yes! Yeah, drug dealer Munson! Did you ever buy from him?” He turns to where Munson is looking around furtively. “Did Jonathan ever buy from you?”

“How about we not talk about this here,” Munson says through gritted teeth. Steve sighs and turns back to the phone. 

“Never mind, he says he doesn’t want to talk about that. Not like we can judge him, but whatever. Maybe the guy’s turned into a prude—“

“Okay, give me that.” Munson wrestles the phone out of his hand, and Steve whines at him. “Hey, Byers,” Munson says. “Yeah, it’s Eddie. Or Munson. Whatever. Listen, I’m getting kind of sick of standing here watching Harrington slobber all over the receiver, can he call you tomorrow? What? No, I don’t sell anymore—yeah, total bummer, whatever. Listen, I’ll get him home safe—no, I’m not going to serial murder him. He’s gonna be fine, he’ll call you tomorrow—Nancy Wheeler? Like that girl he dated? Didn’t you—shoot me? Jesus, okay! I’m not gonna kill the guy, Christ. He’s gonna be fine, oh my God. He’ll call you tomorrow. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah, okay. Bye.” He slams the phone into its holder with more than a little contempt. 

“Hey!” Steve protests. “You didn’t let me say bye.”

“You can call him tomorrow and apologize,” Munson says. “Now c’mon, Harrington. I’ve been tasked with getting you home safe, and if I fail, apparently Nancy fucking Wheeler is going to shoot me in the balls.”

“Oh, yeah, she’s really hot when she does that,” Steve says fondly, and Munson splutters. 

“What, does Wheeler just go around shooting people? Does she even have a gun?”

“Of course Nancy has a gun.” Steve frowns. It was one of the sure things in the universe at this point. The sky is blue, Hawkins is fucked up, and Nancy Wheeler has a gun. “And she doesn’t shoot people, stupid. Well, she shot at Billy, but he deserved it.”

“Billy?” Munson mutters, starting to usher Steve in the direction of home. “Who the fuck is Billy?”

“He was trying to kill her first!” Steve defends. “I hit him with a car before he could, so she was okay.”

“Okay, yeah, sure. Why wouldn’t you hit some guy with a car? 

“It wasn’t some guy,” Steve says. “It was Billy. He was, like, possessed or some shit. Oh, and he beat me up. Total psycho.  And that was before the melted flesh monster.”

Munson stops and stares at him. “You know what, sure. Demonic possession. Yeah, okay. Some guy named Billy kicked your ass—wait, are you talking about Billy Hargrove?”

Steve lights up. “Yeah! You remember that? That’s one of the concussions I was talking about. I gotta wear glasses 'cuza that shit. Man, fuck that guy.”

“Didn’t he die?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve frowns down at the ground. “Shit, I’m, like, speaking ill of the dead, aren’t I? Max wouldn't like that. Unfuck him, or whatever.”

“You wanna come up?” He asks. “For old times sake?”

Munson stares at him like it’s the craziest thing he’s said all evening. “‘Old times’ was your asshole friends calling me a satan worshiper and pushing me around in hallways, Harrington.”

“I know.” He grins. If he was sober he’d definitely feel worse about that, but as it is he’s pretty single minded. “Don't you kind of want to make me cry about it?”

Deer in headlights isn’t usually a good look, but Munson’s got the eyes to make it work. Or Steve is drunk. Either way, it’s kinda cute. 

“You’re drunk,” he finally says, stumbling over the words a little. If Steve pays close attention and ignores most of reality, it almost sounds like he’s trying to convince both of them. “You’re so incredibly drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.” He totally is. 

“I just had to supervise you calling Jonathan Byers so you didn’t say something you’d regret in the morning.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asks, offended. “I love Jonathan! I tell him all the time. Just because I said he ruined my life—“

“That was him?”

“Did I not say that? Huh. Whatever. Point is, I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re definitely drunk,” Munson says. “I’m not—yeah, no. I’m not coming up.”

“Damn.” Steve shrugs, not too put out about it. It’s a bummer, sure, but he handles rejection like a champ. Just ask Robin. “Worth a shot. See you ‘round, Munson.”

“Don’t kill me,” Steve says. 

“Oh, god, did you punch him?”

“No, I, uh.” Steve rubs the bridge of his nose. “I think I tried to fuck him.”

He has to hold the phone away from his face so Dustin’s screeching doesn’t break his eardrums. 

“Your exes are weirdly protective of you,” Munson says blandly. “Also, didn’t they date?”

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs, not exactly eager to start spilling his life story again now that he’s sober. Munson doesn’t need to know more about his dating history than he already does. “We’re all a little weird about each other, sorry.”

“Weird about your exes,” he hums. “No wonder you’re single.”

“Oh, fuck you. It’s not like that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Are you always this nosy?” Steve asks, a little waspish. 

“Absolutely,” Munson replies without hesitation. “I’d say sorry, but I’m not. When did you even date him?”

“Dude.”

Munson just cocks an expectant eyebrow, hip resting against the bar. He can’t imagine why someone would be so interested in the romantic lives of their old high school classmates. It’s not like Steve is about to ask what was going on between him and Chrissy Cunningham. 

“Well, Harrington?”

“First grade,” Steve answers, deadpan. He grins when Munson chokes. “Nah, it was actually after he and Nancy broke up. Fall of ‘86.”

Arms squeeze him from behind, and Robin slides into view, leaving one hand wrapped pointedly around Steve’s waist. She gets clingy when she thinks someone is bothering him, or when she’s just on the side of drunk that she gets possessive. She told him, embarrassed and hungover, that it’s because she registers someone he’s getting along with as infringing on “her Steve time.” Steve thinks it’s hilarious and kind of sweet, an obvious lesbian trying to pretend he’s her date. Especially because he gets the same way when he’s tipsy and feels like he doesn’t have enough of her attention, so she can't yell at him for being a cockblock. Cuntblock. Whatever the lesbians call it.

He wonders what category she thinks Eddie is. Of guy, that is. Not block-anything.

He'd actually be pretty damn happy if the guy miraculously changed his mind and decided to sit on his cock instead.

“What’s going on here?” She asks, almost cattily. He loves when Robin gets bitchy. It brings him back to their Scoops days, except he gets to see it turned on someone else. 

“I’m telling Eddie my life story,” Steve says blithely.

“Ugh. Who would want that?”

Eddie grins. “I’m curious about the adventures of a former king.” He dips his head in a bow, waving his hand in a flourish. “I don’t know if you remember me from last time, I’m Eddie—“

“Munson, I know. You stepped on my lunch in junior year.”

Eddie turns beet red in record time. 

“Aww, Robbie,” Steve almost coos. “Leave him alone. I wanted to be the one who made him blush like that.”

“It’s not my fault your boy’s easy.”

“Not my boy, clearly,” he mutters under his breath. “And if he were easy, I’d have gotten fucked by now.”

Eddie’s mouth drops open with a choked little sound. Whoops. Steve forgot volume control again. 

Robin takes one look at Eddie’s face and bursts into cackles. 

“He was asking about,” he waved a hand in the air, “the whole Nancy-Jonathan thing.”

Her eyebrows jut up. “You told him about the threesome?”

“The what?”

Steve sighs. “No, Robin. I did not tell him about the threesome.”

“…oops.”

“When?” Eddie demands. 

Robin gives him the evil eye. “Why are you being weird about this? It’s not gonna make him fuck you.”

Steve wisely keeps his mouth shut. 

Eddie does not. “Your boy here already asked,” he smirks, leaning closer. “I said no.”

Then, as an added punch to his ego, he twirls a strand of Steve’s hair around his finger and tugs slightly. Steve’s too stunned to protest. 

Robin watches the exchange. “Oh, no thank you,” she says. “Nope. I’m out. I don’t want to see whatever this is. Ugh, stop making me hear about your sex life.”

Hypocrite. “We have thin walls, Buckley,” Steve reminds her. He turns to Eddie and stage whispers, “She likes her girls loud.”

“Steve!”

“You do!”

“Oh, because you’re so quiet,” she snaps, smacking him. “How many times have I had to bang on the wall because you couldn’t keep it down? You wanna talk about loud? I know more about you than I ever wanted to.”

His mouth drops open in mortification. “You know it’s rude to be mean to the man who told you how to eat out,” he hisses. 

“I’m not dying without fucking Eddie Munson,” he declares. “I mean, his high school nickname was literally ‘The Freak.’ He’s got to be good in bed, right?”

“I think that was mostly because everyone thought he was communing with the Devil or something.”

“Maybe the Devil gave him sex magic.”

“Of course he thinks I’m cute.”

“I do?”

“Do you not?” Steve turns to him, widening his eyes in the same pout that always has Robin throwing something at his face, or the kids reluctantly agreeing to do what he wants. He’s found it’s useful for guys too, especially if he ducks his head to seem smaller and looks through his eyelashes. Makes them imagine him looking like that on his knees. 

Munson is no exception. He melts faster than Steve can say gotcha. “You’re very cute, Harrington,” he purrs, and Robin snorts into her drink. 

“You’re a weak, weak man, Eddie Munson,” she tells a blushing Eddie. Then she kicks Steve. “Stop bringing out the ‘fuck me’ eyes when I’m around, I’ll gag.”

“You could leave.”

She gasps, affronted, and kicks him harder.

“So you would fuck me if I wasn’t drunk?”

“Uh…” he looks everywhere but Steve’s face, which is just rude. He has a very nice face. He’s been called dreamy before. 

Which made Robin laugh so hard she fell off the couch when he told her, but he’ll take the lesbian’s opinion with a grain of salt. 

He makes his way onto the dance floor. He’s not a particularly good dancer, but he shakes his ass like he means it. Gets up close with a guy, stares at Eddie the whole time. Keeping eye contact as the guy puts his hands on his hips. 

Look, he means to say. This could be you. You could lose your chance if you’re not careful. 

From the burning in Eddie’s eyes, he gets the message. 

The message is a bunch of bullshit. It’s been over four months, he’s in too deep to go fuck off with someone else now. Still, he enjoys the way Eddie’s hands flex on his thighs, like he had to stop himself from reaching out. 

The thing is, Steve’s not an asshole. He can take a hint. No means no, and all that jazz. If Eddie really didn’t want him, he’d fuck right off and find someone who did. He even started to.

Except Eddie pouted up a storm when he flirted with someone else. Got even clingier when Steve tried to back off. At this point, he’s accepted that Eddie does want to fuck him, and maybe even be more (no one flirts with someone as long as they’ve been doing without wanting something like a relationship out of it. At least, he hopes there’s something more on the horizon), but has some weird hang up about Steve being even a little bit buzzed when it happens. Even though they only ever see each other at this fucking bar.

The problem is Steve has no idea when Eddie will be at the bar. He’ll stay sober one night, hoping to see him, and then go home alone only for next time to be when he sees telltale curls and a wide smile. It’s driving him up the wall. 

Robin has been similarly affected.

“It’s been six months,” she growls as Steve looks eagerly around. “Six fucking months of you two dancing around in the worlds most annoying mating ritual. I’m going to kill both of you.”

“We’re not that bad,” he says absently. 

“You don’t even have his phone number. It’s pathetic. I swear to God, if you see him again and don’t get laid I’m reviving the scoops board. I will go out and buy a whiteboard to keep track of all the times you strike out with a man who used to walk on tables. He stepped on my lunch, Steve. Do I need to keep bringing up the fact he stepped on my delicious, nutritious PB&J? I can’t believe that’s the guy you decide to be obsessed with, that’s so fucking embarrassing for you.”

“Embarrassing? You mean like your crush on my ex girlfriend?”

She screeches wordlessly, pulling her keychain off her belt loop and attacking him with it. 

Naturally, that’s how Eddie finds them. 

“I swear you guys get weirder every time I see you.”

Steve grins guilelessly at him, holding a flailing Robin in a headlock. 

“Eddie! Hey! It’s been a minute.” He hasn’t been able to come in a month, and it’s been longer since he’s seen him. It’s honestly one of the deciding factors on whether it’s a passing fancy or a full blown crush. He still went to sleep every night thinking about Eddie. It didn’t even have to be about sex. 

Although maybe not sleeping with anyone else for half a year should have tipped him off sooner. 

“Sure has, big boy. I was starting to think you were getting sick of me.” It’s a joke, but Steve catches an undercurrent of insecurity. 

“That’d make my life easier,” Robin snorts. She finally wiggles her way out of his hold. “I saw Arty somewhere around here, I’m gonna see if I can crash at her place tonight.” She levels Eddie with a look. “He hasn’t had anything to drink. If you don’t put him out of his misery, I will. And it won’t be the good kind. It will be the bad kind. With bad screams. Lots of screaming, and someone will call the pigs, and I’ll be arrested and jailed for life. Do you want me to go to jail, Munson?”

Eddie shakes his head dumbly. 

“Good! Then do something about it.” She slaps Steve’s back, a mocking echo of his jock days. “Go get ‘em, slugger!” 

With that, she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd. 

“She is,” Steve remarks with amusement, “the worst wingman on planet Earth. Mars too, probably.”

“I dunno, I think it might be working.”

“I’m not doing anything without a condom,” he says, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting for an argument. 

“Me neither,” Steve agrees. “Robin has, like, this big fear of diseases. Totally got me with it. She pulled out the library books, those pictures were fucking disgusting. Shit showed up in my dreams, man. Neither of us do anything without protection.”

“I’m going to be totally honest with you, because I haven’t been and it’s starting to eat at me,” Eddie says, hovering above Steve. 

Steve wrinkles his nose. “What is it? Are you a spy or something? Are you Russian? Do you have superpowers? Is your name not actually Eddie?” He pauses. “Oh, God, you’re not even Eddie Munson, are you? I’m just some asshole who’s been calling you by my old classmates name and you were too embarrassed to correct me. Shit, we made so much fun of you for walking on tables too—“

“What?” Eddie covers his mouth, expression hovering between amused and baffled. “What the fuck, why would I go along with that? No, Jesus, I’m Eddie Munson. Moved to Hawkins when I was eleven, took senior year three times, walked on the fucking tables, could you let that go?” He moves the hand covering Steve’s mouth to play with his hair, looking annoyed for a minute before it smoothes to trepidation. “No, I, uh, I just felt like I needed to tell you that I used to have a hate-boner for you in high school. Like, I used to jack it to the thought of kicking your ass and making a mess outta you. In more ways than one.”

Steve stares. 

“Also, that’s kind of why I approached you in the bar in the first place,” Eddie blabbers on. “And then you said you were just there for a friend, and I was disappointed but it’s whatever, yanno? And then then you told me about your dad, and threw my expectations to the fucking wolves, and then you asked me to come up to your apartment except you were drunk and you probably didn’t mean it. But then the next time I saw you, you kept flirting with me, which you were not supposed to do, and I kept pretending that wasn’t the reason I even talked to you in the first place, and, uh, yeah.” He smiles nervously. “Surprise?”

“I mean, not really.”

“You’re such an asshole, fuck off. At least pretend to be shocked.”

“It’s not my fault you stare at my legs all the time,” Steve says, affronted. “I know I didn’t do too good in school, but I’m not dumb enough to miss that. Like, hello, my eyes are up here.”

Eddie lets his arms give out, flopping on top of Steve heavily. Steve wheezes. “Am I really that obvious?” He whines into his shoulder. 

“You got sad and pouty when I even looked at another guy.”

“You could’ve fucked him,” he mumbles. “The guy you were dancing with. It wasn’t any of my business. I’m a big boy, I can deal.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to fuck him,” Steve says. “I wanted to fuck you. Can we go back to that please?”

“Thought I was fucking you.”

“Someone’s getting fucked or Robin will kill both of us. I’d like to live tomorrow morning. And not have to deal with any more of her teasing for having no game.”

“You have unfortunate amounts of game,” Eddie sighs, tracing the side of Steve’s neck. It tickles. “It’s kind of embarrassing for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, are we using those condoms or not, Moodkiller?”

“Oh, I’m the mood killer?”

“Yes,” Steve says matter of factly, and pulls him in for a kiss before he can protest.

#gay bar au #steddie #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson #steve harrington #robin buckley #featuring robin as the worlds worst wingman #i'm never not going to bully eddie for walking on those tables #'why does everyone here hate me🥺' mf it's bc you keep putting ur nasty ass shoes where people eat #i've said it before and i'll say it again. someone should have yanked on his leg and made him faceplant. he would have deserved it #we stay billy bashing 💪 #in this au the byers didn't move to california #jonathan still goes to school there tho #why? bc he and argyle are soulmates and time and space moved for them to make sense next question #i need u to know eddie does not have sex magic and steve isn't actually as smooth as eddie thinks. they r just obsessed with each other #that one person who was in my notes truthing ab a stoncy threesome. i was excited when i saw that bc i had this written hope u see it <3

[psychesalcove]

WE WANNA TALK ABOUT SEX BUT WE'RE NOT ALLOWED

college au!percy jackson x fem!reader

⚠️: reader has anxiety, percy being too obvious for his own good, shitty writing (im sorry guys 😭), mentions of sex, cursing, emotional cheating (on percys end), not proofread at all, mentions of an anxiety attack, insecure reader

IN WHICH: you and percy have been dating for around a year. however, you feel like he is always choosing annabeth over you, even if he isn't aware of it. tonight, you decided to confront him about it, ending the night not knowing where your relationship stands with him.

requested: yes, by anon

a/n: GUYS IM SO SORRY IM KIKE NOT GOOD AT WRITING ANGST BUT I TRIES 😭😭 JUST MESSAGW ME ABAIN AND ILL REWRITE IT IN A DIFFERENT WAY BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!😔

you knew this talk had to happen at some point. it was inevitable. there was this unspoken tension between you and percy, and you weren't even sure if he was aware of it. for a while, you thought it was just your anxiety driven brain making you feel the tension—but you soon realized it was there and not made up.

percy and you had been dating for around a year, beggening right before your freshman year of college started. before that, percy had been in a relationship with annabeth. you were on neutral terms with her;you weren't best friends, but you also didn't hate eachother. but lately, that feeling of neutrality with her was slipping away.

you knew percy and her were close, but you didn't understand why they were as close as they were. you knew percy would never cheat, but you figured he didn't understand not being there for his partner.

anytime you wanted to be around him, he would say that annabeth needed him for something. reviewing notes for class, wanting help with decorating her condo, helping her with a new recipe she was doing, anything really.

at first, you didn't mind that much. you knew they weren't sleeping with eachother or anything, but as time went on, going into the last quarter of the school year, you knew that he would go back to annabeth sooner rather than later. his mind was always occupied with her, somehow managing to bring her up in every conversation you have with him.

ᝰ

you sat on the beige couch that you and percy had bought at Ikea last summer, looking out to the balcony area, waiting for percy to arrive. as much as you didn't want to talk to him about this, you knew the longer you put it off the harder the talk would be. you assumed he would be getting back in around 5 minutes, knowing the route he takes in his car to get to the condo from campus.

suddenly the old wooden door creaked open, disturbing the silence that blanketed the room. you sighed lightly, still wondering how to even start a conversation with percy.

percy soon came into vision, dropping his jansport backpack onto the floor before turning to you. "hi, pretty," he hummed. "how was your day?"

you decided to ease into a normal conversation between the two of you before asking the inevitable question that could determine the future of your relationship. "it was fine, english has been kicking my ass recently though, how about you?" you asked, moving around so you were in a more comfortable position.

"it was also fine, but if your having trouble with english, i could ask annabeth—" you cut him off with a sigh, knowing that was your que to steer the conversation in another direction.

"could you sit down percy, please?" you say, making eye contact with him for the first time since he came home. "we really need to talk,"

"uhm.. yeah of course" he says looking around the room quickly before sitting down on the sofa. "if this is about those mint cookies, i did eat them, didn't mean to though, promise." he explains quickly, looking at you with a small smile.

you press your lips into a thin line, knowing how different of a conversation this is going to be than that. "percy, where do you see our relationship going?"

there it is. the idea is out there, in the open, for percy to do anything with.

you watch his eyes widen slightly, looking at you with a questioning look. "what do you mean? i mean, obviously we're going to keep living together, maybe get a better place for next year, we could even make our new kitchen like annabeths–"

"there you go again talking about annabeth!" you said, raising your voice slightly. "i know that the two of you are friends, and i'm fine with that, but not if it's getting in the way of our relationship. almost every conversation you bring her up:annabeth this annabeth that. i know you two are exs, and again, i'm fine with that, but that also means you could have romantiic feelings about her still. i really don't think we should even be doing this if you do, percy."

he sat up straighter at the tone of your voice and what you said to him. "why would i still have feelings for a annabeth? that's why we chose to end our relationship, because neither of us had feelings for eachother!" he exclaimed, attempting to keep a calm voice.

"percy, i really just don't think you're in the mental place to be in a relationship with me, or maybe anyone right now. i don't know what to do—"

percy cut you off, "what do you mean you don't know what to do? i'm the one being told by my girlfriend of a year that she doesn't know if she wants to continue our relationship!" he sat up from the couch and started motioning with his hands. "I'm the one that doesn't know what to do. it's not like i'm going around and having sex with annabeth. you know i wouldn't do that to you!"

"there are other ways of cheating than that percy, and im not saying your cheating on me, I'm just saying that your mind is still on annabeth, which means I don't know if we should be a thing or not." you said. "and honestly, with the reaction your having, i wouldn't be surprised if you were cheating." you also sat up from the couch and moved to stand by him.

"i understand that, but like i said, i'm not going over there to have sex with her or kiss her or anything like that. all im doing is spending time with her, can i not chose who i spend my time with now?" percy spat at you, giving you a look that made you know he was starting to get pissed off.

"that's the problem percy! your spending time with her, which would be okay, if you weren't canceling on me, your girlfriend!" you said, continuing to raise your voice.

he scoffed at you. "name one time that i cancel—"

"last week, when we were supposed to go the cafe to study for an exam together. i was waiting for you at the door when you were grabbing your backpack, and then you come up to me and say that you can't go because annabeth had finished reviewing your notes. and, for some reason, you had to go to hers that moment to get your notes instead of saying that you could later and go to the cafe, with your girlfriend!" you rambled, getting more mad remembering the memory.

you saw a small flash of guilt in percys eyes, but you didn't let him speak. "every single week percy! its the same fucking thing! you cancle last minute to go to annabeth, even dates you've canceled. and i know that your not sleeping with her or anything, but you're still putting her first instead of me. and that hurts. it really hurts." your voice became softer, cracking when you finished speaking.

your eyes filled with tears, and you started blinking rapidly to keep them at bay. "so yeah, percy, that's why i'm wondering what's going to be our relationship in the future. because right now, i'm not seeing one at all."

you shook your head as you saw his mouth open, still wanting to talk and get through to him. "i love you, so, so much. and it hurts, knowing that i'll always be out second to annabeth. if you want to continue our relationship, you're really going to have to change, percy. and i don't know if you're willing to do that for me." your tears starting openly falling down your face, your brain thinking of what it'll be like to not have percy in your life.

you saw percys mouth open, so you quickly looked down, knowing whatever he was going to say will make you go over the edge and into an anxiety attack. "...why didn't you tell me you felt like that?" he asked with a soft tone to his voice. you shook your had again, knowing you didn't fully get through to him.

"if you were feeling like that, you could have told me and i would have stopped," percy explained, opening his arms to hug you.

you quickly stepped back, not wanting to touch him. "you know what percy? i shouldn't have even had to talk to you about it, because it shouldn't have been a problem. i would have talked to you about it sooner, but i knew it was going to go the way this is going." you said as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

"your not understanding what you did wrong, just saying that i should have done something. which i should have, but i was to nervous, i know that you're too good foe me, gods, i get reminded every single day! so i didn't bring it up to you because i knew that i could've lost you by talking about this!" you let out your first sob as you finished, now thinking of how your going to have to move all your stuff out and stay at your friends condo until you can find a new one.

"hey—hey, let's have you calm down first before we talk. i promise I'm not going anywhere unless you want me to," he said, attempting to make eye contact before you looked down again.

"can, can you just leave? just for a while, please? I–I need to think and it's just really hard being around you right now." you said through your sobs, feeling guilty of practically kicking percy out of his own home, even if just for a while.

you didn't hear what he said, but you watched through your blurred vision as he walked away twords the front hall, heard him grab his keys, and then heard the door close behind him. you quickly walked into your shared bedroom, taking a seat on the edge of your queen size bed.

you look over at percys nightstand, seeing a framed picture of the two of you on your 6th month anniversary. then, your eyes quickly go to a polaroid in front of the framed picture. you sobs grew louder as you grabbed the framed picture and threw it out of anger, sending glass shards across the carpeted floor.

the polaroid was of percy and annabeth, sitting at the campfire back at camp half blood, both having matching smiles on their faces.

you could never compete with annabeth, even in the form of a picture.

#percy jackson #percy jackson x reader #percy pjo #percy jackson x you #pjo x you #pjo x reader #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson x reader angst #percy jackson x you angst

[jq37]

Just to throw my two cents on the Rat Grinder discourse: They weren't worth the Intrepid Heroes' time. We didn't get the full picture of what's going on with the Grinders until the last quarter of the season. Before that they were just this other clique that hate the main characters, so in-character why would the Bad Kids bother giving them so much attention when they've got so much of their own crap going on. Kristens quest to get Cassandra back and her presidential campaign, Gorgugs courseload, Riz's million and one plates that he's been spinning all season, Adaines financial problems, Figs curse and her doubts about what she wants to do with her life. Fabian's the only one who might have had the time, but he had to be Maximum Legend. There genuinely was no time or even an incentive on the IH's side to develop the Rat Grinders characters.

I still think it's fucked up that these teenagers got taken advantage of by adults they trusted, but we didn't learn any of that until we only had two roleplay episodes left. Too little too late to even try anything diplomatic even if they didn't spend all their time after the Last Stand in hiding.

And a thing about Ivy that no one is roasting her about and really should: An elven archer? Really? Wow, never seen that before.

Yeah totally. Like, from a meta level, I see where the players themselves could have been more curious about the Rat Grinders. There are obvious plot threads that could have been teased out there (though, in fairness to the cast, the adult manipulation aspect didn't become clear until way later in the season--the rivalry and foil aspects were more obvious). This final confrontation could look really different if they'd played that all the way out all season.

But in character? The Bad Kids really didn't have a good reason to waste time on the Rat Grinders. They came into this school year already burnt out from their Night Yorb quest and wanting a break. But they don't get that because they immediately are beset by problems they have to deal with--Kristen's god is on death's door from neglect and she's on the brink of expulsion, Riz is running himself ragged trying to boost his resume for college, Fig is having a whole ass existential crisis, Adaine is struggling with money issues she doesn't want to talk about, Gorgug is taking FOUR YEARS of school at the same time, and Fabian is multiclassing and dealing with his empty house/not having parental support (or Cathilda's support) for the first time. They are dealing with SO MUCH high stakes, personal stuff before the plot even kicks in. And, mechanics-wise, this is represented with the downtime system that means that any time they spend on the RG's is time they can't spend on something that matters more to them. IMO, not prioritizing your haters is actually pretty mature. Like, they weren't proactively using their free time to bully them or anything (except for arguably Fig). They were snippy with them when they crossed their paths and that was it. As opposed to the Rat Grinders who literally had to be told by Jace to stop antagonizing the Bad Kids (though they must have been pretty ineffectual at it because the Bad Kids hardly noticed, which I bet stung considering they were so obsessed).

And also, it's not like they didn't try at all with the Rat Grinders. Early Insight checks on Kipperlilly just got, "This is a polished steel orb of a personality" which doesn't sound very worth interacting with in a sympathetic way if at all and then the next big thing they learn is that she had hated Riz since Freshman Year and that she wants Riz and Kristen dead. And that's AFTER we saw her smile and kill her party cleric. In their position I'm not spending further time trying to empathize with this person, I have made my judgement and it's up to the Jawbones of the world to find if there's something in there to be rehabilitated.

And that's not the only case. Adaine straight up saved Ruben from disintegration during the Frosty Folk battle when she easily could have saved the spell slot, but that didn't soften him towards the Bad Kids any. Adaine also was really keen to Scry on the Rat Grinders to find out what was happening at their meetings. But, in scene at least, she was never able to do that so we never got a scene of them, huddled together, clearly unsure about the path they're on but not feeling like they can walk it back or say no to the authority figures in their lives. She didn't get anything humanizing that would cause her to rethink their position on them the way that she did with Aelwyn for instance. So why would they think they're anything but gleeful co-conspirators?

Hell, the one RG Adaine was even slightly curious about was Oisin and now we know that he was feigning interest in her which, man, can you imagine how much worse that would have felt if she'd actually taken the bait and pursued him beyond just thinking he was cute? Of course, it's possible that her interacting with him more along with some good charm rolls could have changed the narrative in some way but we can only go off of what we know to be true in canon and those facts are (1) He tried to get closer to Adaine while actively planning the downfall of her and her friends, (2) he (along with Ivy) was mean to Buddy behind his back while tricking him into a plan that would force him to go against his religious beliefs, and (3) he called his KVX related dragon ancestors to try to kill the Bad Kids and endanger the entire student body population. Three strikes, you're out. If I'm a Bad Kid I'm not super interested in whatever else is going on with him. And again, literally all of Adaine's friends (except Riz) gave her help to do an Insight check on him during their confrontation in the hallway so she was looking for something there worth engaging with, but she didn't get much.

Fig was fully doing CIA, MKUltra, Fantasy Geneva Convention violations on Ruben to try see if she could get information or flip him. I think she did it in an objectively insane way so I'm not entirely shocked that it didn't yield the exact results she was looking for. But she never found the smoking gun (or whatever the opposite of that is) in his head that would absolve him/show the Rat Grinders were being controlled and her messing with his dreams never flared his conscience enough to make him try to break free (as far as we know) which is what I assume she was going for. If I was Ruben looking for a way out but scared of the repercussions, I might go to Adaine who saved me from certain death earlier the same year and has helped saved the world 3 times with her party and their friends in high (and low) places. Maybe that's what Fig thought might happen but it didn't so from Fig's POV? Gave him a chance. Time to start blasting. And again, at that age, if I walked in to the first day of class and the first thing this random boy does is sneer at me and flaunt his musical success, I'm popping up on his Nemesis Alert at that moment. Doubly so after he tries to trick me and my friends into doing drugs so we get expelled. I'm surprised she tried at all with him.

Fabian absolutely tried to interact with Ivy--in large part for self interested reasons of course, but that doesn't change that he did it. And she came across as callous and unkind from the jump. Their final conversation before the latest episode is the one where she talks about wearing Mazey like a sweater and then says that Fabian missed his chance with her before stalking off. That's a pretty open and shut interaction. No way 17 year old me is like, "Hmm, but why is she acting so mean? Perhaps I should examine that more closely to further understand her." Nah, I've decided she sucks.

And Kristen has tried with Buddy literally up until the last moment. She rolled an Insight check on him right before the fight started and she got a 1. She got nothing from him.

Mary Ann is actually the only Rat Grinder who hasn't done anything to make a bad impression on the Bad Kids--the only thing she did was have a really good Bloodrush tryout. So no reason to hate her specifically (and, in fact, she is also the only Rat Grinder that at least half of them are positively obsessed with), but no reason to explore her further. And Kristen still tried giving her a stuffed animal and her response was that she already had that one and that she was going to give it away. What are they supposed to do with that?

Even when they tried, they didn't get information that was worth chasing when they were so busy and had to manage their free time. Gorgug didn't even slot in downtime to talk to his bio parents when they visited. Why would he spend any time on Mary Ann to figure out her deal? Maybe if they were given more explicit opportunities to interact with them in passing. If Mary Ann was shown at Bloodrush Games. If during class time Oisin tried to interact with Adaine. If Kristen ran into Buddy and Bucky talking. If any of their forays into talking to them or looking into them yielded anything actionable or that piqued their interest--they opened the door for Brennan to give them something more than once. But they never got anything that was worth investing more of their limited time into.

(And also, they didn't learn that Porter was involved until WAY into the last quarter of the episodes. Which absolutely could have changed things since, as far as they knew the RG's were working alone to raise this god which isn't crazy for them to think because Kristen literally did that last year and it was of her own free will. If they knew early that the RG's were smaller players in Porter's plot then maybe they would have been in more of a rescue mindset--especially since Fig has always mistrusted him--but that's not information they had and by the time they got it, the RG's were in deep hiding, like you said.)

And so, coming into the last few episodes, that's who the Rat Grinders are to the Bad Kids. A group of kids who they first heard about in the context of, "they famously hate you," even though they'd never interacted before. A group of kids who they already thought sucked even before they tried to kill the entire study body an hour ago. A group of kids who are trying to doom all of Elmville to eternal rage and who are willing and ready to kill them to do it.

With that context, yeah I think their actions are pretty understandable.

(Also, lmao. Yeah, I think calling Ivy basic would probably hurt her more than most things you could say to her.)

#asks #farmer-10 #dimension 20 #fantasy high #d20 #spoilers #d20 spoilers #dimension 20 spoilers #dimension 20 fhjy #fhjy #and they knew the rage crystals existed for a while #but they had no reason to believe that the rage crystals are a thing that happened *to* the RG's #rather than being a thing that they're doing to others #so like yeah I totally get it wishing that they players had delved deeper into their whole situations #that's the fun of narrative foils after all #but I don't think the bad kids themselves handled this situation unreasonably #when ppl rub me the wrong way/are rude to me irl I avoid them #if they have hidden struggles that's between them and their loved ones and their therapist #and if I was a bad kid after such a stressful year even if I heard their tragic backstories at this point I'd be like #cool motive still murder

[powderblueblood]

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

CHAPTER FIVE — CHEERLEADERS MAKE BAD NEIGHBORS

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: after you get kicked off the cheerleading squad by an enraged tina, you're stranded in a rainstorm of biblical proprtions- and the only safe haven is eddie munson's trailer. fuck. content warnings: MINORS DNI I'M NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU HERE- male masturbation, sexualized language, some mild objectification, cursing, smoking, drinking, drug mention, reader backstory (i do it for the plot the plot the plot), steve harrington cameo, reader is a pretentious bitch word count: 10.1k

Dear reader, Joan Didion said something because Joan Didion is always saying something. Particularly to me. She comes at me hard, smacking me in the back of the head with perfect clarity and I have not gotten around to not resenting her for it yet. 

‘I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.’

Joan Didion probably did not have to stay on nodding terms with a girl she used to be in order to score a cheerleading scholarship because her family blitzed her college fund on ill-chosen legal advice. 

But she’s got a point.  

You remember that day with perfect clarity. 

Middle school had been a lesson in elocution, thanks to your then-best friend Phoebe’s older sister Casey. Phoebe was a relic of your former life– a bookish indoor kid with Coke bottle glasses, a slight stammer and a distinct lack of style. Despite this, you loved Phoebe and she loved you. But more than that, more than anything, you loved that Phoebe had an older sister. 

A cool older sister. 

Casey was popular in the best way, which is to say that she wasn’t showy about it but she wasn’t humble either. By recognizing the power of being hot and likeable, she knew nothing could ever touch her. 

You wanted to be just like that. 

You remember the first time Casey told you you’ve got potential. Her hand-me-downs were a little too big for Phoebe, because Casey had boobs and Phoebe’s hadn’t come in yet. Even as a pre-teen, you knew an opportunity when you saw it. Can I try that top? And you did, flipping your hair and adjusting yourself in the mirror just like you’d watched Casey do a hundred times, sitting on her bedroom floor and soaking up her knowledge while Phoebe moaned and sulked about being bored. 

Check you out, hot stuff, Casey had smirked, but not in a way where you felt stupid. You’ve got potential.

The shirt didn’t feel entirely right on you, but the way Casey regarded you did. 

Fast forward– your first day of freshman year. You were in the parking lot, stepping out of the passenger side of Casey’s car. Phoebe slid out of the back seat, shoulders slumped forward. You were dressed in an outfit that you and Casey spent hours agonizing over the night before–first impressions are everything, girl–while, again, Phoebe looked on glaring. 

Come meet some of the crew, Casey said, pointedly to you and not to Phoebe. 

Hey– I thought were were going to find our homerooms together, Phoebe protested, grabbing you by the elbow. She knew she wasn’t invited. And she didn’t care– she’d never cared for Casey and her ‘airhead ways’, as she so derisively called them. 

Yeah, girl! you affirmed, a note-perfect impression of her older sister. Phoebe’s big eyes flared with disbelief. You’d spent junior high carefully studying Casey’s every movement, absorbing and adopting her behaviors as your own. Stella Adler would have loved your ass. Don’t worry about it. I’ll catch up with you later, ‘kay?

Make a move, freshman! Casey yelled, and you came trotting after her. There would be no catching up later, and you knew that. You bit back the sinking in your stomach with a Bonne Bell-glossed smile. 

Look, I love my sister, Casey murmured, but I’m glad that you’re my little freshman experiment, ‘kay? You are way more fun that Phoebs and her goddamn library card. 

You nodded, wordlessly grateful. Way more fun. The older girl confiding in you like this made you feel warm, included, grown-up. But not quite so grown-up that you remembered to watch where you were going– the laces of your left Chuck Taylor All-Stars came undone, sending you tripping– tripping–

Oof! Right into the muscular arms of Steve Harrington. Steve Harrington and his autumn colored eyes, his swathe of hair that seemed to grow more voluminous the more girls he flirted with, his shock of grown-up cologne and his perfect, perfect, perfect smile.

But it wasn’t just Steve Harrington. It was also all the surrounding popular kids that had already made a name for themselves coming up alongside you in middle school–Tina, Carol and her boyfriend Tommy Hagan–mingling with the older kids. 

You okay? Steve asked, his voice all breathy and cute the way boys voices are when they’re halfway making fun of you. 

Uh-huh, you nodded, lashes fluttering like crazy as you wracked your brain for something smart to say. 

Let me help you out here.

Then Steve did something you never thought possible, something right out of your daydreams. He got down on one knee and started to re-tie your shoe. 

Better watch yourself, Lacy, he said, tightening the bunny ears, gazing right up at you, Wiping out on the first day is not a good look.

Lacy. Lacy. Your heartbeat quickened at the nickname, hammering like hummingbird wings. It was the greatest thing you’d ever heard– it makes you feel fresh. New. Seen for the first time. Seen by Steve Harrington for the first time. 

Can you blame me? you said before you knew you were saying it; a common occurrence with you, You’re just too easy to fall for, Harrington. 

You drawled out too easy like you’re making fun of him, which of course you weren’t, because he’s Steve Harrington and you would never– but it earned some warm guffaws from the surrounding kids and a little ugh, please, from Tommy Hagan. 

Hagan’s something else. Hagan’s hated you since day dot, and you him. You remember his merciless teasing of some kid during Nancy Wheeler’s thirteenth birthday party, the last boy-girl party of your middle school careers, goading that they were too chicken to go into the closet with you for Seven Minutes in Heaven.

Steve grinned at you, eyebrows quirking upward. A fizzing feeling ran through your sternum and you felt like you might faint. Casey threw an arm around your shoulder, a magnet for attention. Well, it looks like some of you already know my little Lacy! You guys better be fuckin’ cool to her, okay, or else you’ve got me to answer to. 

You smiled up at her, the older sister you’d always prayed for, and she looked impressed with you. That’s all you wanted. That’s all you craved. That, and for Steve Harrington and everybody else to never quit calling you Lacy. 

And they didn’t.

Everything you’d gleaned from Casey equipped you to cruise through freshman year with no speedbumps, no checkpoints– you knew exactly how to wear your hair, how to flirt, how not to flirt, what not to eat, who not to be seen with… and even better than that, these people really took a shine to you. The girls especially.

Hawkins isn’t kind to teenage girls. It’s heavy with passive-aggressive Midwestern sensibility, with all the backwards, misogynistic attitude that comes along with that. It’s not overt, it’s insidious. It makes sense that these girls were scared. Few women make it out of here, and look at the ones that don’t. Their mothers. Your mother.

But what was even scarier was to want something more. To strive for better and be met with the begrudgery of your attempt. To think about life outside the snowglobe of this wicked little town. 

That's the thing with wanting. It doesn’t leave you alone. It gnaws at you while you zone out in the cafeteria, churning around with the half fat yogurt in your stomach. It finds you in the middle of the night, awake on the floor of your friend Carol’s room after an evening of pounding secret wine coolers and picking apart the rest of the Hawkins student body for their flaws and faults, looking around at your friends and thinking, 

God, I fucking hate these people. God, I’ve got to get out.

And you were working on it. Like a motherfucker, you were working on it– perfect grades, perfect attendance, the perfect extracurriculars in an excruciating balancing act with your demanding social life. Keep your record spotless and you could fly the coop to any college you wanted.

One such extracurricular was–is cheerleading. And god, you were great. You’re a flyer, one of the shining, pretty faces responsible for revving up the Hawkins Tigers and their adoring fans. Given your propensity for perfectionism, it’s an obvious position for you. Tina, the reigning captain of the cheer squad, had even taken you under her wing and spit shined up your back handsprings when you tried out as a freshman. Tina had a prior career as a child gymnast, making her a shoo-in for the title come senior year. And here she is now, hollering you all into formation. 

It’s Thursday, and it’s still the week from hell. You had almost forgot about cheer practice, but here you are, in your green and white and gold, ponytail too tight and bruise fading out. The tension between you and Tina casts a thick haze over the gym, the other, less-clued-in members of the squad not exactly knowing where to look. 

It probably wasn’t fair, outing Tina and her indiscretion with Hagan like that. But you felt like a cornered animal. It was all you could do, after all of them subtly chipping away at you for weeks when you’d done nothing but be there for them. Wiped their tears. 

Bought their crabs lotion, in Tina’s case. 

“Sloppy, Lacy! Again!” She’s drilling you like you’ve never been drilled before. Each twist and flip you perform, she finds something wrong with it– and you can’t even tell her she’s wrong. You have gotten sloppy, because your head’s not in the game. While cheerleading was a social and athletic high at one time, it wasn’t high on your list of priorities right now. Dismounting your bases and tugging your ponytail ever tighter over your skull, you stalk towards her. 

“Alright, Tina!” you yell, bubbling over with frustration. “How about you just drop the Russian gym coach bit and tell me what I’m doing wrong? Or is yelling at me all you got?” 

She does her best attempt at a withering glare. You can’t help but think it looks like something she learned from you. “How about I show you instead?”

Tina shoulder checks you, hard, and calls to one of the underclassmen. A mousy sophomore with sandy bangs and blazing Bambi eyes. This kid looks terrified, and knowing Tina’s reputation, she should be. “Cunningham! You’re up!”

Chrissy Cunningham. Right. Heir to the throne of Hawkins High. You don’t think you’ve heard her speak more than a couple of words and most of those have been in response to her Aryan meathead boyfriend, Jason Carver. 

But for what Cunningham lacks in vocal force, she makes up for in aerodynamics. This girl makes a basket toss look like ballet, ponytail pirouetting as she lands in the bases’ arms. Every move, faultless. She’s locked in. 

“That is what I want. What I don’t want, Lacy, is a flyer that looks like she’s losing control of her rectum mid-toss,” Tina hollers. “We all know how crucial this weekend is. Not just for us, but for the Tigers, too. Right? So that means the last thing we need is dead weight dragging us down.” She locks her laserlike stare on you. “Right?”

The squad mumbles in the affirmative. Chrissy Cunningham visibly gulps.

And you? A knife slices right through you, cold and exacting. You almost gag, trying to swallow through your thickening throat. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” 

“You tell me, Lace. You’re the one that knows everything.”

You don’t waste a second of time trying to counter-argue, because you can’t be sure it won’t end in your limbs flailing, trying to smash Tina’s head against the waxed floorboards of the gym. Instead, you grab your bag. You give the squad a grimacing nod and head to heave the double doors open. 

The sound of your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor makes you want to tear your shoes off and throw them through a window, just to watch the glass shatter.

You really never thought of yourself as a violent person, not until– everything happened. 

But now, god, now you just want to punch and tear and rip everything apart. This slow burn of your social status, your friends, your tether to reality as you know it slipping away is torturous. You’d rather burn it all up than let it swallow you whole. 

Standing on the front steps of the school, your eyes automatically dart to the parking lot. 

It’s not there. He’s not there.

And why would he be? you think, starting in the direction of the trailer park. You hadn’t spoken to him since that day in the record store, leaving him hanging with his hands behind his back and his mouth in that grin.

There was a reason for that. Call it post-high clarity or something else, but you knew right then you needed to focus the fuck up. Quit acting out because of your daddy’s mistakes and prove all of these shitheels wrong once and for all. 

Blend in. Stop causing trouble. Fall in line and study hard and cheer harder and get the hell out of dodge once you get your hands on that high school diploma. By whatever means necessary. Those means really did not include hanging out with Eddie Munson for even a second longer than you already had. 

–which is a nice thought and all, but Tina really shit all over that one with this shedding the dead weight move. 

The clouds above you carry the most pathetic of pathetic fallacies, gray and pregnant with rain that starts to hit you square on the crown of your head in fat, heavy drops. You’re still fifteen minutes from the trailer park, at least, and you don’t have a raincoat. You don’t have an umbrella. And you don’t fucking care.

You stomp up the dirt drive leading into Forest Hills, the pleats of your green skirt heavy with water, your cheerleader’s cardigan weighing down your shoulders. Your white knee-high socks are flecked with mud and getting dirtier with every sloppy step. And the rain, the relentless relentless rain, is streaming into your eyes, streaming mascara with it. 

You gasp against the cold of the downpour as you approach your trailer– and a glowing yellow light catches in your peripheral vision. His bedroom, the one you can see into from your bedroom. Though you try not to look. And sometimes you fail. 

You don’t see much, when you do look. It’s mostly his hunching figure, bent over his guitar or some binder or book or map or figurine. But he always seems calmer, the frenetic energy he wears around like chainmail finally falling to the floor. Watching him like that makes you want to breathe a sigh of relief right along with him, just to see if you’d feel similarly. Calmer. 

Calm is not how you feel right now, wiping the rain from your face as you dig in your bag for your keys. Once, twice, thrice they slip out of your hands, and on the fourth try, you finally get them in the door. And then– the key strains in the lock. Come on. This door has always been unnecessarily sticky, but this wasn’t really the time– you push and you push the silver key to the left with no give. 

Was your mom in there? Had she left her key in the door by accident before she went on another overnighter with Prince Valium? “Mom! Mom!” you yell, hammering on the door. No dice. You pull at the key again, and pull and pull and– 

Snap.

You shudder, a full body shake that’s only partially down to the rainwater that’s soaked you right to the bone marrow. The key has snapped off in the lock, leaving you standing there with a useless silver nub. 

“Fuck!” you holler, “Fuckfuckfuckfuck fuck! Fucking–shit!” 

Your fists go straight to the side of the trailer, banging one after the other against the metallic veneer. You don’t care that it hurts your knuckles, you want it to dent or crack or something, you want to not feel so impotent and fucking useless, but here you are! 

“Hey! Asshole!”

Your head whips around, heavy, sodden ponytail smacking you in the face. 

Eddie Munson is leaning out his bedroom window, barely visible through the downpour. 

“Keep it down! You’re in a residential goddamn area!” He’s not smiling that shiteating smile. He’s not even grinning. He’s just glowering at you, which is the look you’re most accustomed to seeing him wear. Even so, it feels– it feels– it makes you feel worse. 

“Fuck you!” you scream across to him, “Who died and made you the fucking neighborhood watch?!”

“Go inside, you lunatic!”

“My fucking– my key broke off, dickhead!” 

That makes his brow loosen a little bit. You just stand there, gasping in the rain. And then he disappears from the window–

–only to fling open the front door of his trailer. 

“Come on,” he grumbles, massaging the space between his eyebrows like he can’t believe what he’s fucking doing. 

“No.” 

“What? Cut the shit, Lacy, come inside.” 

“No! I don’t want to!” 

Munson’s face opens up in an expression of sheer incredulity– and you partially can’t believe yourself either. What is it about him that just makes you shove and shove and shove, unable to let him win– or in this case, unable to let him help? 

“Fine! Fucking drown out there for all I care!” The trailer door slams.

Your teeth have started to chatter, and your options from here on out are… walk or hitch your way back to town and drag your sodden ass somewhere there’s a phone where you then call your mom and pray she’ll pick up (she won’t) and tell her about the lock and try to tell her about the cheerleading squad and pray she’ll understand how upset you are (she won’t) and how much of an awful spiral this whole year has become and it’s not even Christmas yet and–

The trailer door swings back open. 

Eddie Munson comes stalking out into the rain, white Reeboks splattering mud everywhere. He’s wearing that shirt from his Dungeons and Dragons club, the one with the big fucking smug Satan splayed across it and you wonder, did he model that after himself? 

“What’s your fucking problem?” he asks, point blank. It feels like he’s aiming something at you. 

“I’m having a shitty fucking day!” you scream in response, making that dog belonging to that red headed kid sister of Billy Hargrove’s yap somewhere in the distance. “And I keep telling you, I don’t need your fucking–”

“Help? Right!” he scoffs, loud and indignant, crossing his arms across his chest. The fabric of the ringer tee is changing color before your eyes, clinging to him. “You don’t need my help yet you always take it, you don’t wanna be seen with me yet you end up at my lunch table, in my van, smoking my weed– you know, it may shock you but I’m not exactly thrilled to be seen with you either, Lacy! I mean, playing chauffeur to a grade A certified bitch that wouldn’t give me the time of day unless she was desperate? Who stood by and let her shitty friends, who aren’t even her friends anymore, make mine and my friends’ life a living hell for how many years? What kind of an asshole does that make me? How pathetic is that?” 

The way he spits the word bitch– it was different from the way he said it in the record store. There, it felt like a come-on. A compliment. Here, it feels like a curse. But oh, he doesn’t stop there! You are rooted to the spot, an unmoving target for his justified rage. 

“You can’t even play ignorant, y’know, because I’ve seen you. You’re smarter than them. You know how godawful those people are–Harrington, Carver, Carol, fucking Hagan worst of all–and you just let ‘em run. Because you needed that status, you needed to be the most evil fucking twat at the twat table, and for what? They left you, Lacy! They all left you!” 

You’re not sure at what point in his speech you started sobbing but at its crescendo, you yelp. It’s a high, pathetic sound you wish you could stuff back inside your throat and hopefully choke yourself with. See, you know all these things. You’ve told them to yourself in your most honest moments, of which there are not many, but having Eddie Munson lay them out for you in the pouring rain– it’s horrible. You’re horrible. 

Eddie’s arms move from where they were bound on his chest. Okay, that was an outburst, sure, but he didn’t mean to make you cry. And you’re like, really crying. He can’t stand it when girls cry, and you, in particular–you, having never displayed much emotion beyond bemusement and annoyance and mild disgust toward him–is especially frightening. 

And then you let out this scream. It comes right from the center of your chest, rumbling and primal and visceral and real. It’s a real noise, not one you put careful, curative thought into, tuning it just right before you let it out. Because in this instance, he’s right! You’ve worked so hard, and for what! For fucking nothing! For it to blow up in your face! So you let out another howl– and it feels so, so good. A feeling of satisfaction, more than a feeling of relief–

–so Eddie screams too. God, that feels fantastic.

His is heavier than yours, obviously, because he’s a guy and he probably screams as a hobby in whatever metal band he supposedly plays in. But you like that sound. You like the way it seems to ring off the exteriors of the trailer, ricocheting around like a pinball in its machine. 

A couple more painful sobs escape you, and Eddie’s taking tentative steps toward you, like you’re a snarling animal he’s trying to coax. 

In ways, you are, but that’s because you feel hunted. You have to blink, through tears and through rain, but you see that his shirt is so soaked that it’s see-through. You can see a vague suggestion of a tattoo on his chest. You see that he’s fighting a smile. 

This is so stupid. This is so ridiculous, that you could make a noise like that and completely short circuit the white hot anger he was spewing at you. 

“Come inside,” he breathes, a little less than a foot of space between you, “You lunatic.”

Your head, so heavy on your neck, so heavy from crying, so heavy from carrying your spiteful brain around, falls against his chest. 

“Uhh…” Eddie mumbles, hands hovering behind your back, not sure if he’s supposed to embrace you or if you’re about to rip his heart out of his chest. Either could be true. 

You know what you’d prefer. 

You’re positive he doesn’t here you exhale into his chest, into the mouth of the cartoon Satan, into the thrum of his jumping heartbeat. Sorry. I’m really… I’m so sorry.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “hey. Shit.” His hand finally rests in between your shoulder blades. You let him guide you inside, and he even picks up the book bag you had thrown in the mud. You reach, try to grab it from him, but he yanks it out of your grasp. Half teasing, half assuring you that it’s okay.

A squeaky, squelching silence settles between you two as you stand in his doorway. You’re creating a puddle near some old work boots. You wonder if they’re his– you’ve never seen him not wear those Reeboks. 

“So… welcome,” he cringes, emitting a pitchy, awkward laugh. You follow him through to the kitchenette, which is identical to your kitchenette, except every surface is not covered in legal correspondence or empty wine bottles or too-expensive tchotchkes. The light in here seems dimmer, warmer. There’s a distinct aroma of stale cigarette smoke and old coffee, which you breathe in deep. “Sorry for the mess–”

“It’s fine. It’s good mess,” you say, a little distant. You peer around the place like you’re in a gallery. 

“Good mess?” he queries, crossing to the kitchen sink where he attempts to wring his shirt out by hand– still wearing it. 

“Lived-in mess,” you say. What you mean is, it doesn’t look like a mausoleum of a life someone left behind. A storage locker. A haphazard sarcophagus. Before you moved to the trailer, your house was so clean– that was a whole other problem. The same tchotchkes that are scattered on your counter were kept behind glass, only touched when your mother polished them, the only housework she ever did. You stare at a collection of trucker hats nailed along the living room wall, the shelf of novelty mugs that accompanies them. 

“Living in mess? What is that, like living in filth? You better start showing this fine abode some respect before–”

“Lived. In. Munson, I said, lived in if you would just listen– it’s good, it’s fine. It’s n-nice.” 

It’s warm in the trailer, you can tell, but you’re shivering. You bear down in your body, jaw all set so your teeth don’t start chattering again, but he hears it in your voice. 

“Uh-oh,” he says, somehow not at all betraying any signs of being out in the freezing rain except for being entirely soaked. You bet his skin is still running hot, like you felt through his shirt, like you felt grabbing his wrist. “Star cheerleader’s coming down with a case of hypothermia. Right before the big game!” 

He slaps his hands to his cheeks in mock horror. 

“I’m–” you’re about to tell him a couple things; one, that you’re fine which would be stupid, because you are so clearly not fine; two, you’re not the star cheerleader anymore; and a third, forgotten thing. “--cold,” is what you settle on. It sounds small, vulnerable.

Eddie holds his breath for a second. You sound so delicate. Hard, terrible you.

“No, sure, of course you are,” he fumbles. The way his wet hair has flattened to his skull makes him look younger– exposing a nervous boy behind the metalhead posturing. “You can– take a shower. If you want. To warm up.” 

Take a shower. In Eddie Munson’s trailer. Your eyelids flutter closed, taking on their own vibrations from the wracking of your body. This is a hell of my own making. “Yes. Sure. Thank you.”

“I can also,” he starts, crossing the kitchen again and knocking something over on his way– it just clatters to the floor, whatever it was, and he lets it, like he’s used to leaving crashing sounds in his wake. “I can take your clothes if you want. Put ‘em in the washer.” 

You hesitate a beat, then follow him down a hallway. 

“I probably have something you can wear,” he says. There’s a note in his tone that’s high and nervous. “You’re for sure gonna hate it, but hey– beats freezing to death.” 

“Just barely,” you murmur. 

“Huh?”

“This, uh– this is dry-clean only,” you correct yourself, gesturing to the uniform. 

He rolls his eyes. “Of course. Only the best for the pom-pom shakers.” 

He ducks into a room that must be his bedroom, but you don’t follow him. Instead, you linger in the hallway, near the dingy bathroom, staring at the corn themed wall calendar. Going into his bedroom feels too personal– too intimate, as if preparing to take a shower in Eddie Munson’s trailer only to change into his clothes isn’t intimate. 

“I figured,” he says, emerging from the bedroom with clothes and a towel in hand, “since you like all that rinky-dinky-tinkly garbage, you wouldn’t hate wearing a Stooges shirt.” 

“I–” the shirt is soft under your wrinkled fingers, as are the boxers he passes off to you. Boxers. You hold them up between your forefinger and thumb, stepping into the bathroom. “These are clean, right?”

Eddie stares at you for a second– then leans his head into the bathroom and shakes his sopping locks at you, just like a dog. You let out a shriek that he thinks almost sounds like an involuntary giggle. I’ll take it.

“No comment!” And he slams the door on you. 

Then you’re standing. In Eddie Munson’s trailer. In Eddie Munson’s bathroom. Holding his old Stooges shirt and his boxers, with mascara running down your face. 

You pinch yourself, hard, just in case. 

The shower heats up quick–quicker than yours, you notice–and you rest your head against the tile as the steam swirls up around you. This is so weird. This is so fucking weird, and you can’t scrub away the weirdness fast enough. There’s not enough Irish Spring in the world. You reach into the shower caddy to replace the bottle and notice something familiar– wait, that’s–

Wait. 

Do you and Eddie Munson use the same brand of shampoo? 

You had to switch from your favorite to the best that the Big Buy had to offer, given the change in your personal means, and this was the top score in terms of quality. Eddie Munson apparently agrees– but better yet, you realize as a grin spreads across your face, Munson uses women’s shampoo. 

It’s nice to have a fresh piece of arsenal to aim at him once you get out of the shower. 

Toweling off and changing, you do give the boxers a wary sniff before you put them on– but luckily, they smell like generic detergent and aren’t stiff in any way. So you slide them on.

They fit snugly– naturally, given he’s all sinewy and you have hips. He is really sinewy, now that you think about it. 

His wrist wasn’t bony, but it was active. Tendons flexing under the thin, soaked layer of his shirt. You wonder, absently, was that a tattoo you saw. What is it. What does it look like. Is it shitty. It’s his, so it’s probably shitty, but I want to see it. Does he have any more. 

You shiver, slipping the Stooges t-shirt on, and blame your hardening nipples on the cold.

The cheer outfit is another problem. You emerge from the bathroom, clutching the still-sodden uniform with Eddie’s– Munson’s towel thrown over your shoulder. 

“Do you have, like, a garbage bag or something?” you ask, eyes rising to look at him where he stands in the doorframe of his room. He’s still in his soaked clothes. 

He takes a second to answer you, and when he does, his voice is all thick. Avoiding eye contact. 

“Suuure,” and he disappears and reappears with a plastic bag, quick as a blink. 

“Thanks.” You dump the uniform, sneakers and all, into the bag and make for the door. 

“Hey, it’s still raining–” his voice follows you, as if you hadn’t heard the raindrop gunshots hitting the trailer roof. 

“Yup,” you say, popping the ‘p’. You yank Munson’s door open and fling the garbage bag outside. It lands squarely between your trailer and his. 

Munson appears over your shoulder, looking out at the garbage bag. His face is twisted in confusion, concern, curiosity. 

“I got kicked off,” you explain, plain as biscuits. 

“Off the pom pom squad?” he whispers, eyes flaring in surprise that you think might actually be real. You’re looking at his lashes again, fanning around the almost-perfect circles of his eye sockets. 

“The very same.”

“Escándalo. What happened?”

“How about you go and shower first,” you suggest, poking a finger into his chest. He makes a little breathy noise, a little ‘unh’, that you don’t… hate. “Can’t have the star dork of the make believe board game club catch his death, can we?” 

“Anything happens to me and you’re the prime suspect, babe,” he grins and snaps the towel off your shoulder. 

“Hey!”

“This is the last clean one. What am I, a fuckin’ Rockefeller?”

-

Christ, he wants to jerk off into this towel but he knows that’s weird. That’s perverted. That’s fucked up. That’s everything everyone says about him and that’s everything you make him feel. 

So he strips, turns the hot water to scalding and furiously rubs one out down the drain. One, because he feels bizarre about leaving you alone among all of his things for too long and two, because hot water is in short supply. 

And three, because he’s achingly rock hard at the sight of you in his boxers, tossing your cheerleading outfit into the mud and the wet. 

The metaphors. The implications. The feeling of your forehead against his chest. The stab of your finger in his sternum. 

He cums jaggedly, almost silently, with his mouth rammed against his forearm. 

If you heard him– God, you’d be so nasty about it. God, he’d never live it down. God, he’d love to know what you’d say.

He makes damn quick work of sudsing up and rinsing down, wrapping a towel around his waist– only to run into you as he’s coming out of the bathroom. 

You stare. You stare at him, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry, and all the blood drains away from his brain. Again.

“Stare much?” he sneers, but only just about. Because his first instinct is to drop the towel and give you an eyeful. See what you’d do– hopefully something with your mouth. God, he hopes it’d be something with your mouth. 

“Where are your smokes?” you snap back. “I know you have some.”

“Kitchen. There’s probably–,” he needs you to stop looking at him like that; like you’re going to snap his neck, “--kitchen.”

Eddie slams his bedroom door and smacks his face with three quick strikes. “Come on, man! Get it together!” 

Because it’s go time. 

He has to formulate some kind of plan. 

He hadn’t exactly thought ahead when he invited you inside–or, demanded you come inside–and since you now had no place to go and Wayne had specifically told him not to go near you and your boobs were stretching out his dad’s old Stooges t-shirt…

Christ. 

He’s entirely, massively, completely at a loss. Eddie paces around the room like an animal in panic, grabbing a Scorpion shirt and some worn flannel pants as he goes. 

“Like, I’m supposed to go out there and do what? Ask her to hang out? Fucking paint her nails, read Cosmo? Study?! Jesus!” he angrily mumbles to his reflection, tearing the towel away and tugging his t-shirt over his sopping hair. “Hey, Lacy, you wanna beer? Who am I, Steve fucking Harrington? Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ, dude!”

“Munson. Are you talking to me in there?” He hears your voice from a minute distance away– see, that’s the thing about trailers. Small space, thin walls, and Eddie Munson’s voice travels at super speed. 

He stops, seizing, cringing, shoulders hitching up to his ears. 

That was not enough time to formulate a plan. 

Eddie, jankily tugging his pants on, sweeps out to the kitchenette area like something is chasing him and stops dead when he sees you. You haven’t trashed the place. You haven’t even tried to stick your head in the oven, two things he was kind of concerned about given the way you were wailing outside. 

You’re standing in the middle of the room with your hip cocked out, smoking a stolen cigarette and studying his uncle’s trucker hat collection. 

All the air in the room seems to orbit around you like a tornado in slow motion. 

How is it that you make an old shirt and boxers look like a skirt set? How is it that you can be sobbing your lungs out one minute, then the picture of poise and sophistication the next? 

All that air and none left for Eddie to take a breath.

“Hey, Lacy,” he strains, “you wanna beer?” 

“What,” you purr– like, he’s so sure that you actually purr, “You mean you’re all out of Sancerre?”

He does not know what the hell that is, but he can only assume it’s some rich people bullshit– and he’s relieved. You’re mocking him. At least that’s some tether to normalcy. She’s baa-aack. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, not entirely meaning it, but if he beams right at you he’s going to give the game away. 

“Think fast!” He tosses a can of the cheapest beer available at the Big Buy your way and you just about catch it, hands above your head and the cigarette dangling out of your mouth like Keith Richards. 

“God, Munson,” you mumble around the filter, “What kept you off the basketball team?” 

“Half a brain and a big dick,” he smirks, cracking the pull top and snatching the soft pack of cigarettes you’d left on the countertop. You cross from the living room, propping yourself up on the counter stool in a fluid movement that can only be described as feline. 

“Well, we sure can account for one of those things,” you say, ashing with your right hand and tapping at your temple with your left. 

“And the other?” Eddie asks, voice dropping a mocking octave. 

“I’d sooner drink arsenic than find out.”

He raises his beer can to you. “In that case, cheers!”

Your mouth twists around a smile and Eddie can see you’re fighting hard to keep it at bay. And that you’re losing. You tip your beer to your lips and he braces his elbows on the counter, looking around for a lighter. He spots a Bic, but the trigger won’t light it– just sparks, no flame. 

“That thing’s dead,” you say, “I lit this off the toaster.” 

“Oh! Right,” Eddie goes to turn, but something chilly snaps to his forearm. Your fingers. Damn. What is it with you? Circulation thing or what?

“Don’t do that,” you shake your head. “I don’t trust you not to burn the whole trailer down.”

“This is my trailer, y’know.”

“Yeah, and I’m in it. So burn it down on your own time.”

You motion for him to light his cigarette off the half-burned length of yours and Eddie tentatively places the filter between his lips. You prop yourself up on the stool, ass raised from the seat, leaning toward him. He leans in too and you cup that little hand with the perfectly painted fingers around the cigarettes. Like you’re whispering a secret. You look down, focusing on making fire, but Eddie’s eyes follow the tiny crease of your brow, the slope of your nose. The little wipe of mascara still underneath your eye. 

Tips touch and Eddie inhales just as you do. The cherried ends of the smokes glow orange and you pull back and Eddie just stays there a moment, frozen with the now-lit ember hanging out of his mouth. 

You pull back and inhale that smoke like one of those chicks from those black and white movies Wayne is always watching. You exhale all daintily, in one perfect clouding stream. You’re all– you’re so–... 

“Fucked,” you groan, shoving the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I am so fucked.” 

Eddie finally tugs the cigarette from his mouth, filter gone a little soft with the low-level salivating he’d been doing. “Oh. The cheerleader shit?”

“Yes, Munson. The cheerleader shit.” 

“What happened, anyway?” He resumes the position of being elbow-up on the countertop, which incidentally brings him a little bit closer to you. Incidentally. “You crack some skulls this time?”

“Huh,” you chuckle emptily, “Almost. Um, Tina more or less took me out at the knees. Which, I understand of course. If I were her, I would have obliterated me, but–” 

“You’re not her, and it doesn’t feel awesome to be on the other end of obliterated,” Eddie nods, giving you a squint-eyed pout of mock-sympathy. “Poor Lacy. Getting shitkicked by the consequences of her own actions.”

Thunk! You punch him in the shoulder, which hurts and he gasps, but it’s so funny and categorically unladylike coming from you. These little peals of violence that keep coming off you are a seemingly bottomless source of amusement for him. 

She’s so funny-looking when she’s mad. 

“Fuck off!” you bark, as if reading him like a goddamn horoscope, but there’s a glimmer to your narrowed stare. “I got replaced by a sophomore, as if I needed an insult topping on that injury shitshake.” 

“Oh, she Old Yeller’d your ass!” Eddie gasps again, chuckling heartily, “Took you out back and–” He mimes blowing your brains right out, nailing you right through the forehead. You stare at him square, unimpressed. “Who usurped ya?”

“Chrissy Cunningham.”

Oh. Well, isn’t that interesting. Eddie’s lips flatten into a straight line and he makes a little mmh sound. And you pick up on that immediately, being that you’re annoyingly perceptive. 

“Munson! Come on!” 

“What? Whaaat? I didn’t say anything!”

“That’s a child.”

“That is a sophomore and you said so yourself. Besides…” he trails off, pointedly crushing the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray until it’s oversquished. “...we have history.”

If his cigarette extinguishing was pointed, yours is needle sharp with the way you crush it into the ashtray right next to the remnants of his. 

“Go on,” you hum, just like you did in the van that last night. I really wanna know. It’s conspiratorial and intoxicating and makes it feel like you’re on his side, which you know he’s not but it’s so, so tasty to think that for a second you might be. 

Is this how you make everyone feel? Lull ‘em into a false sense of security? Hoard your ammo and go apeshit later? 

Eddie draws back, nearly congratulating himself for doing so. “That’s for me to know, and you to die ignorant.” 

The way your lips pop open is almost too good, your little doll face turning to a mask of betrayal too quick for you to hide it. Too quick for you to be all like fine! Keep it to yourself! You’re both totally irrelevant anyway! or whatever other bitchy retort you’re bound to come up with. 

“Wow. Well, if that holds any water, Carver’ll shit,” you start, sipping on your beer, “His little virgin Mary deflowered by the devil’s first alternate.” 

“Hey, I never said–!” Fuck. Fuck! How do you do that! Eddie pinches his lips together as you smirk over the rim of the beer can, all stuck under your gaze. Fly in the spider’s web. 

“A-ha,” you say, irritatingly smoothly. “So nothing happened. She’s just spank bank material.” 

“Didn’t– say that either,” Eddie mumbles, mind going annoyingly blank under your rapid fire tearing and the inebriating way you’re delivering it. He hates this and he has no intention of telling you to stop. The duality of man. 

“Didn’t not say that, though.” 

“You oughta be a lawyer,” he tells you, swigging deep, “the way you find a loophole in everything.”

“The way you want me to get you off, you mean.” 

You come out with that, something so incendiary, oh-so-casually and slip off your seat. She can’t just do that. You’re padding around the living room again, bare footed and small-looking, but Eddie’s staring at you like you’re a hand grenade with the pin missing that also has the secret to everlasting life inside. Terrified. Fascinated. 

A little stiff.

“What?” he breathes, but doesn’t really want you to answer the question. 

And you don’t, you just keep looking around the living room with your arms crossed over your chest. “You need money to be a lawyer, Munson. To go to law school. To go to any school. And I don’t have that. And I foolishly figured getting a cheerleading scholarship would be a cinch of a backup plan, and now I can’t do that either.”

“What are you looking for?” he asks, finally willing his dick down and his legs to work, rounding into the living room with you. 

“Your, like… stereo, or record player, or something,” you murmur, smoothing down his boxers over your hips. “It’s too quiet in here.”

Eddie blinks. What should really happen is he should say, no, stay out here in the silence, you insolent wench. Think on your crimes. Reflect. Repent. Stop being such a bossy little ballbreaker and give my balls a break.

“Room. Uh– it’s in my room,” is what he says instead. 

“‘kay,” is all you say with a little shrug of your shoulder, grabbing your can from the counter and padding down the hallway toward that same bedroom. His bedroom. Eddie Munson’s bedroom with his bed and his shit in it. “Let’s go.”

How irregular does your heartbeat have to get before you classify it as a cardiac event?

-

There’s only so many times you can flagellate yourself with the ol’ what the fuck are you doing thing before it becomes redundant.

Songs get overplayed, nail polish color gets overused, trends die. Things become redundant all the time, and you discard them. 

The notion of what the fuck are you doing in Eddie Munson’s trailer in Eddie Munson’s boxers walking towards Eddie Munson’s bedroom has become redundant because you simply are doing all those things. Not much point in questioning them. The chips have fallen. 

An eerie calm had come over you when he was in the shower and you were staring at all of these trucker hats on the wall– if the insanity is temporary, you might as well lean into it. You can’t go anywhere else. You’re trapped. Might as well get comfortable.

“God, this place is filthy, Munson.” You, with your arms still bound across your chest, toe a discarded t-shirt out of your path as you move into the bedroom with that same reserved interest of a gallery-goer. The place is cluttered, posters and flyers and doodles torn out of notebooks tacked up on the wall in total disarray. Every surface area is covered in what could be organized chaos, but knowing Munson the little that you do, you doubt it. 

To test the theory, you ask, “Where are your records? Tapes, anything?”

But he’s just lingering in the doorway, chewing on the end of a lock of hair. Watching you stand in the middle of the room with astronaut eyes, unblinking. It’s kind of– sweet, in a deeply unnerving way. He looks like a kid. 

Your brow furrows, grimace turning your lips into a point.

“Fine. Ogle me like a goddamn lobotomy patient, then.”

You resume your perusing of his things, when you spot the most precious piece of hardware hanging by the mirror. A marbled black and red body fashioned into nasty spikes. You reach out to give the strings an aimless thrum but your wrist is rapidly snatched away. 

“Nuh-uh. That’s where I draw the line,” Munson says, shuffling you away from the guitar like a security guard. A flash of something as your calves hit his mattress– him shepherding you toward your own bed, you drunk out of your gourd. “Siddown.”

And you sit, bouncing against the sinking mattress on impact. Rubbing at the spot on your wrist that his fingers had been squeezing. Staring up at him glowering down at you. “Ow.”

And Munson, it turns out, knows where everything is in his nuclear fallout of a room. He shoves a shoebox of tapes into your hands and nudges a bigger milk crate full of records nearer to you with his foot. 

“Knock yourself out,” he huffs, flinging himself face-down on the mattress next to you. You jerk; always the court jester, this guy. “Not that you’re gonna find anything you want to listen to.” 

A scoff flies out of your mouth before you’ve got a chance to suppress it– he’s gotta know, right? He’s gotta know he can’t just say shit like that to you without you fully activating that I can do anything you can do better–backwards–bleeding–in heels chip in your brain. You’ll show him. There’s nothing that matters to you more in the world right now than showing him. 

Though, rattling through his box of tapes, each one bearing a different variation of hot chick and the Devil artwork, you’ve got your work cut out for you. W.A.S.P. Mercyful Fate. Dirty Rotten Imbeciles. Witchfinder General. Some band that’s literally just called Loudness, for Chrissake. As you flick and flick, hope wavering, one catches your eye. There’s a jump in your throat. Scrawled letterhead against a draped satin background. A photo of something you always figured was a headless marble statue, though you could never be sure. 

“Why do you have this?”

No response from the corpse of Munson, presumably smothered by his own comforter.

“Hey!” you tap the back of his skull with the plastic casing. One eye appears, glaring up at you from the mattress. Rattle rattle goes the Cocteau Twins tape as you shake it in its case. “Thought this was haunted doll music.” 

“Ow.” Munson slowly raises himself onto his elbows, looking like he’s about to start kicking his legs in the air behind him. Twirling his hair around his finger. A grin is edging onto his lips, lips he’s pulling strands of hair away from. 

“Sometimes the five finger discount chooses you.” 

A feeling akin to heat spreads rights across your breastbone. You want to pry, secretly. You want an explanation. Why would you take that? Do you like me, or something? But asking speaks it into existence, and the insanity is temporary, and you’re so waiting for dawn to break on it so you can resume some hobbled together semblance of a normal existence. 

One that doesn’t include Eddie Munson stealing tapes that make you feel ticklish in order to, I don’t know, listen to them on his own so he can feel ticklish too. 

He hadn’t listened to it, for the record. Not all the way through, at least. 

He’d gotten as far as track two and had to switch it off, ejecting it out of the tape deck of his van with such speed that he was sure it’d shoot clean through the doors in the back. Too close, too real. That had veered a little out of the lane of objectifying you as someone whose crotch he maybe wanted to bury his face in and a little into the lane of you being like, a person. With feelings. 

The events of tonight aren’t helping that case. He hoped that lying face down for as long as he possibly could might let them just unfold around him, like he’d roll over and you’d just be gone, no evidence left behind except for your hair in the drain. 

But you demand attention. Eddie might be obvious, but you demand attention. His attention, at least. 

He grabs the tape from you. “We’re not listenin’ to that bullshit. Try again.”

“Fine!” you snap, but there’s this irritating bemusement dancing around your face. 

You lean forward from your spot on the mattress and tug the milk crate between your calves. Now, this is more your lane– in here, Munson’s got the classics. Or as close to the classics as he will deign to recognise. Zeppelin, Sabbath, Alice Cooper, Blue Öyster Cult– the combination of which you have something borderline mean to say about, but you’ll leave that ‘til later. You dig around, and then.

And then. Hello there, handsome.

In your hands are twelve inches of beauty, belonging to a grisly-voiced Tom Waits. Blue Valentine. Straight to the record player with this old bastard.

“People give this record too much shit,” you remark, and Eddie watches you as you tentatively lift a sock off the turntable. Yeah, he’ll cop to it, he doesn’t take such good care of some of his gear, but sometimes his brain behaves like a police scanner. Lotta channels operating at once. Anyway. Doesn’t matter. He’s watching you lift the needle onto the vinyl right now. “People say that this is a mediocre addition to the oeuvre, but what is mediocre about this–!”

Rousing strings seep from the stereo speakers– it’s Waits’ cover of Somewhere from West Side Story. Eddie knows it within the first half a second because, and now he’ll never admit it since he knows you like it so much, he has played this album to death. 

Somewhere around the halfway mark of Christmas Card For a Hooker in Minneapolis, the record will skip because it's scratched. Or well-loved, if you ask Eddie. 

“Fucking Robert Christgau thinks he’s being funny, doing this, y’know,” you sneer, examining the record sleeve as if you hadn’t seen it thirty thousand times before. Your copy had been lost in the move, among a number of your little sonic secrets. The records you’d keep to listen to by yourself, lying on your bedroom floor. “As if the whole core of Tom Waits’ whole thing isn’t heartache, the sentimentality of what-if. What if we could, what if life wasn’t garbage. That’s sentimentality, right there. It’s West Side Story, I mean, c'mon. Tom Waits is singing to us with his heart on his sleeve, but Christgau wants to suddenly be pedantic, turn around and be like, it’s a vaudeville act! because Waits sometimes also wears his dick on his sleeve.”

It’s a tirade you’ve often repeated to yourself, in your diary or alone in your room, pretending like you’re on a panel, pretending like you’re Susan Sontag and people actually give a shit what you actually have to say. You can’t exactly figure why you’ve said it again now. Maybe because you always found the strings on this song too much to bear without emoting, and you’re already vulnerable and tired. 

Munson, for his part, has flipped over onto his back on the mattress. “Who?” he drones.

“Robert Christgau,” you say, momentarily distracted by the way his shirt has rucked up around his belly. No six pack. Some meat there. Tendons, like you’d noticed before. “Just one of the most seminal rock writers of our time.”

You have a well-thumbed copy of his Record Guide: Rock Albums of the Seventies somewhere in a still-unpacked box.

Munson has a happy trail that curls like brushstrokes.

“You fucking trifler,” you grumble.

His face takes on that terrible look that he’d given you in the record store, all enraptured and cloudy at the corners of his eyes. Looking at you from where he leans on his elbows, one knee propped up, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. You want to shove it back down. 

And see what he’ll do about that. 

“How do you know all this shit?” he asks. Eddie can’t help this. He can’t help that he keeps changing his channel about you (again, police scanner) because one second you’ll be such a massive pain in the ass, then the next, you’ll say something so clever that it’ll make him want to vomit. 

“I like music,” you say, flatly. You give it to him straight, because you suddenly feel searched. You clutch Waitsy’s printed face to your chest in an effort of self-defense. “And I like… words. Kind of makes sense that I would enjoy music journalism, if you’re not totally stupid.” 

“I’m only a little stupid.” 

“Debatable.” 

“Wait, but I mean–” and he’s gearing up, because Eddie is about to ask you a real question. Something that’s been on his mind, the more ice shavings he can tear off of you. Considering you, all three dimensions of you– four, if you add in how much you like to punch him and stuff. “You’re like, incredibly smart, right.”

“Yes.”

“Like, perfect grades.”

“Almost. Save Kaminsky, because he can’t teach for shit and he can’t grade for piss.”

“And you’re a cheerleader… like, an important one?”

“Artist formerly known as, but yes.”

“And you’re on the newspaper.” 

“Very perceptive, aren't we.”

“You’re also popular– or, yeah, were. You party and stuff. You’re always hanging out with those assholes who don’t do half the shit that you do.”

 “Are you closing in on a point here, Munson?”

“How?” he nearly whispers, tone close to dreamy. “You’ve gotta have like, body doubles running around or something because no human person could possibly have that much time in the day. How the fuck did you do all that and also be running around ready to cite, like, an issue of the New Yorker from 1975, and not go completely insane?”

How do you know I’m not completely insane. Because, if he had ever witnessed how Jekyll and Hyde you could get, smacking the shit out of yourself with your hairbrush before you could turn on and be Lacy the cheerleader, Lacy the hot chick, Lacy the playground bitch, he would think you are totally insane. 

You answer him half-straight this time. 

“Diet pills.”

This makes him sit up, and makes you take a couple of steps back towards the bed. You flop down, tossing the Blue Valentine sleeve to the side. 

“Diet pills,” he repeats. 

“Oohhh, yes,” you nod, drawing the shape of the cylindrical pills on his comforter with your finger. You don’t really want to look up at him. “Rainbow diet pills. Soon as I hit my menses, I started lifting them from my mom.” 

“Isn’t that stuff illegal?” Eddie murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, mimicking your criss-cross applesauce seating position. “It’s basically speed, right?”

“Said the drug dealer,” a snort bursts from you. You’ve moved your fidgeting, starting to braid your half-damp hair. “And it is. It’s fully speed. I was doing baby Valley of the Dolls at age thirteen.”

“That is fucked up, Lacy.” 

“Yeah. Well. I'm a little fucked up, or haven't you heard?” 

“There’s been rumblings.” Eddie watches your fingers work, weaving locks of hair, one over the other. He’s never braided his hair. He wonders what it might look like. You come to the end and twist it around your finger, at a loss for a hair tie. He sticks a finger under his leather and silver bracelet, digging out an elastic he keeps handy, just in case. There are a lot of times that Eddie needs to yank his hair out of his face just to focus. “Here.” 

You mouth a silent thanks and wind the elastic around the tuft of hair. Tom Waits whines away about rain washing memories from the sidewalks and you feel weirdly… at ease. You’ve shared a couple of rainbow diet pills with Nicole and Carol (Tina doesn’t mess with amphetamines, a consummate athlete), but you’ve never had anyone ask you how you’ve managed to be the person you’re pretending to be. 

To put the clues together about your impossible do-it-all identity.

And not react in disgust when he finds out you’re fallible. 

“Hey,” Eddie says. Something about hearing you rattle off, not sniping for once, saying something real… it eased the heartburn. It has loosened his tension around you, a little. He figures it’s his turn to say something real. “I’m sorry I called you evil.” 

Most evil twat at the twat table, you nearly correct. “You had grounds.”

“No, no, I didn’t. You–” this is actually harder for him to get out than he thought, “You’re trying. You’re trying really hard to make the best of a messed up situation, and maybe I should’ve seen that– but I didn’t, because it’s high school, and it’s dumb, and I’m trying too, and we’re all trying, just to survive this messed up microcosm of the world– and– and–" He huffs. It's you gazing at him this time. Eyes sparkling in the half-light cast by his bedside lamp. You're... really pretty. "Jesus, can you just forgive me so I can stop talking?”

“That’s a first,” you say. “Microcosm is a five dollar vocab word, Eddie.”

The way you say his name. “I’m a changed man.”

“Can you use adulation in a sentence next?” Your big grin is devastating.

He leans right into you, dastardly looking suddenly. “Is this provocation getting you hot, you psycho?”

Fingertips braced over your knees, your torso keening just the right amount of degrees to favor him, your stare making an unsubtle job of darting from Eddie’s lashes to his lips to his lashes to his lips… 

“Maybe.” A beat. A heavy beat. “What are you gonna do about it?” 

In any other world, with any other person, the wanting would completely make sense. Wanting him to say nothing more and just do, to plant a big, ringed hand either side of your hips and pull you into his lap. To crush his lips against yours. To dig his hands into your thighs, to wind your fingers into his hair. To feel the chill of silver traveling up, under the back of your borrowed shirt, to press down onto him and–

Hey Charlie, I almost went crazy-ayzy-ayzy-ayzy-ay–

Eddie doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t mean to, but his head snaps away from you just as the record starts to skip. 

Then the door slams.

Fuck.

“Ed?”

Wayne.

He totally forgot to formulate that plan.

author's notes: ZOOWEE MAMA HOW WE FEELING ARE YOU STILL WITH ME longest chapter in the fic so far. thanks for keepin up. i love you, let's not waste any time, i don't think i've got a lot of notes for you this go around but i love you - there is nothing more secretly pretentious teenage girl than loving joan didion and susan sontag (i know this because i was her, i am her to this day in fragments) but particularly joan didion on keeping a notebook really sticks to one's ribs. this is not the last joan didion ref in this fic, sorry for being unbearable - stella adler, the mother of method acting - steve harrington being the originator of the nickname lacy is a tribute to him showing signs of being a goofy motherfucker from day dot. please see this post. it was always there, we just couldn't see it in freshman year because of all the hairspray - what's going on with tommy hagan? does anyone really care but me, probably not. but for those that are keeping tick on the timeline (don't)- he got held back senior year, hence why he did not graduate with steve and is in the same grade as eddie, lacy, carol, et al. - WICKED LITTLE TOWN!!!! - the stooges t-shirt is yet another flight of icarus pick; al wears a stooges shirt and i creamed because i love the stooges. let's listen to one of my favorites - loudness are a metal band from osaka, japan! they got signed to an american label in 1985, but how did eddie munson get that tape in hawkins, indiana in 1984? well, my theory is that eddie loves music and jerry from main street vinyl loves benzos. a trade's a trade's a trade. - reader, you are an 18y/o girl who thinks you're better than everyone. of course you're stealing lester bangs' opinions on blue oyster cult and making them your own - and shitting on robert christgau bc you've got a wetty for tom waits - also, here is tom waits' cover of somewhere! my theory on eddie being a tom waits fan-- of course he is, that man looks and sounds like billy goat gruff and is a storytella just like eddie is. he would especially be into his later stuff, like the megalithic orphans album. y'all remember this song from shrek 2 - rainbow diet pills were a real insane thing! this seems more accessible than adderall for the time period, which modern!lacy would certainly have been abusing - for the time that's in it, let me present tom waits' anti-christmas song, christmas card from a hooker in minneapolis my loves, if you've still stuck with me this far, i thank you greatly. i know i'm nutso but i'm having fun writing this fic. i would've been writing it if nobody was reading, but it's a billion times better now that you are. reblogs are always appreciated, and the inbox is always open to chat shit ♡

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

[bucknastysbabe]

hii, could you write smt abt aegon ii? 🥹 like kinda perv and loser stepbrother!aegon

YES I CAN! Hope you enjoy, getting back into my Aegon ways a bit! Xoxo

Just like that video! - Aegon II

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Loser perv step-bro Aegon, TW: alcohol abuse, underage (17) sexual moment, cocaine use, fat shaming, modern au, Aeg’s a shit but means well, Lannister reader, and they were step-siblings, lots of banter, pnv!sex, chubby!aeg, begging, family interactions, pseudo Incest and they get off on it, the panties were allowed to be kept

Taglist: @arcielee @aemonds-holy-milk @targaryenbarbie @lovelykhaleesiii @sugarpoppss2 @fairysluna @thought--bubble @valeskafics @dr-aegon @targaryen-madness @starogeorgina @fallingintoyourlilaceyes

You had no choice but to come home for college this summer, being a lame freshman. Next year you planned on getting a place off-campus with some of your tennis teammates. You would go back to the mansion this summer, reluctantly.

The stupid mansion your family had inherited over generations. Casterly Rock. Now it was infested with your stepmother's weird fucking offspring, minus Daeron. You liked Daeron. Regardless, the youngest sibling could not protect you from the advances of Alicent's eldest son Aegon.

He was harmless, really. He currently was in a 'gap year' between his junior and senior years. The term gap year was a nice overcoat of gloss. You knew he had a bad coke and alcohol problem and needed to get straightened out. You hadn't seen the fucker since he was absent for most of the holidays in a sober-living program.

You had been home for about three hours now, isolating in your room, watching Hulu, bored as fuck. You had spoken to your father and Alicent while the servants brought up your belongings. Alicent asked politely, "How was nationals? You know we would have come but Daeron was graduating."

"We got our ass kicked, I wish I was there to see Daeron too. Where's his highness?"

Jason grumbled, "Eating the house."

Alicent's face soured slightly at the mention of Aegon. She hummed, "He's just working his program and staying sober until he can finish up school. Mainly mopes around, it'll be good for him to have you here." You nodded, holding your tongue. Jason snorted and said, "Make him get the hell off his ass or something, play tennis, who knows. Dinner's at eight."

It would be a boring summer. Maybe you could call up the Reyne or Tarbeck boys for some fun. You didn't particularly want to hang around your peaked and washed-up fratboy loser of a stepbrother. You remember from when you were younger and excited, your father was marrying into the royal family!

You were met with a toddling Daeron, shy and dreamy Helaena, intense Aemond, and Aegon. Who promptly pointed at your chest and scoffed, "Totally not like the porno huh? That's lame." You stood in abject Lannister horror, planning on his immediate downfall.

Instead, you grew up under the shadows of your strange siblings. Aegon was 4 years your elder and acted like he was still in middle school. He ignored or made fun of his 'stuck-up stepsister.' You had a strange interaction when he was home on a holiday You had just turned seventeen and Aegon was a junior. He was pretty bad off when he first came in with Criston, the guard holding him up.

Aegon was rail-thin, drunk as fuck, and a crying mess. You exchanged a look with Aemond, the other brother making a face of disgust. He whispered to you, "Dumbass is about to get kicked out of school, he's on academic probation right now. Or might I mention his raging alcoholism and cocaine addiction?"

The pair of you watched him get dragged off to your parent's room. You mustered a weak reply, "I knew he was a drunk but not that damn bad." Alicent had put him on Antabuse when he was in high school and then deemed him alright to go to college.

That night you'd gone out with the Westerlings to Lannisport, you had a fake ID yourself. Coming back you managed to score Aegon some blow and a bottle. You don't know why you did. Maybe it was that desire to gain his pointless approval. You did it anyhow, smuggling it into your purse. Criston didn't bat an eye, he thought you were the golden child, soon-to-be salutatorian, and a tennis scholarship to a good school in Oldtown.

You crept down the hall, Aegon had the big room on the corner of the second floor. Knocking on the door, a haggard Aegon moaned, "What? I feel like shit! Fuck off, Cole! Jason! Whoever you are!"

You yell-whispered back, "No dumbass it's me, I have something."

The door opened to a much sicker Aeg, eyes red-rimmed, skinny body trembling under a thick blanket. You gasped "What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have a virus?"

"No. Withdrawals. What did you bring me?" His violet eyes leered at your bodycon dress, making your cheeks heat up. He was handsome, stepbrother or fiend or whatever. You looked around and handed him the baggie and bottle. Aegon's eyes lit up and his smile brightened. He dragged you into his room, smelling of sweat and alcohol.

"Thank fuck, I needed this so bad, gods you are an angel."

You shrugged, standing there as he chugged some of the liquor, sighing in audible relief. He eyed you and asked, "You got a credit card?" Nodding in slight fear you rifled more in the purse and handed him the card. Aegon locked his door and got busy chopping up the coke. You pulled out your wine bottle and sat down, watching him drinking and shakily chopping up the white powder.

You ended up drunk as a skunk, Aegon absolutely cooked and giddy. He was making you laugh, chatting like you were a friend. Going so far as to inquire about your boring life. He seemed at ease, the dark cloud that would hang over Aegon had melted. The blonde looked at you with glassy eyes and hummed, "M'sorry for being a prick, you're not half bad."

"Sure, you're just happy I fueled your problem. Stuck up Lannister isn't that boring."

He laughed a bit, pretty teeth shining. Aegon asked, "Wanna watch this stupid movie? M'wired up right now." You gestured to the remnants of the coke and giggled, "I'd imagine, yeah come on then." You'd drunkenly climbed onto his huge bed, Aegon plopping on the other side, typing the movie into the big ass television.

It was funny, but somewhere along the way, Aegon had inched his way toward you. You had moved closer to him, snuggling into his side. The voice of reason was screeching in your head. Your stepbrother turned his face to yours, murmuring, "You're so fucking pretty you know that? I don't care how fucked up that is, I am fucked up."

You surged forward to meet his plump lips, Aegon's hand holding your cheek as he kissed you. He laughed darkly, nipping at your lip and sliding in a tongue. As the liplock grew more heated- spit-slick lips and tongues sliding against each other, Aegon rolled his frame atop yours, settling between your spread legs. Your dress rucked up to your panties from the movement, drawing a helpless whine from your throat.

This was disgusting, wrong, awful.

You arched into his touches on your hips, groaning into his mouth as you sensually kissed him, growing messier by the second. Aegon rutted a bit against your pussy, softly moaning and squeezing your waist. He murmured in your ear, "Mm, I know you're all wet for me, stepsis." Skinny fingers crawled to the edge of your underwear.

A deep pang of fear struck you, suddenly withdrawing and backing out of Aegon's amorous embrace. You shook your head, heart beating too fast, shame and guilt pounding your head in. The platinum-haired man stared in confusion, stuttering, "W-What the fuck? Are you okay? Hey!"

You shook your head, chest too tight to speak. grabbing the remnants of your debauchery you skittered out of his room, silent tears running down your face. You felt weird, you drew a line in the sand that would not wash away. With fucking Aegon. You could hit yourself.

The rest of the days he was icy. Icy all the way until he was going into rehab and further treatment. You didn't dwell on the experience until now, eyes darting towards his room. You would have to see him eventually. Passing by his door all you could hear was video game noises.

You locked the door to your room, a bit of anxiety peeping through. For the seven's sake, you were an adult now! You would be a polite sibling, Aegon was obviously sick at the time and trying to get well. He'd written you an apology from his sober living place and you wrote back a brief acceptance and gave well wishes. So it couldn't be that bad?

You'd take a nap and deal with your insane family later.

Sitting down at the dinner table, the normal-sized one, you chatted with your mother and Criston about tennis. Jason prepped some sort of penne dish with a salad. The sound of a chair being scooted back alerted everyone to another presence. It was Aegon. He murmured a quiet, "Hey. Nice to see you sis, sorry 'bout nationals."

"Thanks Aegon, how are you doing? Super proud of you."

You tried not to stare at your stepbrother but he had...changed. His hair had grown out to shoulder length and he'd put on weight. Nothing terrible, but it had to range somewhere in 50 pounds (23kg). The big sweatshirt and too-small joggers didn't quite help his case either.

"Yeah, it's not bad, ready to get back to school or do something before I go crazy."

Jason snarked, "A job is always a good idea huh?"

The awkward silence was permeated by an excited Daeron hugging you, still sweaty from soccer practice. You mock gagged and smiled at the little brother, batting him away. Criston hummed, "Dare's already started practicing at King's Landing U." You grinned, "Hell yeah! I'll come boo you when you play Oldtown!"

Things fell into a familiar rhythm besides Aegon scarfing his food up and excusing himself. Alicent called after him, "Where are you going, honey? Come visit with us." Aegon sighed, "I have a headache, sorry."

Your dad shook his dark blonde hair, rolling green eyes. He scoffed, "All Aegon does is eat and play video games. He'll be a fucking cow sooner or later."

You found yourself speaking up, "Would you rather have him chubby and sober or skinny and tweaked out Dad?"

Jason forked some pasta in his mouth, shaking his head. Criston broke the next stage of awkward silence. "Hey, he's almost at a year now. I'd never think I would see the day." Daeron nodded along. Dinner resumed to normal.

You had helped your father clean up, the conversation stunted and awkward. Lannister men had a tendency to never understand a woman, just a family thing. Some of your friends had fathers who didn't suck. Alicent tried and Criston was the occasionally cool uncle. Even if he wasn't related to any of you, just something that came along with being royal.

You spent some more time playing smash bros with Daeron, laughing and catching up after much needed time. It was late and you glanced at your phone. Marq Tarbeck had texted you back. You ignored it, yawning, "Alright Dare, I think it's time to hit the sack." His sleepy purple eyes seemed to agree as he got up, muttering about 'getting his nasty ass in the shower.'

Daeron split ways with you, going to his room nearby, and you up and across the mansion. Your room was also on the second floor- there was no way but to pass Aegon's room. Part of you wanted to check on him, it seemed like your father was hard on him. The other half said fuck it, he doesn't need to be babied. Still, you paused at his door, listening to the vague background noise of the television.

"F-fucking, god, baby," he groaned, muffled.

Your eyes widened in shock. A drawn out moan of your name made you freeze. Aegon rambled, "Knew you'd be so cute taking my dick stepsis. Gods!" His deep voice made you tremble slightly. Your imagination painted an image of Aeg spread out, fisting his cock, thickened thighs flexing. His plump lips would be extra swollen, those cute chubby cheeks blotchy.

Oh Gods. You couldn't. He was having a private moment and you stood outside his door like a weirdo. Then your phone began to ring. A loud buzzing as you frantically switched it off, fucking Tarbeck! With a pitiful whine you tried to book it away to your room.

"Get your ass back here!" came Aegon's whisper-yell.

You paused, hand over your mouth. Fucking fuck, you thought.

"C'mon, get over here, I heard you."

You dramatically groaned and shuffled to Aegon's doorway, eyes downcast, blushing heavily. A finger tilted your chin up, you reluctantly looking at his smug face. Aegon hummed, "Did you want a look-see or just to listen? You're just slumming it now huh? No Reynes or Tarbecks?"

You gritted out, "I was going to check on you, but then I heard my name. Of course I'd be curious to why you were moaning it."

Aegon rolled his eyes, scoffing, "So. Jig's up. I stole your pretty little lace panties to fuck too. Since I'm a man of honesty now."

Arousal laced up your stomach, pussy throbbing at the actual desperation this fucker was giving off. You panted a bit, shouldering him aside. Your panties were indeed on the bed, thoroughly used. Gaping at Aegon he shrugged, basking in the debauchery. Guess being sober didn't change him from being a little pervert.

You muttered, "I can't believe you."

"I tried to fuck you did I not? I remember how eager you were."

Glancing at his lidded eyes and frankly punchable face you kissed the man, gripping at his oversized sweatshirt. Aegon seemed surprised, inhaling sharply before grabbing your ass and returning the kiss with vigor. He murmured, "You aren't running away- hah- this time." He squeezed your ass hard, lips intense against yours.

Pressing yourself to his soft belly he stiffened a bit, apoligizing, "M'not very in shape, too many sweets, cock's the same." You shrugged, pulling his heavier frame atop your own, a thick thigh slotted between your sinewy legs. He groaned softly, hands pulling at your shirt impatiently.

He grunted while shucking off his sweatshirt, elbow about to take you out. You yelped and ducked, Aegon guffawing. "Sorry?" He chuckled. Shaking your head you pulled on his longer hair and resumed the earlier attentions. The blondie rudely unsnapped your bra, shoving you up the bed at the same time.

Pulling away with a snarl you exclaimed "Fucking hell are you going to manhandle me around the bed or kiss me?"

Aegon deadpanned, "Wanna see you naked. Going to do that for me this time? Nice tits by the way, I can say it's like the porno now."

You growled and shoved down your shorts and underwear, somehow turned on by his shithead attitude and stupid grin. Pointing at him you hissed, "Your turn. Those briefs looking a little tight anyways." Aegon snorted, laughing at you again while shimmying his ill-fitting briefs off. His violet eyes greedily roved over you, the shameless perv.

"Happy Lady Lannister?" He asked while gesturing to his hard cock.

"Much better, get over here."

Aegon pulled you by the legs, thick waist keeping your thighs spread, fat cock rudely shoved flush against your embarrasingly wet pussy. He pressed teasing little kisses across your throat, grasping hands all over your tits and ass. You mewled- rutting a bit against him, utterly pinned by his heavier weight.

"Gods- Aegon, you- gods!" you wheedled, shaky hands digging into his shoulders, slipping down to his plush hips and squeezing. He moaned and began to slide against your slit, eyes rolling erotically. Aegon rasped, "Been so fucking long- know you're tighter than I ever dreamed of. Little cocktease."

He took your mouth again, a possessive hand grabbing your chin, lips and tongue domineering and invasive. You were quickly becoming a puddle, whining as you tried to keep up, unable to focus as the bulbous tip of Aegon's thick cock jerked against your needy clit. Your stepbrother groaned raggedly, "Lion? Mewling kitten huh baby sis?" You whined again, jerking against him to claw at his shoulder.

"That's it, lemme see you try."

You huffed in frustration, nipping Aegon's puffy lips, trying to rut back against him. He laughed into your mouth, rough hands planting on your tits, thumbs swiping across your peaked nipples. You cried out into his warm mouth, shivering as Aegon alternated between dizzying little circles with the pad of his thumb or pinching and pulling roughly.

"Ah, mmm, fuck, fuck you, get- get a condom- oh my gods!"

Aegon groaned in annoyance. "We're literally rich, just go get a plan B."

"Get your lazy ass up and grab it!"

"Sound just like your father, gonna call me fat next?"

You stared at him, waiting. Aegon made a whole deal about heaving himself up and ungainly rolling to his side table, rifling through. "You're not even fat, sure are acting like it though, huffing about nothing," you replied. The prince returned with a condom, tearing the packet with his teeth. As he rolled it on the buffoon asked "Is it that bad? Be honest. The weight, I mean."

Alicent had made some weird fucking kids. You glanced around Aegon's body. He looked better than the last time you fooled around, actually healthy in appearence. The man took the brunt around his midsection, wide striped hips and a soft pooch. It appeared there was a slim layer of softness around his thighs, arms, and face. He seemed nervous now, that creeping insecurity.

"You look good. Healthier than being a skeleton. I don't see an issue. Maybe dress a bit snappier?"

He smirked, blushing and cursing, "Oh fuck off, I guess if you deem it alright. Let's fuck, yeah?"

You nodded with a grin, sealing your lips onto his own, wrapping your thighs around him tight. Both of you moaned as he slipped in, stretching your tight pussy out. Gods it felt good, the girth dragging against your sensitive spots. His hips stuttered a bit, hands clamping on your hips as he swore. You goaded Aeg on, digging your heels into his ass and whining his name.

Aegon pecked your mouth one more time, tucking his face into your neck, thighs heavily smacking your hips as he fucked. You yelped at the sudden movements, shivering in delight. Aegon grunted on every thrust, gasping against your neck before sinking his teeth in to grace your delicate skin.

You could do nothing but take his relentless bullying of your sensitive hole, thick tip drilling your sweet spot as he changed angles with a sharp inhale. Goosebumps littered your skin, sweat building between the pair of you. Your whines and his groans made a lurid cacophony, the slapping of flesh and the squelch of your own cunt.

Aegon panted, "Such a tight fuckin' pussy, made for me, s'good."

You arched feebly into his soft stomach, tits rubbing against his own. All you could manage was crying Aegon's name, tightening around him. You begged "Please, Aeg, touch me, touch me please, m'gonna cummm!" He growled in reflex, hips jerking particularly rough into the soft roof of your pussy.

"Yeah baby? Need your clit rubbed so you can come all over my dick? Beg some more, want you to mean it."

He slapped your thigh, smirking with lust blown pupils. Your eyebrows had knit together, the burning coil of ecstasy tightening into a ball. You just really really really needed Aegon to play with your clit. In the most embarrassing mewl you begged again. "Aeeegon, please! It fucking hurts, m'so swollen for you, please stepbrother, lemme cum, it-it'll feel so good!"

You sobbed in frustration, Aegon rumbling, "Mhm, I gotcha, needy little slut for a step sister. Fuck, you're gonna make me blow." His thumb and forefinger pinched and rubbed your flushed bundle of nerves, your stepbrother slapping a hand down on your wailing mouth. His hips stuttered, eyes rolled again as you clamped down on his twitching cock.

He babbled something, frantically swiping your nub until you released in a gush of slick, shivering from head to toe. Aegon made a gutted noise, his full weight baring down as he sloppily fucked himself out, groaning in near agony. He stiffened and whimpered your name, lips hanging agape as his cock emptied into the condom. Your pussy throbbed and twitched as you stared at the ceiling, hand in Aegon's platinum hair.

He groaned softly, "Ffffucking hell Lannister, you little demon."

Aegon groaned and slid out, laying on his back, pudgy belly heaving as he gathered some breath. You were just as limp, trying to formulate a sentence. Aegon tied off the condom and haphazardly threw it into a trash bin. You wrinkled your nose but managed to make the sluggish movements into his soft side. He was much more cuddly with the extra weight and post-orgasm haze.

Aegon wrapped a lazy arm around you, lips slightly curled up. He hummed, "You aren't going to run this time are you?"

"No. I don't think I will. We can tell Dad we're getting you lots of exercise now huh?"

"Just like the porno."

"Shut up."

#read the tw and tags #aegon ii targaryen #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen smut #modern au

[here2bbtstrash]

real magic (explicit)

genre: smut, fluff, bangin’ your boss, m attempts kidfic - part of a hyung holiday collab !

pairing: namjoon x reader

summary: the holiday season has never meant anything to you beyond suffering long hours for minimum wage and awaiting the collapse of capitalism— but this year, you’d be willing to add making out with your dilf coffee shop boss to the list.

word count: 16.7k 😩

contains: ~*~explicit sexual content (after kind of a slow burn sorry lol)~*~ the "moving back to your hometown" hallmark trope, a nick jonas poster (yes that's a warning), some taekook slander in the beginning because i thought it was funny, namjoon is so buff and so dumb but so wise and so hot, moni is a little shit, namjoon is a dad!, namjoon's kid uses they/them pronouns but it's not like A Focus of the story it's just flavor, reader thinks joon has a dead wife for like one second 💀 mentions of teenage pregnancy and co-parenting, one incredibly stupid asshole customer lmao, mint choco slander (it's what namjoon would want 😌), obviously there is an employee/boss power dynamic but they talk about it and figure it out because this is namjoon and he overthinks everything, namjoon driving (he's a dad i have to assume he would get his license if he had a literal child!!!!!!!!) and a lotta sentimental holiday and life talk. here are ur sex specific warnings: making out/going to second base in a car in a parking lot (what is it with my namjoons and cars in parking lots yo), fingering, semi-drunk sex, and fuckin' rawwwww with a smidge of size and breeding kink lmao (but she's on the pill!!! no more kids!!!!!!)

A/N: hello hello hi merry crisis this damn fic is finally here lmao~ as i have been babbling on about for days i really really (REALLY) love how this namjoon turned out he's just hesjkrgdhtgk such a fucking himbo but a good dad and wise and did i mention hot aaaaaa 🫠 all the love in my gay little heart to @goodsoop for their barista wisdom and real life experiences that went into this one (the cookie story will never not make me laugh) ! and to @sailoryooons for beta reading this 50 million times and encouraging me when i was convinced it sucked ass, and also for making all the gorgeous banners for this collab 😭

which btw - be sure to go check out @gimmethatagustd & @sailoryooons & @nabiolive 's fics tooooo !!! i've loved collabing with them so very much even when we were all hashtag Going Through It, we got the whole damn hyung line you hear meeeeee 🎁🎁🎁🎁

read on AO3!

Rudely awoken by the incessant beep of your alarm, you open your eyes to find Nick Jonas staring back at you, and you sit up with a scream.

Realization washes over your sleep-addled brain in waves: first, that you aren’t actually staring at a real person. He’s just smizing on a hot pink poster, held up by some remarkably durable masking tape you stuck to the wall fifteen years ago. Second, it comes back to you that you are staring at said poster because you’ve woken up in your childhood bedroom. It’s been left untouched since you were a teenager, like a weird time capsule of all your high school obsessions.

After reaching for your phone to silence the alarm, you kick your way out from under the blankets, trying not to make eye contact with Nick, or Justin, or Zayn as you stumble to the bathroom. The circumstances of your grand return to living in your goddamn parents’ house linger like a bad taste in your mouth, one that all the tongue brushing in the world can’t remove.

It still doesn’t feel real. Taehyung, your best friend in the world since freshman year of college, kicked you out. Sure, it may have been phrased more like a gentle request, but as far as your ego is concerned, it still feels like exile. Banishment, even. The person you thought you could never be parted from made his choice, and he chose his fucking boyfriend over you.

Jungkook. You think the name with all the venom your cold, dead heart can manage as you spit toothpaste into the sink.

Jungkook, the weird, bug-eyed kid who put his toe-socked feet on your couch, drank his banana milk out of your favorite mug, and ate up all of your Samyang ramyeon because he ‘thought it was communal’. 

Jungkook, who ruined your sleep schedule nightly, either by fucking Taehyung senseless on the other side of your paper-thin apartment wall, or by blasting the same four Ariana Grande songs over and over on his bluetooth speaker and singing along in an annoyingly good voice. Either activity would go on well into the early hours of the morning, until you had to bang on the wall so hard you nearly put your fist through it.

Jungkook, whose dog once took a shit right on the floor in the middle of the kitchen.

Bam was cute enough to forgive, of course. But you can never forgive Taehyung for his betrayal. Especially when he knew you’d just been fired from your shitty coffee shop job for the stupidest reason ever, and he didn’t let that derail or even delay him. He still went ahead and delivered the killing blow.

Et tu, Taehyung? you think angrily to yourself as you stand in front of the suitcase containing as much of your closet as you could possibly fit. You still need to go back for your bigger furniture, and little things like your plates and your mugs and your silverware, which Jungkook is probably putting his grimy little fingers all over at this very moment. But until you’ve checked out of your indefinite vacation at the Nightmare Parental Hotel, there doesn’t really seem a point.

If you were less upset, you might take consolation in the fact that your parents aren’t actually here, that they’ve jaunted off to their timeshare until the new year, but you’re busy being too swallowed whole by your misery to find an ounce of joy in any piece of your current reality.

You dig through the pile of clothes until you manage to pull out something halfway decent. The first order of business now that you’ve moved back in is simple: acquire another stupid coffee shop job. You have no plans to stick around long, you just need something seasonal that will give you some meager income while you start looking for a real gig, one that is ideally not in your hometown.

Watching yourself in the mirror as you pull on a simple black blouse and your least-stained pair of jeans, you attempt to mentally dust off your interview skills. You conjure up your best fake smile and customer service voice, both of which are second-nature at this point.

Why do you want this job? “I’m just so passionate about coming home sticky and verbally abused by caffeine-addicted assholes every night.”

What’s your biggest weakness? “Clearly it’s the fact that I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.”

Why were you terminated from your last job? “Oh, well, I attempted to get my previous employer to improve their standards of worker treatment. You see, I selfishly requested that they raise the bar a single notch above hell. Certainly won’t happen again!”

This should go well, you tell yourself, and your reflection grimaces back.

With several hours to kill before your job interview and a growing desire to avoid the weird nostalgia of your childhood that seems to lurk in every corner of your parents’ house, you decide to take a walk.

The sky is bright blue and cloudless, and though the air is brisk, it isn’t terribly windy. You tuck in your earbuds as you shut the front door behind you and pick a direction, aimless, letting your mind wander to the soundtrack of your “seasonal depression” playlist.

A whole new crop of families must have moved into your parents’ neighborhood in the years since you moved out, because the streets are more alive with kids than you can ever remember them being, even when you were a kid yourself. Bikes and scooters lay abandoned on the sidewalks between homes, and you can hear the repeated echo of a basketball dribbling on a driveway, punctuated by distant, playful screaming.

Even in the daytime, you can tell these families have spared no expense when it comes to Christmas decor: some homes have every eave outlined in string lights, some have candy cane stakes dug into the perimeter of their perfectly manicured lawns, and some have been seemingly invaded by small armies of inflatable reindeer and snowmen. You can’t help but giggle a little at the inflatable decorations that have been set to turn off during the day, the way the airless material lays limp in the grass, giving the impression of a yard strewn with dead bodies.

But you remember what it looked like when you drove in last night, everything lit up and brought to life.

Your parents definitely didn’t have inflatable lawn decorations when you were a kid, but you’d get so excited every year when your dad would drag the ladder out and spend the day stringing up the simple rainbow lights you did have. You still remember the little spark of joy you’d feel in your chest when the colors would click on after dark, the way you would run outside every night just to see them twinkle, your breath puffing steam clouds in the air, your bare feet freezing on the ice-cold driveway.

It felt like magic then. But somewhere along the way you grew up. And now that feeling’s gone. Even at night, the lights just look like… lights.

Distracted as you are by the music in your ears and thoughts of your childhood that have brought you to a standstill on the sidewalk, you don’t notice what’s happening until it’s too late. 

A blur of red and white is suddenly circling around and between your legs, and you feel something twining over your ankles, then tugging with a force that threatens to knock you off balance. As you lean forward in an attempt to right yourself, the chaos in question slows enough for you to realize it’s a fluffy white dog in a red sweater, who has excitedly tangled you up in his leash.

You manage to find the looped end of the leash and slowly get yourself unwrapped while the dog continues to pant and jump and occasionally yap at you. With your legs freed, you squat down for a proper greeting, laughing to yourself as he lifts up on his hind legs, balancing his paws on your knee to lick an enthusiastic greeting across your cheek.

“Hi, puppy,” you murmur, trying to get him to hold still long enough to read the name on his tag. A voice beats you to it.

“Moni!”

When you glance up to find Moni’s owner jogging up the sidewalk, you have to make a conscious effort to keep your own tongue in your mouth, because good lord, he is fine.

He’s tall, towering over you even once you bring yourself back up to standing, and the black workout tank and athletic shorts he’s wearing do absolutely nothing to hide the thick, well-defined muscles of his arms, chest, and thighs.

Despite his lack of clothing in the cool winter air, you can see his face and neck are slick with sweat, his white-blonde hair damp with it too. There’s even a dark patch that’s soaked his shirt at his sternum, making the firm swell of his pecs that much more apparent. It takes you an extra second to break eye contact with them, but when you do finally manage to drag your gaze up to meet his, you realize his face is just as nice of a view: honey-tan skin, full lips, and cute dimples that pop as he gives a sheepish, appreciative laugh.

“Thank you,” he says, a little breathless; his voice is deep and slightly husky in a way that makes your face grow hot. You blink stupidly at him for a few moments, your mind reeling, and then it occurs to you that you still have his dog’s leash in your hand.

“No problem,” you manage, handing the looped end back over and double-checking to make sure your ankles are still free from their entanglement. Though now that this man is holding the leash, you kind of wish they weren’t.

“Moni’s usually good about not taking off when I stop to do a circuit,” he explains, like you’re the dog owner police. It makes you wonder what kind of Karens must have moved into this neighborhood since you left it. “I don’t know why he ran, maybe he saw a squirrel or something.”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him with a smile, admiring Moni as he stretches and settles into a polite seated pose. “I like his sweater.”

“Thanks,” he laughs again. “C’mon Mon.”

You can’t help focusing on how big this guy’s hands are as he slips his fingers through the end of Moni’s leash, tugging slightly as if to encourage the dog back in the direction he came from.

Moni blinks and stays right where he is.

“You little shit,” his owner huffs under his breath, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. You distantly realize you should probably leave them to it and continue on your walk, but this is too entertaining to turn away from now. Your hot neighbor tries one more futile attempt to get Moni to move, then seems to give up entirely.

He stoops down with a low grunt of effort that makes your core flutter as he grabs the fluffy dog and hoists him up in his arms. You try to force yourself to stop noticing the way his biceps flex, the fact that the muscles of his arms are nearly bigger than your head.

“Thanks again,” he says with a final grateful smile, and your only response is to swallow hard and stand there like an idiot as he turns and carries his spoiled dog back home.

When you arrive for your interview, you’re delighted to discover that Indigo Coffee is nothing like your last job. It’s warm and bright, with large picture windows that flood the space in sunlight, and there’s a cozy personal touch to it, the likes of which you’d certainly never see in your former corporate shell of a workplace. The sitting area is dotted with live edge wood tables and mismatched chairs. There are an array of framed paintings on the walls that look handmade in a good way, simple yet bold brush-stroke lines in a deep blue color scheme. And, you realize as your eyes linger, the shop is absolutely overflowing with plants: in simple clay pots lined up along the windows, free-standing between tables, and tucked into bookshelves placed artfully throughout the space. 

You step closer to inspect one as you wait on your interviewer and are pleased to see that it’s real, that they all are— no waxy fake leaves jammed into a thick block of cement, but real greenery sprouted in real dirt, deep brown soil gone soft from what must have been a recent watering. These are plants someone cares for, coaxed and kept alive by someone’s time and patience and love. The thought makes you smile a little despite yourself.

There’s still fucking Christmas music playing, but you figure that’s inescapable this time of year.

“Are you here for the interview?” someone asks over your shoulder. As you turn away from the plant, you wonder if you’re imagining that the voice in question sounds slightly familiar, and then you find yourself once again staring up at a fine-ass man with white-blonde hair and a sweet pair of dimples.

He’s clearly showered since your last encounter, and is now slightly more covered up in a pair of faded jeans and a gray-green flannel thrown over a black shirt emblazoned with bold white lettering: Protect Trans Kids.

“Oh.” Moni’s owner blinks back at you, and the shock on his face is so apparent that a giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Uh, hi again.”

“Hi,” you echo, equally flustered, before realizing you failed to answer his initial question. “Oh, yeah. Yes. I am. The interview. I’m— that’s me.” So well-spoken, you mentally kick yourself.

One dimple deepens slightly as he extends a hand. “Kim Namjoon. Owner of Indigo Coffee. And the world’s least obedient dog, as you saw earlier.”

You offer your best handshake in return and a smile that you surprisingly don’t have to force as you give Namjoon your name. He gestures to a table in the corner, and you each pull back a chair to have a seat. You try to banish any potential horny thoughts from your brain, but shifting into interview mode proves difficult as he rests his large hands on the table in front of him, drumming idly along to the horribly cheery music.

You manage to tear your gaze away from Namjoon’s fingers when he speaks again. “If it’s cool with you, we can just chat a little? I’m not so good at conducting formal interviews. Too inauthentic.”

It’s like you can feel some of the tension release from your shoulders. “I— yeah. That sounds great.”

“Cool,” he nods, and you try to ignore the rush of heat up your neck at the intensity of his stare. Professional, be professional. “So I saw on your resume that it looks like your last few jobs were out of town. Did you just move here?”

“Moved back,” you say quickly. “Yeah. I grew up here, actually.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen a little in clear interest. “Really? What brings you back?”

You purse your lips as you consider how to phrase it. “My life… kind of fell apart. So. I moved in with my parents for a bit. Like a winner.” His dimples pop when he smiles at your joke, and you drop your gaze to the table. “Just trying to figure out what’s next, and find something seasonal in the meantime.”

“Well, we could certainly use the help,” Namjoon admits. When you chance a glance up, there’s a look on his face like he’s choosing his next words carefully. “I saw in your application that you were terminated from your last position.” He leans in, lowering his voice slightly as he continues. “I’m gonna be honest, I hate that we even ask that question. But can you tell me a bit about what happened?”

You keep your stare fixed on the wood grain in front of you as you try to stay calm. “Well, if I can be honest too...” Squeezing your eyes shut, you tell yourself to just say it. “I was fired for trying to unionize.”

“Oh.” Namjoon sounds surprised, but you can’t manage to look at him. “Really?” You nod slowly, biting down on your bottom lip. “That’s— fucking illegal.”

That makes your gaze snap back up to meet his. His brow is furrowed slightly, a muscle in his jaw pulled tight.

“Yeah,” you say belatedly. “Yeah, I know. They made up a bunch of fake excuses as to why I was fired, but I knew what it really was. It was because I wanted them to actually pay us what we were worth, and hire more workers so we weren’t being scheduled to death. And I was getting everyone else riled up too, and I guess it scared them.”

Namjoon sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Huh. Man. Well, I’m sorry that happened to you.”

It takes you a second to process what you’re hearing. Union has always been a scary word for any person in upper management you’ve previously encountered. You hadn’t expected this to be so… easy. For him to understand, or sympathize. “I— yeah. I am too.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Namjoon continues quickly, “I think it’s great, what you tried to do. I’m very pro-union.” He pauses for a moment, his face twisting slightly in thought. “I mean, admittedly, we don’t have one here. Granted, there are only five of us. I should probably ask, though, if they want one.”

You can’t quite hide your smile. “I’m gonna take a guess that you probably treat your employees pretty well as-is.”

“I try,” he says with a shake of his head. His eyes meet yours again. “So, here’s the deal. You have a ton of experience, and with holiday time off and a few people out sick, I’m super understaffed right now. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders, and hopefully you feel like you can come to me if you have any issues, without fearing retaliation.”

You blink slowly, and he must be able to read the disbelief on your face. “What I’m saying is I’m offering you the seasonal position,” he clarifies. “Is that— do you, uh, accept?”

“Yes.” The word is chased by a dazed laugh, and Namjoon’s dimples resurface around a small smile.

“Cool. I told you I’m bad at interviews,” he huffs, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. You try to ignore the swell of his bicep, clearly visible even beneath his bulky flannel. “I know this is a lot to ask, but. Is there any chance you can start, like, right now? Because Jimin’s shift ends in…” He tilts a little, fishing his phone from the front pocket of his jeans, and his mouth drops open in surprise when he gets a glimpse at the time.

“Oh, shit,” Namjoon murmurs, and then he raises his voice to call across the mostly empty store. “Jimin-ah! I’m so sorry!”

You turn around, your gaze landing on the barista leaned up against the counter next to the register. His dyed-gray hair dusts over his eyes, which pull into crescent moons as he laughs. “It’s cool. I knew you were almost done. But I’m gonna clock out now, if she’s good?”

“Yeah,” you answer, turning back to Namjoon. “Yeah, I can start now.”

The two of you move behind the counter, and you sweep your hair up out of your face while Namjoon starts to go through a basic run-down of where everything is located. The overhead bell tinkles as Jimin shoulders the front door open, and he lifts a hand over his head in parting.

“See you after the holidays!”

“Alright,” Namjoon says as he waves to Jimin, a little breathless from having rambled on for the better part of several minutes. “That was a lot. Do you want to just start on register? I feel like that should be easy enough, and I can train you on everything as people come in, since it’s pretty dead right now.”

You shrug. “Works for me.”

Within half an hour, there’s a line out the door, and Namjoon has managed to spill espresso grounds all over his shoes for a second time.

“Ah, shit,” he groans, taking a step back. “Sorry. Been a minute since I’ve had to be back here.”

“It’s okay,” you try to reassure him, but you can see from the faces of the customers who have been waiting on their drinks for several minutes— including one who’s had hers remade three times, all of them incorrect— that it is very much not okay. You certainly lack the people skills to smooth over any of Namjoon’s mistakes, and you can feel a stress-induced eye twitch starting to flare up, brought on by Kelly Clarkson’s incessant yuletide belting.

You give your boss five more minutes, wherein he scalds his hand on the milk steamer, forgets about a cookie in the warmer until it’s burnt entirely black, and nearly turns the blender on with the lid off, before you finally intervene.

“Hey, Namjoon?” You do your best to keep your expression pleasant when he glances over at you, wiping at his brow with the back of his hand. “Maybe we should switch?”

“A-are you sure?” he stammers, apparently torn between wanting to be a good boss and a clear desire to just take the L. “I feel bad, this is literally your first shift.”

“I think I can handle it,” you reassure him, lowering your voice a little. “Let me take care of the drinks, and you can do your… endearing golden retriever thing. Keep the people entertained.”

Color blooms in the apples of his cheeks as his dimples make a brief appearance. “Oh, okay. Can do. Just let me know if you need help.”

You can’t imagine a universe where his clumsiness could in any way be considered helpful, but you keep that thought to yourself as you smile at him. At least he’s cute.

Things improve dramatically once your roles are reversed: as you expected, Namjoon is far more charismatic than he is coordinated, and he chats endlessly with the people waiting on their drinks, hardly pausing long enough to take a breath, while you scramble around trying to get your bearings in a new environment. The steady stream of customers doesn’t let up for the rest of the evening, until the last few finally trickle out of the store a few minutes after close, and you waste no time locking the door behind them with a sigh of relief.

You spin around, letting your back thud against the door for a moment as you watch Namjoon fight with a broom and dustpan in a futile attempt to get espresso dust out of the grout between the tiles. There’s a dull ache starting to thud in your skull, and it’s only deepened by the shrill opening notes of another fucking a cappella song.

“Namjoon?” you ask as you cross toward the counter, and his head instantly snaps up. “Do you think we could maybe turn off the Christmas music?”

“Oh, sure.” He’s already fumbling to grab his phone, and he taps a few buttons until the music suddenly switches, a soft voice starting to croon over an old school beat.

“Thanks,” you say, and you can’t help the pity smile that pulls up your mouth when he returns to his useless task. “I think the grout might be a lost cause, but I can go ahead and mop whenever you’re ready.”

He rights himself with a defeated sigh, nodding his head to the storage closet in the back. You follow his lead to retrieve the mop, then set about filling up the bucket with water and cleaning solution. Namjoon’s voice floats in from the front of the shop as he busies himself with his own closing tasks.

“Imagine smokin’ weed in the street without cops harassin’ / Imagine goin’ to court with no trial / Lifestyle cruisin’ blue Bahama waters / No welfare supporters, more conscious of the way we raise our daughters...”

You’re laughing a little as you roll the bucket out, starting at the door to work your way back. “Is this… Nas?”

He glances up, like he’s just remembered other people exist in the world. “Yeah, sorry. I can turn it off.”

“No, no,” you say quickly when he starts to reach for his phone again. “This is good. Much better than Pentatonix. I’m just… you really know every word.”

Namjoon shrugs, clearly embarrassed. “He’s my favorite.”

The revelation surprises you, and you pause to think as you pull the mop back and forth over the tile floor. It didn’t even occur to you that Namjoon would have a favorite kind of music, apart from the soft elevator muzak you imagine must play on a steady loop in his brain, given the way he fumbles through life.

“I actually wanted to be a rapper,” his voice comes back, and you look up again, your interest piqued. “When I was younger. But you know. Life had other plans.”

“Ah yes, the rapper to coffee shop owner pipeline,” you muse, and he barks a laugh that you wish you didn’t find so hot. Shaking your head, you force yourself to look back down at the espresso-studded tile, doing your best to shove your attraction aside and not think about it. He’s your boss, dumbass.

Still, it’s hard to ignore, particularly as he continues to rap along to each song that comes on, his voice deeper and huskier than you’ve heard it thus far in casual conversation. He doesn’t miss a word, and you can’t deny that it’s impressive. And sexy. Fuck.

Once the floor has been successfully mopped and everything else is put back together, you hop up onto the counter to wait for the tile to dry, and your gaze lingers over Namjoon’s large hands as he cashes out the register. He flips through the bills in time to the music, still humming under his breath as he goes, and you do your best to hold in your laugh when he inevitably loses count and has to start over from the beginning. Thankfully the second attempt sticks, and he smiles proudly to himself as he zips everything up into the deposit bag.

“First shift down,” he announces, as if you might have forgotten, and then his eyes find yours and you swear your breath gets stuck in your throat. “How do you feel?”

It only occurs to you now how close he’s standing to you, and with the way your legs are casually dangling over the edge of the counter, it wouldn’t take much for him to step between them. And god, he’s so damn tall, you’re practically eye-to-eye.

“Uh,” you manage, your mouth suddenly gone dry. “Good. I feel good.”

“That’s good,” he answers, his voice dipping into that throaty tone again. You find yourself wondering absentmindedly if maybe Namjoon has a customer service voice, too, and then for the briefest flash of a moment, his gaze flits from your eyes to your lips and back again. It’s so quick, you can’t be sure it even really happened.

You tell yourself it’s just your exhausted post-shift brain seeing things that aren’t there, wanting this fine-ass man to be into you, too.

A sudden bang on the front door makes you flinch so hard, you come dangerously close to kneeing Namjoon in the crotch. He takes a large step back as you whip around to look over your shoulder, only to see a kid’s face pressed to the glass, framed by two small hands. You’ve never been great at telling the age of children on sight, but this one looks like… maybe a middle schooler?

“Whose fucking kid is that?” you say automatically, blinking, dumbfounded. Namjoon’s laugh is a low rumble behind you.

“That would be mine.”

It takes several days for the shock to wear off. Your boss has a kid. Kim “could’ve burnt the building down with a single cookie” Namjoon is at least partially responsible for keeping another human being alive. Which means you have a crush… on a father.

A father who also happens to be your boss.

You try not to think about any of it.

There’d been brief introductions when you left the shop that first night, but all you’d really managed to glean was the kid’s name, Sol, and their pronouns. As someone who is historically terrible with children, you’d excused yourself the minute Namjoon locked the front door, after what felt like an eternity spent watching him pat each of his pockets twice before he finally managed to find his keys.

“I hope it wasn’t weird,” your boss says out of nowhere in the middle of your next shift, during a much-needed moment of peace after the morning rush. “For you to meet Sol like that. It’s just been hard, since their mom, uh…”

Namjoon trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished. You glance up, eyes widening as you put the pieces together.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry.”

His gaze meets yours, and it’s like you can see the wheels in his head turning before he catches up. “No, no,” he says quickly, and then he starts to laugh. “Wow, I really did not start that sentence well. She’s not dead. She just got married, and she’s on her honeymoon for most of December. The logistics have been hard, is what I meant.”

An embarrassed heat creeps up your neck, and your elbows thud against the countertop as you press your face into your hands, attempting to muffle your own laughter. “In my defense,” you groan, “you really made it sound like you had a dead wife.”

“Not dead! She’s fine!” Namjoon’s dimples are as prominent as you’ve ever seen them when you peek up at him from your full-body cringe. “Very much alive, very much not my wife.” The muscles in his arms flex as he crosses them over his chest, leaning up against the counter next to the register. “Never was, actually.”

“Really?” you answer automatically, your damned curiosity getting the better of you.

He nods, his voice a little more serious when he continues, rambling on in the way that you’ve already started to suspect is his default setting, talking as if to fill empty space. “We were seventeen when we got pregnant. I knew we were young then, but I don’t think I really realized. Now that I’m almost thirty, I know: seventeen is fucking young.”

The line of his jaw tightens, thoughtful, as his gaze sweeps over the floor. “I thought I wanted to marry her, or at least felt obligated to. Like it was the right thing to do, but. We didn’t have any money, and then it all got so hectic after Sol was born. Didn’t even take a year for us to realize it wasn’t gonna work, not for us.”

You blink, trying to take in all the new information. “That sounds really hard.”

“It was,” Namjoon admits. “But we were both on the same page about it. That no matter what, Sol had to come first.” He glances up with a shrug. “It’s all good now. She’s a great co-parent, and her new husband is really good for her. And… well, I have Indigo.”

The tinkling of the bell at the front door snaps you out of a daze, makes you realize you’ve been staring at him, dumbfounded. You do your best to shoot Namjoon a soft smile, and to ignore the pang in your chest as he turns to greet the customer that’s just wandered in, already starting to babble on about the weather.

You find yourself more grateful for Namjoon’s presence with each passing shift, in a way that you try to convince yourself is thoroughly platonic. Between fairly steady work and his very steady chatter, your time spent in the warm, sunny space of Indigo turns out to be a good distraction from your own miserable excuse for a life. The repetitive motions of making drink after drink are oddly comforting, and you have to admit, Namjoon really is good with the customers.

“Peppermint mocha to go.”

You do your best to follow up the sentence with a polite smile as you set a drink down for the customer who has done nothing but scowl at you the whole time you were making it. The silent prayer you’ve sent out to the universe that he’ll take whatever personal problem he has elsewhere and leave you alone has clearly gone unanswered.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps, and you can feel your shoulders creep up towards your ears in anticipation of nothing good. Here we fucking go.

You blink twice, trying to keep your service persona engaged. “I’m sorry, is that not what you ordered?” It is, you know it is, you heard him say it.

“No, that’s mine,” the man quickly responds, reaching out to snatch the cup in a motion that makes you flinch. “But do you hear this fucking song?”

The honest answer is no: at this point the ever-present Christmas music might as well be white noise, so you have to make a conscious effort to tune back in and listen. It’s a few seconds, and then you pick up on the melody. “…Last Christmas?”

“Uh, yeah,” he continues, explaining like you’re stupid. “The original. Last Christmas by Wham!” When it’s clear you still aren’t putting the pieces together, he scoffs in pure frustration. “You just made me lose Whamageddon! I’ve won every year for the last five years, I can’t believe you would even put this on your fucking playlist!”

Your face pulls into an incredulous grimace before you can think to control it. “Uh, I’m sorry, but I didn’t make the—”

He cuts you off. “First off, I don’t need the fucking attitude. And surely you’re at least capable of checking what songs are on there, right? That’s not too advanced for you to handle?”

You didn’t even hear Namjoon walk up from the back office, but he’s suddenly stepping in front of you, and you’re more than glad to move back and let him handle this dude before you end up in jail. “Woah, woah, alright,” Namjoon interjects, his voice loud enough to carry. “What’s going on?”

The man beats you to it. “I’m trying to file a legitimate complaint and she’s rolling her fucking eyes and getting an attitude with me!”

“It’s the song,” you explain briefly, trying to keep everything about your expression neutral. “He’s mad that we’re… playing Wham.”

Namjoon’s face twists in an expression that you would find funny if you weren’t so fucking livid, one that you’re pretty sure is the mirror image of your own reaction minutes earlier. “The song? Seriously?”

You can see the guy scrambling, clearly starting to get embarrassed at his own dramatics. “Alright, I don’t have time for this. I guess I just need to take my business elsewhere, because this is ridiculous. What ever happened to the customer is always right?”

Namjoon goes silent for a minute, and you try to ignore the way the look on his face makes your pulse quicken, thudding brightly in the hollow of your neck. His voice is deadly serious when he speaks again. “I appreciate that you’re upset, but if you’re going to look my employee in the face, after she just performed a service for you, and disrespect her like that? Over a fucking song? Nah, I’m not gonna tolerate it. Maybe the next time you want someone to make you a toothpaste drink, you should take your ass to Starbucks.”

It takes every ounce of strength you have to keep the reaction off your face until the asshole has stormed out the front door, nasty drink in hand. As the bell finally tinkles to signal his departure, you collapse forward, just barely catching yourself on the counter so you don’t crumple straight down to the floor.

“Oh my god.” Your laugh of disbelief comes out more like a groan, at the ridiculous complaint and your boss’ insanely attractive comeback alike. “I fucking hate this time of year.”

“Hey.” The word is punctuated by Namjoon’s shoulder bumping into yours, and you look back up at him, still laughing a little at your own misery. His eyes search yours, sincere. “Assholes are assholes no matter what season it is. I’m sure that guy finds plenty of things to complain about the other eleven months of the year, too. Don’t let him ruin it for you.”

You can’t help rolling your eyes, if only because you can do it freely now, without a man standing over you and yelling about your ‘bad attitude’. “I guess,” you huff. “And thank you.”

Namjoon shakes his head, like it’s nothing. “Chin up, okay?”

The two of you breeze through closing that night, familiar enough to fall into a steady routine now. You’re wiping everything down behind the counter and humming along to Tupac when Namjoon’s voice drags you back out of your thoughts in a way you’ve already grown accustomed to.

“You know…”

You glance up, only to realize that he’s started to flip chairs on top of tables to clear the floor, and is grabbing them two at a time, one in each hand. The image makes you a little dizzy, and you tell yourself to focus on his words, not his biceps.

“I think we make a pretty good team,” he concludes.

“Yeah,” you breathe, trying to keep your composure at the unexpected compliment. “I was thinking the same thing. And thanks again for, you know. Handling that guy.”

Namjoon shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Hey, you’re doing me a favor, taking this seasonal job. I’m not about to let anyone fuck with you.”

You bite down on a smile as you head towards the back to grab the mop, and then you hear a loud bang on the front door— it’s another sound you’ve gotten used to in your brief time at Indigo. There’s the click of the deadbolt, chased by the tinkling overhead bell and Namjoon’s chiding voice. “Homie, if you break my door I’m gonna make you get a job to pay me back for it.”

“You think I don’t know about child labor laws?” you hear Sol retort, clearly not intimidated, and the attitude in their voice has you biting back a laugh.

Wheeling the mop bucket out of the storage closet, you glance up to see Namjoon jut his chin toward the large front window, indicating Sol to take a seat on the ledge. “Feet off the floor, she’s tryna clean.”

Sol complies, plopping down in the window with their eyes glued to their phone as Namjoon disappears back toward the office to grab his things. You watch as Sol pulls their knees into their chest so their chunky black boots clear the tile, and you can’t help noticing that said boots are adorned with oversized silver bat-shaped buckles, reflecting the amber streetlight gleam that leaks through the window.

“I like your boots,” you say, more to yourself than Sol, half expecting them to be so engrossed in TikTok that they don’t even hear you.

But to your surprise, Sol looks up.

“Thanks,” they say, glancing at their feet. “I just got them. I’m in my post-hardcore era right now.”

The statement is delivered without a trace of irony, and you do your best to hold in another amused giggle as you respond. “Wow, you are… so much cooler than I was when I was your age.”

Sol seems to consider this for a moment, then shrugs. “I mean, you didn’t have the internet back then, right?”

The question hits you like a train, and you have to pause and press a hand over your heart at the impact. “Okay, ouch, I’m not that old.” They grimace apologetically, and you lean up against the mop handle in thought. “But the internet definitely wasn’t like it is now. The only social media that really existed was Myspace, and my parents wouldn’t let me make one. I mostly just used the internet to, like, play RuneScape.”

“Oh shit,” Sol remarks, sounding remarkably like Namjoon in the process. “You played old school?!”

It’s like you can feel your bones crumbling to dust inside your body, and you wince as you resume dragging the mop over the tile. “Hey, back then it was the only kind of RuneScape we had. But yes, you can consider me a… founding father of that game.”

“That’s cool!” they exclaim, sounding so genuine it makes your head spin. When did RuneScape become cool again? “My friends and I play old school all the time. It’s the best, for real.”

You shake your head in disbelief as you continue to mop, and a long pause settles between you, with Sol’s interest clearly returning to their phone.

Fuck, you think to yourself, what else do kids even talk about? Marvel movies? It’s like your mind has gone totally blank, unable to conjure up a single topic of conversation, and you practically huff out an audible sigh of relief when their voice breaks the silence again.

“I think my dad has been happier since you started working here.”

The mop nearly slips out of your hands entirely, and you glance up, eyes wide. “I— really?”

Sol nods, playing absentmindedly with the strings of their black hoodie, then bringing the end of one up to their mouth to gently chew on. “It’s a theory I have. A game theory. I plan to ask additional follow-up questions tonight.”

At this, you can’t help but laugh. “Well, I’m sure your investigation will be very thorough.”

There’s a flash of a dimple in Sol’s cheek, like the mirror image of their dad. “I can tell you what he says, if you want.”

You wonder how telling your own smile is. “I mean… I can’t say I’m not curious.” You’re distantly aware of the sound of the office door closing, chased by Joon whistling to himself, and you lower your voice conspiratorially as you drop the mop back into the bucket. “I look forward to hearing what you find out.”

Monday morning, when you wake up to the omnipresent smize of Nick Jonas, you can’t help smiling back. 

You made it through your first week of work, and it wasn’t even that torturous. And best of all, Namjoon reminded you the night before that Indigo is closed on Mondays, which gives you an entire day to spend as you please. A real day off, which was truly unheard of at your last job, where you’d spend your non-scheduled days still anticipating an incoming emergency text asking you to cover a shift last-minute. More often than not, you’d end up working after all.

“But not today,” you announce to Nick.

A grand plan has already started to form in your head, one that involves a party size bag of Hot Cheetos and all eight episodes of The Fabulous, and yet. There’s a lingering urge at the back of your brain that you can’t quite ignore. With all the day-off energy you can muster, you drag yourself out of bed and tug on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, then shuffle into the bathroom to at least make yourself halfway decent.

You’re just going for a quick walk around the block to get some fresh air, you tell yourself. That’s all. Certainly no other reason.

It’s only a few minutes after you step out your front door that a fluffy white blur nearly collides with your shins, and when you stoop down to lift Moni into your arms, you once again can’t keep the smile off your face. Huh, who could’ve seen this coming?

But when you glance up, there’s no hot buff man jogging up the sidewalk after his dog. In fact, you realize as you look back at the ball of fluff in your arms, he isn’t wearing a leash or harness at all, just another cute sweater.

“Are you even supposed to be out here?” you ask Moni. His only answer is to drag his tongue up the side of your face.

You shift him a little in your arms so you can fumble for the tag attached to his collar, and thankfully, there’s an address listed. It takes you a second to get your bearings in the neighborhood, having not lived here for close to a decade, but it eventually comes back to you where the listed street is, and you start to walk. Moni is already blinking sleepily in your arms, clearly enjoying his preferred mode of transportation.

A laugh bubbles up in your chest as you approach the house in question— even if you hadn’t had Moni’s tag to guide you, finding his home would’ve been easy enough as soon as you passed this street, because you can hear old school hip-hop bumping through a speaker despite still being several houses down the block. You suppose Namjoon can get away with it during the day, when all the neighborhood kids are still in school.

As you make your way up the driveway, you realize the music is actually coming from behind the house, and when you follow the path that leads around back, you spot the culprit: a simple wooden-slat fence surrounds the yard, and the gate has been left wide open.

Before you can even make it over the threshold, a familiar voice reaches your ears, sounding much closer than the music. “Ah, shit.”

Namjoon comes barreling through the open gate so fast he practically runs you over, and Moni yaps, like he’s annoyed at being jostled as you quickly try to stumble out of his owner’s path.

“Oh. Uh, hi.”

You wonder if you’ll ever be able to take in how shock looks on Namjoon’s features without giggling a little. Today is certainly not that day. It’s just so endearing, the way his eyes widen and his mouth pulls into a perfect o-shape.

“Hi,” you breathe out around your laughter, trying to ignore the heat that flushes into your face when his dimples appear in return. “I think I found something that belongs to you.”

With a wave of his hand and several profuse thank yous, you follow Namjoon back through the gate, and wait until he firmly shuts it behind you before letting Moni down to trot off across the yard. It’s only now that you take Namjoon in properly: he’s in a gray hoodie under a pair of denim overalls, both of which are splattered artfully with paint in a variety of colors.

“I was just in my studio,” he explains, tipping his head toward the small shed in the yard, which you quickly realize is also the source of the music that led you here. “Doin’ some art. Do you, uh… wanna see?”

“Yeah, okay,” you answer with a nod.

“Fair warning, I’m really bad at it,” he calls over his shoulder as he leads you in the open studio door, raising his voice to be heard over the music. He reaches for his phone, propped up in the windowsill, to turn the volume down a few notches.

There’s an easel up against the far wall holding what must be his current project, a half-finished scene that you realize upon closer inspection is thousands of tiny dots of color, painstakingly blotted onto the canvas to form a mountain landscape at a distance. A few more pieces that he’s already completed have been leaned up against another wall to dry, one featuring an abstract array of featherlight brushstrokes, and another where the paint’s been globbed on in thick layers.

Namjoon is talking a mile a minute as you inspect the canvases. “I thought maybe I’d do cyanotypes today, but it’s not sunny enough, and I’ve made that mistake before. I’m really into texture right now, so I’m trying out some different techniques with paint. I want to get better at pointillism, but it’s a lot harder than you’d think it would be. ‘Cause it’s just dots, right? But you have to be able to see the forest for the trees, too.”

“These are amazing,” you finally manage to murmur, and to your surprise, the compliment actually renders him silent. When you turn back over your shoulder to look at him, he’s glancing down, almost like he’s embarrassed.

“Thanks. But I just do it for fun. ‘Cause I love art.”

“I can tell,” you say, and when he looks up, you offer him a smile you hope reads as encouraging. “Did you make the art at work, too?”

He nods, still sheepish, and that answer also surprises you. You recall thinking on your first day that the paintings hung on the walls looked handmade, but it never crossed your mind that they might have been made by Namjoon’s hands. Maybe because you’ve grown so accustomed to seeing him drop and break things, you haven’t ever considered him as also capable of… creation.

And yet, here he is. Proving you wrong.

“Sorry,” Namjoon’s voice makes you refocus on him, and your brow furrows in confusion at the unexpected apology. “This is literally your one day away from me and here I am, taking up your time. Thanks again for bringing Moni back.”

“It’s okay.” You shrug. “Don’t have much going on today, honestly. I never really know what to do with myself when I’m not working. Which I’m aware is very sad.”

“Well, uh,” Namjoon starts, and when he takes a single step closer, you swear you feel something flutter in your stomach— or maybe lower. “Sol’s got a half-day today, since it’s the last day before break, so I’m picking them up in a bit. And we were gonna go on a hike, probably take Moni too. You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like?”

Your eyes widen at the invitation. “Oh. That sounds great. I mean, if you’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding?”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up just so. “Nah. I actually think Sol really likes you. At least, they wouldn’t stop asking questions about you at dinner last night.”

“Is that right?” You do your best to keep your expression neutral.

Namjoon drives far enough north that there’s actually snow on the ground when you climb out of his front seat. You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket as you follow him across the gravel parking lot towards the trailhead, a few paces behind Sol and Moni.

Sol shoots an expression of pure mischief at you over their shoulder, and then immediately starts to sprint up the marked path through the woods, Moni easily keeping up.

“Bye, nerds!” you hear them call before they disappear between the trees.

“Stay on the trail!” Namjoon shouts back, sounding as dad-like as you’ve ever heard him, and you can’t help but laugh. The two of you quicken your steps slightly to not fall too far behind, tracking the set of boot and paw-prints they’ve left to mark their trail.

For a moment, it’s silent between you, save the crunching of snow underfoot. It’s nice, being out in nature like this, time spent with Namjoon where you aren’t suffering through Christmas music and ungrateful customers. Where you can just… breathe. It makes you feel a little less sorry for yourself, a little less fixated on your own miserable life.

You glance over at him as that strange seasonal melancholy starts to settle into your bones again. “Are the holidays… better? With a kid?”

Namjoon makes a face, like he’s surprised by the question. “I mean, they’re definitely different. Then again, it’s been a long time since I did the holidays without a kid— not since I was a kid myself. What do you mean by better?”

Self-consciousness washes over you, your gaze drifting down to the path beneath your feet. “I don’t know, there’s just… I can’t shake this weird feeling now that I’m back home. This time of year used to be so exciting for me when I was Sol’s age. Everything felt special. Magical. But now I’m back here, and nothing’s really changed, except me. But I just keep feeling like the magic is gone. It’s… sad.”

He nods, taking a moment before he responds, and he’s chuckling softly to himself when he finally does. “You know, it’s kinda funny. When Sol was younger I actually felt a lot of stress this time of year. I couldn’t really enjoy it, because I was too busy trying to make sure that they had the best holiday I could possibly give them. That they didn’t feel like they were getting any less, since, you know. Their mom and I aren’t together. It’s funny that you bring up the magic, because I put a lot of pressure on myself to make that magic happen. But now that they’re a little older, I don’t know, it’s different.”

“Different how?” you prompt.

A dimple deepens as he hesitates. “It’s gonna sound corny. But really, I realized that the holidays aren’t about the gifts, or the decorations, or every little thing going perfect. You can make yourself sick over that shit, and I did, but kids don’t really care about it.” He pauses, and for a second you think that might be it, but then he keeps going, eyes fixed on the towering pine trees ahead of you.

“The year I opened Indigo, I had sank so much fucking money into it that I was broke. Broke broke. I couldn’t afford a single gift, a tree, not even a turkey. Sol and I sat on the floor of my shitty apartment and ate Chapagetti and watched Friends. And I felt like the biggest fucking failure imaginable. And then you know what happened?”

“What?”

“Sol turned to me, and they said, ‘This is the best Christmas ever, because we get to hang out, just the two of us.’” He blinks a few times, like he’s trying to ward off tears, and his voice comes back slightly less steady than before. “I still don’t know if they said that because they really meant it, or if they could just tell that I needed to hear it. But either way, I thought to myself: how fucking lucky am I, to have such a great kid? Like what did I ever do to deserve them? I still feel that way.”

Namjoon shrugs, as if to shake off the emotion. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s not helpful to you, but. I just see it differently now. It’s not about the what, or the how. It’s about the who. Spending this time of year with the people you care about, and making sure they know you do. That’s the real magic.”

You realize the trail has carried you up the sloping hillside, and is now flattening out at the edge of a clearing, where you can see Moni chasing Sol through the snow, can hear their high-pitched laughter ringing out in the wide-open air.

When you turn back to Namjoon, he’s already looking at you.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel the magic right now. I didn’t either, for a long time. But it does come back, I believe that. It’ll come back for you, too.”

You blink up at him, overwhelmed by his willingness to be so honest, and by the wisdom of his words. “I— thank you,” you finally manage to say.

Namjoon doesn’t answer, just glances up to where Sol and Moni are still playing, and your gaze follows his out over the snow-covered field. Sol is dusting off a sizable stick, and they call out for Moni to fetch before launching it into a dramatic arc, high up in the air.

Moni watches it go, entirely disinterested, then settles onto his haunches in the snow with a yawn.

“You’re so bad at being a dog!” Sol shouts, and that’s enough to make you and Namjoon both dissolve into laughter. They look up at the sound, hands-on-hips, before yelling again, this time in your direction. “My dad said he has a crush on you!”

Your jaw drops open, and Namjoon’s eyes are wide as you’ve ever seen them when you look up at him.

“Damn, dude, you said you were gonna be chill about it!” he exclaims, and you press a hand to your mouth as a fresh wave of giggles overtakes you. Given how long Namjoon’s legs are, it only takes him a few strides to catch up to Sol. You stay a tentative distance behind him, but still close enough to be able to make out their conversation.

“Uncle Hobi says you need to be bolder with women,” Sol chides, matter-of-fact.

“Uncle Hobi says a lot of shit,” Namjoon mutters under his breath.

“He painted my nails,” Sol raises their voice, clearly talking more to you than to their dad, and holds up a hand for you to see, waggling their fingers proudly.

“They look great,” you call out in response.

Namjoon turns back to you as you step in closer, then juts his chin to a bench at the other side of the clearing. “Sit with me for a sec?”

With a nod, you follow him over, and he wipes the metal surface free of snow with his sleeve before gesturing for you to have a seat. For a moment, the two of you sit silently and watch Sol, who is already busying themself with building a snowperson while Moni slow-blinks encouragingly from a distance.

Namjoon’s words chase a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna be real with you, despite the fact that my child just stole my thunder. I like you a lot.”

Your heart swells in your chest, threatening to burst. “I-I like you too,” you stammer back immediately. “Have definitely been harboring my own crush… basically since I started working at Indigo.”

When you turn to look at him, it surprises you a little that he isn’t smiling. You can see a muscle working in his jaw, like he’s nervous.

“That’s the thing,” he finally relents. “Work. I don’t— I hadn’t really planned to tell you how I was feeling, or act on it. Because I’m your boss, and that means, you know. There’s a power dynamic there. And it would be… unethical of me to blur the lines like that, by getting involved with my employee. I wanted you to come out with us today because it was a chance for you and I to be equals, outside of work, but it’s not like that dynamic just goes away, you know? And I feel a little guilty about it now. Because I really like being around you so much, but I just. We can’t. It wouldn’t be right. Not while you’re working for me.”

You stare down at the snow under your boots as you take in his words, and you can’t help it. Try as you might to sit there and take his worries seriously, laughter flutters out of you before you can hold it in.

“What?” Namjoon asks, and you shake your head, trying to compose yourself.

“I really, really appreciate that you gave it so much thought,” you say, willing your voice to stay even. “I mean it.”

“It’s weighed really heavy on me, if I’m honest,” he says solemnly, and you glance over to see him staring into the middle distance, like he’s deep in contemplation.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching out to where his hand rests on the bench between you and covering it with your own.

“Namjoon?” you ask softly, and it seems to snap him out of his trance enough to look back at you.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” you preface. “But if I have to choose between you and my stupid seasonal coffee shop job?” The smile starts to flicker over your face again. “Then I quit. I quit right now.”

“Oh thank god,” Namjoon breathes, and you can only make a soft noise of surprise when all at once, he takes your face in his hands and kisses you. You need a split second for the shock to wear off, and then you’re moving your mouth against his, one hand fisting tight in the fabric of his jacket. His lips are full and warm, and it feels like far too soon that he’s pulling back again, his cheeks flushed with color.

“Will you, uh—” he pauses, like he’s remembering how to form a sentence. “Will you still work tomorrow though? Jimin’s back after Christmas, but I really don’t think I can survive a shift on my own.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, still a little breathless from his kiss. “Yeah, I think you’d burn the place down.”

Unable to deny the claim, he laughs brightly as you untangle from each other, then gets to his feet before offering a hand to help you up. “We should head out, it’s gonna get dark soon.”

It’s true: across the wide clearing you can already see the sun threatening to sink back down between the trees, casting a golden-pink light that gleams off the snow and paints the world in warmth.

Sol leads the way back through the woods to the car, tugging Moni along by their leash, while you and Namjoon bring up the rear. You glance over at him a few times to catch him staring, and you scrape your teeth across your bottom lip, unable to keep the smile off your face, unable to stop yourself from mentally replaying the moment when he kissed you, over and over.

Just as you step under the shadow of a large tree, snow-covered branches stretching up toward the clear sky above you, Namjoon stops in the path. It’s so abrupt that you continue a few more paces before you even realize, and then you stop, too, glancing back towards him.

“Hey Sol,” Namjoon calls. “Think you and Moni can make it all the way back to the car in ten seconds?”

“I know what you’re doing,” comes Sol’s cheeky reply, but when Namjoon starts counting backwards from ten, you can hear the crunch of their boots taking off down the path.

“Eight, seven, six…” You watch as Namjoon cranes his neck until he deems Sol far enough out of sight, taking a step toward you as his counting trails off, and you find yourself pulled into him like a magnet. “Come here,” he murmurs, and then his hands are slipping up your waist and guiding you backwards until your back hits the trunk of the tree.

In true Namjoon fashion, he uses way more strength than is necessary for the task, and though your winter jacket cushions you from the impact, you’re smacked against the bark so hard that it knocks a dusting of snow off the branches above you, covering you both in flakes that stick to your hair and eyelashes. The sudden rush of cold makes you gasp into Namjoon’s mouth, but then he’s rolling his tongue over yours and you can’t think about anything else. A heavy pulse has started to thud between your legs at the heat of his breath in your mouth, the way his hips have you pinned to the tree, his body big enough to cover yours entirely.

“Joon,” you find the air to breathe as his lips trail hungrily down the slope of your neck. You rake a hand through his hair, white-blonde strands studded with snow, to try and pull his attention back, despite very much not wanting him to stop. “Joon, we should go. Before someone steals your kid.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs against your skin, and then his mouth is on yours again for one more kiss, like he can’t get enough. “Okay,” he finally grunts as he pulls away, sounding as begrudgingly responsible as you feel. Your head is still spinning; you want nothing more than to stay here and let him kiss you dizzy.

“Let’s go.”

He takes a step back so you can right yourself, reaching out to dust some snow off your jacket, and then the two of you resume walking up the path, sharing a breathless laugh like confidantes. You assume it’s just his standard clumsiness when Namjoon’s hand knocks into yours, but then his fingers are twining through yours purposefully, until you’re pressed palm to palm.

The rush of heat that blooms in your chest at his touch keeps you warm the rest of the way to the car.

Your last shift at Indigo somehow manages to feel exactly like every shift that’s come before it and completely new at the same time.

The work is the same, the steady stream of customers unchanged, the Christmas music still an aggravating soundtrack. But you no longer feel like you have to ignore the butterflies that flutter in your stomach when Namjoon asks you a question, or meets your gaze across the shop.

The only urges you have to suppress are indecent ones, made worse by Namjoon seemingly taking advantage of every opportunity to touch you: hip-checking you when you’re both standing at the front counter, pressing a hand to the small of your back whenever he has to squeeze behind you, leaning in a little closer than necessary to be heard over the noise of the milk steamer. It’s enough to make your breath hitch each time, and you can’t help but wonder if he feels the same relief at not having to hold back anymore.

Towards the end of the night, it surprises you when the typically consistent flow of customers starts to slow down, until it seems to have ceased entirely. You still have two hours to go, but you find yourself staring at the walls, every table empty, having done all the side work you can think of to distract yourself from boredom.

The sound of the front door’s lock clicking shut makes you glance up, only to see Namjoon flipping the open sign over.

“What are you doing?” you ask, blinking dumbfounded, and he looks over his shoulder at you with a shrug.

“It’s Christmas Eve Eve, and I’m the owner, so. We’re closing early. Effective immediately.” The decree makes you laugh a little, and his dimples wink back. “Let’s finish cleaning, I wanna show you something.”

In record time, you find yourself standing outside the front door of Indigo as Namjoon locks up, only tonight your hands are kept warm by the hot chocolates he’d made for the two of you as you closed. He takes his cup back once his hands are free, and you try a tentative sip from yours, now cool enough to drink without burning your mouth. Given what you witnessed of his barista abilities on your first day, you brace yourself for the worst, but your eyes widen in pleasant surprise when the liquid hits your tongue.

“Being a dad means getting really good at a few specific things,” he says by way of explanation as he unlocks his car doors, and you smile as you slip into the passenger seat.

It occurs to you as Namjoon starts to drive that you don’t actually know where he’s taking you, but when you open your mouth to ask at the next red light, he leans over you to fumble open the glovebox and you lose your train of thought. He fishes inside for a few seconds before retrieving a CD case, then makes quick work of prying it open and sliding the disc into the slot on the dash. You attempt to hide your giggle behind the rim of your cup.

“No wonder you like ‘90s music so much. You’re still living there,” you say, nodding to his antiquated stereo, and he smirks as he turns up the volume. 

“This is A Tribe Called Quest,” he remarks, quirking an eyebrow when he looks back at you. “You better show some respect.”

“Yes, sir,” you tease in response, and you don’t miss the color that flushes his cheeks.

The light turns green and he accelerates through the intersection, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the center console to grip playfully at your leg, a few inches above your knee. You can see his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, like he’s considering saying something, but when he finally opens his mouth, it’s just to rap along to the music.

It’s only a few songs later that he’s turning off the main road and following a barely-lit gravel path up to a large grassy parking lot, where he pulls into a space and kills the engine. You squint through the windshield, tucking your now-empty drink into the cupholder, but you can’t make out much except dusk and some vague lights over a hill in the distance.

“Was this crush thing just a ploy to murder me?” you quip, and Namjoon looks a little nervous when you glance over, like he took the question to heart. “I’m kidding,” you clarify quickly.

His voice comes out surprisingly soft. “This is one of my favorite things to do during the holidays. Thought it might help with, you know. The magic.”

Something cracks open inside you as you look back at him. “That’s… really sweet.”

“Ah,” he says, as if to dismiss the compliment. “You haven’t seen it yet. Maybe you’ll hate it. Come on.”

The two of you climb out of his car to start your trek to whatever he has in store, heading in the direction of the lights, and Namjoon’s hand slips into yours, like it’s already second nature. Easy and sweet. You grip tight to him, the night air colder now than it was when you left work, but then you finally crest over the hill, and the temperature is suddenly the furthest thing from your mind.

It takes you a moment to even understand what you’re looking at. The place is clearly some kind of arboretum, as the path ahead of you snakes through a perfectly manicured garden of various plants, but the only thing you can focus on are the lights. Every tree, bush, shrub, and other kind of greenery that lines the walkway has been intricately strung up with lights, each one boasting a different hue. The end result is nothing short of dazzling— a veritable rainbow of light and life and color, glittering diamond-bright against the deep-set night around you.

“Namjoon,” you breathe. “This is beautiful.”

There’s a dimple flickering at the corner of his mouth when you look up at him. “Thought you might like it.”

“I can’t believe I never knew this was here,” you remark, your eyes wide and blinking as you try to take it all in.

“Hey,” he answers with a shrug. “Maybe your hometown still has a few good surprises left in it.” You exhale a laugh as you lean into his side and he squeezes your joined hands; you can’t help feeling like you’ve already found the greatest surprise of them all.

After an hour spent wandering through the displays, each one more breathtaking than the last, Namjoon diverts you toward a small food stand. He comes away from the counter with a paper carton filled to the brim with long ropes of twisted, fried dough, warm enough to release steam into the air when you tear one apart to share, and dusted with cinnamon sugar that sticks to your fingertips.

The two of you take a few steps back down the path until you’re under an archway of glowing golden lights, then eventually come to a standstill, too hungry to do anything except devour your food.

Namjoon speaks first, mid-chew. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What’s up?” you answer as you reach for another piece.

He swallows, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth before he continues. “At your interview, you said your life fell apart. What happened?”

“Oh.” You smirk as you rip the braided dough in two, then in two again, before popping it into your mouth. “It seems a little silly now, but. I got fired from that last job, like I told you. And the same day, my roommate pretty much kicked me out of the apartment, because he wanted his boyfriend to move in. He was also my best friend, so. It stung a little. A lot. Moving back in with your parents at this age is humbling, to say the least. Feels a lot like starting over.”

Namjoon hums, like he understands. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Eh,” you respond noncommittally. “I should probably be happy for him. The timing just… wasn’t amazing.”

“You know,” he murmurs, thoughtful. “I thought my life was over when my ex and I got pregnant. Not even eighteen and about to be a dad. I really felt like… I don’t know, like that was it for me.” You nod slowly, unable to even fathom what that must’ve been like.

“But, here I am. Still alive.” Namjoon flashes you a grin, and you find yourself smiling back. “Still figuring it out. I actually feel like I’ve learned a lot from watching Sol grow up. They’re like—” He shakes his head, as if at a momentary loss for words. “They’re like a different person every month, I swear. What they’re into, how they dress. Who they wanna be. It makes me feel, I don’t know. Like it’s okay. Like I can change too.” He shrugs. “That’s the thing about life. It’s long. And even when you feel like it’s ended… it keeps going anyway.”

His words wash over you, and you’re so in awe that you can’t help but laugh.

“Ah, sorry.” He grimaces, suddenly self-conscious. “I know that was corny.”

“No, no,” you interject, trying to keep your composure. “I just think you are like, literally the wisest person I’ve ever met.”

The lights glimmering overhead aren’t enough to hide the way Namjoon blushes at the compliment, and then he pauses, as if recalling something. “Didn’t I nearly run the blender with the lid off on your first day?”

You double-over at the memory, and he’s laughing now, too. “Okay, okay. Fair point.” 

The thought keeps circling around in your brain as you dust cinnamon sugar from each other’s jackets and continue your way around the rest of the gardens, occasionally pausing to trade sticky-sweet kisses in the twinkling glow: you don’t want the night to end. You keep glancing over at Namjoon, wondering if he’s feeling the same way as he drives you back into town, the heat in his car on full blast, the CD player still underscoring your conversation.

“So, what do your Christmas plans look like?” he asks, eyes flitting briefly from the road to meet your gaze.

You fiddle with a button on your coat, wishing you had a less depressing answer. “I was just gonna spend it by myself. My parents already had a vacation in Hawaii planned, so I’m gonna do what I always do: hole up with booze and snacks and wait for it all to be over.”

He chuckles, tapping his fingertips absentmindedly against the steering wheel. “Well, I have about a hundred presents to wrap tomorrow night while Sol’s at their mom’s. Why don’t you come over and help? I can even provide the booze.” There’s a pause, and his voice comes back softer before you can respond. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

The corner of your mouth tugs up at his sincerity, the way he gently cares for you, has since day one. “Yeah, okay. I mean, you had me at free alcohol.”

Just like that, Namjoon is already turning back into the Indigo parking lot, where your car sits waiting for you. The two of you shrug off your seatbelts once he’s pulled into a space and parked, and he reaches to turn down the music before shifting in his seat to get a better look at you.

“So,” he starts, clearing his throat a little. “You are officially no longer my employee.”

“And you are no longer my boss,” you answer back, and a thrill buzzes in your chest at the statement.

“Which means,” he continues, doing his best to lean over the center console, “I can do this.” He barely finishes getting the words out before his mouth is on yours, your eyes fluttering closed, his kisses far less chaste than the ones you shared earlier. They’re open-mouthed and urgent this time, with Namjoon slipping his tongue into the heat of your mouth like he’s been waiting all night for it.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur between kisses, and then he dips his head lower, until his lips find the join of your neck and shoulder.

“And this,” he purrs before kissing you just as hungrily there, tongue-first. You can’t hold back the soft noise his mouth pulls out of you.

“Fuck,” you breathe as he sucks gently over the same spot, with just enough pressure to make you writhe in your seat. A shiver rolls up your spine when he hums against your skin, clearly pleased at your reaction.

“And, uh…” You slowly blink your eyes open when you feel the warmth of his breath dissipate, and he’s looking at you with his brow furrowed, as if attempting some difficult mental math. “Actually—” He reaches down for the lever to adjust his seat, and it drops all the way back with a graceless thud that makes a laugh flutter out of you. “Maybe you could take your jacket off and come over here?”

You don’t need him to ask you twice, and you’re moving quickly as you peel out of the thick material and scramble across the console to straddle him. You both groan a little when you duck down to press your mouth to his again, all of this suddenly feeling much more real now that you’re basically horizontal. His hands alight on your hips, tentative, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them, and you smile against his lips.

“Touch me, Joon,” you instruct, and he does as he’s told.

His hands are warm as he slips them beneath the hem of your shirt, trailing over your skin until he reaches the band of your bra. When you hum encouragingly into his mouth, he keeps going, pushing the fabric up your chest so your tits spill free from their confinement. He cups one in each hand, and though you might’ve expected him to be clumsy or rough, given everything you’ve seen of him thus far, you’re surprised to instead find that he’s gentle, thumbs circling your nipples with just the right amount of pressure to tighten them into stiff peaks.

Unable to bite back your whimper at the heat that blossoms through you at his touch, at how much more of him you need, you pull away just enough to break your kiss, glancing up through the back window of his car to confirm the parking lot is still empty.

Namjoon groans low in his throat when you reach down to tug up the hem of your shirt, shifting a little on top of him to give him better access. He doesn’t hesitate, thumb still working at one nipple while he takes the other into his mouth, and your sigh of relief comes edged with a soft moan when he swirls his tongue over the bud of your breast.

“Shit,” you gasp. “Feels so fucking good.”

He pulls off with a wet pop to switch sides, and the slick heat of his mouth sends bolt after bolt of arousal through you until there’s a dull ache of need thudding between your legs. As you roll your hips in desperate search of friction, you can feel him beneath you, straining hard against the fabric of his jeans.

Namjoon pulls his mouth off your breast, letting out a hoarse laugh when you shift to drop your forehead against his collarbone with a groan, horny enough to practically be delirious. “I hate that I’m even saying this,” he rasps, “but I really can’t have sex in a car. I’m too—”

“Big?” you offer, and there’s a smile on his lips as he presses a kiss to your temple.

“I was going to say old.”

You can’t help giggling as you lean up to find his mouth with yours again. Namjoon kisses you a little while longer, lazily, his hands still kneading gently at your tits, until he finally tips his head back, heaving a sigh up to the roof of his car. “Okay, okay. You should go.” His tone is reluctant, like it’s the last thing he wants. “It’s late. And my jeans fucking hurt.”

There’s a self-satisfied smirk toying at your mouth as you sit up, tugging your bra and shirt back into place and not missing the bulge in Namjoon’s pants where your hips meet his. “I will take the blame for that one.”

He folds his hands behind his head, biceps and dimples on full display. “Damn straight.”

You lean down for one more kiss, letting it linger before you make your way back over the center console to retrieve your jacket. “Have a good night, Joon,” you murmur as you reach for the door handle, and when you glance back, his eyes are fixed on you, still heavy-lidded with lust.

“Get home safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I have booze, as promised.” Namjoon’s voice echoes in from the kitchen as you kick off your boots and hang your coat up at his front door come Christmas Eve. The aroma hits your nose as your socked feet pad down the hall to follow him: the spice of cinnamon and clove, paired with a hint of citrus. It smells like the holidays, like home.

“Mulled wine?” you wager a guess, and he nods, turning away from the stove to retrieve two mugs from a cabinet.

“I halved the recipe, since it’s just us,” he explains, mouth pulling down at the corners as he starts to ladle out servings from the pot full of deep red liquid. “Still made a lot, though.”

Your eyes drift across the kitchen until they land on the two empty bottles of red sitting next to the sink, and that makes you pause for a moment to consider. “So the original recipe called for four bottles?”

Namjoon’s brow is furrowed when he glances up, and then he follows your gaze, and a look of delayed understanding washes over him. “Oh, fuck.”

Your elbows dig into the kitchen island as you press your hands to your mouth, as if to physically hold in your laughter. “Did you… halve everything in the recipe except the wine?”

His eyes drop closed as he nods, his answer a resigned sigh. “Yeah. Yes, I did.”

You can’t help yourself: all at once, you’re circling around to join Namjoon behind the stove, so you can take his face in your hands and pull his mouth down to yours. He makes a soft noise of surprise, but then his lips fall into rhythm, kissing you hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs. Even through the fabric of your shirt, his large hands are warm when they slide over the small of your back, and then they keep going, until you finally break the kiss with another laugh when he reaches his final target and outright grabs your ass.

“Not the reaction I anticipated,” Namjoon admits, paired with a teasing squeeze. “But I’ll take it.”

You look up at him through your lashes, pressing your palms flat to the firm plane of his chest. “A very wise friend of mine once told me that the holidays aren’t about every little thing going perfect. I thought maybe you needed a reminder.”

His dimples deepen as his eyes search yours, and his voice is lower in his throat when he responds. “I think that fool was just sayin’ words because a pretty girl asked him a question.”

Heat flushes your face as you smile back. “Well, they were very good words.” You drop your gaze to the pot on the stove. “Come on, I bet we can salvage this.”

Determined to save Christmas, you throw in another handful of spices, chased with a few glugs from a bottle of orange juice Namjoon heroically digs out of the back of the fridge. After a few more minutes of simmering, you take a tentative sip of the mixture to find it perfectly adequate.

“I guess we just have to drink twice as much now,” Namjoon quips, filling up two fresh mugs with the remedied wine. You raise an eyebrow back at him, as if to accept the challenge, while you tap your drinks together in a cheers.

By the time you realize that a double-batch of mulled wine and gift-wrapping don’t exactly go together, it’s already too late. The booze makes Namjoon’s big hands go even clumsier, the few presents he attempts an absolute disaster, and you can’t stop laughing long enough to be of any help. At one point he reaches up to cup your jaw for a kiss, but completely misjudges the distance, deftly knocking into his half-drunk mug and spilling the contents all over a tube of wrapping paper and the crotch of your jeans.

You dissolve into giggles until you can scarcely breathe, scooting your chair a few inches back from the table as he jumps up to grab something to soak up the mess. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” you manage to gasp when he returns, immediately focused on cleaning you up first. You wave him away as you get to your feet. “Seriously, it’s not that bad, it’s mostly the table.”

“Jesus,” Namjoon groans as he drops the kitchen towels in his hands onto the wooden surface, doing his best to soak up the puddle, though there’s no saving the ruined gift-wrap.

“It’s not a big deal,” you murmur as he turns back, once again examining the extent of the damage done to your clothes. A shiver rolls through you as his thumb brushes over the waistband of your jeans, and he grimaces a little.

“This is probably gonna stain.”

“I mean…” Your pulse starts to quicken as his fingertips linger where they are, and Namjoon’s gaze flits up to meet yours when you speak, clearly hearing a shift in your tone of voice. “I could just… take them off.”

A smile teases at the corner of your mouth when his eyes widen. “Yeah,” he breathes, then seems to self-correct. “I mean, uh. If-if that’s something you would feel comfortable doing.”

You’re already reaching to undo the button, and then Namjoon takes over to tug open the zipper and push the fabric down your legs, and your nipples tighten beneath your bra at the reminder of how gentle his large hands can be. His lips find yours again and you don’t hesitate to lick into his mouth, jostling slightly as you try to make out with him and kick your pants the rest of the way off at the same time. It’s graceless, but you manage to make it work, and then he pulls away from you to glance back down.

“It looks like a little got on your shirt, too.”

He’s right, you realize: there are faint purple marks splattered just above the hem of your long-sleeve, and you smirk as you look up at him.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you did this on purpose,” you tease, and then in one swift move you pull your shirt over your head, letting it drop to the kitchen floor next to your discarded jeans.

Namjoon’s hands are instantly on your bare skin, trailing heat as they trace the curve from your hip to your waist, and your breath hitches as he ducks down to brush his lips over your collarbone. The low tone of his voice reverberates through you when he speaks against your skin. “I like to think I could’ve gotten you naked tonight even without being an accident-prone idiot.”

You run a hand along the line of his jaw, tipping his head up to seek a kiss, before leaning back to murmur, “I guess we’ll never know.”

He kisses you again, and the two of you stumble across the threshold into the living room, pausing along the way to peel off his sweater and then his jeans, laughing into each other’s mouths, just drunk enough to lack any semblance of coordination you might have otherwise had.

When you drop down to lay back on his sofa, you’re both stripped to your underwear, and you can feel the thick bulge of him, pressing firm-heavy heat into your thigh as he settles his hips between your spread legs.

Namjoon’s eyes roam over your body beneath him, and then he’s tugging the lace of your panties to the side to slip a finger into your drenched center, beckoning it up to rub you just right. Your mouth drops open as he traces slow circles against your front wall, and when he adds a second digit, you can’t help but whimper softly at the stretch. It thrums through you like your lingering red wine buzz, hot and thick and good enough to get lost in, your head dropping back on the couch cushions as your hips rock up into his touch.

“Goddamn,” Namjoon groans, and your eyes flutter open again to take him in, his gaze heavy-lidded as he watches his fingers disappear up into you, coaxing slick sounds out with each pump of his hand. “I had a whole plan,” he rasps. “To take my time. But, fuck, I really want to fuck you.”

“It’s okay, Joon,” you breathe, not sure how much longer you could stand the torturous feeling of his clothed cock grinding into your thigh, so close to where you want him. An ache throbs in your cunt, needy, plugged up with two fingers but still begging for more. “Just fuck me.”

Realization flashes over his face, and then he suddenly heaves a sigh, looking defeated. You have to bite back a noise at the loss as he withdraws his fingers. “I— there’s an obvious joke here, but. I don’t have any condoms. Or if I do, they’re definitely expired.”

It takes you a second to process the revelation, and then you reach up to pull him down to you, smiling when he hums surprise into your mouth at the unexpected response. Your lips linger on his, and then you tip your head to press a kiss to the slope of his neck, not quite able to maintain eye contact as you murmur, “I mean. I’m on the pill, and I’m clean. So.”

“Yeah?” he replies, and your nose bumps against his shoulder as you nod. “Me too. Well, I-I’m clean, I mean. I’m not on the pill.”

You can’t help the giggle that slips out as you look up at him. “Right, no, I get it.”

“Sorry,” Namjoon huffs a laugh in return, his face flushing a little. “I talk a lot, when I’m nervous.”

“I just thought it was an all-the-time thing,” you admit, and the color in his cheeks deepens.

“I’m just always nervous around you.”

Your mouth seeks his out for a kiss sweeter than the last, slower for his shy honesty and the hummingbird thrum of your heartbeat behind your ribs. The heat of his breath ghosts over your lips when you tip back to answer, “You don’t have to be.”

“So, you’re okay?” he asks, almost reverent with his question. “If we—if I don’t—”

“Please,” you insist, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.

With remarkably little fumbling, he drags the lace of your panties down your legs, letting you kick them the rest of the way off while he moves up to unclasp your bra. You slip the straps off your shoulders and drop it over the edge of the couch, then watch as he shifts to strip out of his boxers, freeing his cock with enough force that it smacks against his abdomen with a hefty thud.

You swallow hard as you take him in: long and thick, flushed dark. Big, and fuck, you want all of him; you can feel how drenched you already are between your legs at the thought of all that cock filling you up.

When you tear your gaze away to meet his, Namjoon is staring at you just as hungrily, and he brings a hand to pump himself a few times, to coat his shaft in the wetness that’s started to drool from the head of his dick.

“Come here,” he grunts, his voice rough-edged, and you waste no time straddling yourself over his hips.

Given his considerable size, you figured it might take you a second to adjust, but you want him so bad, the feeling of his cock stretching you open is all white-hot pleasure. Your fingertips dig into his shoulders as you slowly lower yourself down on him, inch by overwhelming inch, until your ass is flush with thighs.

Namjoon’s head drops back against the couch as you slowly grind your hips into him, his hands gripping at your waist to guide the movement. You can’t help the soft sound that flutters out of you: he just looks so good like this, white-blonde hair swept off his forehead, beads of sweat trailing down his temples and glistening at his collarbones, his parted lips full and kiss-bitten.

“Baby,” he groans as you start to move a little more intentionally. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last long. Tell me what to do.”

“Touch me,” you breathe, and you close a hand over one of his, guiding him down to your clit. 

Just like the night before in his car, his touch is so gentle when he begins to trace circles into the sensitive nub with his thumb. You can feel the slow-hum build of an orgasm in your core, drawn up by the steady rub of his hand, and you lean back to allow him better access, bracing yourself on his thighs as you rock along his length.

A moan rips through you as the new angle drags the head of his dick just right against your front wall, and it’s good enough to make your eyes roll back. Chasing the feeling, you shove your hips down harder, driving his cock into that spot over and over until your thighs have started to tremble.

“That’s it,” Namjoon grunts encouragingly, his voice husky. “Use me, baby. Look so good when you bounce on my cock like that.”

The words set every last one of your nerve endings alight, and you dig your nails into his skin as your spine arches from the pleasure. His thumb is still working steadily at your clit, and the heavy stretch of his cock has you so wet, you can feel arousal starting to leak down your thighs. Your pussy clings to him like a vice, a throbbing-tight heat, taking him to the hilt every time.

“Oh my god, Joon,” you groan, “I’m gonna come.”

His touch doesn’t let up, and you can feel yourself teetering right on the precipice of it, only able to manage little gasps as you drop yourself down onto his cock again and again and again, with enough force that there’s an audible sound of your skin slapping against his.

Your legs are outright shaking from the effort now, from how close you are, and then Namjoon ducks his head, using his free hand to guide your tit into his mouth. The swirl of his tongue laved across the tight bud of your nipple is just what you need to push you over the edge.

With a moan that’s more like a sob, you drop forward against Namjoon’s chest, sinking all the way down to bury him in your pulsing cunt as you come. He continues to rub you through the waves of your orgasm, breathing ragged in your ear while your pussy gushes around him, until you grab his wrist with a soft whimper of overstimulation, and he relents.

Too gone to get any words out, all you can do is take his face in your hands and kiss him. He rolls his tongue over yours, decadent, as his palms slip down to cup your ass. You groan a little into his mouth when he begins to shift you, your cunt still fluttering-sensitive at every little motion, but he manages to maneuver you onto your back while still keeping himself sheathed in you.

His hands move to your thighs, encouraging your legs to hook over his hips, and his mouth trails kisses down the valley between your breasts before he breathes against your skin, “Can I keep going?”

“Please,” you murmur, and it’s chased with a moan when he starts to rock his hips into you. You feel so full, so swollen from your climax that it’s like your walls were molded to take him, the crown of his cock stroking deep-deep over the place that lights you up inside, shooting sparks of pleasure all the way down to your toes.

Namjoon’s breath stutters on a laugh. “Shit, I’m already close.”

You tilt up to brush your lips against his, humming encouragingly into his mouth, and then he pulls back again, one dimple teasing at the corner of his smile. “God, I— wanna hear you say it.”

Somehow, you know exactly what he means. “Come in me, Joon,” you beg, fucked so good that you’re shameless for it, and you gasp when he bottoms out in you with his next thrust. “Fill me up. Fuck me full of your cum, baby, please.”

It’s like the words send him into overdrive, and he practically growls as he starts to fuck his cock into you forcefully, hard enough to make your tits bounce. Each snap of his hips punches a heady groan from your lungs, and you reach up to drag your nails across the skin of his back as he chases his own end.

“Gonna fucking— give it to you,” he hisses, rolling his hips one, two, three more times, and then you feel his cock twitching, shoved in as deep as you can take him. He heaves a final strangled groan as he comes, rope after rope of his release pumping into you to paint your walls, until you can feel it beginning to spill back down your thighs.

You kiss through the comedown, inhaling shaky breaths into each other’s mouths, your bodies still fitted together like puzzle pieces, sweat starting to cool in the places where skin is pressed to skin. Namjoon finally moves first, giving a grunt of effort as he rolls off the couch, and you throw an arm over your face while the world slowly settles into focus around you.

When he returns, it’s with a towel in hand, and you can’t help smiling as he cleans you up, trailing soft kisses along your collarbone in tandem.

His voice is soft, too, when he finally speaks. “Will you stay here tonight?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms to look at him, and a little glimmer of something lights up in your chest that you can’t ignore. The first spark of an ember, just enough to reignite a flame you’d long since believed to be entirely extinguished. But now he’s shown you: it doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to be alone.

“Of course. We still have presents to wrap,” you say simply, and he huffs a laugh as he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Joon?” you murmur into the crook of his neck, unable to keep your voice entirely steady.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you breathe. “For the magic.”

#namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon x y/n #bts smut #bts x reader #a hyung holiday

[tlouxx]

Electromagnetism

~ ellie williams x reader

——————————————————————————

part two <3

synopsis: you and ellie williams have been long time rivals. you are a physics majors at wellesley college, and you’re competing for the same spot in the prestigious dr. ramsey’s lab as ellie. suddenly neither of you can escape the other as you’re both trying to navigate your final year of college.

content: college!ellie, modern au, mean!ellie, academic rivals to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity, eventual smut, swearing, banter, just trying to intro ellie and reader rn

an: this is the first fic i've written! i hope you enjoy :) pls be kind

——————————————————————————

I want this year to be better. To achieve more. To get everything I have wanted. Well.. I want this to be the year I best Ellie Williams. It has been so frustrating to get second best to her no matter how hard I try. I study 15 hours for the exam. She studies for 20. I get a 98 on the lab report. She gets a 100. I can’t stand this girl. This year I have a fire under my ass. I’ll do whatever it takes to get the lab position with Dr. Ramsey, and I know Ellie is gunning for it too… 

...

Day One  - PHYS 302: Quantum Mechanics 

Fuck. I know I'm going to be late. I had been up until 2:00 a.m. devising a plan for how I was going to handle all of the stress of senior year. Between tutoring, a full class load, and working on my thesis, I am going to have no life outside of school. Although, I’m kind of fucking it up already by waking up late for the first day of class. 

…

I am sprinting through campus trying to navigate through the thick of the freshman class wandering aimlessly around. I have 1 minute and 39 seconds to make it on time before Dr. L locks the door. (She’s a bit famous for doing that). It’s mid august and hot. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back, and my bangs are clinging to my forehead. I see a shortcut to the physics building through the freshly landscaped garden. Dirt and mulch kicks up my jeans, but I don’t care. Behind me, I hear yelling. “Move out of my way!!” I look momentarily to see none other than Ellie Williams. Suddenly I don’t feel as bad about being late. She’s in her typical wardrobe of converse and a jacket too big for her, and she’s running toward me. 

…

“Don’t you know she’s going to lock the door on us!” 

“I know Ellie!” I scoff back. I book it knowing we only have 45 seconds left to make it on time. We’re both charging up the stairs. Ellie shoves me aside. I yell  “Are you kidding me!” She simply laughs at me. 

… 

I’m following right behind her. I can feel the anger flood through my body. My cheeks are flushed, and I can feel my rage nearly leave my mouth. I know I’d only be stooping to her level. I see the door in my line of sight and feel the tension dissipate knowing we made it. We rush through the door with seconds to spare. All eyes are on us. I suddenly feel the anger leave and be replaced by embarrassment. I look around for somewhere to sit. PHYS 302 is a popular class with a majority of the seats being full. Ellie and I look at each other realizing there are only two seats left. Right next to each other. 

…

We both glare at the other, but sit down knowing we’ve already caused a commotion by busting through the door at the last second. I’m angry. I’m irritated. This is exactly why I have to do better this semester. I know what I want, and I won’t stop until I see that smirk wiped off her face. 

…

As class continues on, I glance over at Ellie. She’s diligently taking notes and hanging on to every word Dr. L says. I should be doing the same. This class is important to me, and doing well can help me guarantee my spot in Dr. Ramsey’s lab. I’ve been dreaming of doing my thesis with her help since freshman year. Right now though, I need to stop daydreaming about beating Ellie and actually do it. 

…

I’ve always loved the atmosphere here at Wellesley. The campus is gorgeous and almost looks otherworldly at times. The blossoming pinks of the spring and the rich reds and yellows of the fall makes it look like a daydream. I have studied at nearly every picnic table out here. The sun is shining down on my face through the clouds.  I look up and start to reminisce about the good times I’ve had here, but the heat is getting to me. I peel off my jacket before I enter my next lecture. I open the door to see Ellie Williams smirking at me. 

…

PHYS 208: Intermediate Electromagnetism

“I didn’t think you’d be brave enough to take this class. Seems a little too… difficult for you.” 

“Fuck off Ellie. You know I’m just as smart as you.” 

“And I know how much it kills you that you have to work twice as hard to come close to me” 

I laugh. “What kills me is that you think that’s true. I already know you studied for days for Dr. Ramsey’s final when I studied for a couple hours and got practically the same grade” I can feel myself getting flustered. I’ve been wanting to dedicate this semester to kicking her ass, and she can see it. I watch as her cheeks turn red. She knows I see her too. She turns back around in her seat. 

…

The weight of the day feels heavy on my shoulders. I shouldn’t have said that to Ellie. Dina told me in confidence how much time she was dedicating to studying for the exam. I shouldn’t have betrayed her trust just to get back at Ellie. I don’t have much time to waste ruminating on actions. I have work in 20 minutes and a 15 minute walk there. 

…

I work at the tutoring center on campus. I mainly help the underclassmen with the major prerequisite courses like MATH 205 and PHYS 100/107/108. It gives me a sense of fulfillment helping others. I know firsthand how hard these classes are. I probably wouldn’t have survived the first year without the help of the tutoring department. It’s part of the reason why I decided to work here making minimum wage. Plus it’ll make my application to work at Dr. Ramsey’s lab look better. I glance through the windows to get a glimpse of who I'll be working with this semester. I hope Dina and I get the same shifts like last semester. I’m sure you can guess who I see though. Ellie. Fucking. Williams. 

…

I can feel my eyes rolling. I can’t escape her! Everywhere I turn she’s there. First both our classes are together and now she’s working at the tutoring center? This has to be some sick joke. I look up at her and smile. She looks away and sits in a nearby chair. I sit across from her waiting for someone to instruct us on what to do next. I do regret embarrassing her, but she started it. She nearly pushed me down the stairs just to get ahead of me on top of that too. Maybe I shouldn’t feel so bad, but my heart is still pounding as I look up at her again. 

…

The tutoring center supervisor sees us sitting in silence together. She’s nice enough, but her wardrobe is stuck in 2013. I catch myself staring at her oddly patterned top. Ellie notices me staring and gives me a knowing smile. 

“I’m so glad you’re both here! You and Ellie will be our main tutors on Monday, Wednesday, Friday for the core physics class. I think you two are already acquainted” 

“Oh. I thought Dina and I would be doing that again.” 

“Right. I thought you might say that, but with her new course load she’ll be doing Tuesday and Thursday instead.” 

“I see.” 

“You and Ellie are both top of the class! I feel so lucky to have you guys here.” 

I smile and head down to the physics portion of the building. 

…

Ellie is following behind me closely. I’m wondering if maybe she’ll apologize, but I doubt she’d ever do that. We both sit down at our respective desks. I look up at her again. I must’ve hit close to home with my comment. She’s helping someone with their MATH 205 homework. Ellie tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. She always wears it half up/half down. Despite our rivalry, I admit to myself that it looks good on her. Her complexion is soft and a spread of freckles paints her nose. She gives them a thumbs up as they leave, and they yell to Ellie, “You’re a life-saver!” 

…

After a few hours of no students, I’m getting bored. I can sense the tension between me and Ellie. I think I should say something. 

“Hey Ellie, I think I should apologize for earlier.” 

“Honestly, it’s fine. I’m glad you finally are stepping up in this little game of ours. I needed a little extra motivation to step up my game so I can get the spot in Dr. Ramsey’s lab” 

“God, I knew you were gunning for it too.” 

Ellie gets out of her chair and steps closer to me. She creeps in closely. My heart skips a beat for a second. Fuck this girl will be the death of me. 

She is only inches from my face. My cheeks begin to flush. The anxiety is bubbling up in my chest. My heart is beating so loud I think Ellie might hear it too.

“May the best win” 

…

Oh its fucking on Ellie.

#ellie williams #the last of us #ellie x you #ellie x reader #dina tlou #rivals to lovers #ellie williams fanfic #tlou x reader #tlou #ellie williams x reader #ellie the last of us #college!au #college!ellie williams

[olderthannetfic]

As someone who's college age: yeah, there's a TON of people my age who don't know how things work and don't try to learn. Can't unzip a zip file, want to know where to download anime but haven't tried looking it up, ask things on subreddits a Google search or quick search on the wiki would answer, ask questions answered in FAQs or by professors or in the syllabus, say they can't download and install a new browser or app or program because they don't know how and they never think to look up how to do so, go months without logging into their student email because no one explained to them how to do so and they never thought to ask anyone how to do it, go months without washing their laundry because they don't know how and they also don't know how to look up instructions on how to do it, don't know how to cook and can't Google a recipe so they throw things in a pan and pray it works out, don't understand how to back up files, don't know how to attach a pdf to an email to send to a professor, cannot manage to put stuff on a USB drive + go to the library + print it off of the library computer, etc.

I spent most of freshman year teaching people things. The year after, my patience got more frayed and "Google it" started coming out of my mouth a lot more. This last year I gave up and now if people fuck themselves over, that's their decision. I'm not going to stand there begging people to do basic things they should already know how to do.

It was really funny when someone from Career Services came to talk to us about resumes and said we didn't need to put down 'can use Microsoft Excel' on there because everyone knew that and all but three people said actually no, they didn't. People who are 40+ really think we're all good at tech by default, like we fall out of the womb clutching a little phone already making spreadsheets in Excel or coding computers or whatever.

Meanwhile in reality you see a ton of people posting on tumblr going, "How do I post fic on tumblr?" whose blogs proudly state that they're under 18. The thought that you could just type into a Word doc and then copy and paste onto here never hits. And it's not going to.

I hate to break it to millennials and older people but yeah, actually, my generation does in fact have morons. We're not a moron-free demographic. I'm pretty sure moron-free demographics don't exist, tbh.

--

It infuriates me that my father (in his 80s) is always saying to me that he needs to find a 12-year-old to explain his tech to him. I (40s) keep telling him it's more like a bell curve or something. We had a blip of people being taught in school or having their asses kicked about technology. But then it went away again.

I think we made computers and then phones much more accessible, which is great, but we forgot we still need to teach people things. I know not everyone got explicit instruction in school even in my era, but it seems like the US, at least, phased some of that out as we started assuming The Youth automatically knew it all.

That said... in my day, college freshmen were also terrible about doing their laundry, so some things never change.

[say-al0e]

Hold On

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Falling in love with your best friend was never part of the plan, especially when you figured you weren’t Eddie’s type. But a trip home to sub in for a Hellfire meeting brings you more than a victory.

Warnings: Some anxiety, some insecurity, idiots to lovers, friends to lovers, fear of unrequited love, mention of Eddie’s extracurricular activities (if you squint).

Pairing: Eddie x fem!Reader

Word Count: 8.2k ((how the ever-loving fuck did we get here))

Stranger Things Taglist | Requests are open for Eddie & Steve!

The invitation to join Hellfire for a night was far from a surprise.

Despite the distance - you in Indianapolis, Eddie in Hawkins - he kept you up to date on the latest happenings of the club you once attended regularly. As far as you could tell, not much had changed beyond your absence and as much shit as he gave the freshmen - a gaggle of children, some of whom you recognized as the siblings of former classmates - he was fond of them. They exasperated him - “Henderson’s a pain in my ass. He’s so smug! Some humility wouldn’t hurt him. Little shit.” - but he was convinced that Hellfire would be in good hands with them.

A blessing, really, because someone needed to carry on the legacy when he graduated (finally).

In a handful of conversations, he’d made mention of a basketball player amongst their ranks - a freshman benchwarmer who had yet to set foot on the court but was thrilled to be part of the team just the same - so the revelation that said player would rather attend the championship instead of completing the oh-so-thrilling tale of the Cult of Vecna was to be expected. Even more expected was Eddie’s call, imploring you to skip your final class before spring break and return to Hawkins in his hour of need.

It was a request you’d heard before and, at least on the surface, was not out of the realm of possibility.

In the beginning, when you first made the transition from high school to college - when you left Hawkins and the little group of friends you loved so dearly for the very first time - trips home were frequent. At least once a month, you made the trek back to Hawkins, just to sit and spend a weekend with Eddie.

The trips home weren’t exactly productive -  you attempted to help him study for classes he’d taken a handful of times, attempted to steer him toward better habits, but each study session dissolved into a smoke session nearly instantly. Still, they were necessary. 

Those trips kept you sane in the first few months, made you feel as if your world hadn’t been entirely upended, and you reveled in the connection you were able to keep with the guy who’d been your best friend since freshman year. Eddie was a constant in your life, the one thing that remained steadfast when your whole world seemed to shift, and you appreciated his unwavering presence more than you let on.

However, somewhere along the line, between classes and your job at the record store, new friends and new hobbies - including a new Dungeons and Dragons group that paled in comparison to Hellfire, a fact you assured Eddie of often - there seemed to less and less time to make the trip back to Hawkins.

As the trips started to grow fewer and farther between, Eddie began to pick up some of the slack. He made the trip to Indianapolis once - crashed in your too small twin bed and got kicked out by an RA - but, more often than not, made up for the distance by calling nearly every night. The conversations varied - ranging from rants about school, updates on Hellfire and your newfound social life, gossip about who he’d sold to, and existential conversations that made little sense to anyone else - but lately, there always seemed to be a request for you to return home tacked at the end of each one.

And for the first time in months, you decided to grant it.

The drive itself was uneventful, as always - the same winding backroads and sleepy towns, the same mile markers and curiosities stuck in time - but there was a spark of anxiety that settled in the pit of your stomach, threatening to erupt into a raging brushfire.

For months, you’d told Eddie that you wanted to come home, it was just hard finding the time - a statement that was true enough. You truly wanted to come back, if only to see him, but that wasn’t exactly enough anymore. He knew that there were plenty of reasons you’d kept your distance from Hawkins; despite the attitude he so openly displayed, Eddie understood why the whispers and glares got under your skin. 

What Eddie didn’t know was that the feelings distance - and subsequent trips home - dredged up brought about a realization that nearly sent you spiraling the last time you made the trip home.

As loathe as you were to admit it, somewhere along the line, you’d fallen in love with your best friend.

That realization - knowing that you’d become a walking cliche, falling in love with your best friend - hit you harder than you imagined it would. Though it made sense, it was difficult to come to terms with as Eddie had been the one constant in your life for years. He was your rock, the person who kept you going, and the fear that everything would change, regardless of whether he found out, weighed heavier on your chest the closer you drew to Hawkins.

A million questions plagued you as you navigated the backroads on autopilot; would the distance help temper your feelings or would you continue to fall, regardless of how far apart you remained? Would going out with someone else help or would it only end in comparing your date to Eddie? Would you be able to maintain your composure in his presence now, or would you fall apart?

Most importantly, would you be able to get over him and keep him in your life without growing to resent him? As desperately as you hoped for a happy ending, you knew that there wouldn’t be one.

For all of the similarities that you shared - all the bands you both loved, all the movies you agreed were the best, all the political and social beliefs you shared - and all of the nights you spent together, you were not Eddie Munson’s type.

For as long as you’d known him, Eddie had a thing for girls he swore he’d never have a snowball’s chance in hell with. He gravitated toward pretty girls in pastel colors with soft smiles and hearts of gold and, for the most part, you swore that it had never really bothered you. There was a moment in time when you’d suffered through crushing on Steve Harrington, a boy who’d never give you the time of day; how Eddie chose to break his own heart was up to him, you were simply there to watch.

Now, upon making the startling realization that you were in love with him, you realized that it had bothered you for years. The pang of annoyance that simmered in the pit of your stomach when he stared a little too long at Chrissy Cunningham and the way the smiles he shot at the girls who wandered around Starcourt soured your mood suddenly made far too much sense and you didn’t know if you could face him.

Unfortunately, turning around and returning to Indianapolis seemed to be out of the question as you turned onto the gravel road leading into the Hawkins High parking lot. You knew that you would have to face him sooner rather than later - he’d already threatened to drive to Indianapolis and bring you back, kicking and screaming; a threat you weren’t entirely convinced was empty - so you pulled into the parking spot right beside his van and took a moment to compose yourself.

With a few deep breaths - and one final listen to Lita Ford’s You Gotta Let Go - you cut the engine and crossed the parking lot to your fate.

As expected, the halls Hawkins High were fairly empty and largely unchanged. The vast majority of town lingered in the gym, crowded the sidewalk just outside, and you ruminated on how strange it felt to be back after swearing you’d never step foot inside again. The halls made you uneasy, always looking over your shoulder for someone out to make your life miserable, and you knew that you wouldn’t even consider this for anyone other than Eddie.

Anxiety - both from being back at Hawkins High and from seeing Eddie for the first time after your realization - sank to the pit of your stomach like a stone. It weighed you down, had you stepping across the tile almost hesitantly, and you struggled to force yourself into resignation.

This would be no different than any previous trip home; Eddie would never be able to tell how you felt if you kept your composure, there would be no change in your relationship, and you would survive spring break with only a little difficulty.

It was possible. You just had to keep telling yourself that you could pretend, just for a week.

The closer you drew to the theater room - the one place on school grounds you’d all been granted refuge - the louder the voices became and the easier it seemed to compartmentalize your feelings. The room was a cacophony of noise, a clusterfuck of shouting that you made no effort to decipher, and you were grateful for its distraction. And for a brief moment, it reminded you of the few good memories you held of high school.

This, the shouting and the laughter and the unabashed enjoyment of something so many others saw so negatively, was what encouraged you to keep going. Having the connection to Hellfire, to Eddie, made high school a little more bearable and if one night struggling to conceal your feelings was all it took to give a few freshmen the same place to belong you’d had,  you decided it was worth it.

After taking a few deep breaths, desperate to calm your racing heart, you rounded the corner and approached the door. From the hallway, you could tell that the heavy door was cracked enough to allow newcomers to enter easily, and felt a real smile tug at the corner of your mouth as you approached.

Just inside the room, Eddie sat on his throne - expression as impassive as he could muster, with the ghost of a frown curling his lips - while two of the freshmen explained their difficulty in finding a substitute for their friend.  There was a glimmer of annoyance simmering just beneath the surface - a flash of betrayal that someone he’d allowed in would choose basketball over Hellfire - but you could see the hint of nervous tension in his shoulders.

When you spoke to him, you promised that you would try to make it in time, not that you would. Realistically, you knew that you would’ve broken every traffic law necessary to make it back in time to save the day, but keeping your promise vague gave you a little room to breathe.

To keep from staring, from cataloguing the little changes he’d made in your absence, and allowing yourself to overthink the situation, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. When you opened them, you met Eddie’s eyes instantly.

The look of relief that flashed across Eddie’s face upon making eye contact lingered so briefly you almost wondered if you imagined it. Still, it managed to make your heart skip a beat as he straightened on his throne.

Though you were desperate to look away - you could feel your cheeks burn and palms begin to sweat - Eddie maintained eye contact as the freshmen continued to speak. His eyes glittered in the dim orange glow of the room and you could see the ghost of a smile he struggled to conceal. As discreetly as he could, he held up a hand to keep you from entering the room before promptly dropping it to the table with a heavy thud.

Eddie’s dramatics often overwhelmed you - he kept you out of them, shielded you from view any time he got too loud and riled up the wrong people - but this time, they set you at ease. It felt normal, something you’d grown to expect from him. It distracted you from your feelings, reminded you of what you were back in Hawkins for, and you smiled as you leaned against the doorframe to watch as all eyes snapped to him.

“Fear not, freshmen,” Eddie interrupted, voice carrying through the room and instantly quieting their nervous chatter. As they shared wide-eyed glances, you stifled a giggle at the lilt to Eddie’s voice - a tone that only appeared as he reveled in being the center of attention - and waited as he stood. “Though you made a valiant effort, I’m sure, I have found a replacement far better than any you could’ve scrounged up in the halls of Hawkins High. M’lady!”

With a flourish, Eddie gestured to the door and, on his cue, you threw it open with a satisfying thud. As the sound echoed through the room, every head snapped in your direction. You allowed them a moment to stare before raising a brow at the group. “Miss me?”

As much as you wanted to glance at Eddie, to really look at him after so long apart, you scanned the other faces occupying the room first. The freshmen looked awed - though you knew Nancy Wheeler and Steve Harrington, you weren’t exactly friends so there was little chance the kids had seen you before - while the other members of the club quickly cycled from confusion to recognition to excitement.

The Hellfire Club shirt you’d stashed at the back of your closet looked a little different than theirs - yours was faded from so many washes, stained at the bottom from eyeliner, and had a little rip beneath the left arm - but that mattered so little when the energy in the room was so palpable. Everyone seemed thrilled to have you, eager to welcome you into the fray, and you could see Eddie’s bright grin out of the corner of your eye as he waited for you to close the door behind you.

“Gentlemen,” he began, speaking to the freshmen, “meet Ama. She’s a level fifteen, chaotic good Aasimar. Cooler than any of you dweebs ever thought about being. And she’s here to help you try to survive Vecna.”

As they so often tended to, Eddie’s eyes remained on you throughout his introduction. His grin grew brighter the deeper into the room you stepped and you struggled to keep your breathing even as you spared the freshmen a glance. With a roll of your eyes, betrayed by your laughter, you offered them your real name. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” At your admission, the freshmen glanced at Eddie - hopeful, surprised that he’d spoken about them - only to scowl when you instructed, “Prove Eddie wrong.”

Compartmentalizing your feelings seemed almost too easy - falling into the role of your character, one you’d played throughout high school, helped - but the freshmen were helpful in distracting you. Almost immediately, they tugged you off to the side of the room with wide eyes and eager smiles to fill you in - something they quickly realized was unnecessary as Eddie had already taken care of that - before commencing strategizing.

There was little chance it would be anything less than thrilling - one of the things about Eddie that drew you in was his ability to tell stories and craft wonderful worlds - and any trepidation you had about sharing a space with him was quickly shoved to the back of your mind as the club members rallied around you. 

For nearly two hours, you managed to forget about every pang of anxiety you’d felt when speaking with Eddie - including the near meltdown you’d had on the drive home - and enjoyed the game.

Throughout the session, you did your best to avoid glancing at Eddie. As he spoke, you took great care to scribble down notes and alter your course of action - anything that would help you remain focused on the task, rather than his voice - but the buffer of other people and a task disappeared as the campaign ended with a win.

Mike and Dustin dispersed first - the Wheeler boy had a curfew and a flight to catch, Henderson was catching a ride with Steve Harrington and was amped to share the news of his victory - and were quickly followed by the remaining members of Hellfire.

It was only then that the room began to feel stifling.

The room felt too small, too quiet, all of a sudden and the high of winning faded almost instantly as Eddie spared you a glance out of the corner of his eye. For as much shit as you gave him over the years, he was a phenomenal friend and could read you better than anyone. There was little question that he’d noticed the tension in your shoulders, the distance you kept, the way you avoided his eyes.

Knowing Eddie, it was only a matter of time before he asked what was bothering you.

Eddie was always the one to break the silence, to babble about nothing at all in an effort to avoid the quiet, but you knew that his first thought would be to question your wellbeing. That was the last thing you wanted - especially as he could see through your lies easily - so you spoke before he could. “So,” you began, voice carrying in the silence, “you were really banking on me showing, huh?”

As he dropped his dice back into the pouch, he glanced at you over his shoulder with a laugh. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he declared with a grin that had your heart hammering in your ribcage. “I knew you’d be here, even if it was just to see if I was lying about the freshmen being insufferable.”

The faith that he had in you - in the belief that you would show when he needed you, regardless of how little you’d been home recently - weighed heavily on your chest. There was something so light about his belief, something so pure, that it ignited a flame of guilt within you. A surge of disappoint - upset that you had to fall in love with him, that you couldn’t leave well enough alone and be content with just his unwavering friendship - turned your stomach and nearly pulled a sigh from deep within. However, when Eddie turned to face you fully, you swallowed your upset and covered it with a thoughtful frown.

“Henderson’s kind of a know-it-all.” The taunt was playful, a repetition of something he’d said to you months ago, but you knew that it would throw him off as you headed for the exit. “Maybe it’s just his tone.”

Eddie made a noise of agreement and nodded eagerly as he patted his pockets in search of his cigarettes. “It’s totally his tone,” he agreed easily. “Little shit.” A beat of silence passed as he continued his search before he made a triumphant noise upon finding them. “I’m proud of them for that campaign, though. I didn’t think they’d be able to rally but they pulled through.” As you approached the exit, he plucked a cigarette from the pack and spared you a sideways glance. “They couldn’t have done it without you, though. You kicked ass, princess.”

The term of endearment made your cheeks burn, as did his praise. Neither were new - Eddie was your biggest fan, just as you were his - but both hit you a little harder now. They made you feel weightless, on top of the world, and you struggled to keep your composure as the words rang in your ears. You laughed quietly, almost bashful - something you’d never been in his presence - and shook your head as you shoved the exit door open.

“I don’t know,” you began, grinning as you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “They’re… tenacious.” Eddie made a face at your choice of words, pulled an exaggerated frown chosen to make you smile, and you rolled your eyes as he fumbled with his lighter. “They’re determined,” you supplied, giggling when he scoffed - when he mumbled, “You could’ve just said that,” - and rolled his eyes. “I think you were right, though. Hellfire’s in good hands with the kids.”

As you turned to face him, Eddie opened his mouth to reply - the words caught on the tip of his tongue - but before he could crow delightedly at your acknowledgement that he was right, he paused. He stood, hand still lifted to his mouth with a cigarette balanced between two fingers, and followed something in the distance.

Though Eddie got distracted often, you were curious what could interrupt his triumph and turned to follow his line of sight. There was a crowd of people leaving the gym, all wearing the garish colors of your high school and cheering - Hawkins won the championship, evidently - but, to your annoyance, it was Chrissy Cunningham who’d caught his eye.

It wasn’t her fault - she was nice, had actually spoken to you a handful of times when you’d both been stuck in the library at the same time - but in that moment, you felt a sharp pang of dislike curdle the bit of joy you’d felt at his praise. 

A flare of resentment overshadowed your feelings for Eddie - bitterness that, once again, he was choosing someone else, someone so different, over you - and simmered low in your stomach. It was another reminder of what you knew to be true, another reminder that Eddie wasn’t interested, and served as a reality check that quickly smothered the blossoming flash of hope you’d felt upon seeing him grin at you.

All too suddenly, you wanted nothing more than to return home, turn on a record your parents hated, and hide in bed until it was safe enough to return to Indianapolis. So, you masked your huff of annoyance with a yawn and shoved your hand into your bag in search of your keys.

“I’m sticking around Hawkins for a few days.” The lie slipped past your lips easily, meant to reassure Eddie that you were alright without even meaning to, but it still reclaimed his attention. “I’ll see you before I head back.”

Eddie frowned, eyes wide and confused as he followed you across the parking lot to your car. “What?” A flash of hurt crossed his face quickly, darkened the glimmer of excitement that still lingered in his eyes, and you could hear the disappointment in his voice. “You’re not coming over?”

The thought of spending the night with him, the thought of spending the rest of your break with him - either forgetting your feelings entirely, pretending they didn’t exist and returning to the way things used to be, or living a fantasy in which he returned your feelings just as he did in your sweetest of dreams - was beyond tempting.

Regardless of your newly discovered feelings, you’d genuinely missed spending time with Eddie. He understood you in a way that no one else seemed to, made you laugh and made you feel seen. There was so much about your friendship with him that you missed but when the ache in your chest felt so unbearable, you knew that finding yourself alone with him was a bad idea.

“I’m tired, Eds. It was a long drive.” You felt guilty giving him such a flimsy excuse - you’d spent long nights together driving home, eager to catch up on one another’s lives and spend as much time together as possible - but it felt like the only option. You only hoped it sounded convincing enough as you offered him a weak smile and avoided his eyes. “I’m gonna head home and crash, I think.”

As he lit his cigarette, his frown deepened. “Crash at my place.�� It was the most logical solution he could offer, one that you’d taken him up on without question a thousand times before, but sharing a bed with him no longer felt like something you could handle. It was begging for trouble but before you could refuse, Eddie continued. “I’ll drive, bring you back to get your car tomorrow. My uncle’s working nights so it’ll just be us. We can watch The Evil Dead or Nightmare. You always fall asleep during movies, anyway.” He paused to take a drag off his cigarette, used it as a moment to think of a way to entice you into spending time with him, before he brightened. “Oh, we can watch Sleepaway Camp! You left the tape at my place last time.”

You folded your arms over your chest, wary of the cool night air, and shook your head fondly. “First off, I don’t always fall asleep during movies. And second, you hate Sleepaway Camp, Eds. You called it the worst movie you’ve ever seen.” The reminder was accompanied by a quiet laugh, softer than what you knew he expected, but you hoped he would chalk it up to your exhaustion rather than see it as a symptom of something greater.

“Yeah.” He shrugged off his jacket, leather crinkling in the dark, before stepping closer to wrap it around your shoulders. “But you love it. So, I’ll suffer through. Until you fall asleep, anyway.” When you softened - both at the gesture and his admission - Eddie grinned. “C’mon,” he encouraged.

Though it was difficult to breathe, standing so close to Eddie and being wrapped in his jacket, you huffed your most affected sigh and raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?”

Eddie grinned, bright and sunny as he realized he’d won, and shook his head. “Fuck no.” He stepped back, opened the passenger door of his van, and bowed. “M’lady.”

Despite every nerve ending shouting that you were making a terrible decision, you climbed into the van and settled into the seat that, at one point, had been yours. As Eddie rounded the van to climb into the driver’s seat, you hugged his jacket tighter to your body and inhaled deeply. It smelled of leather and smoke - a heady mixture of cigarettes and weed - but it was a scent you’d once associated with home. Only now, it made the ache in your chest nearly unbearable. 

It killed him, you were certain of it, but Eddie remained quiet as he drove through the deserted streets of Hawkins slower than he ever had before. The radio was barely audible and, though he opened his mouth a handful of times, he didn’t speak a word as you sat with your head pressed to the cool glass of the window, watching as the night passed you by.

From the corner of your eye, you could see him tapping at the steering wheel, mindlessly following the beat of the Metallica song you knew he loved. Every few seconds, he spared you a glance - deep brown eyes wide and cautious, but curious. There was little hope he would make it through the night without asking what was wrong, without asking what he could do to fix the problem, and you had to swallow a sigh as you closed your eyes.

The air in the van was thick, tense, but for the first time in years, neither of you really knew what to say to remedy the situation.

It would be easy enough to tell him that you bombed an important exam or that your boss was being a dick. You could tell him that your friends at school were being weird or that there was a guy you liked who didn’t like you back - not a lie, though it might make him press for details. 

But Eddie was not someone you lied to.

No matter how badly you screwed up, no matter how awful you felt about a choice you’d made, you never lied to Eddie about it. He’d seen you at your worst, remained by your side through the worst, but this was different. This would change the entire dynamic of your relationship, you knew that, and you wondered if it would be worth it to lie. Just this once.

As Eddie pulled into the trailer park, you moved on autopilot. His uncle’s home was something of a second home to you, a place you spent nearly as much time as your own home at one point, and it looked exactly as you remembered it. The space was small, lived-in, but comfortable, and, to your surprise, you felt more at ease than you had in weeks as you crossed the threshold.

Despite Eddie’s overwhelming presence - the scent of him embedded in the jacket, the waft of his shampoo as he brushed past you - surrounding you, your heart began to calm to a steadier beat as you shrugged off his jacket.

“Sorry about the mess,” he mumbled, as if he’d suddenly become aware of the state of the trailer. “Maid took the week off.”

It was a weak joke, told to distract you - only uttered because of the tension that surrounded you both - and you scoffed as you kicked off your shoes. “I’ve seen it look worse in here, Eds,” you reminded him, voice soft in the silence as you padded over to the couch. “Don’t worry about it. As long as you’ve got a blanket for me, I’m fine.”

Eddie nodded, smile crooked as he took a moment to revel in the sight of you perched on the couch - back in the spot you’d missed for months - before he set off in search of everything you needed.

Months had passed since you’d last seen Eddie in person. There were polaroids of him - the pair of you together, candids of him you’d taken at band practice and on nights he lounged in your bedroom, a handful of photos of Hellfire as a whole - tacked to the cork board hanging above your desk but seeing him in the flesh was different.

The butterflies you felt when you caught sight of a photo of him paled in comparison to the butterflies swarming as you watched him shuffle about the living room in search of a blanket and the VHS. Though you’d always found him attractive, seeing him now - really looking at him for the first time since realizing your feelings - you were taken aback by just how beautiful he was.

His hair had gotten a little longer, a little messier - he tended to cut it himself, often on a whim, locked away in the bathroom with only a vague sense of what he was doing - but, despite his less than perfect haircare routine, you distinctly remembered how soft it felt between your fingers on the few occasions he’d fallen sleep with his head on your lap.

The line of his jaw was sharper than it had been, a little more defined, and the smooth expanse of his throat drew your eyes as he made a quiet noise of triumph upon finding the tape. His smile looked a little easier and his eyes gleamed a little brighter as he scurried around the living room - though you weren’t sure if that happened while you were gone or because you were back.

As he bent to pop the tape into the VCR, you caught sight of a new splotch of ink just above his hipbone. Before you could stop yourself,  you asked, “When’d you get that tattoo?”

Eddie grinned, bright and teasing, as he crossed the living room and lifted the hem of his Hellfire shirt to give you a better look. It was not the best tattoo you’d ever seen - though, if you were honest, none of Eddie’s tattoos were of the best quality - but that didn’t really matter as your eyes traced the line of his hip, roved the dark trail leading beneath the band of his boxers, instead.

“A few months ago,” he answered, voice bright - unaffected, as if you hadn’t just been ogling him, imagining what he might sound like if you were to press your lips to that exact spot. “Rick’s got a friend, did it for practically nothing.”

Unable to help yourself, you snorted at his answer and shook your head to clear the image of him lying beneath you. “For a shitty stick and poke, it looks pretty good.”  Eddie was used to your teasing, heard the same taunt each time he showed you new ink, and rolled his eyes as he fell onto the couch beside you. When he pouted - an exaggerated expression, accompanied by a glance at you from beneath his lashes - you shook your head. “‘M serious, Eds. I like it.”

He brightened, grin replacing the pout, and nodded. He paused for a moment, eyes searching your face, before he laughed. “I’m not the only one making changes. That’s new.” Your breath caught in your throat as he reached out to gingerly cup your chin and tilt your head to get a better look at the septum piercing you’d hidden for most of the night. “I like it.”

It was difficult to focus with Eddie so close, with his bright eyes trained on you, and you felt both immense relief and deep sorrow when he released you. You hoped that he couldn’t hear the tremor in your breath as you inhaled deeply. “I didn’t think you’d notice.” The admission was quiet, a near whisper, as you shifted to lift your legs beneath you and glance away from him, but he heard you clearly.

Eddie scoffed, as if he couldn’t believe you truly thought that. “Of course I did.” His refutation was a huff, not quite offended but verging on it, as he pressed play and spared you a glance. “I notice everything about you, princess,” he admitted as he reached out to grab your ankle and stretch your legs across his lap.

As difficult as it was to admit it, he was right. Eddie was always the first to notice any changes you made. He’d noticed something was wrong the moment you stepped foot into the theater room for Hellfire, had noticed you pulling away over the course of a few months, noticed that you weren’t the best friend he remembered. And, for a brief moment, you felt a pang of guilt lodge itself into your chest.

He always jumped to the worst conclusions first - he would likely think your mood was the result of something he’d done, that you were tired of him or eager to get away from him - and you nearly broke down and spilled your secrets right then and there. However, before you could, Eddie reached out to tug at a lock of your hair.

“I like the haircut, by the way. One of your friends do it?” When you nodded, he shook his head fondly. With an exaggerated sigh, he reached for the blanket and spread it across your laps. “Y’know, your parents thought I was a bad influence.” They’d hated him at first, swore he was the reason you started listening to metal and wearing black, but eventually grew fond of him, the more time he spent at your house. “Your new friends, though? They’re the real bad influences. Coming home with piercings and shit. Can’t wait to hear what your parents have to say about it.”

“You might never hear from me again if they manage to find out,” you warned, scoffing as you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

Eddie grinned at the laughter he managed to pull from you, triumphant in a way that made you want to laugh - though, you knew he only felt so accomplished because you’d spent hours distancing yourself - and sighed contentedly as he settled back against the cushions. The moment felt normal, like something that you could handle, and you would’ve been fine, pretending that things were normal - if only a little uncomfortable with the proximity - had he not moved.

As the movie began to play, Eddie placed a warm hand on your calf. His calloused fingers traced your skin lightly, absentmindedly drawing nonsensical patterns, as he turned his full focus to the television. You knew that he meant nothing by it - he’d done it a thousand times before, casually pressed himself closer - it overwhelmed you. The weight of his touch, the heat of his hand, the cold sting of his rings, the care he took to move slowly in case you started to doze off; it all melded into a sensation that had your heart hammering against your ribcage and your lungs burning as you struggled to catch your breath.

In the past, it would’ve taken only moments for you to melt into the couch. Eddie’s soft touch, the weight of the old blanket stretched across your laps, the quiet hum of the television; it would’ve all lulled you into a peaceful sleep almost instantly. The conditions were ideal - something about Eddie’s place always helped you rest a little easier and, recently, you began to wonder if it was Eddie himself - but the turmoil raging in your brain kept you from settling, despite the exhaustion weighing heavily over you.

Instead, you sat, half-tucked into the corner, as still as possible - body stiff, unyielding to Eddie’s gentle touch - and stared at the television without truly seeing. Though the movie was one of your favorites, little about it managed to catch your eye as you focused on keeping your breathing even and your limbs from trembling beneath Eddie’s touch.

Beside you, Eddie did his best to remain still.

Most nights, he fidgeted throughout the movie - tapped his foot or twirled his rings or shifted until you finally shoved him down and wrapped your arms around him - but the only sign of life you noticed was his careful fingers, brushing your overheated skin.

Try as you might, the movie did little to hold your attention. There were moments you loved, moments that typically drew raucous laughter, that went unnoticed and you only laughed quietly - a reflex more than real amusement - at your favorite line when Eddie glanced at you.

At the noise, Eddie sighed and turned to face you. He gently squeezed your calf, hand searing against your skin, and shook his head fondly. “I can’t believe you actually like this movie, princess,” he teased, soft smile evident even in the dark of the living room. The light from the television bounced off his skin, cast soft shadows across his face, and made you ache to reach out and trace the slope of his noise. “I thought you had good taste.”

Any other time, you would’ve tossed a pillow at him and ardently fought back. This time, you simply rolled your eyes and shrugged. “You’ve been wrong before, Eds.” The tease was half-hearted, lobbed at him on instinct, and Eddie frowned as he reached for the remote.

“Alright,” he sighed, voice quiet as he squeezed your calf once more. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Before the question fully settled, you shook your head. “Nothing’s bothering me,” you attempted to assure him, though your voice shook as you pulled your legs away and tucked them to your chest. You offered him the most convincing smile you could muster - one that felt fake, one you knew he would see through. “I’m fine.”

Eddie scoffed. “C’mon, princess. I’ve known you for ages,” he reminded you as he leaned over to turn on the lamp. “Something’s up and I can tell. I just want to help.” He paused, took a moment to search your face, and frowned as he shifted in his seat. “Is it… Did I do something?”

Instantly, you shook your head. This was the reaction you’d been afraid of - worried that Eddie would read your discomfort as a result of something he’d done, rather than something you felt - and you tried your best to convince him otherwise. “No,” your assertion was strong, heavy, but Eddie looked less than convinced. “It’s not… it’s nothing you’ve done. I promise. It’s just been a weird brain day.”

He frowned at this and turned to face you. Soft brown eyes searched your face in search of an answer to his question. “Well, talk me through it,” he urged, shrugging as if that was the most logical suggestion. “We’ll make sense of whatever’s happening. I can… I don’t know, tell you your brain’s wrong?”

Though you wanted to smile at his offer, you knew that there would be no comfort in the conversation so you shook your head. “I can’t. It’s just… It’s not like that, okay? I just have to deal with it alone. It’s not a big deal, I promise. I’ll be fine.”

“I can help,” Eddie reminded you, almost desperately. “I promise, I’ll do whatever you need me to do. I get bad brain days, you know I do. Just talk to me.” He paused for a moment, allowed his words to linger in the air, before he tilted his head to study you intently. “Is it work? School? Homesickness? Is someone being a dick to you? D’you fail that chemistry exam?”

“Eddie. Drop it. Please.”  Your voice shook as you begged him to drop the subject but you knew Eddie. There was little he wouldn’t do to help you - he’d been your voice of reason a thousand times before, had been your sounding board, helped. You on the worst mental health days - but his constant questioning was beginning to drive you insane.

Tears stung at the backs of your eyes, threatened to spill over your lashes, and Eddie frowned as he shifted closer. “I just want to help, princess,” he breathed, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Please, let me help. I can grab my stash, if you want. If that’ll make you feel better.”

“Eddie, stop! You can’t help me because you’re the problem.”

The declaration escaped in a desperate screech, louder than you intended and far sharper. Eddie recoiled at your words, eyes wide and lips parted in a sort of hurt that made your heart ache, and you felt the tears begin to spill over your lashes as you shook your head. “Fuck, Eds, I’m sorry. I didn’t-“

“I… I thought you said I didn’t do anything.” He swallowed thickly, uncertain, and shook his head as he lifted his eyes to yours once more. “What is it? Whatever I did, I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you on purpose, right?”

You nodded immediately, though you kept your distance as Eddie reached out for you. “It’s not… you didn’t do anything,” you repeated, voice going quiet as you steeled yourself. There was only one way out of the conversation and, though you knew it was a declaration you couldn’t come back from, you felt it was better to hurt yourself than continue to hurt him. “I just… fuck! I’m in love with you, alright?” 

The moment the words spilled into the silence of the living room, you pushed yourself up off the couch and began to pace. “I’m in love with you,” you repeated, voice quiet. “I never really thought about it, you know? We were just… us. But the last time I came home, I really looked at you for the first time and it just kind of hit me. I know that I’m not you’re type and that this fucks everything up. It’s… it’s stupid, I know, so just… I don’t know. Take me to go get my car or let me sleep out here and I’ll walk back in the morning. Or something, I guess. Whatever.”

Eddie sat, stunned silent, on the couch. You could feel his eyes tracking your every step but before you could make a beeline for the door, he whispered, “You’re in love with me?”

You gave a weak laugh as you nodded. “Yeah,” you mumbled, voice thick with tears as you wrapped your arms around yourself and continued pacing the length of the living room. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Eddie.”

“What?” The confusion in his tone nearly stopped you in your tracks. He sounded genuine, as if he couldn’t fathom why you would be apologizing to him, as he asked, “Why are you sorry?”

To you, the answer was obvious. “Because, we had such a good thing going, just being friends. It was perfect. Me falling in love with you fucks that up. I know that you’re not into me, that I’m not your type, and I really want to be friends with you but it’s so fucking hard looking at you when all I can think about is how head over heels I am.”

“Who said you weren’t my type?” Eddie raised an eyebrow as he stood from the couch and moved to stand in your immediate path. He reached out, placed his hands on your biceps, and waited for you to glance up at him. “And who said that I’m not into you?”

It was too difficult to look him in the eye, especially when your heart felt as if it might leap out of your throat, so you shook your head and turned your eyes to your feet. “I know what you’re into, Eds, and it’s not me. It’s girls like Chrissy. And that’s fine. You like what you like. You don’t have to… you don’t have to pretend, okay? Just,” you took a deep breath, eager to calm yourself, and shook your head. “I’m sorry.”

Eddie’s hand lifted to your chin. He gingerly tilted your head with two fingers and met your eyes with glassy ones of his own. “Sweetheart,” he cooed, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “I’ve been in love with you since junior year.”

It was your turn to blink owlishly at him. Eddie laughed quietly as you shook your head. “What? No. I… what?”

He smiled, a goofy grin, and nodded. “You came back from summer break with no braces and that ‘take-no-shit’ attitude and I would’ve done anything you asked me to do. Fuck, I worshiped the ground you walked on,” he admitted, not ashamed in the least as he met your eyes. “But you went goofy over that asshole and I assumed I wasn’t your type. I figured you might want someone who has a chance of getting out of here someday. Looks like we were both wrong, huh?”

“Eddie…” Every thought you’d been spiraling over, every possible scenario you’d prepared yourself for, vanished as you searched his face for any hint of deception. There was a light in his eyes, a brightness that had been missing, and a lopsided grin that reassured you - this was no joke. “How’d you survive? I just realized and I’ve been going insane.”

His easy laughter filled your ears, eased the knot in your stomach, and calmed you as he brushed his thumb across your cheekbone. “Oh, I’ve been insane,” he declared, grinning as he took a tentative step closer. “That’s part of my charm.” He winked, exaggerated and over the top, and grinned when it pulled a soft giggle from you.

“Definitely part of the reason I fell in love with you.” Allowing the words to spill so easily, to pull them into a conversation, eased the weight that had nearly crushed you. It made your heart soar and breathing just a little easier when Eddie’s smile brightened. "The hair totally helped, though.”

“Oh, yeah,” he agreed, nodding sagely. “I get it. I totally would’t date me without the hair.”

“You’re ridiculous, Munson,” you teased, grinning when he hid behind a lock of his hair. “Completely and utterly, you know that, right?”

He shrugged, completely unaffected, and wagged his eyebrows. “And I’m totally in love with you. You know that, right?”

“I’m starting to get it. Might need you to repeat it a few more times,” you suggested as you struggled to conceal your grin. “Just to really drive the point home, you know?”

Eddie nodded, looked as if it was the most reasonable request you’d ever made, and tilted his head. “What’s the tallest building in Hawkins?”

A surprised laugh escaped as you searched his face for any clue as to why he was asking. “I have no clue. Does it matter?”

“Kinda,” he argued as he struggled to keep from laughing. “If I want to shout it from the rooftops, I gotta figure out the best place to start. Thought about the cafeteria but someone actually graduated so… Rooftop it is.”

“Wow. You really are insane. Geez,” you laughed as you met his eyes, “too late to take that confession back?”

“Totally,” Eddie asserted, grinning when he used the hand on your cheek to tip your head. “I love you, you love me. No take-backs in love, princess. You’re stuck with me now.”

The smile you’d been struggling to conceal was near blinding, stretched and burned as you beamed at him, but you decided that you could live with it when Eddie’s answering grin made your heart skip a beat. “I think I can live with that.”

For the first time, Eddie had nothing to say. Instead, he leaned in to press his lips to yours in a searing kiss - another cliche, one that saw fireworks popping behind your eyes and butterflies fluttering in the pit of your stomach. Though this was not where you imagined your night going, who were you to question the way the universe worked?

Falling in love with Eddie was not something you imagined but, now, you couldn’t imagine a life without him.

____________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: Challenging myself to write less than 5k for the next fic I write (spoiler; I will probably fail). Anyway. I’m all packed for my trip and am gonna download some Stranger Things episodes to watch on the flight so. Whee.

Taglist: @x-avantgarde-x, @thisisparadisemylove, @eddiesprincess, @slvdsjjk, @munsonlover, @tasmbestspdrman, @urofficial-cyberslut, @jxngwhore, @hopelesslylosttheway, @meaganjm, @lazuli-leenabride, @deiondraaa, @piscesmesss, @glowyskiess, @kiszkathecook, @missryerye, @solarrexplosion, @ofherscarlettwitchways, @lovedandleft-haunted, @trappedinlimbo15, @sweetiekitten​, @bookfrog242​, @gwendolynmary​, @sage-bun​, @zealouslibrariesparadiselight​, @castiels-lilass​, @tojis-little-brat​, @emmah787​, @theworldsendxx​, @asuperconfusedgirl​, @flores-and-sunshine​, @passi0np1t​, @laurathefahrradsattel​, @hellf1reclub​, @slut4yourmom​, @niko-04​, @hannirose-loves-you​, @mrs-eddie-munson​, @screambabe​, @vllowe​, @ryswritingrecord​, @cheriebondy​

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #v's fics

[dameronology]

buckingham fucking palace (e.m)

a.k.a the one where steve harrington gets sick of you and eddie fighting so he locks you in a room til you make up

warnings: language

hope u enjoy. this has not been proof read lol

-jazz

Steve Harrington was a meddler.

He couldn’t deny it - even though he vehemently tried to do so, with red-tinged cheeks and his brow furrowed deep. It was just natural for him to want to be involved with everyone else’s business. It came from a good place, and almost always a caring one, but minding his business was simply not an option. It was a fact that had been proven multiple times; his forever ongoing involvement in every single one of Robin’s relationships was a testament to that. He had no success stories on that front so far but he bragged to anyone who would listen about how he was single-handedly responsible for the love affair between you and a one Edward Munson. 

Ah yes, Eddie Munson. The love of your life; the apple of your eye; the biggest pain in your ass. He was your heart and your soul and everything in between and you were certain you would have ended up with him, with or without Harrington's help. Maybe he had been the catalyst, that one fateful day in senior year science class, but gone were the days of young, stupid love. You were committed now, existing solely with Eddie in the little bubble you'd built for yourself. It consisted mostly of smoking weed and watching films in the trailer - Wayne worked upstate now, so it was essentially yours - but it was the escape you needed from the dull life that Hawkins brought. You were both muddling through community college, trying to make a life for yourselves: any life. Your dreams were a little bit more ambitious than Eddie's, though you were determined to drag him by the ear, probably kicking and screaming, to bigger and better things.

That had been the cause of your latest fight. You didn't often argue - not over serious things, anyway - but what had started over a bicker on the subject of Halloween costumes had turned into a heated debate about the future. It wasn't like you had proposed any ideas of illusions of grandeur; just mentioned something about moving out of the trailer someday. Maybe going to a state college instead of community college.

It had ended in you leaving - not without flipping Eddie off and throwing a chain of swear words his way - and neither of you deciding on a Halloween costume.

The day of the party rolled round and things still weren't sorted. That wasn't a surprise to anyone: you were both stubborn, fiery individuals. Most of the time it was a bonding point but god only knew it could be your weakness as well. The five days of silence had been suffocating but you certainly weren't going to crack first - just as long as Robin was okay with you crashing on her sofa.

It felt weird not being home. It felt even weirder not waking up beside Eddie - your lives and routines were so deeply intertwined that it felt like half of you was missing. Even brushing your teeth in the morning without him beside you was an odd feeling. Still, that didn't stop you from standing on either side of Steve's living room, giving each other the most loving evils ever as The Monster Mash played in the background.

"When are you two going to make up?" Robin asks. She was dressed, perhaps unironically, as Robin Hood.

"When he apologies," you muttered. "I haven't done anything wrong. I just asked like...one mildly vague question about the future. Not my fucking fault that he had to freak out and run off. We've been together since we were fucking freshman, Robin. Fuck this. Fuck that. Fuck him-"

"- okay, you are being loud. And sweary," she cut you off, pulling the solo cup from your hand. "You guys are the best couple I know."

"Exactly!" you exclaimed. "We're great together and we're both really hot."

"And stubborn," Robin muttered. "So I assume that you're not going to apologise to him?"

"Not in a million years."

"Right, brilliant," she couldn't help but roll her eyes. "C'mon, let's get another drink."

Linking her arms with yours, Robin led you over to the drinks table. Your other half - who you considered right now to be your worst half - was no where to be seen. The inflatable guitar that was part of his Ozzy Osbourne costume was abandoned in the corner, which meant he can't have been that far.

"Aw, damn," Robin muttered. "We're out of lemonade."

"That sucks. Just have coke instead-"

"- no, I really specifically wanted lemonade," she over-dramatically sighed. "Do you mind grabbing some from the basement? Please?"

"Are you really that lazy?"

"Yeah."

"Eugh, fine."

Rolling your eyes, you turned on your heel and made your way through the drunk crowds and towards the basement. You weren't even entirely convinced that Steve knew half the people here - after all, like eighty percent of his friends were still in high school. That was the price that came with being Hawkins designated babysitter.

You opened the door to the basement and hopped down the steps, turning the corner towards the fridge at the back. As you did, you crashed straight into someone, letting out an oof!

"Eddie, what the fuck are you doing down here?"

"Steve sent me down for lemonade," he replied. "Why are you-"

You both froze when the click of the lock came from the door. As in the lock on the outside, that neither of you could get to. Your initial reaction was to panic, but it wasn't until you heard the dulcet tones of Harrington that you realised what was going on.

"You can come out when you two make up!" he called. "There is a whole fridge of food and a toilet down there so no excuses, guys!"

"You are a MEDDLER, Steve Harrington!" you called. "I will make you pay for this!"

"Bit rich considering I have the key, don't you think?"

You spun around to face Eddie, who held up his hands in defence. It was clear that he was a little tipsy - definitely not drunk, but definitely not sober - from the way his eyes were glazed over. Also from the way that he didn't start on you as soon as you were alone in the same room. Alcohol normally mellowed him a little.

Your heart hurt a little to see him. You should have been in matching costumes - Jareth and Sarah from Labyrinth, if you were wondering - but instead, he was Ozzy and you were in a half-arsed Stevie Nicks costume. He'd noted as soon as he'd seen you earlier that you looked hot as hell, but his anger had quickly subsided any horniness.

"Ozzy Osbourne and Stevie Nicks, huh?" Eddie was the first to break the silence. "That would be the scandal of the century."

"Yeah, biggest thing since the time you were an ass and-"

"- here we go," he muttered. "Why am I always the ass? Why can't you be the ass? Why can't we both be asses?!"

"Because you were an ass, Eddie!" you shot back. "I can't even talk to you about the near future without you freaking the fuck out. Do you even want to be with me?"

"Are you stupid?" he asked. It was a serious question, but one that came from a place of love. "Of course I want to be with you! I just worry that you don't want to be with me."

You frowned. "I'm confused."

"You have all these...ideas," Eddie began. "About college, and moving away, and getting out of Hawkins. I want that more than anything, even if I'm just tagging along for the ride, but I just..."

"You just what, Eds?"

"I worry that I'm not enough for you," he quietly admitted. "We're perfect where we are - in a trailer park, in Hawkins, just as we are. What if that changes and you realise that your love for me is just...y'know. In a trailer park, in Hawkins, as we are."

"Eddie, I'm gonna love you whether we live in a cardboard box or Buckingham fucking Palace, okay?" you couldn't help but let out a soft laugh. "I just want to be with you. I don't care where it is."

He took a step forward, taking your face in his hands and softly pressing a kiss to your lips. As always, he tasted a little of cigarettes and ever so slightly of the cheap spiced rum that Steve had supplied. Whatever tension had been between you was melting away now by the second.

"I love you," Eddie said. "So let's just stop being scared and start being together, yeah?"

You smiled. "Yeah."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson reader insert #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fic #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson headcanons #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagines #stranger things fluff #stranger things reader insert #stranger things imagine #stranger things #eddie munson

[keeksandgigz]

how you get the girl- day 3 of keeks's lover house series

Day 3 of my Lover House series♡

♡Best Friend! Steve Harrington x Fem! Reader♡

modern setting, playful banter, this is tooth rotting and disgusting, a smidge of angst, all my readers are gonna be queer sorry pookies <3- i'm actually not totally sure about this one, but I hope you enjoy regardless <3

Read Day 1 here! Day 2 here!

"broke your heart and put it back together/ i would wait for ever and ever"

"Listen, it's not my fault you're going through a dry spell right now" you bolt through the door of your apartment, the boy following you with an armful of grocery bags.

"It's not a dry spell. It's not a sex thing. I just can't get anyone to like me anymore, let alone guys" you huff, setting down the groceries. It's been a continuous thing, you coming to him to complain about how slim the dating scene has been looking for you.

"Well, if you weren't an asshole maybe girls would like you more" he grins at you, at that, you proceed to punch him in the arm.

"I promise you, I'm not being an asshole. I did everything you told me" you whine, plopping yourself on the couch with a bag of spicy chips.

You'd been begging Steve to give you pointers on how to strike some luck in the dating scene. Except the pointers were all wrong.

When you asked Steve to help you to at least be able to get a date, he rose to the occasion. Or at least you thought he did.

With the amount of experience that he has, you didn't think twice about asking him. However, Steve had other plans.

He didn't seem to like the idea of you going out with other guys. Or girls. Or literally anyone who wasn't him. One small detail got in the way of him asking you out. You've been his best friend since you started college.

You were in the same orientation group freshman year and he saw you sitting all by yourself at one of the food hall tables. He was the only out of state student in your group- a match made in heaven.

Too much of a pussy to ask you out, there you are. Your senior year in college sharing an apartment off campus that his dad is very kindly paying for.

And while Steve blossomed and bloomed in the popular crowd, branching out and joining fraternities- you seemed to be okay with just being Steve's best friend.

It did give you automatic invites to countless frat parties you never went to, just because they weren't your scene, unless it was a gala, then he'd always ask you to be his plus one.

A concept you never understood, with all the girls you'd find sitting on your couch in the morning as they quietly nursed a cup of coffee- looking like Steve had cured them of every ailment- he still asked you to go with him to those things.

Tired (and maybe a little jealous) of the banging of his headboard against your shared wall, you'd started heading to the library to study. The cute guy always studying calc began to catch your eye. And with every time you'd headed to the library, he got closer and closer. Until he asked you if you wanted to grab a coffee in the morning.

In a panicked frenzy you kicked the pretty blonde in Steve's bed out and told him to get decent. It was an emergency. In no time you were plopped on the couch, phone in hand taking notes of whatever Steve was saying.

"You can't be nice to him on the first date. You have to, y'know, bully him a little bit. Show him a little banter" he runs a hand through his hair, and for a second you falter. Did you actually wanna go on that date with cute calc guy?

"I know guys like him. If you're nice to him they're gonna start thinking you're gonna give it to him, like, immediately" he scoffs. Steve knew he was pulling out these tips out of his ass, but cute calc guy needed to go.

So you follow Steve's pointers to a T. Cute calc guy never asked you for a second date.

So there you are.

"I promise you, I'm not being an asshole. I did everything you told me" you whine, plopping yourself on the couch with a bag of spicy chips.

"I mean, I was being an asshole, but it was, y'know, banter" you stuff your mouth with chips, and Steve feels like the asshole now. He shouldn't have played with you like that. Especially knowing how much it weighed on you.

So he sits down next to you, he places hand on your knee. He feels like shit.

"I shouldn't have given you those pointers" he mumbles, unable to hold eye contact. He did that when he majorly fucked up.

"And why's that?" you ask him, a concerned look in your eyes, unable to read his face.

"Because I pulled them out of my ass" he sighs, hand brushing the bridge of his nose "I didn't want you to hang out with that guy"

Your heart falls.

"Why the fuck would you not want me going out with him? Are you my fucking dad?" oh you were furious.

He couldn't hold it in anymore.

"Because I'm an asshole who can't admit I've liked you since our freshman year" he blurts out.

All he hears is silence, before you stand up and go to your room, slamming the door.

You spend the next days not being able to fathom why Steve wouldn't tell you. On the other side, however, you seemed to be relieved that Steve at least reciprocated your feelings.

You just couldn't look at him yet. And judging from how much of a pussy Steve had been hiding his feelings for you for four years, there's a long waiting game ahead of you.

It takes Steve a week to come grovel at your door begging for forgiveness. A fancy bouquet of flowers in one hand, a box of your favorite chocolates in the other. He's drenched from head to toe.

You eye him up and down, still a bit skeptical.

"I- uhhh walked in the rain to get you these. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry" he hands you the flowers and the chocolates. You take them with a bit of hesitation.

"I forgive you if you take me on a date" you lean on the doorframe of your room. Steve's eyes bug out of his head. Have you had a thing for him this whole time?

"I've liked you since about the same time you started liking me, Steve. Cute calc guy was just to make you, I dunno, jealous. Or maybe so that I could feel better about myself" you shrug, but Steve doesn't respond. Instead he cups your cheek and kisses you.

A delicate kiss, with a sigh of relief on the side. He couldn't believe that after all this time you idiots liked each other the whole time.

He detaches from you, noses still touching "You're gonna need some help eating those chocolates" he whispers. You laugh against his lips.

Later, when you're on your third or fourth Harry Potter movie, he turns and sees you've fallen asleep. Steve just smiles to himself.

At least he got the girl in the end.

Thanks so much for reading! Feedback is so incredibly appreciated!

day 4 is folklore! fill out the form here!

tagging some gals (gender neutral) <;3: @strangerstilinski, @taintedcigs, @melodymunson, @reidsbtch, @eddies-house, @eddiesxangel, @lavendermunson, @xxhellfirebunnyxx, @eiightysixbaby

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #steve harrington fan fiction #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fan fiction #steve harrington angst #modern!steve harrington

[swissboyhisch]

Support My Girl

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Moyle!Reader

Summary: The final dance concert comes around and you're lucky to have such a supportive family

Word Count: 2304

Warnings: Mentions of nudity

A/N: I love this and ended up getting carried away

THE MASTERLIST JOIN THE TAGLIST HOCKEY DISCORD

Tonight was the student dance showcase for your college. It’s a concert put on by the students for friends, family and faculty. At 7 tonight, the curtains rise in the theatre on campus. You had already had the matinee show earlier this morning and it went smoothly. No wig, makeup or costume malfunctions thankfully.

As the top student in the dance course, you had the most dances during the concert out of all the students. With 2 dances per class you take as per the course requirements, you were already up to 12 dances. Some classes then do whole class dances. Add in the fact, selected students get solos, duos or trios if the professors so choose. 

Before the show, there was a cocktail hour in the lobby. It was mandatory for the dancers to attend. Every year, scouts attend the cocktail hour and night performance in hopes of finding dancers to add to their tally. A few of the previous year’s seniors are now on broadway. You didn’t know what you were hoping for. 

You were lucky, your boyfriend has finished his season and was back in Michigan for the show. But not only was he in the crowd tonight, but so is his family. Jack had also finished his season and came back for the summer. 

“Are you ready?��� You heard his voice echo through your apartment. 

One final look in the mirror to smooth out your dress and you were out of there. It was your favourite formal dress. Instead of messing around with your hair for every dance, you had a few wigs throughout the night. For now, you were wearing a short black hair look. Your stage makeup was a smokey look. The dress you chose was picked with the thought of the makeup in mind. 

You made sure to grab everything before exiting your room. The only thing with you was your makeup case for touch ups throughout the show, your phone, charger and your wallet. All your costumes, shoes and accessories were still at the theatre after the morning show. It was easier that way. 

Quinn looked up from his phone as you walked into the lounge room. He was dressed in a pair of black dress pants and a button down with a tie that matched the colour of your dress. His hair neatly tussled in his beautiful natural way. His eyes wandered down your figure, taking in your appearance. “I like you with short hair.”

“So you want me to start wearing wigs more often?” You laugh. 

“No, I like your hair how it is naturally.”

The pair of you made your way to the car where Quinn would drive you over to campus. As the passenger, you got to control the music. What was better than listening to Blink-182 to hype you up. You arrived a little earlier than the cocktail hour so you could put your stuff at your mirror. After years of dancing, you had a particular way of setting up your makeup. Quinn waited while you ducked into the green rooms. The last thing to do was to make sure everything was in place just how you like it. So none of your quick changes would be impaired due to a misplaced accessory. After you had done that, you and Quinn meandered your way to the lobby of the theatre where they had a bar during events. Both of you ordered a soda while you waited for the others to arrive. Of course the first to arrive from the family was Luke, just finishing his freshman at UMich. But in tow behind the tallest Hughes, was the majority of his teammates. Including some of your classmates. Oh and can’t forget your older brother.

“Ayyyy,” Nolan grinned as the group neared. He held out his fist for you to fist bump. Something the pair of you have been doing since you were kids. Nolan was first to pull you into a hug, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You are going to kick ass tonight.”

Luke nodded in agreement as he came to wrap his arms around you after Nolan was finished. The freshman was already a foot taller than you. It made you laugh at the boys’ comments. “It’s not a competition guys.”

Quinn rolled his eyes at the two of you. “It’s a showcase, not a competition.”

“You’ll kill it,” Luke smiles down at you.

Being Quinn’s girlfriend since freshman year, you had promised their mum to look after Luke when he finally got to UMich. And look after him you did. You were pretty sure you cooked at least three times a week for Luke, Nolan and at least two of their teammates. In return, the boys were alway looking after you. And their way of doing that was making sure everyone knew you were UMich team’s captain’s sister and dating THE Quinn Hughes. Star defenseman for the Vancouver Canucks. 

“And the best Hughes is here,” A voice interrupted.

You looked past Quinn where Jack was approaching with Ellen and Jim, the boys’ parents. “Yeah of course they are, Mama El is here.”

Jack pouted as everyone went around for hugs. Ellen made sure to squeeze you affectionately, whispering about how proud she is to be here for something other than hockey. It’s the first time she and Jim had been on campus since the Frozen Four Championship. The group huddles around a couple of barrels placed around the foyer to act as tables. 

“Miss Moyle,” Your theatre professor greets. “I have someone I’d like to introduce you to.”

Quinn stayed beside you as your professor guided you to where another one of your professors and a couple of well dressed people were chatting to them. After introductions, and the scouts getting past their awe, they talked about their companies and businesses. Luckily for the pair of you, one of your fellow dancers pulled you away to head backstage. With final goodbyes, and many good luck wishes, you and Claire went backstage. 

You stripped off your dress and hung that up. First dance concert was “A Little Party Never Killed Nobody’ and the troupe consisted of the top 21 students of the course. Your costume was a sparkly flapper dress. Once you made sure everything was perfect, feather and all, Claire, Maddie and yourself made your way to the stage. 

The large curtain was down blocking the stage from the view of the audience. Dancers were chatting between each other as they stretched and warmed up their bodies. Yourself and the girls found a free spot and started doing your own thing. You made sure to stretch your legs and back. 

“Guys,” one of the student photographers that’s hanging around called to the Opening troupe. “Can I get a picture please?!”

As a group, you all decide on doing the final poses of the dance for the picture. You were the point of the triangle and on the ground with Maddie and Claire behind you. After a hot minute you all relaxed and went back to stretching. The 5-minute warning was called and the lights behind the curtain dimmed. 

You moved into my starting position which was at the front with Claire. Both of you mirrored each other for the starting count. Julia, one of the performing arts students, stepped on stage to start off the night. Julia was a senior student who volunteered for the position of MC for the two shows. The lights dim backstage, and everyone gets in position as we hear Julia’s heels in front of the curtain.

“Good morning all, and welcome to the annual dance concert held by the Arts Students of the University of Michigan,” Julia welcomes. “The amazing show you will witness today is by the students. The dancers are the senior students of the dance department. Costumes, accessories and props were hand made by Fashion and Theatre Departments. Lighting, sound and tech are all done by the senior students of the Theatre and Production departments.”

The audience clapped and cheered.

“Before we start, please ensure mobile devices are turned off during the performance.”

There was a moment of silence for people to follow Julia’s words.

Julia hums appreciatively. “Thank you. Now onto the main event. You will see 8 different styles of dance displayed today. Acrobatics, Ballet, Contemporary, Hip Hop, Jazz, Slow Modern, Tap and Theatre all included. To kick off a killer show are the top 21 students of the dance department. They come from a range of styles. Please welcome to the stage opening with ‘A Little Party Never Killed Nobody’.”

With those words, it becomes pitch black behind the curtain as the group eagerly awaits Julia to step off stage and for the curtain to rise. Everyone was as still as a statue when the curtain began to lift. The music started and lights started dancing around the stage as you started dancing. Every student loved dance so the passion showed within their moves.

The curtain closed for the last time of the night and all of you laid on the floor. Every single one of the students were exhausted after the last week of late night rehearsals. One by one each got up and went to their green rooms to start the process of cleaning up. First, you changed into a cute playsuit you had stashed for this very moment. You then shoved all your makeup into the bag and all your shoes into your dance bag you had brought earlier. Not bothering to sort them out. All of your costumes were put back into the garment bags they came in originally with the accessories all sorted into the correct bags. With your bag over your shoulder, you piled the costumes over your arm. 

“Need help?” Ellen offers from the door.

“Yes please,” you sigh. You hand her the majority of the costumes. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Ellen led the way out of backstage and through the crowd of family and friends waiting for all the dancers. The first person you spy was Quinn standing with a large bouquet of your favourite flowers. Luke grabbed the rest of your costumes and dance bag. 

“You were absolutely amazing,” Quinn compliments, pulling you in for a kiss. After you pull away, he hands you the bouquet and turns you to where you finally see Nolan standing with your mother.

“Oh!” You grin at the sight of your family. She embraces you, careful of the flowers in your arm. “I’ve missed you.”

“Beautiful,” Your mum smiles, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Thank you for coming,” You mumble to her. 

She waves off your words. “I’ll always come to your dance concerts. Can we get photos?”

Quinn and yourself agree with your mum and Ellen’s request and pose with the bouquet. Then it rotates out. Jack and Luke pop in at one point. You and Nolan get photos together for your mum. Yourself and all the Hughes family. You know how parents are. Oh and can’t forget one with you and all the team that had come to support you. 

You and Quinn head to his car with everything in split between the pair of you. After the boot was filled with all of your gear, the car door was opened for you, allowing you to slide in and finally relax. Your body ached and needed to have a shower before you finally could go to bed. 

You don’t even remember falling asleep in the car though. Next thing you know Quinn is shaking you awake telling you you were home. Neither of you bothered with all your stuff in the back. It was easy enough to pull out all the costumes tomorrow. You were too tired. With your wallet and phone in hand, Quinn and yourself head straight to your bathroom to shower. Like the amazing boyfriend he was, Quinn helped you undress and take out all the pins that were left in your hair. 

“Are you sure you wanted to shower? I can draw a bath for you if you really want.”

You just shake your head in response to Quinn’s offer. Without saying a word, he got the shower ready for you two and even dimmed the lights. Like earlier in the day, you help each other wash. Shower time was one of both of yours’ favourites. It was a moment to yourselves without interruption. 

After the shower, you went to slip one of Quinn’s old UMich shirts over your body when his hands stopped you. His fingers wrapped around your wrists, halting your movement. He was naked as well as he lifted you up and slid you right under the covers. 

“I just wanna be close,” Quinn mumbles as he climbs in beside you. 

Quinn’s arms wrap around your body and drag you to lay half on top of him. You barely had the energy to move your arms at this point. You could feel the calloused fingers stroking up and down your back. He then brushed his finger through your hair every now and then as well. 

“Thank you for coming tonight,” You whisper into the darkness, turning your head to press a kiss to Quinn’s jawline. 

He chuckles, “Of course I was going to support my girl as she showed everyone how amazing of a dancer she is.”

A giggle escapes your lips as you try to snuggle further into Quinn. At this point, if you got any closer, you’d be one person. For the first time in two months, you think you could finally fully relax without anything but Quinn on your mind. Quinn’s hand massaging your sore muscles felt like heaven. It was also making you sleepy.

“Just go to sleep baby girl,” He mumbled, pressing multiple kisses to your face.

TAG LIST

@findapenny @mp0625 @hischierhaze @11zegras @lvrzegras @francesfarhadi @cixrosie @daisysthings

#quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x reader #vancouver canucks imagine #moyle!reader #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl fanfiction #swissboyhisch imagine #swissboyhisch #quinn hughes x moyle!reader #Vancouver canucks imagine #vancouver canucks imagines #vancouver canucks x reader #vancouver canucks fanfiction #vancouver canucks fic #vancouver canucks blurb #nhl imagines #nhl x reader #nhl rpf #nhl blurb #hockey blurb #hockey rpf #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #hockey fic #quinn hughes imagines #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes rpf #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes fanfiction

[heejayy]

My Heart and My Soul

Warning • suggestive

Genre • fluff, lil angst

Pairing • Shuri x Black Reader

Wc: 1.8k

A/n: since y’all think this bitch tinder i guess imma have to step up my writing game, can’t get goods fics anywhere. Like where y’all go??! 😭😭

Shuri and you have been close since high school, inseparable even. It was almost concerning how close your were and it didn’t shock a soul when you two got married. Growing up you were always the quiet and observant one and her the out going adventurous one.

Your Youth

You always got looked over by everyone except one person, Shuri. She noticed you right away, it was to your first day of freshman year, you had no one to talk or hang out with so during lunch you’d walk to the library and read. The first two weeks of school she studied you confused on why you’d sit alone reading, you were beautiful and smart to her, it’d seem like you’d make friends easily.

So one day curiosity got the best of her and she followed you to your personal corner. She watched you routinely pull out the book you’ve been reading and a highlighter.

“Whatcha’ reading?” uninvited Shuri plopped her bag down beside you taking a seat. The look of shock in your face was enough to tell Shuri she scared you “my bad didn’t mean to frighten you, I’m Shuri” she held out her hand with a bright smile on her face.

You glanced down at her hand and back up at her, you thought this was a joke. One why would the princess of the royal family come sit down and chat with you and two why is she in a public village school?

“Did I do something wrong your majesty?!”

“Shh no no you are fine. I wanted to come talk to you I see you walk in here everyday but no one joins you, why is that?”

“Oh well I’m not good at making friends” you mumbled shying away, “may I ask you a question?” Her face lit up with joy.

“Yes?”

“Why are you in a public school…you’re the princess don’t you have private tutors?” She chuckled nervously scratching her undercut.

“Oh well my mother thought it would be good for me to socialize with kids my age plus there’s really nothing they can teach that I already don’t know” you nod pushing your glasses up.

“Well I’m sure you have plenty of friends you are the princess,” her smile fades as she looks away.

“N-not exactly, you see no one wants to hang out with me as they are afraid of my status and the only people who do is also because of my status…so I’m in a lose lose situation, but if you don’t want me here I understand. I did intrude, my apologies” she got up with a sad frown beginning to make her way around the corner.

You felt bad, you knew exactly how she felt. Not having anyone to talk to and constantly being alone, it was no fun. Stricken with guilt you called after her.

“Princess Shuri!” You whisper yell, she instantly turns around with a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Yes?”

“You can stay if you like I don’t mind” you move your book bag and wave her back over “come join me” you smile patting the floor. A grin instantly took over wiping away her frown as she ran back over to you.

“May I show you my sketchbook?” She excitedly ask pulling out a thick notebook from her backpack. “All of my recent inventions are in here, look” she excitedly flipped through the pages finally having someone to show it to.

That one pivotal moment changed your life’s forever. Having each other made high school a breeze. Even growing into adulthood you two had each other’s back, and that slowly led you you developing feelings for each other that neither of you would speak about until later.

Attending college was no different even though you two didn’t pursue the same careers you stayed close nonetheless.

College Years

“I swear this homework is kicking my ass, I’m ‘bout to cry!” you wail slamming the mechanical pencil on the table. Shuri peered up from her lab table shaking her head.

“I can do it for you if you like-“

“No Shuri if you do it I’ll never learn anything.” She just shrugged going back to fixing her brothers panther suit.

She smirked cockily looking at you “it’s up to you I’m done with mine.” You shot daggers at her chucking the pencil at her head.

“It’s not funny!” She ducked laughing, “I will help you as long as you don’t throw anything else” you rolled your eyes swallowing the sarcastic comeback you had ready “fine.”

Shuri smiled putting down her tools “all you had to do was ask for help, you’re so annoyingly independent.” She’s one to talk.

You and Shuri sat at the table for hours finishing and correcting any and every piece of work you done that night. You were becoming distracted but not because of the work, because of Shuri. You were starting to feel things for her that a best friend shouldn’t feel, you eyed her beautiful features in awe. The way her jaw clenched and unclenched when she was thinking, the way she smirk to herself whenever she figured something out, or how her eyebrows would furrow when she was confused.

She was just gorgeous.

“Did you hear me?”

“Huh?! Ohhh yeah yeah I got it“ you didn’t get it.

Shuri was going over the material once again for you until her phone rang, it was Imani her girlfriend. You rolled your eyes putting your focus back on your work trying not to hear their conversation, but you couldn’t help it. You wished Shuri would call you baby like that and spoil you with love as she did her ungrateful girlfriend. Yes ungrateful, Imani cheated on Shuri twice and Shuri still took her back.

Sometimes you worried for your dear friend.

“Can you take that somewhere else I’m trying to work” Shuri knew you didn’t like Imani but you put up with her.

The Big Fight

Having enough of Imani’s bullshit with her treating your friend like she’s nothing, you confronted Shuri. You tried to tell her she’s sneaking around again but Shuri didn’t want to hear any of it, as if she was in denial.

“Are you jealous or something? Jealous that I found love and you can’t?”

Hearing those words come out of her mouth hurt like falling into a thousand needles. Hearing someone you fell in love with say they loved someone else hurt. You blink your tears away swallowing the lump in your throat.

“If you want to stay with her fine, but I’m not gonna stick around to watch her treat you like shit, don’t come crawling back when she breaks your heart again.”

After that fight you two had you didn’t talk for weeks. Over the course of those weeks you felt this hole in your chest grow larger and larger yearning for her to fill it, but deep down you knew she never would. What you didn’t know was Shuri felt the same. Spending so much time alone with Imani made her realize she didn’t want her. She was trying to distract herself away from you.

As she watched Imani lay on her chest guilt began to fill her, she didn’t want her laying on her she wanted you laying on her, she wanted you cuddling close to her. The very next day she broke up with Imani and ran you you. She ran over to your house hoping you’d find it in your beautiful heart to forgive her. Repeatedly she knocked on your door, when you didn’t answer she kept knocking and knocking until-

“Damn Shuri what is it?!” You knew it was her?

“Y/n please forgive, I’m terribly sorry for treating you the way I have. That was no way to treat my best friend. You were right Imani was no good for me I was only using her as a place holder for you, please please please forgive me” she held onto you with tears in her eyes hoping you would hug her back and say you forgave her.

You stared into her eyes still feeling the pain the day she said those hurtful things to you. You gave her a sad smile reaching for her face to dry her eyes “my sweet Shuri you hurt me, you made me feel like my opinion didn’t matter anymore” she shook her head no “no please it does matter to me I promise, please forgive me” with your love for the princess outweighing the hurt she inflicted on you, there was no doubt in your heart you weren’t going to forgive her “I forgive you.”

Not being able to hold herself back Shuri grabs you by the waist smashing her lips on yours. This was something you dreamt about, feeling her soft lips against your sent butterflies to your stomach. You held onto her melting right into the kiss.

She pulled away with a smile “Damn I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“You have?! Why didn’t it say anything?!”

“That doesn’t matter hush” she giggled kissing you again.

The Path of Love

(Suggestive)

Dating Shuri was a dream come true she was such a doll. Everything you needed she provided and vise versa. You two were made for each other, like Yin and Yang. You two experienced everything in life together including your first time.

You two were both so eager but nervous, having a few hiccups at first but nothing too serious. It was laughed off and you continued. You both took you time with each other, kissing and caressing each other ever so softly. Nothing filled the room but sweet moans and soft music in the background. You two couldn’t stop touching and loving on each other, so absorbed with one another’s presence, it was like heaven on earth.

“Damn” you huffed pulling the blanket over your naked body, Shuri giggled doing the same.

“If I knew you could do that I would’ve done this a long time ago” you gasp smacking her shoulder “Shut up!”

Your dating life was nothing too different from your friendship accept you kissed and had sex.

You both were extremely comfortable with one another and told each others every thought you had. So when she wanted to try something new in the bedroom you never denied her, you were always down with whatever. Others were almost sickened at how sweet your relationship was, you two spoiled each other with love and always talked out your problems.

Two years flew by and Shuri was ready to marry you. She proposed in the garden she had made for you, it was unexpected but of course you said yes.

The Present

Your love for each other never dwindled even in the roughest parts of your relationship your love stayed strong. So strong you decided to expand your love to your little one, you were currently seven months pregnant with a baby that was gifted to you by Shuri’s genius’s mind and her science.

You rubbed your swollen belly with a smile as you looked through your old year book.

“Oh my god Shuri look it’s our year book photos” she peered over the couch “eww I looked so bad, why did I think that looked good!”

You smacked your lips “no you didn’t! I always thought you were so cute with your little glasses and your know it all attitude” you giggled. You flipped through some more looking at all the photos you and Shuri took together through out your four years in high school, the way you two looked at each other should’ve been a clue to the romantic feelings you felt for one another, but the what ifs and buts doesn’t matter now because in the end you got your girl.

“You know I’m glad you came and talked to me that day in the library” you said closing the book. She smiled taking a seat next to you, “I’m glad I did to.”

She left a soft kiss against your lips then moved down you you belly to leave a kiss “I love you.”

You smiled caressing her curls “I love you more.”

Taglist 💌 : @abenomeiiii , @lustfulbarbie , @locoforshuri , @6-noir , @saintwrld , @vampzxi , @ihearttish , @cafehyunji , @ccharrrr , @sapphicvqmpires , @yamsthoughts

#Shuri x reader #shuri fluff #shuri angst #shuri x fem!reader #shuri x black!reader #lesbian #shuri udaku #black panther wakanda forever #black panther imagines #x black reader #shuri x black!fem reader #letitia wright shuri #Shuri imagines

[your-old-sins-tournament]

12 YEAR OLD OCS; SIDE A

Liz Turner [@linzerj] (she/her)

My first ever OC was a self-insert for a three-way crossover of Danny Phantom, Fairly OddParents, and Teen Titans, because i thought a half-ghost cousin of Timmy Turner who fights bad guys with the Teen Titans was a really cool idea. I created her when I was 12 and she was like the main thing i would draw from the ages of 12-15. She was the first of many, MANY OCs, kicking off a phase that would last until the end of my freshman year of college, actually. However, Liz has actually stuck around and evolved into someone who could almost exist separately from the fandoms she started in, if only I could figure out how to make a cool-sounding teen hero group name on my own. ANYWAY Liz kicks ass and takes names and can't figure out what the fuck her superhero code name should be (because I originally called her Storm before I realized the name Storm was already taken, and haven't been able to come up with another good name since.)

Clairé [@fagbearentertainment] (she/her)

She’s 11 years old, part demon, and was locked up and experimented on in a lab after she killed her family. She was rescued from the lab by another oc of mine, a journalist named Charlie, and they ran away together to be happy. Claire was really edgy and angst ridden over being traumatized from the lab and killing her family tho so no happy endings. She might’ve also been possessed I can’t remember now lol

#liz turner #oc #ocs #polls #bracket tournament #clairé #ocs you made when you were 12 tournament #old sins #side a

[bucknastysbabe]

Mwahahahahaha I had so much fun with this thanks for the request, xoxoxoxo I hope you love it as much as I did! Also I know some of my followers are prob not American so I did The Most Basic lingo because we are the idiots who don’t name stuff normally like the rest of planet Earth

Kink Bingo - Topping from the Bottom

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Chubby!Beefy!Subby!Bucky, Dom nerdy afab!reader, Bucky is a sweet lil bear who wouldn’t hurt a fly but sends men into the ground on a daily basis, Frank Castle is a tired roommate, pnv!sex, overstim, pet names, teasing, creampie, disaster Bucky barnes, college!au, football player!buck, fluffy as HELL

You weren’t sure where, how, or when you ended up in this situation.

To quote the Talking Heads, “Well. How did I get here?”

Except there was no fun song about water flowing underground. There was a very sexy man staring at you in the library who had just said something. You blinked again, fiddling with your pencil. The library was dead quiet per usual.

Bucky Barnes, resident slut, face morphed into confusion, blue eyes piercing. He asked, “Uh, you okay? Did you hear me?”

You cleared your throat and spoke, “Yes, problem 15. The key to research statistics is all in the equa-“

A huge hand slid across the table to close your book. The thud made you jump. Bucky apologized, flush high on his pretty cheeks. He laughed, “No, I don’t think you caught that there, teach.” You blanched, gaping like a fish out of water.

His huge, yet soft frame leaned over the stiff stable, belly indenting against the wood. Bucky popped his dimples with a charming smile. He reiterated, “I think you’re cool— smart and witty. Even though you’re a hermit. I wanted to see if you would come to my place with the boys for some drinks this weekend.”

Your face drained of color, utterly mortified. The memories of freshman year came flooding back. You began to pack your stuff, slamming and shoving away materials. Bucky looked up at you like a kicked puppy. He grabbed your wrist, god he was a gentle giant, “Hey? What’s wrong? No pressure at all!”

You glared up at the stupidly beautiful man and tried to sound strong, but your voice cracked as you informed the ass, “You were there freshman year. Watched me puke until someone took pity. Is that what you want? Bring the lightweight loser for a punchline? Not for me, bye!”

He was there then, same house too. The O-line always passed the same ratty place down. His hair was shorter, body less beefy, less weight but Bucky watched with a sheepish look, elbowing his blonde friend. You yanked out of his grip, Barnes frantically calling after you. Dumb brute was so big it didn’t take much for him to catch up. He looked down, hand rubbing his neck. “Look. I’m not like those dick heads. I should’ve done something. I’m sorry I ever hurt you in the past.”

You stopped, giving him a look, eyes full of tears.

He made a soft noise, pulling you into a warm hug. He reaped, “Oh don’t cry, please?” You didn’t want to admit but it felt like heaven with his soft stomach and huge arms. You warbled, “I don’t know if I can trust anyone, I- I just can’t do that again.”

Bucky rubbed your back and sighed, “I’m an idiot, I offered you out the only way I know how with girls. I don’t have the best reputation.” He took a stern pause. “But I really like you. So we can do whatever you want to and I’ll be down for it.”

You looked up at him in shock, croaking, “Really?”

Bucky grinned, “Yes really.”

A year later the Talking Heads sang in your head again. 

Well, how did I get here?

Your very big, so wonderfully big, boyfriend was between your thighs. His own thighs, thickened with heavy muscle and that cute little layer of fluff quivered themselves. His cock was so hard it was purple, the leaking tip smacking his tummy. Your baby had a dick that would put porn stars to shame. Took about two weeks for you to get used to it. Beside the point, tears pricked at his wide eyes. Bucky’s hands kept their gentle grip but they shook.

He panted like a racehorse, even though you hadn’t let him fuck you yet. You got the poor thing riled up all in the library. Rubbing against him, promising pretty boys like him get to hump and fuck. You had to shove fingers down his throat to get the beefy man to hush.

Somewhere since your bittersweet beginnings, it was discovered James Buchanan Barnes was the biggest submissive, masochistic, certified freak seven-days-a-week slut. He’d made a reputation for making girls limp but the macho athlete truly loved getting ordered around.

He put the fanfiction you’d read to shame. It made everything ten times sweeter knowing your college football playing, big offensive lineman whined like a bitch when you played with his ass. All by his petite nerdy girlfriend.

You say ‘jump’, Buck is asking ‘how high’?

But currently you did want him to fuck you. You cooed, pinching at a soft love handle, “You need me now sweet baby? Can you handle it?”

He nodded in jerky motions, pleading, “Yes baby, I’ll hold it.” His pink lips trembled.

You softly held his gaze as you continued, “If you cum early that’s okay, you’ve been waiting so long. I know a slut like you can’t help it.”

Bucky barked, “No! I mean no- I’ll do it good.”

You leaned back, placing your arms on his built shoulders, pulling the brunette closer. You sighed, “You always do it good Buck.” It came across meaner than intended, your boyfriend’s jaw setting mulishly.

“Come on, come on now bear,” you urged, squeezing his traps. Bucky whined through his nose, huge hand slicking his cock with lube. You were wet enough but usually added extra lube to make everything more comfortable. Bucky let out a pained moan as he entered you. You wrapped your legs around his wide waist to usher the brunette on.

You panted as the blunt tip split your pussy open. Bucky mewled, “Mmm- you’re s-so tight.” You nodded and pressed kisses to the veins pulsing on his neck, the larger man gently lowering himself on top. He’d still get scared of ‘smushing’ you. The thick length of him speared your cunt, and then he was all the way in.

You panted and whined, gasping, “Big boyyy, oh fuck.” Bucky let out a string of unintelligible high noises, whole body shaking at the squeeze. Circling your thumbs at the sweaty base of his head you cooed, “Love that huge slutty cock of yours, mmm, can you feel how tight I am for you?”

He nodded, so overcome he’d lost control over his pitch. Castle would slam the wall from next door.

“Fuck! Babybabyohgod, can I fuck you now?”

You snickered, “I never said you couldn’t.”

He frowned at that, blues looking down in embarrassment. Baby couldn’t help but get a little stupid when his cock was involved. Bucky braced one hand next to your head, the other on your hip and drew back a bit. He watched the slide, scrunching his face in ecstasy.

Slap.

Bucky fucked back in, stuffing you tight with a lurid squelch. You moaned at the feeling of his heavy balls hitting your ass. You goaded him on further, moaning in delight at the friction. Bucky hoarsely groaned, giving you all he was good for. Which, granted, being a division one athlete can allow for a lot to give. If Buck wasn’t so sensitive.

You clawed at his brawny shoulders, crying his name, biting at lips and jaw. That cute little pouch under his chin was especially bitable. Bucky was drooling onto your tits, single-mindedly focused on fucking you. You met him thrust for thrust, rasping dirty nonsense, degrading nasty things.

Bucky whined, “Mm! Baby, oh- hah! You gotta stop, hngh, m’gonna blow.”

You rocked up into his stilled dick, shaking your head with a open-mouthed smile. You breathlessly laughed, “No way bubba, you said you’re gonna do it good. But I got it pretty boy.” You patted his stubbled cheek and writhed on his cock, rubbing your sensitive tits against his built chest.

Bucky whimpered and tucked his teary eyes into your neck, your hand curling around to scratch his scalp. He was barely moving, little thrusts as you worked yourself up and down at a brisk pace. This was your exact reason why you denied Buck’s requests to go to the gym with him.

You whined, “Fuck bear, love you, puppy packing like a stud. Stuffing my pussy so well. Shame I gotta do the work.” You got another agonized moan at that, Bucky attempting to find a rhythm. You squeezed him in warning, digging the blunt tip into your good spot. A big finger came down to swirl at your clit.

You smacked his ass, howling, “Good fucking boy!”

Tears wet your shoulder, sniveling and whining filling your left ear. You drew tighter and more frantic, screwing your eyes shut as pleasure mounted across your body. You slapped a meaty side again and hoarsely yelled Buck’s name, pussy clamping down on his throbbing cock.

He came with a warbling wail, you crying out at the same time. Bucky began to fuck again, you taking it as he pumped through the aftershocks, mewling, “Hngghhh- baaaaby- oh gooood!” You threw your head back and let him pound you, little ‘uh uh uh’ grunts forced out.

The noises were pornographic, bed creaking, Buck’s sobbing, hips slapping, and the slick sounds from your releases mixing. Bucky gasped again, the last of him cum spurting out and he collapsed half on-top of you, whimpering softly.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!,” came the inevitable angry yell of Frank, busily pounding the thin walls.

You smiled at the worn Bucky, cooing, “Did it good once again bear.” He managed to pull you two onto the side, him still sensitive and shivering from the shifting. He kissed you sweetly, blue eyes all gooey and soft. He rasped, “What have you done to me babe?”

You nuzzled his nose, pecking those pink lips. With a smirk you mused, “I don’t know, what do you think big guy?” His brows furrowed as the inevitable post-coital philosophy discussion began.

Same as it ever was, same as it ever was, David Byrne sang in your head.

#bucky barnes x reader #kink bingo #asks answered #chubby!bucky #sub!bucky #college!au #bucky barnes smut #bottom Bucky #dom!afab!reader