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powderblueblood · 5 months

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

CHAPTER EIGHT — SEWN UP

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summary: you'd need a hacksaw to cut the tension between you and eddie, but that's not your weapon of choice this time around. a newspaper pitch, a patchwork girl and a tasteless prank all work together to make things ever more awkward between you and the boy you keep senselessly calling your friend. content warnings: MINORS DNI, THIS IS NOT SAFE FOR YOUR PURITAN EYES - reader is an ex-bitch on a journey of self-discovery through being an even more specific kind of bitch, angst in the form of an elizabeth munson mention, miscommunication, lacy engaging non-platonically with someone other than eddie, mention of lacy's surname and dad's name, REEFER RICK CAMEO, billy hargrove slander as per, violence, a humiliating prank, smut in the form of public hand stuff (f!receiving), me feeling insane about this chapter word count: 14.3k

Dear Mom,

She hasn’t got warm hands. She hasn’t got the kind of smile that draws people to her. She hasn’t got a kind word for everyone, no matter where they come from. She hasn’t got a lot of patience. She hasn’t got a fixed sense of herself–well, she does kinda. But, not totally. Not yet.

She’s not like you.

Other cheerleaders wore ponytails and they’d bounce. But when she wore a ponytail, it swung like a sword. She used to be cruel and exacting, but now she’s just exacting. She’s honest and observant to a degree that’s, like, almost psycho. She’s a cold front, but she laughs like a lightning strike. I feel like thunder, powerless to do anything but roll after her. Can’t help myself.

She knows what she wants, she thinks. Other days she doesn’t. I keep trying to tell her that’s okay, in ways where I don’t actually have to use the words. My words wouldn’t be as good as her words. Her words burn clean through me like a lit tip of a cigarette.

But she does have your book.

Y’know, I always thought it was kind of creepy the way some guys would try and look for their mom in other girls.

So this might be a good thing. Less Oedipus-y, more ea–…

Shit. I was gonna say something I’m so sure you’d smack me around the head for. But you’re not here to do that. I might be in better shape with this girl if you were.

Anyway. I miss you.

Eddie Munson stands in the midst of an incredibly awkward aftermath.

See, for two people so purportedly self-assured, he in his freakshow roguishness and you in your prim-perfect knife-edge sharpness, you’re both entirely dogshit at acknowledging… well… anything.

You both tried to snap back to normal so quickly, with Wheeler and her science experiment pregnancy scare smashing through the ice. But the water underneath that ice is still freezing cold– and you’re both pretending you’re not gasping for air, pretending like you don’t remember gasping for each other’s lips.

This is totally cool. This is totally fine.

And then Eddie comes to see you at The Bookstore, which has become just as routine as nearly never brushing his hair, and sees you fixing your seller’s tag to your pick of the week. Your face in that arresting, self-conscious smile that he wants to melt off with the blowtorch of his mouth.

It’s The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum.

Now, he noticed that you would habitually drop writers’ names into conversation like they were your lit professors– Didion said this, Bukowski said that, Bronte yadda, Burroughs yadda. Always some genius-adjacent, formative-thinking, socio-politico-boffo brainwad, more often than not with a substance abuse kick that you romanticized from a safe distance.

But then you unearth this book, a green clothback cover yellowing with age and roughness, red and yellow inlaid titling blasting out a name he ought to know. It makes his visual memory brrrrrrring! like a bright red tomato shaped kitchen timer.

The Patchwork Girl of Oz was with Elizabeth Munson wherever she went. Her records were her plane tickets, her escape to another world, but you couldn’t take your records with you to the hospital. Escaping to Oz was a decent substitute. She must have read it a bajillion times; she even took to calling Wayne Unc Nunkie after the elderly munchkin who only ever had one word for anybody. And whenever Eddie would drop an egg when they were baking or come running through the house with his knees all cut up, she’d coo, “Oh, my li’l Ojo the Unlucky!”

The book lingered everywhere– on the kitchen counter of the house on Pennsylvania,on the vinyl seat of the booth at the now-shuttered Benny’s when she could afford to take Eddie for a treat, on her bedside table.

Up until the end.

It knocks the wind out of Eddie when he sees it on the display shelf. He does a bad job of hiding that.

“What, too shocked to make fun of me?” you say, perching yourself on the rickety stool behind the counter, and your voice betrays a little embarrassment. “That’s a first.”

“I–... huh?” He tears his eyes away from the book long enough to catch the specks of blush high on your cheeks.

“It’s not my usual flavor, I know, but I’m capable of whimsy too.”

“Why that one?” His limbs feel stony like Unc Nunkie’s, as much as he wants to languidly lean over the counter and bother you like he always does.

You shrug, but you tilt the opposite shoulder. A reverse, a peek behind the looking glass. He notices that about you, which goddamn shoulder is your shrugging preference.

“I think it was one of the first books I kept checking out of the library when I was little,” you say, glancing back at the display, “It’s about this poor little kid who has to find a way to reverse a spell on his uncle who’s been turned to stone, and the eponymous patchwork girl is–”

“I know the story.” It comes out a little blunter than Eddie was intending it to. So much so that it knocks you back a beat.

“Oh,” you say shortly, eyes flaring down at the counter. “No need to cut me off mid-stream about it.”

Eddie winces, knowing he’s coming across as weird and stilted but with no idea how to safely climb down. “No, just– I know the story, yeah. My mom…” That is not a safe dismount, dummy! “...she… liked it a lot.”

“Yeah?” your tone stays even, yanked back from him a little. He wants to be like, sorrysorrysorry. “She ever read it to you?”

“A bunch, actually.”

“No shit.” The corners of your mouth tick up. “Wanna hear something super dorky?”

Just the mere invitation of your little smile loosens him up a bit. Eddie twists a ring around his finger, head kicking to his shoulder as his foot kicks to the counter. “Always,” he says, squinting.

You straighten your spine up on your stool and clear your throat. Hand goes over your heart, like you’re about to recite the damn declaration. Your eyes shutter closed.

“Here’s a job for a boy of brains– a drop of oil from a live man’s veins; a six-leaved clover; three nice hairs, from a Woozy’s tail, the book declares; are needed for a magic spell, and water from a pitch-dark well– the yellow wing from a butterfly to find must Ojo also try; and if he gets them without harm, Doc Pipt will make the magic charm; but if he doesn’t get ‘em, Unc…” your crack one eye open. “...will always stand a marble chunk.”

Eddie is silent for… for a while. For a good handful of heartbeats, for a beat so long that makes you knit your brow up, your eyes needling into him. Eddie’s looking at you with rose-colored soft focus. His elbows are eagerly pitched on the counter now, chin in his hands. The last person to recite those words to him was his mom, her voice raspy and tired but still willing to read to him. She hadn’t smelled like herself. It was sad.

And now, your voice, with all its snippy chainmail thrown off, gone all soft and lyrical and dedicated.

He thinks about a littler you, one he could vaguely pick out of a lineup if he really, really tried, criss-cross applesauce and pouring over that book so often that that little spell jams itself into your brain.

The mage before she donned the mink coat.

Eddie is looking at you and can’t force his heart out of his throat.

Well, until he can.

“Ew,” he cringes.

“What?!” you exclaim, your eyes getting all incredulous and kind of mad.

“And they call me a fuckin’ nerd, what the hell was that?” Eddie’s laughing, mocking, not with his whole heart. But it’s enough to make you scoff, irritated with him again.

See, you thought you were being cute and he knows you thought you were being cute. He needs to put you back in a place where you’re marginally unlikeable enough to just be a friend.

Restore the natural order. Don’t think about how he wants to recite that same verse back to you in front of an ordained Elvis in Vegas. Because he would, in a heartbeat. If he wasn’t committed to not being stupid.

Christ, you’re pretty. Christ, he’s gonna do something stupid.

“You are… completely undateable, you know that?” he nods ferociously, eyes trailing you as you cross out from behind the counter and head for a box of books that need to be shelved. All uh-huhs and sure, Eddies. The bell on the front door jangles and a customer passes behind him.

He yells after you, voice traveling down whatever winding path you’ve taken through the stacks. “You with your black and white movies and your twat rock and your Wizard of Oz… baby, what crowd are you even playing to?”

“What crowd am I playing to? What crowd are you playing to?!” you seethe, shuffling the ten-tonne box of books down the aisle with your feet. “Fucking baggie-pushing, guitar-brutalizing, board-game-...maker-...upper!”

“Woah. Wit’s unmatched as usual, Lace.”

This fucking guy. This fucking guy. You try and do one darling little thing, you just recite a little piece of a book his dead mom used to read to him or whatever, and you get verbally bashed! God forbid, god forbid you let the fucking drawbridge down for half a second! This blows!

You’re trying to be less of a bitch, in case you idiots didn’t notice!

It’s kind of inexplicable, how sensitive you’re feeling about this. Could be that since you kissed and since you pinkie-swore with Nancy Wheeler in the bombed-out boys bathroom, you kind of felt as if you were standing on a blade’s edge with Eddie. Not knowing where to put your hands, not knowing how much or how little to joke around. Not entirely happy with your moment of madness at the Ecker trailer. Not entirely happy that it hadn’t happened again.

But you’re not about to apologize. Not to him. Don Rickles in a battle vest over there. Must he always just poke you like that?!

“You’re undateable!” You shove a bunch of books aside on the shelf. “Me, I’m cu–...”

Right through the shelf, a customer stares at you. Your voice dies in your throat because, unfortunately, he’s looking right at you in your flurry of annoyance toward Eddie. And unfortunately, this stranger, he’s a little…

“What were you gonna say?” he asks, closing Gravity’s Rainbow.

“Cute.”

Guy smiles, doesn’t break eye contact with you for a second. He’s wearing a sweater. He looks fresh out of somewhere stone walled with crawling ivy. “I’d attest to that.”

You forget about Eddie– just for a second. Gesturing to Gravity’s Rainbow, you say, “Gonna attempt to finish that?”

“What’s that mean?” His grin is infectious, or maybe you’re just starved for this kind of attention.

“Nothing,” you say, with a little more tongue than you need to, “Just, I don’t know of anyone that’s ever finished that behemoth.”

Well, you don’t know of a lot of people that read the way you do either. But, digression. He raps a knuckle against the cover of the book and for some reason, you feel it in your belly.

“I always finish,” he tells you.

“Do you now?”

That’s the longest you’ve been quiet in a hot minute, and that’s the kind of thing that gets under Eddie’s skin. Chain on his jeans jangling, he starts off into the creaking labyrinth of lined-up bookcases.

“What, did you expire back here or something…” he mutters, a little whine in his tone– play with me, play with me, even though I’m being kind of a dick to you–

He sees you, a book lying lax in your arms, your body swaying to and fro and you’re–

“--talkin’ to yourself, Lacy? Great look. Real honeytrap, if you’re lookin’ to catch some imaginary di–”

“Eddie,” you grit at him, and he spots the whole other human male you’re talking to through the stacks. Well, not just talking to. Not with that body language.

This dude tilts his chin to Eddie. “Hey, man. I remember you. Didn’t you used to sell dimebags in the woods outside school?”

Fire flares in Eddie’s gut. He vaguely recognizes this guy– class of ‘83 or ‘82, not remarkable enough to be hateable but now, he’s certainly collegiate looking enough to be… distracting to you. So, annoying to him.

“Why, man? You lookin’ to buy? Or just cruise some high schooler tail?”

“Eddie!” you hiss again and he scoffs like, really?! You turn back to this… whoever the fuck. “C’mon, I’ll check you out.”

“You’ll check him out, huh?” Eddie sneers, bearing over you as you pass him in the aisle. Body heat breezing right by, face a mask of sheer disgust. Impulse talks; it totally wants to just grab you and throw you behind him and– well, he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. But he’s creative. Who the fuck even is this guy? Where did he come from?

“That you?” this guy says, jerking his head toward the staff display, toward The Patchwork Girl of Oz. “Lacy?”

“To my friends and co-conspirators,” you say, ringing up that godawful Pynchon book.

“Which one was that guy?” he asks, watching you jot out his receipt on the carbon copy pad because for whatever reason, Ivana’s cash register is from the fucking 1800s and she refuses to upgrade to anything with a thermal printer. “Friend? Co-conspirator? … boyfriend?”

You wrinkle your nose. And don’t exactly answer, but it’s enough confirmation for him.

“Good. Say, why don’t you jot down your number on this thing?” He pushes the receipt back to you. “I can keep you updated on my Pynchon progress. You can… see if I’m good enough to co-conspire with.”

You like this approach. In fact, you love this approach, because you hadn’t been earnestly picked up in… forever. And he has this certain je ne sais quoi about him, something that screams moved out of state for college. You stay grinning, biting your lip for a good breath or two after he leaves the store.

Then Eddie appears in your peripheral, like some terrible harbinger of embarrassment.

“Undateable, huh?” you say, fully aware that he was earwigging on that whole exchange because he’s a nosy bitch and he can’t help himself. Glutton for gossip.

“You don’t have to throw yourself at the first person who walks in the store just to prove a point, baby,” Eddie tells you, this big face of condescension. You want to smack it off him so bad your palms are itching.

You huff and backtrack to where that box of unshelved books sits. “Maybe I’m tired of waiting around.”

—

Ronnie Ecker and Robin Buckley are looking each other in the eye, wolf-whistling furtively when you elbow open the door of the gym.

“You’re flat. I’m telling you you’re flat,” Ronnie’s insisting, an adorable three inches away from Robin’s face.

“I can’t be flat! A mouth whistle cannot be flat!”

It’s marching band practice. You don’t know what the hell goes on in here and you know better than to ask.

“Would you two get a room already?” you call, heels clicking across the glossed wood of the gym. These dorks have all got their feathered hats and bibs on, a kind of half-assed dress rehearsal for some pep rally they’re having on Friday. You missed the bulletin– kind of stopped paying attention, actually. Extracurricular distraction is a hell of a drug.

“Excuse me, this is a closed–” that’s the voice of Miss Genovese, the band teacher, stomping down from the bleachers in these tragic little loafers with the pleather peeling off. She makes it about halfway toward you, then this exasperated look washes right over her. The teacher dashes for the double doors and you point after her with a freshly painted red index finger. New lease on looking good.

“And that is?”

“Like, the third time in the last hour,” Ronnie shakes her head, taking her flamboyant little hat off. “Biggest running theory is morning sickness.”

What, is pregnancy like, catching or something? you’re about to muse.

“It’s almost contagious, right?” Robin says, tugging at her clip-on collar, “I mean, first your whole thing and now–”

Ronnie doesn't even have a chance to gesture for her to ixnay! before she slams pause on herself, eyes wide and all shit, did I say that out loud?! Your eyes narrow in return. That’s suspicious.

“What whole thing? My whole what?”

Ever and eternally knowing when to call it, Ronnie holds a hand up before Robin can even start to scramble an apology and serve it to you. Panther versus a precious little puppy dog– the fight ain’t even fair.

“Nothing. Scuttlebutt bullshit, the usual,” she rolls her eyes, throws a sympathetic glance to Robin who winces and retreats. Huh.

“What’s going on with you two?” you ask, crossing your legs over the bottom rung of the bleachers.

This actually makes Ronnie’s expression soften a little– her eyes race back in Robin’s direction and you swear you catch a blush. “Also nothing! Compound nothing. Why, does it look like…”

Lips purse into a little satisfied grin. Knew it. Toldja. Point to Lacy. “Looks like whatever you want it to look like.”

Ronnie reaches forward and waves her feathered hat in your face– stop being so observant! You cough in protest– ew, I don’t know where that thing has been!

“Whatever! What brings you to geek church?”

“That’s what they’re calling it now?”

“Stick around, we’ll start speaking in tongues.”

“Satanic Panic bringing about a fun new turn for the pep rally! Put some God back into that wind instrument,” you croon. “No, I actually wanted your thoughts on something.”

Ronnie raises her eyebrows and you feel like you oughta mirror her. You’re not usually one to seek out a second opinion, but the more you’ve gotten to know Ronnie, the more you see that she’ll tell you how it is. Especially now that you’ve dispersed with the whole intimidating it-girl cloud and she’s stopped pretending to be shy.

“I know. I’m shocked too.”

“I’m honored,” she swings her shoulders in girlish delight, “Dish it up, Doevski.”

“Okay, so,” you clap, hiking forward on your creaking bleacher, “I’ve been seeing this guy–”

“--this is the bookstore guy?”

A blink and a beat. “How’d you know about that?”

A face that has Eddie told me with footnotes of and he was kind of jealous scrawled all over it stares back at you. “I ‘unno, maybe I overheard…”

“Doesn’t matter.” You slice a hand through the air, no time for this right now. “Facts are facts, I’ve been hanging out with this guy,” interesting change of phraseology, considering, “and he’s a college guy–”

“If they could see you now.” The royal court of Hawkins, obviously. Older guys are generally an accomplishment. But Ronnie’s half-jesting.

“--I know, shut up. But, he mentioned something that would absolutely rock my college applications is a really, really great–”

“--feature in the Streak?” you’d gasped out in the back of his Ford Cortina (how very European!). College guy’s mouth was on your neck and his hand was inching into your shirt, playing at a faux placket of pearl buttons. Boys can never tell a real button from a fake one, apparently, even if they go to an East Coast school. I mean, shit! You’d gleaned enough information from him over a shake at the diner; relatively well-to-do family that lived near the Wheelers on Maple and kind of underwhelming taste in lit for an English major.

But he maintained eye contact and listened to your witty little bon mots, even if he didn’t… laugh at them. One thing led to another and thus, the backseat college advisory-slash-makeout session.

“Yeah, yeah, they love that shit…” he’d said, moving to your mouth in order to swallow any forthcoming words. But his words had piqued your interest more than his fingers had.

“What about an underdog story?” you said, eyes kind of hazing over in the middle distance.

“Sure, underdog, great…” college guy grabbed ahold of your leg and tugged you into him, “We can talk more about it later, okay?”

“Okay–”

“–okay?”

Ronnie grimaces. “I didn’t need that much detail.”

“Yes, you did.” You stare at her. “I’m a storyteller.”

Ronnie chews the proposal over a little, cheeks kind of bunched up in confusion. Behind her, band geeks badly hide their hickeys and exhibit too-gangly, too-obvious body language. No inspiration to be tapped from there.

“An underdog story… on the society pages? Like, who could you possibly–”

You smile that awful, conniving smile, because you came in here armed. “Ye of little faith.”

“Oh, no,” Ronnie says, and honestly, you’re a little taken aback by that reaction, “Hellfire?”

A shrug pulls your shoulders right up, rapidly on the defense. “Why not, right?”

“Why not– Lacy, you almost guillotined Jeff that one time he asked you.”

True that you hadn’t had the inches of article to spare for Hellfire Club in not-too-ancient history, but, “That was then, this is now! World’s changing– and it’s topical!”

The whole Satanic panic thing really did tickle your funny bone; and you saw yourself having a little fun with that by turning the focus on Hellfire. Subverting Eddie’s cult-leader mythos to show that he is just a kid who might have a propensity for telling a good story, surrounded by other kids who want to get a word in. You’re not looking to turn the tide on his reputation or anything but maybe… y’know. You could do the admirable journalistic thing and scratch the surface a bit. Show what you’ve learned.

It’s a challenge. You love a challenge.

“And it’s a good excuse to get in Eddie’s face,” Ronnie’s voice breaks through.

There is a lonnng beat, one you hold like the last shoes in your size at a sample sale. Your mouth keeps going to make the words yeah, right or it’s not about him! or y’know, something to exonerate you from the notion.

“I know he isn’t…” Ronnie trails off, coming to sit next to you. “that he’s kind of being weird to you right now.”

Go ahead and feign that ignoramus, girl. Shoulders quirking and all.

“Oh. Is he?”

And then Ronnie says maybe the dumbest thing on the planet, regarding the abominable sitch between you and Eddie Munson.

“You should just talk to him.”

“Ecker, there’s fruitless efforts and then there’s barren wasteland,” you scoff, “Guess which category proposing this to Eddie falls into.”

“That’s not what I–”

J’excuse, Ronnie, but you don’t care! Because this isn’t actually about anything other than getting all of those dice-throwing dorks, including Miss Ecker herself, into your damn paper. Okay?

“We have to ambush him! Element of surprise, that’s it,” you smile primly and hop off the bleachers. “I’m just going to show up at Hellfire, photographer in hand and– he won’t have a choice, will he?”

Ronnie’s expression is a mask of reproachfulness. You don’t let it shake you. You’re a cat playing with a now-endless ball of yarn, and you’re unshakeable.

“He’s such a sucker for attention,” you say, tossing your hair, and it sounds a lot more like you’re convincing yourself than anyone else in this echoey gym, “He won’t be able to resist.”

—

Reefer Rick doesn’t call, unless it’s an emergency. All of his communication is inbound, or passed through a shoulder check and a goofy smile at Melvald’s, or a nod of the head across the pool table at The Hideout. He doesn’t frequent there so much, because Bev knows he’s a pool shark and ever since ‘Nam, his ears are a little too sensitive to all that metal racket, man! By all means, rock on, but by then I gotta go rock-a-bye myself to sleep, alright? Anyway, that’s how Eddie knows to ride over to his place, if it’s not through a call he’s placed himself.

You need me, kid, you come and find me.

So when Eddie gets a call that says, “We gotta pow-wow, ese,” his nerves are set on edge. Not that he wasn’t feeling bad enough, what with the fact that some douchebag in a Cortina had picked you up and dropped you off to school the last couple of days. What with the fact he had actively dogged the car down a little bit of the road from the trailer park with his van, resisting every temptation to just run it all the way off into a ditch. And what with the fact he didn’t know what to say to you about that without it coming out in an anti-missive of jealousy! jealousy! jealousy! so what he did say to you was… nothing.

You two can’t maintain a consistent line of communication to save your lives, he realizes. There’s too much left unsaid, and the both of you are too stubborn or too scared to say any of it. Or even think it, in his case! The amount of times he’d had to slap himself sober, his brain going into overdrive thinking, if I had just told her… It’s a ‘friendship’, if you can even call it that, based on barbs and bad behavior and doing things because you know you shouldn’t. For the thrill. Right?

Like. Whatever. It’s not like he’d made tapes of a half dozen Black Sabbath albums because you mentioned you wanted to ‘study up’ on that ‘monster music’ he’s making. It’s not like you’d given him an annotated copy of Still Life with Woodpecker because he wanted to throw some ‘nonsensical curveball shit’ into a later Hellfire campaign.

It’s not like Eddie missed you– he just… should have seen this coming, is all. He’s used to getting left in the dust while people move onto better things, or whatever.

God, Munson, your voice taunts him from somewhere in his hippocampus, need some help nailing yourself to that crucifix?

Anyway, fuck, Rick called him.

Rick had gotten out of lockup about a month ago– some truncated charge or another that Eddie didn’t bother asking too much about, mostly because… well, Rick hadn’t really been himself. Larger and brighter than the sun itself, the great and powerful lion of a man that oozed life ain’t shit if you ain’t havin’ fun energy, Rick had kind of dimmed. Lost a lot of weight while he was inside. Came back a little bit twitchy and fluent in Spanglish, for some reason.

Eddie was worried, because of all the adult figures in his life, Rick was meant to be the one with levity. He’d lost out on a fun uncle when Wayne stepped into his father-figure role. Al was nothing but a dangerous bit player. Rick, he could rely on.

Thinking back to that infamous day when he had gotten loaded at Lipton Landing, before he picked up you and Ronnie, before he… well, you know the rest but, Eddie had sensed that Rick could use the company. He kind of tried to poke it out of him, whatever was wrong. Didn’t work. They had just watched The Godfather in a tense-ish silence and doofed a lot of joints. Sorta freaked him out.

Eddie’s crushing gravel on the descent to the infamously slanted Lipton Landing for his summons. There’s a hum that seems to traverse the window panes, a fond plucking work that could only belong to Link Wray. He puts the van in park and jogs up the steps to the front door, bracing himself for the pungent plume of skunk smoke that always greets him.

“Eduardo,” Rick’s voice curls around the greeting like smoke curls out of his mouth and he yanks Eddie over the threshold. Door slams, arm tightens around his shoulders. “You’re here.”

Rick’s always a handsy sorta guy–not like that!–but this grab makes him seize a little.

“You rang,” Eddie says, voice lilting, “Everything okay?”

Rick clutches him by the shoulders and looks at him for a long, long time. Uncomfortably long. How has he managed to puff on that joint for this long without choking long.

“No.”

And Rick begins a shuffle toward the kitchen. Eddie follows in an awkward half-step, headache threatening to bloom someplace in the back of his skull because he does not know how much more of this vagueness he can take!

“Does it have anything to do with why you called me down here? Because, shit, I would love to get a straight answer out of someone for once!” A mirthless chuckle follows, trying to soften his desperation.

A flick of the refrigerator door and Rick places two beers on his kitchen counter, hands bracing against the surface. “Then let’s sit crooked and talk straight. It’s about your…”

Hss. Eddie takes a notoriously mis-timed sip.

“...neighbor girl.”

Ffflp– Eddie wishes, just one day of his goddamned life, he could act cool at the mention of you. Even the suggestion of the mention of you. But no, he’s got PBR streaming from his nose like a moron and a look on his face that says uh-oh, spaghettio!

“That’s what I was afraid of,” says Rick, taking a knowingly smooth drink from his beer.

With the heel of his hand, Eddie wipes away his spluttering mess and fumbles around for a crumb of nonchalance.

“I don’t know–”

“Eddie,” Rick levels. God, Eddie hates it when adults are adults, and Rick hates having to act the adult even more.

His shoulders drop. “What about her?”

“Well, when I was in the pen–local, I’ll have you know–I got approached by a very interesting man with a proposition I was powerless to refuse.”

With some trepidation, Eddie mumbles, “Oh, yeah?”

“Someone– well, let’s say me and this someone have a friend in common…”

“Rick–” Eddie’s attempting the leveling thing, but he’s not as good at it as Rick is. Or as you are, for that matter. And you’re who he’s attempting to imitate here, even if he won’t admit it.

“--a certain mutual business partner, if you will–”

“Rick.” Eddie tries to punch through the tension with the big man’s name. “It was Lacy’s dad. Right? You can just say it was her dad.”

Rick’s brow sinks into a wrinkle. “...Lacy? The fuck kind of a dumb name is that?”

“It’s a nickname.” Why does Eddie feel defensive.

“The fuck kind of a dumb nickname is that?”

“They call you Reefer Rick.”

“That is a calculated business decision, a calling card if you w–”

“Rick. Can we close in on the point, here?” Ooh! Seems to actually work this time, much to Eddie’s relief. “I only got so many if you wills left in me.”

“Si, pronto,” Rick nods with apologetic understanding; he’s such an empath, this guy, “Long and short of it is, her pops offered me a little bit of cash and some assistance, iffin’ I promised to keep an eye on her.”

“Assistance…?” Eddie murmured out of the side of his mouth. It’s all in the way Rick says it! “Like…” Hand a loose fist. Jerky-jerk.

“Eddie,” Rick chides, “Assistance gettin’ out. In prison, that is just called bein’ sociable. –anyway, I have this conflict of interest, with the whole surveillance thing.”

“And what is that?”

“You.” The way Rick drops it is obviously meant to cause some kinda ripple effect of realization, but Eddie’s still confused.

“So you… didn’t take the money?”

“Huh?” Now Rick’s all confused. “Of course I took the fuckin’ money! What kind of a chump do I look like, man? What I’m getting at is, I knew that rattin’ on her also meant rattin’ on you.”

“Wh– why would it…”

“I got eyes everywhere, man. Dig? I’ve seen what’s been happening.”

Eddie’s heart leaps into his larynx. Eyes everywhere. And the truth was, you two had been stupid enough to be a lot of everywhere, thinking your respective trailers were the only hot zones. The Bookstore, the Hawk, Main Street Vinyl, Family Video, the diner, you name a Hawkins establishment and it has probably seen Eddie Munson and Lacy Doevski good-naturedly bickering in its aisles.

He wonders if Rick even had eyes in the Ecker trailer. Ronnie could be a Lipton informant. That girl can hold a secret about as well as Wayne Munson can hold his liquor, which is gracefully.

“Nothing’s been happening, we’re just–”

“Eddie.” Like a bulldozer, this guy. “I know Ivana pretty well. You ain’t hangin’ around that bookstore for the good of your health.”

“So what, you’re gonna–,” Eddie can feel himself starting to scramble, starting to sweat, backed into a corner like a hunted animal, “...tell her dad that we went to the movies a couple of times? That I go to her job, that I– that we’re–”

“What are you?” The way Rick puts it to him– rock, meet hard place. Should this really feel like such a tough question to answer?

“Friends.”

Rick draws up to his full height (tall, mountain man) and looks at him like he just shoved a cream pie into his face.

“It doesn’t matter, okay!” Eddie froths over, like a snapping dog, “We’re barely hanging out– anymore– so you can… you’re not gonna tell him anything, are you?”

Rick’s hands slowly, slowly rise, urging him to calm the yapping. No need to get into such a tizzy. Which Eddie wishes he could believe.

“‘course not, man,” he shakes his head, “Ray Doevski only needs to know what Ray Doevski absolutely needs to know.” Eddie can feel a little more weight behind that sentence than he’d like. “No reason you need to figure into this story.”

“That– that’s it? You’re not gonna tell him about u– about me?”

“You’re in enough of a shitheap as it is, is how I see it.” A beat. Rick takes him in; really takes him in. Feels like an embrace, his stare. Concern uncrinkles the ever-present smile in Rick’s eyes.

“Eddie, you care about this girl?”

Eddie’s mouth attempts to form around an answer, but he’s just blinking into nothing. Does he care about you? Does he care about you? He wants, needs to say no, to pfft you off, but every molecule is screaming otherwise. And Rick can sense it, operating on the extraterrestrial level that he does.

“Then I’m real sorry.”

“For what?”

As if on cue, car wheels on gravel shuck Rick’s attention away from him. His eyeballs jitter in his head, heading for the door– Eddie close behind him. “Sorry for what, Rick–?!”

“Little bit for that, little bit for… this.”

Standing in the window of Rick’s living room, these two watch an offensively red muscle car skew into the driveway, making a mockery of Eddie’s beat up van. The driver’s door pops open and the first thing Eddie clocks is a blinding glint off some brand new aviator sunglasses.

The second is that trademark Munson smile.

—

“This is exciting!” Nancy Wheeler says, kind of flatly but with a conviction buried deep under her curled bangs.

On the table sits two piles of playing cards, one steadily growing and one steadily decreasing.

You two had taken to playing gin rummy when staring at paper layouts became a little too much. Technically, she actually had a say in layout and you were just nosy, but it’s a decent excuse to hang out. Though, both you and Nancy had this incredible tendency to hyperfocus on detail so hard that neither of you could pull the other out far enough to look at the big picture, so one day she tossed a deck of cards your way and said, “Deal!”

“I know,” you say, trying to focus on these melds of suits you’re making– that discard pile is looking poor, “Fresh turn for me, y’know? Less fluffy, more Didion.”

Nancy snorts softly, swapping out a card from her hand. “Who does that make Eddie? Charlie? Or Linda Kasabian?”

A smile dances across your lips and you shrug, reaching for a cigarette before you go for another card. Usually, smoking in the newsroom was prohibited, as it was prohibited on most of Hawkins High grounds, but whenever that deck came out, you felt it was appropriate for at least one of you to be smoking. Gave a kind of Torchy Blane feel to the whole scenario which fit you and Wheeler pret-ty keenly, if you did say so yourself.

“That’s not what I was talking about, though,” Nancy says, poking Fred Benson’s empty mug toward you to use as an ashtray.

Your eyes narrow; this could be a play to distract you from a winning hand.

“It’s not?”

“No…” she puffs out another soft scoff, meeting your eyes over her fan of cards, “I mean the college guy.”

“Why is it exciting?” and you do want to know why Nancy thinks so. She’s a mile wiser beyond her years, even precocious enough to keep in step with you most of the time. You’d like her take.

“Well, it’s what you wanted, right?” she tells you, watching you puff your cigarette and dig into the stock pile. “Somebody older, decidedly not a grabby high school boy– but someone with more experience, both with girls and with being outside of Hawkins. And the fact he goes to Vassar means–”

“He probably eats kitty like a maniac.”

Nancy lets out this full-bodied Merlot of a laugh, only a little color dashing over her cheeks. She’s gotten used to you being provocative on purpose because it gets a laugh out of her. So far grown out of the prude shoes you were sure she was still sporting. You’re proud of her.

“Not exactly what I was getting at but– more sensitive to the female perspective, sure.” But then she registers what you forgot you’d even dropped. “Hold on, probably? You mean you haven’t–...”

You shrug. It’s a little withdrawn on your part.

“Oh,” Nancy says, and seems to be leaning a degree or two towards unsurprised. That ruffles your feathers a little bit. Again, with the frigid thing. You couldn’t shake it.

“No,” you emphasize, shucking your pitiful melds back again. “It's not as if we haven't–done things. I've copped a handful. Time is of the essence, and I take, y'know, a little more time to get there.”

“So no return on investment...?”

"Not... yet."

Nancy almost tosses her cards at you, the way she jabs them through the air. “You? You, the one who’s been preaching Betty Friedman to me, you haven't been getting–”

“Yes, me! Did you not hear me about time and the essence?”

“I know, it’s just– a little surprising.”

There have been exactly three instances of almost you tying your panties to the rearview mirror of college boy’s Ford Cortina, so to speak, and you’ve come out of each one with this desperate echo of oh well! Maybe next time! careening around your skull. Like you’re trying to convince yourself that by virtue of him not being in your grade, this has been a worthwhile way to spend your time. And listen, no misunderstandings here, it has! At least, part of it. It usually starts like this– the two of you grab some shitty diner coffee or some shitty diner food and then he takes you around in his car for a turn or two, admiring that famous Hawkins scenery (see: shuttered businesses and if you’re really lucky, that one mangy fox that feasts on the overflowing trash can near the Big Buy). You talk (you mostly talk) books and movies and say something that should be a hook of conversation but usually ends up with him screwing his face up in amusement and saying something along the lines of, “God, you’re so beyond this place.”

Which, duh. You’ve been saying this. This is the raft upon which your whole identity floats.

The exchange dies in the air and he puts his hand on your leg and that is just… wonderful. He’s a solid B on the kissing GPA, and he’s cute and sort of funny, even if he doesn’t rally back jokes the way you’d… sort of gotten used to. Sometimes he makes a halfway-interesting observation about like, Philip Roth or somebody. But when it comes down to the minute of it, it still feels like going through the motions. Fumble bra strap, catch nail on his zipper, crank back passenger seat to climb in the back. Hey presto, you’ve distractedly jerked off a boy once again.

You are not entirely sold on the fit of his hands on your body, even if he doesn’t look at you like he’s just solved a Rubik’s cube.

In fact, he kind of looks at you like you’re precious. Virginal precious. Innocent precious. Which you’re not totally sold on either.

Nothing about him that makes you fantasize about what his mouth might feel like on you. What your fingers might feel like wound around his curls. His hair doesn’t even curl. There’s just nothing about him that calls for your full attention.

“Think there might be a reason for that?” Nancy, your annoyingly perceptive Nancy, presses. Goddamn intrepid girl reporter. She hasn’t stopped staring at you with that smug little look. You haven’t answered the question. “And it might be… living across the way from you?”

“Tch. What?” you snip. “I’m… having fun. What?”

“Nothing,” she smiles. “Just… gin.”

She lays out her dazzling melds, complete with a measly goddamned three in deadwood cards and you toss your own bullshit hand to the side. A dumb amount of spades that add up to nothing scatter across the desk. An accusatory finger jams in her direction.

“You are a fucking card shark.”

“Nope!” Nancy says, popping her ‘p’, “I just know a really great set when I see one.”

Reaching into Fred’s mug, you crush your cigarette with a little too much force. Now, how would Nancy have a read on that? you think, oblivious to your own obviousness. (Like a neon sign. Like a circus tent.)

You hadn’t even reminded her of the catastrophic events of her thirteenth birthday which led to a whole lot of this awkwardness, which, now that you thought about it, actually implicated her in the crime of you kissing Eddie Munson ‘til you were breathless in Granny Ecker’s closet.

If you hadn’t been born and had a birthday, I wouldn’t be in a spiral over some boy with a curl pattern like a fucking backwoods libertine.

“You’re not clever,” you tell her, but she’s looking at you all cleverly, “Like. You’re clever, but I need you to know that you’re not clever.”

With flicking fingernails, Nancy picks up your discarded cards and folds them neatly back in the deck.

“I’m just saying,” and the tone she takes is a little gentler now, “don’t… let yourself miss out on something just because, I don’t know, the thing you’re currently having fun with is what you think you want. What you feel you want and what you think you want are two very different–”

“This isn’t entirely about me, is it?” you realize, defenses peeling down a little bit. The Nancy and Steve of it all had been looming since your (admittedly triumphant!) visit to the war memorial that was the boy’s bathroom. Still no sign of that place getting fixed, by the by. And ever still, Nancy hadn’t told Steve about their little mission. Many a reason for that, you were led to believe. Not a lot she wanted to dissect, though.

Nancy’s face scrunches up and she stops packing the cards.

“No. But let’s pretend like it is.”

A groan escapes you as you sink back into your chair, a twinge of pain running along your shoulders.

“Nance. This is all so much more complicated than you realize.”

“Try me.”

You toss a hand through your hair, slapping your palm down on the desk.

“Fine. But if I tell you this–”

A hand rises out between the two of you– yours, pinkie extended.

“Not a word,” you press.

Nancy clamps her finger around yours in a way that enforces how super-serious she is about this. The reason your usual reserve doesn’t hold up under that x-ray stare of hers is because you can tell she actually gives a shit. She’s not looking for gossip. She cares. Which is still an entirely alien feeling to you.

So the whole thing spills out. Steve’s party, the record store, getting locked up in Eddie’s trailer and getting locked up in feelings, Roane County Quarry’s incredible acoustics, the friendship that made you fold all the neatly arranged origami parts of yourself out toward him only to realize you had no idea how to fold them back. The kiss. The subsequent awkwardness of said kiss. The college guy. The relative radio silence. The fact that…

“...I don’t feel like myself when he’s not around,” you say, lighting a fourth cigarette off your third. “Isn’t that silly? I spent all this time painting this like, fabulous eggshell of myself then this wild-eyed, smart-mouthed, catastrophic ass smashes it clean open and now–”

“All the college boys couldn’t put you together again,” Nancy nods. “You’re a very beautiful Humpty Dumpty.”

“... does Humpty Dumpty die in the end?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be teaching it to kids.”

“No. They should know. The fall comes for us all.”

There’s a suspended silence. You get this feeling like you’ve emptied your purse on the table and you still can’t find that thing you’re looking for, despite sifting through everything.

“How does that even happen?” you question, biting at the skin on your little finger. Not Humpty Dumpty, the Eddie thing. It comes out idle, but you pray that Nancy, with her feelings scalpel and surgical precision, doesn't decide to answer it.

Instead, she says, “You need a photographer for that piece.”

Thatta girl. Your dimmer switch turns up. “Fred hasn’t even okayed it yet.”

“I’ll deal with William Randolph Hearst, okay?” Nancy says derisively and tosses her eyes to heaven. She pushes her chair back. “Ask Jonathan Byers.”

“He hasn’t taken photos for us in a while,” you remark, eyes searching Nancy. She’s readying herself to leave, so totally dodging this line of questioning before you can even cast it. Clever.

“No, he has not,” she sighs, winding her scarf around her neck, “But he’d be good for this. He knows how to capture action. And his kid brother plays DnD with mine, so this’d be, like… nice for them.”

And this is just as much me making amends with Jonathan Byers as it is you, backwards as it may seem, you nearly hear her say. Or you’re making that up.

Shame Nancy is so dead set on becoming the next Nellie Bly. Under the right circumstances, she’d make a hell of a normal person.

Good thing you prefer freaks.

—

Jonathan Byers is a notoriously hard boy to get a hold of, it turns out. Nancy passed along his number (which, you actually already had but you didn’t bring that little detail up) and when you finally punched it in on the yellowing phone nailed to the wall of your trailer, it rang and rang and rang.

Which, after the fourth time, was just rude. Do the Byers have a thing about not answering the phone, or something?

“Jonathan!” you holler across the parking lot, emerging from the passenger side of Nancy’s car this time.

College guy was decidedly busy and despite the hanging tension, you’d toyed with the idea of asking Eddie for a ride. Alas, the boy in the Dio patched battle vest was nowhere to be seen. His van hadn’t been there since the weekend and he had been MIA from school the last couple of days, actually, which was itching at you.

It also made you miss when you had a goddamn set of wheels at your disposal.

Anyway, Jonathan looks at you with flaring eyes, kind of like you’ve just stuck a shotgun to his snout and there’s no hope of him making a getaway. “Um…”

Now, keep in mind that these are the first words you’ve spoken to him in a measurable high school forever, so his surprise is entirely justified. It’s just not within the beam of your patience right now.

“Hi. Can we chat?” you say, falling in step with him as you head towards the front door. You don’t bother asking for permission, and forgiveness won’t be necessary. “I was hoping you could help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

Blink, blink. Jonathan’s grasping for words– seems to be a lot of that going around lately.

You strike your hand through the air. “Let me put it to you like this– you are going to help me out with a piece for the Streak.”

“Why?” he asks, and it’s prickly.

“Becauuuse,” you draw out, “I need a photographer. And god knows whenever Nicole attempted to work a lens, those snapshots were so out-of-focus they looked like an optical illusion.”

“And, you’re not talking to Nicole right now,” Jonathan nails you, but not totally. In your mind, you revisit flashes of Nicole recounting, in gloriously erroneous detail, those photos Jonathan had taken of Nancy. You had pretended to be scandalized and rolled your eyes, thinking what’s a little peep show among losers.

“Even if I was,” you say, dogging Jonathan all the way to his locker, “I still wouldn’t ask her. This is important to me.”

That avoidant Byers reserve stands strong, with Jonathan grabbing books in hurried succession. He is trying to get away from you, but that’s not happening without an emphatic yes!

“I don’t even really–”

“Take pictures anymore?” you pfft, pointing to his messenger bag, “Twenty bucks says your camera is in there and the film’s half shot.”

“I don’t have twenty bucks.”

“Me neither,” you shrug, “Spent it on that new Echo & the Bunnymen.”

Jonathan hesitates a bit, fingers strumming against his biology textbook. A thread of something long forgotten by the listening booths of Main Street Vinyl tugs between you both, but it’s not weighed down by the prospect of will we kiss about it. He kind of smiles.

“What did you think? I haven’t gotten down to hear it yet.”

You thought it made you want a flowing dress and a place to prance. Like if the more whimsical end of Fleetwood Mac didn’t exhaust you. Those last four tracks snapped your heartstrings like suspenders, with comical aplomb.

“Grandiose! That ‘Killing Moon’ song? It’s got Jonathan Byers written all over it,” you chirp, and mean it. “I’ll make you a copy if you put that camera to work for me.”

He shrugs, but you can see you’re wearing him down. “I’m not much for shooting pep rallies.”

“Liar. Wheeler says you’re top banana in the action shots department,” you counter, “But how about players? I think I want some portraits, too. Non-corny ones.”

“What team?” Jonathan screws up his nose. The distaste for jockery runs deep, and rightfully so.

But you shake your head, face curving into an expression of near excitement.

“No team. Better, and worse, depending on what side of the cafeteria you’re sitting,” your hands splay out, and for god’s sake, you feel like Munson himself, “Hellfire Club.”

Jonathan looks like his record’s skipped. Eyeballs sort of jiggle in his skull and he mouths, oh, like the association of you between Hellfire should mean something. Suspiciously like Nancy, and just suspicious period. Your eyebrows start to inch towards one another.

“What’s that look? Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Um,” he dillies, then dallies, “Sure. Yeah. You know, my kid brother loves DnD.”

Ah, yes. The other Byers boy, the one who’d gone missing all that time ago. You remembered. Actually, you remembered not being able to figure out how you should feel about it– how you should act, other than falling in line with the majority of people who were giving Jonathan shit at the time. You regret that now, with a chill that runs right down to your toes.

“Could be cool for him to see, no?” you try, corner of your mouth lifting, “A little niche in the midst the high school horrors. To look forward to, y’know.”

The look on Jonathan’s face is more than a little bit screaming, that’s rich, coming from you, you were the high school horror. But he shakes it off, because he’s nicer than you are, even though he doesn’t need to be.

“Yeah… whatever you say, Lacy. When do you need me?”

You tell him Friday and he agrees, much to your satisfaction. You’re just about to punch him on the shoulder like teamwork, buddy! before he saves you such a wildly out-of-character display by dodging toward his homeroom.

You sail toward your locker like the bastard that’s risen alongside the cream, only to be greeted by something… strange. Scratches, all around the maudlin gray paintwork of your combination lock. Like it’d been tampered with, or something. A blaze of paranoia burns at the base of your skull, and you instinctively try to recount where your journal is… in your bag. Phew. Fine. This could be… anything.

Fingers reach forward to twist your lock, and with the slightest touch, the door is forced open by a push from the other side. A flash of bright red, then SPLAT. Yellow, SPLAT, blue, SPLAT, SPLAT, SPLAT! You shriek a real ear-piercing shriek as at least a dozen water balloons spill out of your locker, hitting the floor with an obscene smack. Water dashes everywhere, and you’re barely able to move out of the splash zone in time.

“What the fuck!’

Within seconds, there’s a hubbub and a crowd’s gathering, trading sickening snickers with one another as you peer into the dark of your locker. You gingerly step through the puddle, suede boots irreparably spattered, and yank the door the whole way open. There, sat atop your schoolbooks and a stray water balloon that hadn’t made the fall, is a horribly familiar set of test tubes.

In one of them sits a squirt of blue liquid and that offensive strip of plastic. And scrawled across it in clumsy black marker?

IT’S A FREAK!

Realization hits you like Carol did, making your head swim among all the murmurs of oh my god… and gross! and told you–trailer trash and unconcealed cackles. A voice sparks up like a sizzling ember in a swathe of darkness.

“Where’s your baby daddy at, Lacy? Get tossed in the slammer with your old man?”

The languid tones of none other than Billy All-Balls-No-Brains Hargrove drift by you, sailing right past the back of your head as you stare a hole through the innards of your locker. Then, your stupid hippocampus gears up– Robin, mentioning ‘your whole thing’ while Genovese baby-barfed her guts up, Ronnie urging her to shut the fuck up, even Jonathan Byers was privy to this hot little piece of gossip.

This theory that you were up the spout with Munson Junior Junior.

How many people had seen you, stupid little you, coming out of that drugstore hiking that Advance box over your head like the championship cup? Seen you hopping into Eddie’s van– and out of it, and back in again on what now seemed like countless occasions?

Nobody could have suspected it was Nancy’s test, because nobody saw her. They saw you. That was the whole idea. You just didn’t consider the blowback.

“What’s going on out here?” the softly-coated concern of Ms Kelley rings out in the hallway, doing absolutely nothing to disperse the peanut gallery that’s set up around your locker.

“Lacy?” her voice points to you. Even the goddamn guidance counselor uses your beloved nickname.

You don’t react. You don’t even know what you’re doing until you come to a couple of paces down the hallway, feeling the thin, straining rubber in the palm of your hand. Your footsteps make heavy, wet, slapping noises against the linoleum as you follow the half-slouched shouldered swagger of Billy Hargrove down the hall.

Down, and down, and down towards the boy’s locker room and he doesn’t even register it, and you don’t even register that Ms Kelley is still calling your name–your full name, now–until she’s two dozen paces behind you, losing you in the throng of students making their way to class and you shove past half-dressed seniors in the locker room who guffaw at you in a way that feels like a knife in your gut and you yell, voice shaking–

“Hey Billy!”

And launch the water balloon, making square contact with his smug face.

“Cute fucking prank!”

His reaction, predictably, is way too slowww moooootion for your fucking liking, so you don’t even give him a shot to fully wipe his face off and mumble, “What the fuuuuck is yourrrr probbbblemmm, ssssllluuuutttt…”

You just go for him with the ferocity of a jumping jackal. Hands ball in his stupid sleeveless flannel (it’s winter in Indiana, you West Coast jackass!) and you shove him against the lockers with– well, with the strength only an ex-cheerleader brimming with suffocated rage would have.

Metal clatters and one empty unit even careens over like a big tin domino and you say, “Come up with that idea all by yourself, you fucking nimrod?”

Billy just smirks at you in half-speed, mullet sopping, as if this is a come-on. “I had a little help.”

It occurs to you that right here, right now, you could sell Nancy Wheeler down the river. You could be the you you once were, and you could say, well, primo observation skills, that pregnancy test wasn’t even for me!

But you don’t, because a pinky promise is a fucking pinky promise.

You let go of Billy’s shirt. Step off. “You’re pathetic,” you spit, but it feels more pathetic coming from you. All that molten blood in your veins makes you want to eviscerate him and whoever else was involved in orchestrating this stupid, stupid, stupid prank. But you come up lacking. Fuck!

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you start to rush out of the locker room– but you’ve given Billy a reason now, and he’s gonna follow you.

“Shit, are you crying? Those hormones must have you really messed up, huh?” he faux-croons, the thunk-thunk of his poseur motorcycle boots following you to the back entrance, by the sports equipment. Your eyes are streaming freely now, lashes frantically blinking a path to vision.

But Billy isn’t letting up. And like the Pied Piper of slimeballs, he’s drawing followers– not least of which include Tommy Hagan.

“What about that college dropout you’re banging, Lacy?” his nasally tone slices through Billy’s tarry taunting. “He know you’re knocked up yet?”

“Jesus Christ, Doevski! I’m impressed,” Billy laughs, “Just how many loads are you taking?”

An abandoned baseball bat lies on the ground, having rolled out of the sports closet; instinct behind the wheel of your personal van, you stoop to pick it up and shove through the doors. You can nearly feel the breath of Hargrove and Hagan and all of these horrific, horrific boys with nothing better to do than to torture you hot on the back of your neck.

“Not yours, that’s for fucking sure,” you manage, your voice thick. The bat, at least, feels solid in your hand.

“It’s fun not being frigid, ain’t it, Lacy?” Billy goes on, and you squint against the sunlight as you round the building. “Tell me this, Munson teach you how to suck cock yet? ‘cause if not, I got a little time on my hands.”

Forging ahead, you cross the tarmac of the parking lot. The soft frost hasn’t even totally thawed out yet, sparkling atop the paintwork of Billy’s blue Camaro.

“That a fact, Billy?” you say, tears drying in quick streaks in that brisk morning air, leaving rivets in your made-up face.

You use your momentum to launch one foot onto the hood of Billy’s car, then the other. You nearly slip against the icy exterior, but steady yourself fast. Bat dangling at your side. Stomp. Stomp. You stand on the roof, and turn to face this congregation of assholes. You do not let sense set in, despite it threatening to inch through the white hot flame of your rage.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Billy outright cackles and Hagan and company guffaw along with him.

“Billy,” you sigh, a little breathless from the speed at which you’d booked it from the locker room to the parking lot, and the sheer vigor of your shock, awe and rancor, and everything else, “What the hell am I supposed to do with your limp dick in my mouth? Chew on the fuckin’ thing?”

Billy repeats himself, a touch darker now. “What the fuck are you doing.”

“I’m serious!” you say, a little shrill, a little stomp to punctuate that last word, “One thing you can say for Eddie Munson, is at least the motherfucker can get hard!”

Motorcycle boots advance towards you, and you point the bat at him like a broadsword.

“Do not. Come any closer. Or I’m gonna start doing some serious damage to this ugly piece of overcompensation.”

“She’s bluffing,” Hagan crows, and you turn your flaming glare on him. You wish you had a mirror– you wonder if crazy becomes you. Billy takes a pointed step forward and you raise the bat above your, head bracing for action– that’s enough movement for him.

“Gimme that bat, you stupid fucking cunt–!” But Billy’s cut short by a body barrelling into the side of him, knocking him askew. A jangle of denim and leather. The bat slips a little in your grasp.

“Get the fuck off of me Munson–”

“No way to talk to a lady, Billy!” Eddie gasps, tossing Billy back and letting his limbs hang. “You kiss Karen Wheeler with that mouth?”

Billy rounds on him like a triggered animal, spittle flying.

“Some fucking lady!” he snarls, “Got downgraded to that trailer park and now her snooty ass is spreading it for half of Hawkins! Desperate! Stringin’ you along like the dumb piece of shortbus shit you a–”

Activated, you throw that bat to the fucking wayside and scramble off the fucking car– nobody talks to him like that!

But you’re not fast enough, nobody’s fast enough, nobody can compete with how huge and booming and definite Eddie’s voice sounds when he says, smile glimmering, sun breaking through the bleak midwinter…

“You know what I like about you, Hargrove?”

THKUNCK. Bone to bone, fist meet fucking flesh–

“Nothin’.”

A scuffle goes up, and Eddie can’t even feel the hits of Hargrove’s hands connecting with his face, chest, ribs, wherever– all he can feel are your arms locking in vice around his waist, putting yourself in the eye of the storm in order to yank him back.

—

You got an elbow to the crown of the head, which isn’t too bad, even if you feel like a cartoonish lump should be rising there. But look at these other guys.

Billy with a black eye that’s bulging up rapidly, Eddie with a split lip and more than a couple of scratches on his knuckles. In that fray, he hadn’t exactly considered the implications of punching a guy with all his goddamned rings on. The implications being that shit hurt like hell. There is this radiating pain in his hand, not letting him unfurl his fingers completely.

There’s also this radiating feeling of dread cloaking his entire upper half as you sit three-to-the-wall outside Higgins’ office. You had, in Eddie’s estimation, incredibly bad timing.

See, considering the events of his past week, he was slowly making peace with the fact that he should probably be avoiding you entirely, even if that meant he died a little inside. He should have been doing that from the jump– but you, unbuttoned and reckless now apparently, kept requiring interventions so you didn’t get killed, or worse.

And Eddie couldn’t help himself when it came to you. Especially not when you were standing on top of Billy Hargrove’s sick Camaro, swinging a baseball bat and getting called some shit that no one should ever be calling you.

You’re out of control. Totally unsheathed. End of your rope. Unlaced.

And he’d do just about anything to keep you safe.

Even fuck up his guitar-playing hand. Which is also his…

“I can’t believe you fucking suckerpunched me,” Hargrove mumbles from your left. “With those ugly fucking rings on.”

Eddie can’t help himself, the last shred of propriety knocked out round about the time a knee to the ribs had winded him. “Aw. Billy. Don’t be so hard on yourself–”

“Eddie…,” you start, tone warning in a way that makes him want to pinch you, kind of. He leans towards Hargrove, meaning he’s leaning over you. Hair brushing across your shoulder. You notice that it smells distinctively skunkier than usual. Camping out at Lipton Landing?

“--honestly! You’re no sucker!” he implores, eyes shining in jest, “You totally had that coming!”

You hear Billy seething from his end, Eddie snickering from his and launch a well-timed arm in front of both of them before they can snap at it again.

“Cut it out, assholes! This is becoming increasingly more pigheaded.”

“And you’re the voice of perfect reason now, huh?” Eddie sneers, not giving you much breathing room. “Where’s the bat at, Babe Ruth?”

“In the parking lot, waiting to finish you off,” you grit back, nearly nose-to-nose with him, because you don’t know how to digest the guilt of his aching fingers.

“What are you mad at me for?” Eddie hisses, a smirk threatening to break his scowl, because he doesn’t know how not to provoke you.

“Knocking her up, probably,” Billy mumbles from the side.

“Shut up, Hargrove!” you both snap, eyes never leaving one another.

Higgins’ door creaks open and a quietly livid Ms Kelley says, “Lacy.” She jerks her head, motioning for you to up and at ‘em. You do, but not without one last look at Eddie, cradling his hand. Round, bottomless irises meet yours for a moment, then dart away with an impact that thickens your throat.

His poor hand, you find yourself thinking.

“He needs an ice pack…” you find yourself mumbling, Kelley shuffling you into Higgins’ office. The principal sits behind his beat-up desk, fingers steepled. You absently wonder if he’s been campaigning for a new, shinier, possibly more oaken desk because this doesn’t paint the picture of threatening figurehead that he so clearly wants you to tremble under.

You accidentally kick the thing, crossing your legs as you sit. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Higgins declares. Here we fucking go.

“Permission to state my case?” you attempt. This hadn’t been your first time in the principal’s office; minor classroom infractions, a saccharine we’ll do everything to help that we can after your dad’s arraignment, but this time was certainly the worst.

“Denied,” he shoots you down.

“Permission to submit a plea of temporary insanity, then,” you try, patting at the sore spot on the crown of your head. “You know this doesn’t bode with my track record. You think I climbed on top of Billy Hargrove’s car completely compos mentis? Please.”

A tense silence from Higgins’ and Kelley’s end.

“You saw what Hargrove did, didn’t you? That disgusting prank?”

Again, nada.

“I’m a honor student, for Chrissake!” you exclaim, and Kelley plucks herself from the windowsill behind Higgins’ desk.

“Were an honor student, Ms Doevski,” she corrects. “Your grades have been slipping since– the events of the last couple of months. You’ve dropped cheerleading, you’ve made really puzzling false claims about peer tutoring, you…”

“Yes! Yes, the events of the last couple of months, if by which you mean familial imprisonment, then yes, I’ve been a little distracted!”

Higgins kicks back in his seat just as you hitch forward in yours, too angry to be pleading but too desperate to defy. His turn to mutter here we fucking go.

“I can turn this around,” redirected to Ms Kelley and her ever-sympathetic expression, “I can turn this around.”

“College applications deadlines are within touching distance, Lacy.” She of little faith.

“I know that!” As if your hands aren’t itching every time college guy mentions Ithaca or… wherever the fuck it is he goes. As if that isn’t a crack in the assuredness that you were going to take flight out of this town in a spectacular fashion.

“Ladies– can we dispense with the hysteria and deal with the here and now?” Higgins insists and you and Kelley, despite your opposition, share a look.

World class, this guy. Top of his field, asshole-wise.

“Two week suspension should do it,” he says, jotting something down.

You open your mouth in protest and Kelley quells you– you’re in no position to start bargaining down.

“Technically, she didn’t do anything,” and for good measure, but pressed, “Sir.”

“She climbed on top of that boy’s car with a baseball bat!” Higgins barks; now who’s hysteric?! “She had intent to do harm!”

“It was justified.” You can’t help yourself.

Kelley stares him down, and that woman’s charm is something that should be studied in a fucking lab, because he relents right away.

“Two weeks of Saturday detention, then. Christ. Am I going soft?”

You shake your head, all the knots in your body releasing just a little bit. You try to dig out what’s left of your once-famously refined charm, while simultaneously dashing towards the door before he can change his mind.

“Au contraire. You’re a paragon of masculinity, sir. Regan could take a hint. Door open or closed?”

Higgins grimaces. “Send in Hargrove. Tell Munson he’s suspended. I don’t have time for both of those pricks today.”

Eddie’s voice travels through the crack in the door. “I heard that, sir.” A beat. “I miss you, sir.”

You bite back a deeply reluctant laugh and jerk your head toward Billy. You’re up, champ.

Then, it’s the two of you. You and Eddie, Eddie and you. Alone, save for the ever watchful jam jar eyes of Janice the secretary. Eddie is still nestling one hand in the other like it’s a baby bird with a broken wing. Shit, you really hope it isn’t broken.

“You’re suspended. They told me to tell you.” It’s a statement made to turkey-stuff the silence more than anything.

The way Eddie lolls his head back makes you want to reach out and push it in the opposite direction. You don’t know why.

“You’re a regular town crier, ain’t ya.”

“Hear ye, hear ye.”

A leaden pause. Your hearts might have thumped both in time just now.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“No leaving school grounds,” Janice unhelpfully squawks.

Eddie gets up, drawing himself to his full height. Your eyelids flutter. There’s a little purple around that cut on his lip, which you bet is starting to throb something awful. You feel dwarfed beside him, and he uses his good hand to turn you by the shoulder and shuffle you past the nosy secretary’s post.

“I meant the sick bay, Janice,” Eddie pelts, giving each vowel sound a hard flick. “I’m wounded. And she’s apparently pregnant. Or didn’t you hear?”

—

The nurse’s office is tiny and cramped, smelling of bleach with a glaring fluorescent overhead. Eddie has a hard time figuring out why anyone would come here to feel better. Especially given that Nurse Lydia is barely ever present.

Eddie carpes the opportunity to slam himself down on her rolling saddle chair, gliding into your path as you try and snoop around for first aid materials.

“I don’t think you should be driving that thing,” you remark, “You could be concussed. You’re acting concussed.”

“It’s keeping me awake!”

Eddie watches you, digging through drawers and pulling out tongue depressors, your teeth making an indent into your bottom lip. Your eyes are doing that darty thing, quietly frantic in place of an apology. You don’t know how to say sorry you got wailed on by Hargrove for me. Instead, you’re acting like he’s bleeding out.

“Lace, just wait for the professional.”

The clip of your nickname makes you toss your stare over your shoulder, hardness framing your eyes like mascaraed lashes. Eddie stops rolling around at once.

“I am the goddamn professional, as far as you’re concerned.” Your little chin jerks towards the exam table that’s beat into the corner of the room. “Get on the bed.”

Whack-a-mole. Woodpecker. Other euphemisms for his cock developing a pulse. Eddie has to physically restrain his jaw from dropping.

“Yes, Nurse Ratched.”

Scoffing out a little fuck you!, you go about scrambling together supplies and Eddie obediently launches himself onto the bed, the ancient thing creaking beneath him. When you finally approach him, you seem to be holding a lot of alcohol pads.

The look before you admit to a shortcoming is one he wants framed. You always flick your eyes around like a guilty cartoon character, like Betty Boop on her way to gaining a doctorate in the pretentiousness of the English language, and pout. Lean your neck in, like you’re swearing him to secrecy.

“I actually don’t know anything about first aid. Beyond the rudimentaries.”

Eddie chuckles. “You were a cheerleader. You were getting thrown in the air a whole bunch, if I recall. Feels like you should know how to like, resuscitate.”

“Rudimentaries, I said!” and you grab his injured hand a little roughly, alcohol pad torn out and ready, “Like, I obviously know alcohol disinfects a wound, ice for a bruise… I don’t know how to, like, reset a bone. Besides…”

You inch closer to him now, wiping at his torn and tender knuckles a little too carefully. They’re just stupid cuts, Eddie thinks, his breath beginning to shallow.

“...that Cat People remake was premiering at the Hawk the day we had first aid training. Like I was going to miss that.”

He can feel heat radiating off your body, a core change for cold little you. Feel the fabric of your skirt brush the rip in his jeans. A little choked, he mumbles, “Cat People is a remake?”

“Based on the 1942 original,” you nod, flicking the tiny used pad in the nearby trash can. “I like it. But I like that David Bowie song more.”

“That song sucks.”

“You’re injured and wrong. What a shame.” Your fingers close around Eddie’s wrist and slowly, slowly press his forearm to his chest. “Keep that elevated.”

“It’s not broken,” and he’s staring at the quiet tremble in your bottom lip.

“Could be sprained,” head cast down again, tearing open another pad, and he can smell your hair, “Does it hurt?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, because he’s waiting for you to look back up. Because he thinks he’s going to carpe something else.

You fall for it, and your eyes sucker him in. He feels weak in the joints. You repeat yourself. “Does it hurt, Eddie?”

He just nods, boyishly. Nearly passes out when your fingertips tilt his face towards the light. Skin buzzing underneath them, you peering at his mouth like you know what you’re doing. The slit in his lip feels raw and strained.

“This’ll hurt, too,” you murmur, and he feels your breath against his jaw. A sharp prick from the alcohol against his cut doesn’t make him wince– worse. As you swipe the cotton against his bottom lip, he whimpers. Unh.

Oxygen stops short in your throat, hearing that. That noise. It sends a wave of motion through your lower body. You’re leaning awfully close to him, closer than you need to be. In fact, his knees are settled either side of your hips. How did that happen. When did that happen. How did you allow this.

How are you allowing your fingertip to trace against his lip, alcohol evaporating without a hope or a prayer. How are you allowing yourself to look at him through the fan of your lashes, his injured hand still obediently propped against his chest. His good hand pressing into your lower back.

You taste the vagueness of the disinfectant on his lips as he presses them into yours.

Jerking back, you’re not far enough away from him to create a distance that matters. All you see are Eddie’s eyes, flickering open, apologetic in themselves. About to tell you he’s sorry.

No.

Hands fly, one woven in the curls at the base of his skull as you kiss up into him, tongue an impolite peak. This is not the closet; this is arguably far more dangerous, with the nurse’s door still open a courteous gap. This is the harsh light of day. This is Eddie’s hand moving your skirt further up the curve of your ass.

He’s grabbing onto you as best a one-armed man can, and your hand travels in turn. A jagged, fevered path drawing up his thigh until, under your palm, is the hard outline of him. The pressure of your hand over the denim-bound curvature of his cock makes him groan sharply, the sound pressed against your cheek.

Face angles back for a look at him. Because this is bad, mindless, reckless, stupid. And he’s always worth a look.

You spot a tiny speck of blood on the pink of his lip from where his cut had split.

And your curious tongue flicks at it.

Eddie’s eyes flare. You, unable to unglue your stare from his, suck his lightly bleeding lip between yours. Fragile. Crushable.

He did this for you.

No one’s ever cared, or known you enough, to do something like that for you.

Desire moves you like a shockwave and your hand leaves his crotch to help you clamber onto the exam table, clamber into Eddie’s lap.

Downright idiotic.

You cast a glance to the door, Eddie’s fraught breath puffing against your neck.

Thought you were a smart girl.

You look right into his face, the poster boy for sheer distraction, pre-occupation, skin-searing annoyance, nervous charm, surprising wit, magnetism, oh my… and feel his fingers edging far past the hem of your skirt, past the binding top of the thigh-highs you’re wearing because it’s fucking laundry day and stopping at the gusset of your panties.

He can feel how wet you are.

Lips a breath away from each other, one set bleeding, one set housing a gasp. Eddie nudges his forehead against yours, the both of you blind to consequence.

“Just friends, right?” His breath is jagged and unconvinced, and your hips kick toward his hand.

You do not answer.

Unbruised fingers push the fabric covering your radiating heat aside and you have to tighten your grip around the back of his neck so as not to tumble over. Eddie is not deft, because this isn’t the moment to be deft. He plunges two fingers into the plush of your pussy and looks to you with pleading eyes. Eyes that say, is this good, eyes that say, don’t make a sound.

You nod in the affirmative to both and he drags his digits out slowly. Rhythm picks up and you’re clenching around Eddie’s hand in a matter of minutes, lower muscles seizing and het-up moans being gratefully swallowed by him. Pad of his thumb moves to create rough, clumsy friction against your clit that elicits a sharp, high, wanton ah! from you, grinding against him in an unquenchable search for more.

“Does he do this? Does anyone do this for you, Lacy?”

Eddie’s eyes keep searching you for approval and you’ve lost the ability to appease or deny him– all you know is the blind, nonsensical want that’s pouring out of you is being lapped up. Lapped up. His tongue, you want his tongue everywhere, but it’s working at your earlobe, your neck, sucking, whispering, “Just friends? Lacy?”

And when you cum, it’s fast and hard and suffocating, an achievement you’re close to angry at him for– because no one has ever been able to break you apart that fast.

Or at all.

He can never know. He’d be so insufferable about it… some bare fragment of a thought passes through your brain, synapses busy firing elsewhere.

You’re rocking against him through the crest, pressing your forehead to his with such a force that you’re frightened it’ll splinter, you’re murmuring, “Eddie… Eddie, d–hmn, fuck…”

And you can tell by the way he’s attempting to press his body against you that he wishes he hadn’t bust that stupid fucking hand of his, so he could hold you properly– and you’re right. You’re right, you’re always fucking right, but you told him to keep it elevated and he’s going to do what you say.

He’s got no choice when it comes to you.

He needs you safe. Needs you happy. No matter what.

Which is why he’s got to pull this bullshit move.

Eddie is patient and watches you regain a little consciousness, faster than he’s sure you’d like. He extracts his hand and, sticky with you still, wipes it on the thigh of his jeans. Heart thundering in his ears, he tugs you into one more breathless kiss and wonders if you can still taste the rust sharpness of his cut in between your lips. He’s strangled himself against cumming up till this point, and this doesn’t help matters. An imperceptible spot of pre-fun lies in his lap but the thing is, the really fucked thing is–

Eddie gently shoves you away, mind silently babbling for the right thing to say. I’m sorry is something you’d see right through, get off is too harsh, oopsie is too fucking whimsical–

But you, ever-perceptive you, you realize your place. Knock yourself back into reality so fiercely that he’s afraid it’ll bruise you, lovely, awe-inspiring you that just softened into his hands like that. You clumsily clamber off the exam table in a hot flash of rejection, which– no, god, no, he doesn’t mean that…

“I–”

“No, I know,” you grit, prickly all over. Thumbing at the edge of your blurred lipstick. “I know. I certainly know.”

Eddie dares to look at you and you dare to look back at him. His lips looking worse off from you, but at the very least kissed. At the very least kissed, but you could cry with the empty feeling inside you. A cavern of a girl. You nod curtly, like this is the conclusion of a particularly charged run-in of acquaintances, not like you wanted him to swallow you whole moments ago.

Slipping out of the nurse’s office, you run right into the myth that is Nurse Lydia.

She looks tan.

“He’s,” you struggle, “He’s waiting for you.”

—

Cheating out sick from school and taking a shift at The Bookstore following the latest in a series of apparently neverending aftershocks was probably not the smartest call– but hell, you’re fresh out of smart calls.

Ivana smells a rat, and she doesn’t take to rats lightly, so she gives you your space.

The morning ticks on at a pace that feels supernatural; like you’re witnessing outside of your body, like you can’t orient yourself in the right direction. You attempt to arrange and rearrange poets from alcoholic to puritan. You sell someone a copy of The Fountainhead without giving them their free blistering evisceration of Ayn Rand.

You’re at a loss. A shameful, dangling loss that almost makes you feel pious. Like you should go to confession.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned… I let my one-time best friend, current-cloudy object of my affection get beat up for me then bring me to climax in the nurses’ office.

You retread the same sentence in your over-thumbed copy of Save Me the Waltz like a table corner you keep stubbing your toe on.

We couldn’t go on indefinitely being swept off our feet.

You said it, Alabama. Something’s got to land.

And, because someone down there wants you dead, land it does.

The bell of the store’s door clashes upon opening, and all of the energy draws toward one magnetic point. A shock of silver hair, standing on end catches the lamplight, glowing almost eerily.

You feel a zzzzip of static. The air feels charged.

He doesn’t face you right away. Kind of slinks into the place, edging along the shelves.

“Say, Lacy. Ballpark me somethin’,” his Southern drawl is barely contained within the Midwestern flatlands of his accent, bursting through the baseline like a corpse that hasn’t been buried deep enough. “How long… do you think…” His fingers tap along the worn spines of the display, creeping closer to the counter, “...it would take… to read all these books?”

The lilt of his voice is so familiar that you recognize it instantly. Even the way your name falls out of his mouth. Like a funhouse mirror, a distortion of a voice you’d come to…

Well. Let’s not get into that. Let’s get into this.

A roguish smile with a couple decades of road wear on it and a tacky Hawkins High class ring on his finger. You could’ve sworn Eddie told you he dropped out.

“How many years in the big house with nothin’ better to do?” He finally stops and pivots on his heel. The way he looks you over makes you nauseous and lightheaded, like he took a long, long sip out of you. Jammed a straw in your jugular and sucked.

Lot of blood play happening ‘round these parts.

“Hello, Al.”

“Hello, sweetheart. You filled out.”

author's notes: christ alive. i mean WELCOME BACK! i really missed you guys. happy new year, thank you for keeping me on the level with writing this chapter, it was so much FUCKING harder than i anticipated! was it too much warped angst? are the feelings complicated? does the pope shit in the woods?!!!!! you betcha. anyway, be seated for today's lesson - "less oedipus-y, more ea--..." there is an ending to that joke that i felt was too crass for the moment but if you can guess it you win a prize - the patchwork girl of oz is the seventh book in the wizard of oz series by l. frank baum! obviously. it's actually a laugh riot, you should check it out. scraps, the eponymous patchwork girl, is a full tilt lunatic who's kind of a bit of me. but theoretically, the patchwork girl made out of a thousand different scraps of everything else... bit of lacy innit - the mage in the mink coat is self referential lmao we've gotten to THAT point in the story - gravity's rainbow is a book that guys i dated used to recommend to me constantly which is like infinite jest for people who are ran through - i'm really fucking with college guy at this point, making him drive a ford cortina. because i think it is ugly - the plot of the annotated book that lacy gives eddie, still life with woodpecker by tom robbins, is... interesting eye emoji eye emoji. tom robbins also wrote even cowgirls get the blues which was adapted into a feature film starring, say it with me, robin's mom - the link wray song that soundtracked the lipton landing visit in question - "charlie? or linda kasabian?" go ahead and read the white album by joan didion for me wouldja buddyroo, just like lacy and nancy already have - fun fact, i played a two person game of gin rummy with myself to get into the mindset for this chapter. i suck at it - torchy blane is another one of my pre-code wonders-- glenda farrell plays an intrepid newspaperwoman, and this character actually went on to inspire lois lane from superman - and I KNOW some of you are going to be mad at lacy for fucking college guy, but... shit happens when you're a booksmart lovedumb eighteen year old that can't face up to her feelings! i don't wanna hear it! - fred benson i love you baby! i'm almost sorry i called you william randolph hearst, newspaper magnate and all around lunatic and the inspo behind the diss track citizen kane, but i'm not! - nancy wheeler has a photo of nellie bly in her locker where a photo of her beau should be - so echo & the bunnymen's 1984 album ocean rain is obviously most famous for the killing moon (jonathan byers you ARE my donnie darko) but may i point your attention to motherfucking seven seas - OH YOU KNOW I (EDDIE) HAD TO DO IT TO 'EM. this was shameless but i've had this in my heart for over ten years babe - for the purposes of this timeline, you know eddie is keeping higgins in pills. which is why he hasn't been kicked out of hawkins high so fast his lunchbox would combust - nurse ratched, obviously from one flew over the cuckoo's nest and that ill-fated ryan murphy series....tf was that...but also from this fucking sick tune! - save me the waltz is by zelda fitzgerald! my loves, thanks for hanging in for this chapter. i know it was a wait, but i hope you enjoyed! i also know it was a little more angsty pants than my usual fare-- but look baby. we need grist for the mill, okay? as always, reblogs, comments and likes are FIERCELY appreciated! love u all so much. my little hellcats. to die by your side etc

#e. munson by powder #published by powder #in progress #hellfire & ice #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #rmr when i used to write 4k chapters.... god be with the days #anyway i love these fuckheads

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persephonewritessometimes · 1 year

Text

two's a company, three's a crowd // hotch x reid x reader

Summary: You've been meaning to ask Hotch about it for some time, what happens when he agrees to fulfill your fantasy?

Author's Note: This is self-indulgent!! I understand if this is not everyone's taste, but I couldn't find a fic like this that I liked, so I wrote my own!

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Spencer Reid x AFAB Reader

Word Count: 3570

Warnings: SMUT, THREES*ME, SUB-SPACE, PET NAMES (pretty girl, baby, little girl), softDOM!HOTCH, softDOM!REID, ORGASM DENIAL, "SIR" AND "DOCTOR" USED TO ADDRESS HOTCH AND REID, "DADDY" USED; light system (all green's, no use of yellow or red); squirting; oral (f receiving); worried!hotch, hotch pov; wizard of oz(?) [reader uses "oz" to describe being in sub space]

Key: y/n = your name

This work is meant for readers aged 18 and over. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

We’re enjoying our morning coffee - me with copious amounts of sugar and cream, Hotch just straight black coffee - and I’m toying with the question. I’ve been meaning to ask him for months now, potential embarrassment is the only thing stopping me. I’m picking at my cuticles, starting to sweat, and just decide to blurt it out.

“I want to have a threesome.” Hotch chokes on his coffee, slamming his hand against his chest as he looks at me wide-eyed.

“You couldn’t have waited to ask that until I wasn’t taking a drink?” He croaks, throat certainly scratchy from choking on hot coffee. I give him a sheepish smile and shrug. He looks at me for a few moments, and I can see him collecting his thoughts as he thinks about what to say. Finally, he asks, “How long have you been meaning to ask me this?”

“Um…like six months.”

“Y/N,” he sighs, “I’ve told you you can tell me anything.”

“I know that! It’s just…it’s embarrassing.” I shift my gaze away, trying to shield myself from Hotch’s impending “no”.

“Hey. No. Don’t do that.” I hear him get up and he comes to my side of the table, grabbing my hand. I swallow down the lump in my throat. The embarrassment is worse than I thought it would be. “Y/N, look at me.” I shake my head, but a strong hand soon finds its way to my chin and I’m gently forced to meet his eyes. “Don’t be embarrassed. I was just…surprised. That’s all. If you want a threesome, we’ll have a threesome.”

“I don’t want you to do it just because I want to do it.”

“I’ve…I’ve thought about it too.” My eyes must have widened because he chuckled. “You’re pretty easy to read. You love being adored, what better than to be adored by two people at once.”

“Damn dating a profiler,” I mutter. “So you’re okay with it?”

“Of course, I’m okay with it. I love seeing you happy, pretty girl. Did you have someone in mind?”

“If it’s not too awkward…Reid?” His brow furrows and I just give him the prettiest smile I can. “Come on, you’re already dating one subordinate, why not throw another in the mix? Besides, he’s already agreed.”

“Y/N! You asked him before you asked me?” He exclaims.

“I just wanted to be prepared in case you said yes!” I shoot back.

“I guess, if we were to add anyone, I’d be the most comfortable with Reid. Seeing as we have no attraction to each other.”

“What? You aren’t going to kiss each other for me?” I say, one hundred percent joking, just trying to get a rise out of him.

“Only I get to kiss you.” He raises his eyebrows as he looks at me and I feel my cheeks grow hot. “We need to set some ground rules if we’re going to do this.” I nod furiously, trying to keep a smile off my face. “You’re going to be the death of me someday, you know that?”

-2 Weeks Later-

We had gotten coffee with Reid a week after our initial conversation to set up ground rules. I told them I wanted to be surprised by the actual occurrence, but not anything that happens in it. Hotch got a little possessive in the actual discussion, and we came to the agreement that if double penetration were to happen, Reid had to wear protection and only Hotch actually got to be in my pussy. I was fine with that. We agreed we were fine with dom and sub roles, something Hotch and I naturally already do. Hotch already has been addressed as ‘Sir’ and we settled on ‘Doctor’ for Reid. Watching Reid shift in his seat at that made my heartbeat speed up. Hotch came around to the idea of Reid and I kissing, but he said he would step in if he started to not like it. I had been on edge for the week following, unsure of when they were going to corner me.

It was Saturday, I had been running some errands and came home to a quiet house. I threw on one of Hotch’s t-shirts, forgoing pants as his shirts seemed to drown me anyway. I’m putting books back on the shelf in the bedroom when I hear Hotch clear his throat behind me.

“Aaron! You scared the shit out of me. I could have fallen off this chair.”

“Uh-uh, pretty girl, try again.” He says, arms folded over his chest. I notice the glint in his eyes, the one that’s straight-up predatory, and I can feel my panties start to get damp.

“Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” I say quickly, clasping my hands together demurely.

“Good girl.” His voice is low and I clench my thighs together, desperate for any kind of friction. “I’ve brought a friend with me today. What’s your color?”

“Green, sir.” My stomach drops to my ass, I wasn’t expecting it to happen today, but that makes it all the more exciting. I watch as Reid steps into the doorframe, looking a little nervous, but eyes already lidded with anticipation of what’s to come. “Hello, Doctor,” I say, inclining my head toward him.

“Come on, little one, don’t be shy for Doctor Reid now,” Hotch says, striding into the room. “Why don’t you go give him a kiss?” I nod and pad over to Reid, who has a flush creeping up his cheeks.

“What’s your color, Doctor?” I whisper, smoothing down his shirt, and easing him into my touch.

“Green.” He whispers back, and his eyes drop down to my lips. I smile and nod at him, that it’s okay, and then his lips are on me. After getting used to kissing Hotch for so long, it feels weird to have someone else kissing me. Reid is tentative at first, letting me set the pace, but after I bite his lip a little bit, any semblance of restraint he had is broken. He grabs my face with his hands, kissing me like a man starved of food, and when his tongue slips into my mouth I moan softly. Reid pulls away gasping and then busies himself with kissing his way down my neck. I feel a soft body behind me and lean into it instinctually. Hotch’s hands grip my waist tight enough that I know it’ll leave a mark. I can already feel him, hot and hard pressing into my back, and as I tilt my head back when Reid finds the spot on my neck that makes me keen, Hotch’s lips are on me, swallowing the noises I’m making. Hotch’s tongue is lazy, but demanding as it slips into my mouth, and the intrusion is one I’m used to. I’m so distracted I don’t realize that Hotch’s hands have moved from my hips and were steadily moving towards my cunt until his fingers slid into my panties and I gasped into his mouth. Reid steps away for a second, unbuttoning his shirt, and Hotch abandons kissing me as we both watch his fingers glide through my arousal before he buries two of them in my cunt. I whimper, hand shooting down to his forearm, my nails digging in as he pumps his fingers slowly.

“Doesn’t she make such pretty sounds, Doctor Reid?” Hotch asks, pressing a kiss into my temple before pulling his fingers out and I whine.

“Yes, she does.”

“You should feel how wet she is, she’s so worked up.” I’m panting a little bit and look up just in time to see Hotch slide the two fingers that had been inside of me into his mouth. “Come on, pretty girl, why don’t you show Doctor Reid how excited you are?” I nod, anything to please him, and shuck off what little clothing I was wearing as I make my way to the bed. Once I’m seated, I spread my legs obscenely wide, pussy dripping and on display for both of them. Reid makes a low noise in his throat and to taunt him further, I drag my fingers through my folds, spreading my arousal. Reid is on me before I register it, yanking my hands away from my cunt, my wrists smarting at his strong grip.

“Don’t touch what’s ours, little girl.” I blink at him a few times. “Do you understand, or do I have to spell it out for you, huh?” He has one eyebrow quirked and I nod furiously.

“I understand, Doctor.”

“Good.” He spits out. “Now be a good girl and stay still. Can you do that for me?” I nod again and he sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, arms wrapping around my thighs and yanking me to the edge of the bed. I let out a noise of surprise that turns into a moan as Reid licks up my cunt before teasing my clit. My hips are jumping upwards on their own accord, my arousal smearing over Reid’s face. I feel the bed dip beside me, and Hotch, now in just his boxers, situates me between his legs, strong thighs coming to rest on either side of me. Reid’s nose bumps against my clit and I sigh, arms coming up to grab Hotch’s biceps, my top half now supported by his chest and abdomen. When Reid slips two fingers inside of me, my nails dig into Hotch’s biceps, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he’s leaving pretty purple marks on my throat - marks that will be hard to cover but I don’t give a fuck right now. One of my hands shoots down to grab at Reid’s messy curls as I feel myself throttling toward the edge.

“Reid, I’m gonna cum.” He stops immediately, pulling his fingers out of me and sitting back on his heels.

“Try again.”

“Huh?” I’m confused, I was so close and he just stopped.

“Try. Again. Not Reid, baby, not right now.” He says as his gaze drops to my cunt and my thigh twitches in response.

“Doctor. Please. I want to cum. I’m so sorry, I’ll be a good girl, I promise. Please just let me cum.”

“What do you think, Hotch, has she earned it?” Reid says, finally tearing his eyes away from my splayed cunt to look at Hotch, who reluctantly removes his lips from my throat.

“She sounds so pretty when she begs, but no, she hasn’t earned it.”

“Please! I’ll be so good! I promise! I just want to cum!” I cry out, tears pricking at the corner of my eyes.

“You will, pretty girl, just be patient. Reid, switch spots with me.” Reid nods, slipping in behind me, a different pair of thighs now resting on either side of me. Seeing Hotch’s brown eyes look up at me as he’s level with my pussy makes me whine, a low, thready sound. The cheeky bastard winks at me, before literally burying his face in my cunt, and I’m met with a low growl of approval when he finds the mess that Reid had made. Reid’s fingers are dancing down my sides, the featherlight touch a stark contrast to the way Hotch is eating me out. Reid’s fingers come up to pinch and tug at my nipples. My back arches up into his touch and when Hotch slides his fingers back into me, the two sensations are overwhelming, crowding my nervous system. It doesn’t take long for both of them to get me dancing on the edge again, a few tugs and thrusts away from reaching my peak, and my breathing starts to labor, my abdomen tensing, but even though I want it, the peak never comes.

“More,” I gasp out, “More, please, I need more.”

“More? My pretty girl wants more?” Hotch asks, pulling away from me.

“Yes, sir, please. Want your cock. Please. Both. Please. Want you.”

“Fine, we’ll give you what you want. But only because you begged so prettily. Doctor Reid help her up.” Hotch shucks off his boxers, cock hard and leaking, begging for attention. He sits on the edge of the bed. “Come on, pretty girl, hop up on my lap.” I oblige immediately, grinding my cunt into his throbbing cock and he hisses, hands gripping my hips, effectively stilling me. The world is going a little fuzzy, the edges blurred, the anticipation of what’s to come setting my heart into an off-kilter pace. I hear the unmistakable rip of a foil wrapper. “Color, pretty girl?” Hotch says, fingers tilting my chin up until I’m looking him in the eyes.

“Green, green, green,” I whisper, and he chuckles, a quick break in the dominant facade.

“Okay, baby girl, you ready? Doctor Reid’s gonna open you up a little bit, okay?” I nod, and turn my head over my shoulder to see Reid opening the bottle of lube I keep in the nightstand drawer. “Uh-uh, eyes on me, pretty girl. Can you do that?” Hotch says, hand gripping my jaw to bring my attention back to him. “There you go. Just like that.” He kisses me, hard, and when I moan I feel his cock twitch against me. Reid’s fingers slip into my tight hole and I hiss, both at the slight stretch and the cold lube. Reid kisses my shoulder in response.

“I know, baby, just have to make sure you’re ready.” He starts to slowly thrust his fingers in and out, scissoring them apart to open me up and soon enough my hips are meeting his movements. Reid pulls his fingers out and I whine at the loss of contact.

“Go time, pretty girl,” Hotch says, kissing the tip of my nose, as he spreads his legs wider so Reid can step between them. He gently lifts me up, hand guiding his cock through my arousal before he guides me down on his cock. He lets it slide home, and I catch my breath for a few seconds. I feel him twitch inside of me and I clench down on him in response.

“I’m ready, Doctor.”

“Eyes on me, pretty girl, wanna see your face when Doctor Reid fills you up.” I whimper at his words. When I feel Reid start to slide into me my eyes flutter shut at the overwhelming sensation of being full. “Eyes open, honey,” Hotch whispers. I obey him, forcing my eyes as Reid slides home and I moan, loud and unashamed. We stay in that moment for a few seconds, both men letting me adjust to the feeling before they start to thrust. It takes a few tries to get a rhythm going, but we figure it out soon enough and my body starts to feel loose and tense at the same time, my hands desperately clinging to Hotch’s shoulders, my one anchor in the sea.

I can feel my orgasm rising, climbing impossibly high, and I can feel myself slipping under, into a space I’ve only gone a few times, when I was really worked up, or after I came really hard. The world is fuzzy and I’m almost there when I realize Hotch is asking me something. I don’t hear it though, all I’m focused on is the sensation happening between my legs.

“Fuck, coming, coming, I’m coming, Daddy, I-” I let out a scream when I hit my peak, missing the way Hotch’s eyes widened at the name I used for him. I feel myself squirt all over Hotch’s lap, the gush immediately pushing him over the edge with a muffled ‘fuck’, and it feels like my orgasm goes on forever. Reid finishes quickly after, spilling into the condom. I rest my forehead on Hotch’s shoulder, riding out the aftershocks, thighs twitching as Reid pulls out. My breathing is labored and I’m a million miles away. I stay like that, feeling Hotch soften inside of me until he gently pushes me away to look at my face.

“No! Don’t, Daddy.” I cry out, burrowing further into his chest, craving the safety he exudes. His hand comes up to rub my back.

-Hotch’s POV-

She’s really far under. I didn’t realize she was slipping until she called me Daddy. I know what to do though, as she’s gone into sub-space a few times since we started dating. The first time was after we had sex for the first time - scared the shit out of me if I’m being honest. When she came around the first time, she was mortified, apologizing profusely even when I assured her it was fine. Since then, we’ve figured it out, and she really only slips under when I’ve edged her for a long time or we hate-fuck.

“Pretty girl?” I ask, and she hums in response. “Are you far away right now?”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice soft.

“Reid, can you grab some dark chocolate and a glass of water from the kitchen please?” He rushes off and I say, “Hey, pretty girl, I have to pull out, okay?”

“No!” She says, starting to cry.

“I know, I know.” My thumbs wipe away her tears. “But I’ve gotta take care of you, okay? Help you feel better? Do you want Daddy to help you feel better?”

“Okay,” She finally whispers. I gently push her up and she sniffles when I slip out of her. She’s shaky on her feet, looking like a deer in the headlights when I stand up, towering over her.

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you in the bath, okay?”

“Up?” She asks, looking up at me.

“Of course.” I open my and help her jump up, my arms coming to rest under her her butt as she locks her ankles around my back. I carry her into the bathroom and set her on the edge of the tub as I turn the faucet on and get the water to her favorite temperature. She clings onto one of my wrists as I do so, small hands gripping tightly. When the tub is full, I help her in.

“Daddy, please, get in with me? Please?” I can’t refuse her, she’s always been my weak spot so I slip into the tub behind her, wrapping my arms around her, trying to help her ground herself. She’s quiet and jumps slightly when the door creaks open.

“I got what you asked for. Can I do anything?” Reid asks, handing me the chocolate and glass of water.

“Thank you. And no, we’ll be okay. She just got overwhelmed, she’ll be back in a few hours.” I say, and Reid just nods, dismissing himself from the room to give us space. “Pretty girl?” I ask, and she turns, doe eyes looking into mine. “Can you eat this for me?” I hold the pieces of chocolate out to her and she gingerly takes them from my hand, eating them slowly. “Good girl.” She beams up at me at the praise. “Now, can you drink this?” I hand her the glass of water and she wraps both hands around it, sipping it. It takes her a good ten minutes to finish the whole glass, and I take it from her when she’s done, taking note of her heavily lidded eyes and a sleepy yawn. “Pretty girl, come on, let’s get you into some fluffy pajamas.”

I help her out of the tub, and as I’m drying her off I notice she’s chewing on her lip, brows furrowed.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“Was I a good girl, Daddy?” Her lip wobbles a little bit.

“Oh, baby, you were the best girl. You are the best girl. Daddy’s not mad at you. Daddy’s just a little worried, okay?”

“Worried?”

“Yeah, baby, Daddy just wants to make sure you’re okay. Where are you at right now?”

It takes a few seconds for the question to register. “Oz.” She says, quietly.

That’s what she calls being “far away”, she calls it being in Oz. Her eyes are zeroed in on me, fully focused on me, nothing else.

“Do you want to go lay in the poppy fields, pretty girl?” She knows what this means - a nap and cuddling and her eyes light up in recognition.

“Yes! Poppy!” I sweep her up in my arms, bridal style, and carry her into the bedroom, help her into a pair of pajamas, and into bed. Reid had changed the sheets while we were in the bath. I sit, my back against the headboard, and she sprawls over my lap and chest, knees on either side of me as she tucks her head under my chin. I run my fingers down her back and she hums in contentment.

“Daddy loves you very much, pretty girl, he’s so proud of you. His pretty girl.” I say and she nestles further into my chest. She’s fast asleep in the next ten minutes, snoring lightly. I don’t remember dozing off, but I’m awoken a few hours later by Y/N shifting in my lap. She pushes off my chest, blinking a few times. “Hey there, pretty girl, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” She says, eyes clear and I could sigh in relief. “Did I slip under?”

“Yeah, you did. It’s okay. I figured you probably got overwhelmed, am I correct?”

“Yes, but not overwhelmed in a bad way. I didn’t slip because I was scared.”

“I know, baby. I love you.” Her eyes light up.

“I love you too.”

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x y/n #hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch x reid x reader

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godsmenusuperbowl · 9 months

Text

Stress Coloring ~ *Bang Chan*

Summary: Both you and Chris need a break. And what better way to spend a break than by coloring together? It’s very therapeutic.

Pairing: Bang Chan X G/N!Reader

Genre: Fluffyish Drabble

Word Count: 804

Warning: A tiny bit of crying but it’s resolved quickly

Masterlist

Taglist: @foxwinter @maeleelee @mxnsxngie @kpop-will-kill-me

A/N: What do we do when we have strong feelings and yet are so exhausted to properly convey them? We write. And we hand write when our eyes are too puffy from allergies to open all the way. So my hand hurts.

As soon as he walked through the door and saw that the light was still on, he sighed. They must be tired. Carefully and quietly, Chris slipped off his shoes, put his keys and wallet away, and hugged them from behind.

They hummed in response, leaning into his embrace. Amongst the mess of notes, outlines, and assorted pens and highlighters, they had their markers and coloring pages out. There was a half finished piece and a completed mandala on top of everything. Shades of orange and yellow mixed with the pinks and purples to create almost a sunrise scene. It was very ethereal and serene. It also reflected that they could really use a break right about now.

Kissing their cheek, Chris asked, “Need any help?”

“No.” They shook their head.

“Then do you mind if I join you?”

Again, they shook their head before flipping through their coloring book. It was sort of a tradition here. Whenever one or both of them needed a break, they would bust out their vast array of coloring books and coloring supplies. Sometimes, when they were less tired, the two of them would use crayons and make Kindergarten drawings of the other. If they needed more inspiration, there was a stack of canvases and acrylic paints in the back of their closet that was always well stocked. But when they were stressed out and tired, markers or colored pencils did the trick. They weren’t the only one needing relief tonight, which was why he asked to color too.

Chris finally selected one before saying, “What colors do you see?”

It’s not that he wasn’t creative; on the contrary, the two often joked that he had all the artistic ability in the relationship. But everytime they saw an uncolored black and white page, they knew exactly how they wanted it to look. So he let them decide the colors for him. It always made him smile when they carefully selected each color.

They shook their head. “Not colors this time. I see a style, a theme.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your vision?”

“Wizard of Oz.”

Chris nodded as they laid out each color of marker, explaining what each color represented. As they did so, he glanced back at what they were coloring. Besides the completed sunrise mandala, the half-finished piece looked like a hodgepodge of random colors. It wasn’t like their normal style.

So he pointed it out. “What are you coloring?”

They paused, reflecting on their work. Eventually they said, “My thoughts and feelings.”

He nodded again before taking his markers and sitting in the chair opposite of their desk. Carefully scrutinizing each color and the empty picture before him, he tried to envision the Wizard of Oz the same way they did. Eventually he managed to figure something out and he began coloring.

About twenty minutes in, Chris was about halfway done when he heard them heave a dejected sigh. Looking up, he noticed a tear slowly crawling down their cheek. Abandoning his paper and markers to drop onto the floor, he spun their chair so that they were now facing him. Using the pads of his thumbs, he wiped their tears, cupping their face as he did so.

“Hey, look at me.” Chris breathed as their eyes, still glittering with tears, found his. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

Slipping out of their desk chair, they hugged him tightly. “It’s just so much piling up out of practically nowhere.”

Stroking their hair, he kissed their cheeks. “I know love, I know. But you can get through this. One day at a time, just like we always say. Besides, you know I’ll always be there when stress coloring isn’t enough.”

Pulling away, they wiped their eyes and nose. Chris got them a tissue to help. Sniffing, they asked, “Promise?”

Smiling, he kissed their lips before pressing his forehead to theirs. “Of course I promise. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I wasn’t?”

They laughed before slowly crawling back into their desk chair. Blowing their nose once more, they gave him a small smile to let him know they were okay now. With a soft nod, he settled back into his own chair and got to work coloring again.

It was another thirty minutes later when they presented their art to each other. They nodded before giving him a bright, albeit tired smile. “It’s definitely Wizard of Oz.”

“Yours is a lovely hodgepodge as well.”

The two of them laughed before they shyly added, “I’m also halfway done with my essay as well.”

Chris perked up even more, his smile stretching wider. “See? I told you you could do it. I’m so proud of you, love!”

Again, they chuckled before they returned to their coloring book. Ripping out another page, they asked, “Another?”

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pelagaye · 1 year

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red shoes on yellow brick

fandom: honkai star rail pairings: sampo, dan heng, gepard x reader summary: y/n is no dorothy but upon reaching the magical place of welt, y/n sees no issue in helping a number of its people. perhaps even providing them more than what they seek with how unique and charming this individual with red shoes on is. notes: tada! it's a wizard of oz au and may this first fic of mine be to your liking despite the length ehe i kinda had so much making it <3

it's a simple wish truly because when a big unwarranted tornado whisks you away from the comfort of your own residence, all you can want for is just to get back home.

seeing how troubled you've becoming, some lil chibi people who refers themselves as "the mole munchkins" that helped you earlier from the wreckage advises that you go meet a mighty powerful being that calls himself the wizard of welt who can grant any wish you long for.

sounding like a fairy godmother, it definitely captivated you so you might as well see what he's capable off.

the munchkins gives you a pair of red sandals they found on the sides, believing it can help you on the way to the wizard.

honestly, you'd trade the nice pair of red shows you now had on for the sake of getting back if you can.

bidding goodbye to the little fellas who told you to just follow the yellow brick road, you and your rabbit pompom begin the journey you didn't ask for the slightest.

here's to hoping the casts you meet along the way are nice.

sampo as the scarecrow

it is a long way to the place you had to be and the never-ending surface of yellow brick just had to emphasize that.

pompom hops around you indicating the both of you should rest before the pain comes through.

your home would still wait for you no matter what, right?

imagining of the place you yearn for, you notice how you ended up in the middle of a enormous cornfield of crops almost glistening like gold.

in between it all, is a scarecrow on a high pole that looks like it's attempting to do its job of shooing pesky birds away.

for something just made of old clothes and straw, the built of the figure was wide, as if he'd have muscles if he had to be human.

you, being the curious type can't help but stare longer than intended on the decoy figure, as there just seems to be so fascinating about it.

"take a photograph it'll last longer."

a voice shakes you from the trance.

when you try to find who it belongs to, there could only be one place-

looking at pompom before directing your eyes to the scarecrow, it winks at you, almost too naturally.

you inquire him how is able to talk and move.

swishing his threads of blue that acts likes bangs, he tells you if you can maybe bring him down he could explain more.

you find out his name is sampo, he asks what's a pretty person like you going to places like this cornfield.

ignoring the flattery, you share your plans to meet the wizard of welt to get back home.

sampo has no clue about the city you are to visit nor the person you seek.

it doesn't make sense to you that the man made of straw has no idea about the info you shared after the munchkins shared everyone knows about the wizard.

"maybe i can tag along? as a scarecrow with no brains, it might help me out. do you think the big shot can do that?"

sampo explains he's tired always being labeled as an idiot so how will he ever know much more if his head is filled with anything but a brain.

your sympathy gets to you first for some reason.

maybe it's the way how he holds your hands as he begs the question, or perhaps it's the way how he softly smiles as he towers in front of your small figure causing the lack of proximity.

"i'll ask the wizard for everything he can offer for you," you tell him.

sampo as a scarecrow, doesn't deny the determination in your voice, and he feels likes the straws in his stomach getting replaced with something else.

maybe he doesn't need a brain when your wit is enough to keep him afloat above any field.

dan heng as the tin man

ever since he was young, relatives and others have told dan heng he had no heart with the cold exterior persona the young man displays usually.

and with all the metal that's part of him to carry like a burden of his own predicament, dan heng could only accept their false accusations to not make the situation any worse than it already is.

just like in the og game, dan heng flees.

after all who wouldn't with that situation?

he comes across a pink haired girl who he eventually becomes accustomed to.

he tells her about his issues and his friend immediately perks up.

"oh??? then why not visit the wizard of welt??" march suggests.

and so he does, alone.

along the way, through the depths of the forest, he doesn't expect rain to happen.

this becomes an inconvenience to the tin man putting a stop to dan heng's expedition.

all because of a damn rain pour that causes him to rust.

there was no way of contacting march in any way and as much as he tries to budge, he remains where he is.

months might have already passed and dan heng could only reflect how much of a troubling life he got to experience.

that is until a pair of red shoes comes into his view.

the man made of tin cannot bring his head up to see who is messing with his parts but he prays to himself that the newcomers are simply just trying to help his pathetic position.

and next thing he knows, he's functioning again! what a surprise!

dan heng doesn't miss a second to offer his gratitude for the oil he was provided.

but before he even tries, he's taken aback by the beauty you hold as you were explaining you were just passing by with sampo the scarecrow with the help of the yellow brick road to get to the wizard. also explaining you were helping sampo in the process as you'd do anything for people in need.

"you have a beautiful heart," dan heng thinks to himself.

he is surprise to think of this coming from his own mind and seeing that he himself doesn't have one of his own.

at least, that's what he thought he has done as he fails to notice the creeping color of red on your face, matching the shoes you wore.

it fades quickly as dan heng humbly requests if he could come, practically silently pleading to whoever is listening that you accept.

thankfully, your kindness allows to agree.

the journey is much more bearable with your company after that.

everything you do in full willingness, even if it's the bare minimum, is enough to encourage dan heng to get that heart from the wizard of oz no matter what.

what he doesn't know, is that he has already gotten one from the fact he has unknowingly fell in love with you.

gepard as the cowardly lion

for someone who's supposedly a "vicious" "feline" with not much courage, it takes not even a fool to realize how much of a sweetheart gepard is.

at least, that was established after being ambushed by the big blonde whom tried to inflict fear on the current party you had going on.

poor pompom having to deal with the fact he was the main target being the smallest.

regardless of such attempt, gepard was secretly frighten by the unexpected retaliation lil pompom pulls back at him without much effort.

you, already exhausted enough from the bs sampo and dan heng does with each other, decides to put an end to the one sided battle going on with the lion and rabbit.

pompom, at long last, stops beating the poor feline and lets you do your thing with what you've already done with all the strays you've been picking up.

putting in his place by placing yourself in front of gepard, staring back into his blue eyes, you decided to execute the only idea you had.

you boop his nose, catching everyone off guard.

"you are nothing but a big coward," you tell him without missing a heartbeat.

still looking back at each other, gepard lets out a sigh of defeat.

"i am painfully aware of that," he frowns.

he explains that he's both a younger and older brother to two sisters whom he cares about so much and they're practically both the main reason why he wants to be much courageous.

he'd sacrifice everything for the sake of their safety, so until he learns a thing or two, he promises to not comeback to them until then.

so he tries to train himself by being scarier in some way or another.

even if it means attacking strangers out of the blue. what a big dumbie i am so in love with him.

"there are many things i can do and cannot. the very least thing i should attempt is prove to myself that i can find the heart and not be the coward i have been my whole life."

you're practically shaking inside hearing his chivalric sentiment.

while no longer a threat despite not being one in the first place, the honesty he holds convinces you to urge him to join your party.

unlike the other two, it's really you this time who's trying to appeal to gepard the idea of heading to the wizard of welt.

"is that right? you wish for me to come with your pack? that's very kind of you but wouldn't i just cause harm such as earlier?"

you tell him that as long as he can apologize to pompom, who seems to still hold a petty grudge, no hard feelings will remain.

gepard smiles at you softly, admiring the valor you've shown him even if it's in your way.

there's no way for him to decline your offer at this point.

he vows to keep you all safe no matter the dangers that'll try to stop, despite how scared he still is deep inside.

you hug him immediately without much thought when he expresses his confirmation.

it's extremely bold of you, yes, but gepard doesn't mind.

he hopes he can return it asap when he gains the courage he hopes for.

#if i can i might make part 2 and include the wicked witch of the west casted by kafka himeko as glinda and the wizard obvi being welt >___<#hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #sampo x reader #dan heng x reader #gepard x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail x you #sampo x you #dan heng x you #gepard x you

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jedifarmerr · 2 years

Text

When Javier Met...(Series)

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader (no name or physical description)

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating/Warnings: E (18+) smut (P in V/unprotected - wrap it folks). FLUFF. Discussions and themes of loved ones passing. Language.

So, it's been two months since I've updated this series, but I hope this will be worth it. Thank you to everyone for reading!

Series Masterlist

Chapter 12: Finale

The sun seeped through the curtains, pastel yellow beams flickering in Javier’s eyes, awakening him to a new world. The mundane sepia had switched overnight to technicolor like a scene straight out of The Wizard of Oz.

A grin curled on his lips at the measured puffs of air skimming his chest, your legs twined in his. Nudging his nose at the crown of your head and breathing in the scent of you, his fingertips stroked the planes of soft skin exposed by your camisole nightdress. Making a warm fuzzy feeling wrap around him, perfectly content to stay right here forever; tucked safe and sound under the weight of you, immersed in the intimacy of it all.

It was a feeling he never before experienced, not even with Lorraine and made him wonder how he lived without it.

You stirred with soft morning mumbles and his hold on you tightened as if to tell you he was still there. Lashes fluttered against his skin, heavy eyes opening as you nuzzled further into his chest. Looking down, he found sleep-happy eyes blinking up and a grin which mirrored his own.

“Morning,” he grumbled against your hair, placing a kiss at the top of your head. You returned his affection, tenderly dragging your lips along his pecs and tracing your fingertips across his ribs.

“You sleep alright?” You asked.

He nodded. “Best I’ve slept in decades.”

“Really? Cause, I never took you as a cuddle sleeper.” You teased and he snorted out a laugh.

“Neither did I,” he said while wiggling his numb fingers, “But don’t get used to it, my arm can’t take it every night.”

“I can live with once a week,” you giggled. “What time is it?” Javier craned his neck to look over at the bedside clock.

“A quarter till 10.”

“Shit,” you hissed and rolled away from the warmth of his arms and out of bed before he could pull you back in.

Javier shifted, sitting up. “Got plans?”

“For once, yes,” you scoffed, wrapping the silk robe around your body and tying the sash in a lazy bow. “I told Marie I’d get brunch with her a few days ago. You know to give her the low down about the party.” You chuckled, more to yourself then to him as the closet doors squeaked open. “Man is she gonna eat this up.”

Javier leaned forward, the comforter cinched between his lower torso and chest. “In a good way?” His lips twisted in worry, you’d surely told her all about his mess up and he suddenly wondered her opinion.

“Oh, in a very good way,” you said, glancing behind your shoulder for a second before returning to sift through the hangars. “She’s wanted us together since she met you at the bookstore. Well, actually I think at that time she wanted you for herself, but she got over that the moment we started hanging out.” You pulled out a pair of biker shorts, heading to the dresser to grab a t-shirt.

“So, you’re gonna tell her we’re together?”

You turned on your heels, suddenly appearing small as you wrung the t-shirt in your hands. “If that’s alright.”

Javier immediately reached for your hand, pulling you towards the end of the bed, realizing the question came out all wrong.

“Of course,” he assured and a smile ghosted your lips as you gave in, sitting on your knees in front of him. “I just didn’t know. I’m new to this, it’s been awhile since I’ve been a…boyfriend.”

The word felt foreign on his tongue and almost silly to say. Was he too old to be someone’s boyfriend? What’s another word? Partner? Ew – no, that reminded him too much of Steve. Or even worse – Joe.

“Oh, so you’re my boyfriend?” His brows arched with a twitch of a smile, he liked it when you said it, especially with that teasing lilt as you leaned in closer.

“If that’s okay with you.” The words fanned across your mouth, his lips nipping yours. You hummed through the soft, lingering kiss and his arms wrapped around your body, feeling the silhouette through the slinky thin material. His lips trailed to your neck.

“Javi, we can’t,” you moaned, but did little to stop him as your fingers raked through his hair while his kisses trailed to your collarbone, sweeping your shoulders. Insatiable, he couldn’t get even despite having you two more times last night – once after eating cold lo mein, taking you right then and there, desperately hard and fast across the kitchen counter – the second time slower and more intimate before drifting off to sleep.

He groaned as he palmed the soft flesh of your thighs, his teeth grazing over the skinny silk strap. “I’m gonna be late.”

“How long till you gotta leave?” He asked while roaming up to cup your ass and squeezing. Your head rolling back as he toyed with the string of your thong, pulling it tight to your swelling clit to give you an ounce of friction. “Baby, how long?”

“I’m thinking. You’re making it incredibly hard to focus.” He chuckled darkly, smiling into your chest as your hips rolled and brows pinched in thought. “I need to shower and, oooh. Makeup, Javi.”

He teased the soft material at your seam up to your clit and when your hips bucked into his growing cock, his voice turned raspy – sinfully deep.

“Hmmm, seems like those are optional,” his tongue flicked over your clothed nipple and you shivered as a tinge of wetness imprinted the fabric. “Smell perfect to me,” he flicked the other. “So beautiful, you don’t need any makeup.” His hand slipped into your panties and your head burrowed into his neck with a soft mewl. “But, you’re so wet, don’t you think this needs to be taken care of?”

“You got a point,” you said with a breathless giggle, and Javier could feel you smiling against the tender skin of his neck. He sunk one, then two fingers into your tight cunt, your walls clamping around them and soaking his fingers as he languidly pumped in and out.

“Is that a yes, baby? He asked, swiping his thumb over your clit. “Want me to take care of you?” His fingers curled to hit the perfect spot, and you whined at the precision of his strokes and the flickering friction he supplied to your bundle of nerves.

“Please, Javi.”

There was no way he could ever deny the keen in your voice, the desperate hold you had on both his heart and the digging clutch to his shoulders. His lips captured yours in a searing kiss and he poured every ounce of passion and love into it, frantically searching out your tongue and tangling himself into you – drinking down every moan and pant of his name while working you up to a quick climax.

“Need you - inside of me,” You whimpered as his thumb continued to swirl around your oversensitive clit. A quip about your time restraint latched onto the tip of his tongue, but disintegrated at how needy and determined you looked, lifting and shifting your hips, eagerly sinking down on his cock until you were flush against him.

Every hair on his body stood at attention when your slick-soaked walls clenched around his bare cock, moaning your name, his arms wrapping around you, palms exploring the expanse of your back. Grinding down on his cock, you chased a second orgasm, slipping your hand between the sweat of your tangled bodies to draw tight and fast circles on your clit.

His brain short-circuited at the sight, making his mouth ramble. Babbling out praises as moans flew from the O-shape of your mouth. Massaging your breasts, he pinched your nipples and the word Mine popped into his hazy mind. It was all his and he was all yours, and the unbelievable thought pushed him closer to the edge.

“Come on, baby,” he said in a husky voice, “Wanna feel you come, need to feel you come on my cock.” You gasped as his large hands dug into your hips, guiding you up and down on his cock. “Look at me,” he ordered and your lust-blown eyes met his loving gaze and your cunt fluttered, clenching him tighter and tighter as a gush of slick coated his cock. His lips surged to yours, hardly meeting you in a kiss before he was groaning into your mouth, the wave of ecstasy pulsing through him and filling your cunt.

The sound of your ragged breathing binded to his, mixing with the chirping of birds outside.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” you said with a breathless smile.

He chuckled, “The feelings mutual.”

---

Marie looked unamused as you frantically waved through the tables of people in the busy restaurant. Thanking the hostess for pointing in the right direction before scurrying off.

“I’m so sorry. I’m late, I know.” You sank down into the wicker chair and shoved the big-rim sunglasses atop your head.

“You better have a good excuse,” Marie sarcastically huffed, and you couldn’t help but smile, knowing she was soon to be falling out of her chair with excitement.

The waiter rushed over, introducing themselves while pouring coffee in your cup. As Marie ordered you scanned the menu, picking an item in a matter of seconds before handing over the flimy paper with a gracious smile.

Marie took a sip of the bitter black liquid, eyeing you conspicuously over the rim of her mug.

“What?” You brushed the sides of your mouth, “Is something on my face?”

You’d stayed in Javier’s arms for far longer than you should’ve but it was hard to leave his embrace, the soft kisses and I love you’s made you weak, powerless to wiggle away and head out the door.

She shook her head, “No, something seems weird with you,” she tapped on her lips. “I don’t know what it is, but you look…different.”

“How so?” You cleverly asked, wanting to hear her answer. Playing coy, you swirled your spoon, the liquid blending into a neutral tan. The metal sang as you tapped it on the ceramic brim before picking it up and taking a sip.

Her lips quirked as she examined your freshly fucked aura, leaning back in her chair at the hard to hide smile that was basically pulled to your eyes. You saw the wheels turning in her mind, ideas she couldn’t believe and debated on voicing aloud, in case she was wrong.

“Okay, fine fine. I’ll tell you. Javier and I are together,” you said with a giddy clap and a little wiggle, unable to contain yourself any longer. Even hearing yourself say it out loud was enough to make you swoon.

Marie’s hand clasped over her mouth, but did little to hide the drop of her jaw.

“Shut up, shut up. Oh my god, shut up.” She squealed and squeezed your hand. “Tell me everything, and when I say everything, I mean everything.”

You spilled about the party first, the longing stares that led to his emotional apology/plea in the kitchen. She dabbed her eyes at his confession in the moonlight of your door, sadly just as you were into the dirty details the waiter dropped off your food, but Marie quickly picked up right where you left off. Hanging onto every word and shoving food in her mouth like it was popcorn at a movie.

“So that’s why you were late,” Marie said with a wiggle of her brows while ripping into a piece of bacon.

You bit your lip then giggled like a schoolgirl who just got caught. “Can you blame me?”

“No.” She huffed. “I should be lucky you didn’t just stand me up. If Javier was naked in my bed, you wouldn’t see me for years.”

You barked out a laugh. “Oh, trust me the thought came into my mind. But, what can I say? I’m a good friend,” you said with a cocky roll of your eyes.

“The best,” Marie smiled, knowing you’d finally found your match.

---

The crunching of gravel was the last thing Chucho wanted to hear on this particular Friday, but there it was.

He’d finished up his chores for the evening barely twenty minutes ago, deciding to crack open a beer and sit next to his wife’s rocking chair on the front porch as he waited out to see if Javier would show. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Chucho turned to the empty chair next to his as the rim of his son’s jeep peeked from behind the bend, the harsh yellow beam coating his windshield, and covering (what he expected) was the fallen face of his son.

“Guess it didn’t go well,” he said into the thin air. A strong gust of wind swayed the chair back and forth and he took the creaking wood as a sign that he was right.

When he didn’t hear from Javier all week, he hoped that things had gone well or were improving, and while he’d never turn his son away and cherished the time together, he hated to think it was really over between the two of you.

Chuco’s knees popped with a groan as he stood up, stretching above his head before planting his hands on his waist. He waved to his son, but as the shade of the oak trees covered the sun, his hand stalled in the air and he squinted at the passenger side and what appeared to be a shadow.

A gasp of his wife’s name fell from his open mouth when he spotted the smile on Javier’s face, the one which matched yours and a salty residue surged in the back of his throat like a tidal wave. Gulping it down, his hand cut through the windless air as a smile stretched across the wrinkles of his sun-tired skin. As the jeep parked, Chucho barreled down the concrete steps like an excited child, much like Javier did when his father returned from a weekend expo.

“Hey Pops,” Javier yelled over the car, “I hope you don’t mind, brought a guest with me. You remember her, right?”

Chucho said your name, like a prayer, one that’d been answered as his son wrapped his arm around your shoulders and stole a loving glance that reminded him of how he once looked at his wife, so many years ago before turning back to the glassy-eyed older gentleman.

“Hey Chucho,” you smiled, a smile which no one could steal away from your lips and Chucho’s heart bursted at the seams.

“So, I assume the party went well?” He asked and when he looked at his son, he realized the weight he carried around on his shoulders like a pack mule had lessened, his eyes were clearer and while there would always be a small pain of memories which could never truly fade, a new hope glistened in them.

“You could say that,” you giggled and Javier kissed the top of your head, mumbling about the bags before heading over to the trunk. You stepped towards Chucho and he couldn’t help but wrap his arms around you.

“Thank you,” he whispered and looked up to the cloudless sky.

---

Javier squeezed your thigh under the table as Chucho came into the room with a platter of burritos he’d popped in the oven; his aunt Paula had brought over a gallon sized ziplock bag of them earlier in the week.

While passing a few side dishes and the foil wrapped burritos around in a circle before digging in, Chucho asked a few questions to find out how it happened and got the PG version, much like everyone else aside from Marie.

Chucho wiped the sides of his mouth, “Have you told Joe?” He asked.

You nodded, putting up a single finger as you swallowed. “We did on Tuesday. I was already going over for dinner, so I brought Javier along. He was pretty shocked at first not gonna lie, my sister-in-law was over the moon though.”

Javier chuckled internally at the memory of Joe’s face when opening the door to find his little sister and his commitment phobe ex-partner holding hands. While Joe fought to keep upright, Ruby pulled the both of you into a squealing hug then spun around to rub it in her husband’s face, boasting all night about how she totally knew it.

As Javier grabbed a container of leftover casserole and you kissed your niece and nephew goodbye, Joe morphed into a protective older brother and patted him on the back with a warning, If you hurt her I’ll kill you. It lasted only a second, turning back into a friend and letting him know how happy it made him to see not just his sister but Javier like this, like a piece of his old self had been found after missing for so long.

“So, he knew before me?” He teased his son, and Javier snorted while shaking his head.

“Yes, but we wanted to wait till we saw you,” he said while looking over at you.

“Well, I’m happy for you two.” He took a drink of his Coke, “You know, I knew he liked you even though he refused to say so.”

“Oh, really?” You asked, nudging Javier.

“Dad,” Javier said like he was a teenager again.

“No, please. Tell me more,” you cradled your chin in your hand and leaned over to listen to an all too eager Chucho, who talked and talked until the plates were clean.

Chucho and Javier gathered the dishes as you trotted off to shower. Once the shower was running, Chucho turned to his son who was spraying the dishes.

“She the one?” Chucho asked, and Javier shrugged with a telling smile.

“We’ve been together less than a week, Pops.” He handed Chucho the clean dish to wipe down.

“Doesn’t matter, I knew the moment I met your mama she was the one.” Javier continued to work at the stack of dishes, but his lips twitched with a smile – he could recite his parents love story like a child’s favorite book having heard it so many times. “You know, I still have her ring.” That grabbed his attention, and he stopped scrubbing, setting down the plate with the rest, hearing a clattering clink as he looked over at his father. “Look, I know it’s too soon,” he said before Javier could interject, “But, if the time comes and that’s what you want, I have it. You could even get a new diamond, something a little bigger if you wanted.”

Javier knew his father had bought the ring using every dime he had saved at the time which wasn’t much, the ring wasn’t anything grand just a single diamond on a silver band, but his mother didn’t care – too young and in love, she wore it with pride everyday until she passed.

“You’d be alright with that?” Javier asked, knowing his father kept the ring next to their wedding picture on her nightstand.

“It’s what she would’ve wanted,” Chucho said, “You know, she was never a huge fan of Lorraine.”

“Really? She never said anything.” Javier couldn’t believe his father nor his mother never said a word.

“Don’t get me wrong, she liked the girl but I think she knew that you weren’t right for eachother. That there was someone better for you out there, someone like her. Hmm, if only she could’ve met her, she would’ve loved her.” Chucho’s voice cracked, tears glistening in his dark brown eyes.

“I know,” Javier said with a small nod then turned back to the dishes. The two worked in a somber silence until the last dish was dried down and put away. When the shower shut off, Javier knew he had but a minute before you appeared and looked to his father.

“I’ll take it,” Javier said and his father’s eyes grew big, he grabbed his son’s shoulder and gave it a small shake. “Don’t get too excited, it’s not gonna happen anytime soon.”

Six months later, Javier proposed.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read this series, I seriously have loved working on this. I struggled to finish this up because I didn't feel ready to say goodbye, so I decided to write a sequel (Javi's Having a Baby) so be on the lookout for that!

Taglist: @hnt-escape @seasonschange-butpeopledont @littlemisspascal @furious-rogue-stuff @catchallfangirl @0celesteisthebest0 @athalien @honeyofthegods @peoniarose @vanemando15 @blub-senpai @bruxasolta @iblogtopassthetime @southotheborder @kirsteng42 @phandoz @whatodair @oliviajdjarin @paintlavillered

#pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #javier peña x you #narcos fanfiction #javier peña #javier pena x f!reader #javier peña fic #javier peña x reader

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zipperzoo · 2 years

Text

FIGHT TO MAKE IT UP

The Batman (2022) bruce wayne x f!reader

Word count: - 6.6k

Masterlist / AO3 / Playlist

Themes: Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Crime Family, Thriller, Nior, Heist, Action, Comedy, Crime.

Warning: Description of illegal substances as well as taking them.

EDIT: Minor fixes and edits have been made: Grammar, spelling and small tweaks easing the flow of the story.

Chapter three:

I start and end the day with a chorus, my red chest all puffed ready for a fight for those before us. What am I?

“Hey uh- Sausages, what's the coincidence of Penguin being here at the very circus we crashed through?”

“Guess we just got very lucky. Apparently he is here for business.”

On the outskirts of Gotham. A lone car sat a fair distance from the vibrant life of the circus. Three people emerged from the said car. The Absence of an umbrella resulted in their rather wet dog appearances as they strolled towards the circus acting dumb founded by their own mess. Bruce was hunched over to match the height of Sausages who was towering behind him, pushing him forward.

“Yeah but of all things. We crash into a circus on the outskirts of Gotham and then Penguin just happens to be here?” Bruce stumbled from Sausage's shove and only missed bumping into Y/N by a hair. Letting out a sigh of relief, revealing his subtle ease of anxiety.

Bruce’s hands were still tied up while his feet were free, allowing him the ease of walking. He was sandwiched between Sausages and Y/N, too many people were around, making an escape impossible in the present time. Bruce had to keep an eye out for a window of opportunity and avoid any attention. The last thing he would have wanted was to draw attention.

“Princess, can’t we just take this luck since we are in a deep sea of fucked.” Sausages grabbed Bruce by the shoulder pulling him back to stand up straight. Bruce: Perfectly still and emotionless, face betraying nothing.

“It's your fault, if you made a more solid plan and didn’t abduct Mr Wayne.” She declared.

The entire floor leading to the circus was covered in papers. A little run way of sorts. Halting, she bent over and picked up a soggy and fragile Flying Grayson poster, inspecting it. The words in blue at the very bottom ‘A Death Defying Act’ read in bold. She struggled to make out a lot of the smaller print words. The letters jumbled and danced on the page, struggling to focus on a singular line let alone a word- but the name of Oswald Cobblepot stuck out. She got some sort of answer to why the Penguin was at the circus then but it still felt like she was missing the larger picture.

“Wouldn’t have cocked up if you weren't snooping around Brucie’s home princess.”

“Don’t call me that. Besides I wouldn't have been snooping if the shitty batman walkie talkie’s batteries didn't die.” She lied. Squinting her eyes, glimpsing ahead slightly, she could tell from a distance that tents, caravans and cars were plastered with ‘Flying Grayson's’ posters. Whoever paid for their advertisement leaflets surely was over compensating for this show. Y/N scoffed, the people on the poster looked ridiculous in their green and yellow tight outfits and on top that, they looked like a family of performers.

Bruce’s face cringed wait a minute- Batman themed walkie talkies? The more information that surfaced about these two the more Bruce was convinced they worked for Oz. Only he would hire people as ridiculous as these. The two back at the Iceberg lounge came to mind. Sausages and Y/N seriously couldn't be real- how they managed to get Bruce, rob him and get here? Pure and dumb stupid luck that was soon to run out. Only the penguin would hire complete idiots who were stupidly lucky.

Also what company was commercializing Bruce's alter ego? Making toys- simplifying his character, stripping away the whole purpose of Batman for consumption. What a shit show. Something Bruce was going to have to look into with Alfred. Over commercializing Batman will have a huge effect on how people view him for sure.

“Funny. Mine was fine. Also I told you to wait in the car for Bella Reál to show up!”

Chewing her lip, Y/N replied, sounding irritated. “I used up my battery trying to get through to you but you gave me the cold shoulder.”

Huffing a subtle laugh, she continued to survey the poster. The boy at the back of the poster looked way too thrilled to be exploited by his parents. A stupid little cartoon grin plastered on his face as his guardians just threw him into the air.

Turning his head to the side to let out a cheeky guffaw. Sausages ruffling Bruce’s hair then gave a snide comment. “Because- I was busy flirting, princess.”

Y/N screwed up the poster in her hands and threw it over her shoulder, bonking Bruce on the forehead when her target was intended to be Sausages. Bruce was not getting a break. He let out a pained sigh. Sausages pulled a face, trying not to laugh at Bruce’s expense.

—

Sausages Buzzed in on the radio. "Getting cold feet princess?”

Tapping the radio against the wheel, taking one last look around before responding. Two security guards stood at the door while two cars were stationed out front. She was parked near them but not too close. Just far enough to keep an eye on them. “Can’t you pick a better nickname than fucking princess?”

“It's funny to see you tense up and get annoyed!”

“Har har.” She sunk into her seat, looking through her rear-view mirror. A car just sitting by the main doors, she squinted her eyes, swearing she saw it before. Until it clicked, she saw it on the tv when the old mayor's funeral was televised. It was Bruce Wayne’s car. She swallowed then pressed the button on the side of the yellow batman walkie talkie “Sausages. I’m getting anxious.”

“Alright alright.” He responded instantly.

Sausages was at the front desk giving the man at the desk a celebrity smile. Attempting to flirt his way through. “Hey.” he raised his brows. The man at the desk on his phone gave a confusing glance at Sausages.

The entire first floor was sickly clean. The Smell of fresh bleach and everything had a reflection. The table, the walls, even the floor. One wrong move and slip and you’d crash and crack open your head. It was all so corporate. They’d probably even sue you for wrecking up their floor.

“Puis-je vous aider Monsieur?” Sausages blinked, twice. The man at the desk was speaking, he thinks -French?

“Oui?” he sounded unsure.

“Si vous êtes ici pour un événement caritatif, j'aurai besoin de voir une pièce d'identité. Si vous êtes ici pour M. Wayne, je dois vous dire qu'il est absent du bureau pour un événement qui se déroule dans le hall principal.” He said the entire thing with no breaks and with ease. Sausages just stared- frozen.

“I’m waiting.” Y/N buzzed through breaking him out of the ice the man’s French put him in. The man behind the desk’s eyes darted to the batman walkie talkie. Sausages' let out an awkward laugh.

“Psh- it's uh… It's my niece. Kids these days love the big shadowy guy” He turned around from the desk and responded to Y/N. “Just give me five minutes!”

“Just fucking debrief me!”

“I can’t princess” He looked at the guy behind the desk, and flashed him a wink. The man in return turned bright red and spun around on his chair- pretending to be busy. Just long enough for Sausages to reply to Y/N “I'm a little busy right now, give me just long enough to get somewhere to prep.”

“Could have just fucking told me when-” he turned his walkie talkie off. Cutting her off, while she was very likely yelling to herself in the car.

Turning his entire body back to the desk, leaning across it and steadily reaching over and grabbing a chocolate treat off the man's desk. “Sorry about that.” Unfolding the wrapper to then plop the chocolate in his mouth all while holding eye contact with the receptionist.

“Would English be better sir?”

“Y-yes…”

“How may I help you sir?”

Sausages wet his lips. “Oh you can help me alright.”

Outside the tower security was tightening up. Y/N watched as several officers walked through but no Bruce Wayne? She saw paparazzi images of him once. He was captured leaving the tower to attend a funeral, another time allegedly meeting some women. Suddenly a thought ran through her mind. What if she gets a snap of him and sells that image. Get a good buck or two.

It was a silly idea that she easily shook off. But the longer she waited the more the rich boy had been on her mind. Why hasn't he come out yet? The auction started hours ago?

—

Approaching the tents, Sausages grunted. “Apparently his thugs will be meeting us somewhere around the big tent.”

“You mean beevus and butthead?”

To walk at a steady pace, Sausages made sure Bruce stayed within distance. They were all being gawked at by the tourists and entertainers of the circus. Spinning lights twinkled in the distance as loud crashing gleeful cheers and chatter washed over the entire field. It allowed excitement to brew, something very alienating to Gotham and its image with its out of world appeal. The rain didn't bother anyone but it sure did take a toll on the tents, the streetlights and support beams as they all looked worn with acid rain. If it wasn't for the flashing lights and the large crowds one would think this was a forgotten place. Lost to time.

Patting poor Bruce on the shoulders causing him to flinch, Sausages replied. “Exactly those two bozo’s!” Bruce recoiled from Sausage's touch, he gave Bruce a big old pouty lip. “You haven't met them, have you Brucie? Hey princess! Do you think those two idiots share a brain cell? Do you think they’ll even comprehend that we have good old Brucie here!”

“Who knows, a lot of people are scared of twins because of that sort of conspiracy bullshit.”

The entire layout of the circus was like fairy ring mushrooms, red and white striped tents built up in one giant circle. With an outline of tents the centre was full of carts of food and merchandise and carnival games. But of course- with a huge fucking slide with tire marks slashed through it, kicked mud up everywhere. There were one or two tents completely destroyed. The trio wandered through the slice surrounded by the aftermath of their destruction, acting like they themselves didn't create it but Bruce avoided stepping on the tire marks.

Reaching the belly of the circus, folks crowded around one another. At the beer stands or the food stalls before entering the tents. The largest one that held the most gravitational pull of the crowd had the large ‘Flying Grayson's’ poster outside it by the entrance. Guess that's where those funky bunch are performing.

While nose diving through the crowd just as it grew thinner, some stranger, dressed up with green hair and white face paint patted Y/N’s shoulder. She snapped around, giving her full attention. He held up a small transparent box full of little bags. Ah, it was his special box and he was offering something for her. She cringed and shook her head. Even Bruce was offered something, he just stared at the man then back at Y/N not letting a single line give away a thought behind those eyes- eyes constantly shrouded in darkness and secrets.

Sausages on the other hand, threw his hand up in the air as if to say me me me! The clown smile grew revealing several missing teeth and a few rotten ones covered in his red lipstick. Lovely.

Opening his box Bruce inspected it. Of course it’s the full cocktail of stuff even fucking needles. Ket, Cocaine, Shrooms, even acid tabs? Looked like drops also. Bruce looked over to Y/N who was refusing to look at the situation. Arms crossed and tapped her foot onto the grass as Sausage's eyes were hungry. He looked eagerly at the shrooms, whipping his head up at the clown for permission. The clown shoved the box into his face. Insinuating a yes.

Sausages took a handful of shrooms- even the clown broke character and looked concerned. He shoved the entire fist full down his throat. That will bite his ass later.

While waiting for the transaction to take place, Y/N looked around at the crowd. For a second she swears she saw the dead guy with the suitcase smiling at her. She had to double take. He wasn't there. His image was haunting her- him and that huge hole in his head.

She didn't know what was worse. The fact she was seeing his face and gaping wound in the crowd on strangers faces, or that he is sitting in the back seat of her car. A shiver ran up her spine. Averting her gaze to the floor, looking at her feet to then look back at Sausages and Bruce.

The clown shook the box and then walked off giggling, even offering more people some of his treasures. Even shook it in a child's face.

Sausages patted his stomach and turned to Y/N. “Should have had something from that guy- his pick’n’mix was literally a fucking pick’n’mix!” pouting his lips at Bruce, Sausages continued. “Maybe you should have had some Brucie- would have gotten that stick out of your ass.”

“Leave him alone, Sausages.” Y/N uttered, shaking her head and moving on. They drew closer to the meeting point. The crowd was finally getting smaller and Y/N felt relief.

“Hm- You're a bit protective with our pal here.” Sausages shook Bruce a little. Bruce was being very docile. “Should I be worried you two will run off when the shrooms kick in?” he teased.

“Buddy, what do you think is gonna happen? Me and Mr Wayne run off with each other into the sunset holding hands? Maybe even our dead buddy waking up from his death nap and stealing our car while we are on the topic of make believe!” While speaking aloud, she smiled and nodded at those who passed them who pulled faces at her words. Not caring if they heard her or not. One woman covered the ears of her child and she scooted away.

“I mean who knows, it's been one of those kinds of nights you know?”

“It's unlikely.” Bruce stated.

Smacking his hands either side of Bruce’s shoulders “He speaks! Thought you swallowed your tongue at some point in the joy ride.” he joked. Bruce tensed up.

“Give it a rest.” She snapped, looking left and right before shuffling between two tents. Getting out of the crowd to a more secluded area of the chaos. Sausages and Bruce followed behind.

“What wriggled its way up your ass and died.” Sausages muttered. It caught Bruce’s attention and he blinked to process it briefly.

Y/N hung back on a step for a second, also processing what he said. “What?- Do… Do you mean who took a shit in my breakfast this morning?”

“Do I?”

“Sausages. Shut up.”

Once on the outskirts, the crowd drew thinner and thinner until eventually on the outskirts of the tents they awaited. Alone. Only meters away from the meeting point.

Drawing closer to the back of the large tent that illuminated in a warm glow surrounded by darkness and endless emptiness of the field to have a wall of cold empty tents on the other side of them. Bruce scanned around. Just as Sausages and Y/N fell silent the quiet was loud and perfect. With no one in sight and submerged in the shadows, Bruce seized his opportunity.

Bumping sausages back to then jump, bringing his tied up hands in front of him. Sausages stumbling- reached to grab Bruce by the arm to then be welcomed by a powerful strike from Bruce. He elbowed him in the stomach winding him.

Y/N spun around, but was too slow as Bruce dipped down and knocked her off her feet making her fly backwards into the mud. It was all too fast for her to process.

Standing up straight Bruce snapped his binds, by making his hands into fists and bringing them down sharply together, pulling his elbows apart and pressing his wrists hard into his abdomen. In one fierce force he was free.

Chest rising and falling, gearing into a fighting stance. It’s like Bruce shape-shifted before their eyes. From a pathetic wet cat kind of boy to a man who has purpose in his movements. Someone to fear.

Sausages reached round to try and bring him into a headlock, but Sausages was punched in the face. Bruce was quick and held his composer while Sausages took hazardous steps back holding his nose, which was now gushing blood.

“FUCK!” screeched Sausages “You cunt!” he began to sob.

Y/N scrambled to her feet all caked in mud but Bruce clasped her by the neck and then pinned her against the side of a van, leaning in close. Struggling against his grip, she slammed her fist to his forearm in a desperate plea for him to let her go. Eyes darted between Bruce and Sausages who was too busy nursing his nose. All her focus snapped to Bruce as his hand burned into her neck.

Goggled-eyed and tongue- tied, Y/N gave in and stared directly into Bruce’s eyes, falling limp.

Huh, she never noticed how blue they were. Blue with a ring of earth green around the pupil. Little specks of dark blue sprayed across the palette. It was like the moment after dusk where night had just begun but it was still light enough to see the sky and its handsome bright stars. His long lashes drew inwards urging the attention to his irises. Time had felt painfully slow as she was eaten up by his gaze.

The slight wobble of his stern gaze dragged her out of the black hole she found herself falling into. It was becoming alarmingly clear that the only way out of this predicament was to fight.

Lifting her hand up to break out of his hold. He spoke, disrupting her “Y/N, don’t bother.” He hushed her. The way he spoke her name caused her skin to vibrate with a mix of confusing emotions.

He had her pinned up, and was trying to silence her. She saw red. They had gotten along just fine earlier then suddenly this? She scrunched her face up, separating her knees apart then swung her arm, smacking the inside of his wrist that held her by the throat. Swinging her body around by shifting her weight into her push. Positioning her in a perfect spot to elbow him in the face or to wrap his head into a guillotine choke hold.

Bruce Grabbed her wrist before she managed to go any further with her self defense stance. He yanked her down, resulting in her splashing onto her knees in the mud.

The man had some fucking strength on him- brute strength. He was much stronger than the old man back at the tower.

Eyeballing her, observing her as she kneeled there in the mud, his hand still holding her wrist up in the air. His touch burnt, it fucking burnt through her skin and it throbbed in her mind. His hands were rough, coarse from scratches and cuts but he had a soft touch.

Running up behind him, with blood smeared from his nose to across his cheek. Sausages yelled “MOTHER FUCKER!” holding a bat he somehow grabbed a hold of. Bruce cut his attention from Y/N to then see Sausages. With little to no ease grabbed the top of the bat and let out a deep sigh varnished in annoyance.

Sausage’s face fell flat. He hoped he could beat Bruce to a pulp but instead opened up his mouth to let blood trickle down and coat his teeth, smiling a pathetic smile. Raising both of his arms up in a piteous surrender.

“What is the Penguin up to?” Bruce spat, pulling the bat out of Sausage's grip. Sausages let go glancing over to Y/N who kneeled on the floor, caked in mud just staring up at Bruce. Bewildered.

Bruce had caught Y/N off guard in the car and since discovering he was far from what she expected, that he may have been nice and just some weirdo that she made out to be the personification of capital. The object that she projected all her financial struggles on just because he was doing better off than her. This was different. Bruce had just revealed to her that he is sneaky, calculating and really good at catching people by surprise.

He won't catch her off guard ever again.

Grabbing his nose, Sausages drew back. “It's none of your business pretty boy.”

“We made a deal.” Y/N spoke up, dropping her head down. Arm going limp in Bruce’s hold. “Oz took advantage of the floods- people needed money, shelter and support. He exploited that. We needed money.”

Tossing the bat to the side, Bruce pushed further. "Is that what he did to you? Exploit you?”

Snatching her arm out of Bruce’s grasp, offended at his tone but his grip only tightened. “Listen your high-ass, I was alone in Gotham, jobless and terrified to take on night shifts so- I turned to Oz. Not like I have some dead parent’s money to fall back on.”

“The amount of us that lose jobs because a furry who runs around at night taking out the only people giving us jobs is fucking crazy.” Sausages tipped his head back, blood trickling down his chin and down his neck. A red trail that only grew darker. His breath was sharp and croaky.

Bruce gave Sausages narrow eyes while he faced Y/N. She seemed to be most willing to talk. His voice became softer as his tone was directed towards her. “What is the Penguin up to?”

“I don't know.” she confessed. “Let go of me.” she tried to rip her hand free of Bruce's grip once more. He let go this time, drawing her hand closer to her chest to rub where he held. His touch felt like it was engraved into her wrist, pulsing. “I just want to leave Gotham.”

“Best to leave Gotham now.” Bruce voiced.

“Easy for you to say. You don’t owe a mob boss a fucking arm and a leg.”

“Wow!” All of their attention suddenly turned and saw a child chewing on a candy apple. “Holy catastrophe.”

Sausages pinching the bridge of his nose turned to face Y/N and Bruce then back to the child. “Did the shrooms kick in yet or are we all seeing a kid right there dressed in green and yellow?”

“Oh god is that-”

Bruce shifted on his feet “A flying Grayson?”

The child raised his brows and continued to dig his teeth into the delectable treat. He looked no more than twelve? He was wearing a gymnastic suit with tights. Oh the poor kid, his parents probably forced him to dress up like that.

“No need to stop on my account.” He delicately walked over and threw the core of his candy apple and the stick into the correct bin. Oh great, a goody two shoes. He then turned and clapped. “There were some rusty parts in that fight but lots of room for improvement!”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to feed those things after midnight?” Sausages said turning to Y/N and Bruce. “Let alone letting it out of its fucking cage.”

“Hey!” cried out the child.

Y/N shifted her eyes to Bruce who was more attentive towards the child. She took in a sharp breath inwards.

“Hey? What are you, a horse?”

“I am a Grayson!”

Paying no mind to the child, her attention was on Bruce. His jaw clenched as it looked like he was nervous? Was the presence of the child making him nervous? Bruce locked eyes with the child, frozen in place. Looked really weird.

Bringing her knee up and launching herself up to push Bruce over, catching him by surprise. He was under her. Pinning his arms above his head. She grinned. “Pardon for not blowing sunshine up your ass.” His brows creased as he glared at her. “But you're entire appeal expired the moment you fucking had me in a choke hold asshole.”

“Likewise.” he commented while a smile that is so slight Y/N was not sure it even happened grew on his face momentarily. His hair now covered in mud, ruining his neat and clean black locks. She pouted in response.

The young Grayson was in two minds about what to do but ran up to Sausages who was just watching his pal pin a billionaire onto the floor- cheering her on. Taking him by surprise, Grayson tackled him- thinking he was helping Bruce out.

The child jumped on top of the trash can and performed a Corkscrew move in the air to kick Sausages in the face to then jump up and wrap his legs around his head to the drums on the top of Sausages crown.

“Get off me you monkey!” Squalled Sausages spinning around attempting to throw the child off him.

“I’m not a monkey! I’m a flying Grayson!” The young child put his hands over Sausage's eyes, trying to gauge his eyes out.

“Flying fucking piece of shit in a minute mate!”

“Why are you swearing at a child?”

“You? A child? You're a gremlin, you little shit!”

Bruce flipped Y/N over. He was now on top. She laid there with her arms pinned up above her while he saddled her to hold her down. Bruce would be lying to himself if he didn't think he was admiring her from this angle.

With the hectic noise of Sausages and the young flying Grayson being background noise, Y/N wanted to break the unnerving tension between her and Bruce. She tried to spit in his face but gravity wasn't her friend. The spit flew up a little and came back down onto her forehead. Bruce tried his best to not laugh but his lips did twitch. She burnt her eyes into his beautiful ones, full of rage and embarrassment.

“Well well well. What's all this then?” The voice was familiar to Y/N. She closed her eyes, Bruce studied her expression to glance over his shoulder, catching the young Grayson no longer attacking Sausages, they both had paused their antics to stare agape at the two silhouettes.

Slowly walking towards the group were two identical twins. One of them was clapping their hands in astonishment.

“You two fucking idiots having a party here? While the boss is waiting for you both?” He scratched his nose and darted his gaze around the mess. “Who the ever loving fuck are these two with you both?”

The other twin pointed at Sausages and the child, “Is that a fucking child on you hot-dog boy.”

“I’d be thrilled if you could help me out you bozos.” Sausages gave a last attempt to shake the kid off.

“Nah. Love seeing you getting humbled. Especially by an infant barely out of diapers.” cackled one of the nameless twins.

“Oh shit is that- Is that Bruce Wayne? Is that homeless looking guy Bruce Wayne?” One of the twins nudged the other.

“Oh my god it is Bruce fucking Wayne!” Bruce was getting real tired of people being surprised to see him.

“Yeah! On top of the pretty princess, no less!”

“Hey! Only I get to call her that!! Yelped Sausages yanking the child’s arm, trying to pull him off. The Grayson who was still on Sausages just started pulling at his hair, like how that rat would in ratatouille.

“You call her pretty princess? What are you her dad?” Yelled the child.

“It is an odd nickname to be honest.” spoke up one of the twins. “She is nothing like a princess, more so a chambermaid.”

“Always thought she was prudish.”

Bruce looked away from them to Y/N whose face was growing redder by the second. She was about to explode. She fucking hated that nickname. The nickname Sausages has been calling her ever since they met and it was easily being caught on by everyone around them.

“Will you all shut up and maybe you two twits will help me and Sausages instead of sitting there and watching with your mouths open catching flies!” She screamed. Bruce gave her a once over look. She didn't like him just staring at her. Hated how quiet he was and how all he did was just stare.

“With that attitude maybe we just won't help you out.”

“We were honestly considering it.”

“Considering it?!” She wriggled in Bruce’s grasp. “What do you mean by considering it?!”

“Means what it means princess, beevus and butthead are just as stupid and as selfish as they look.”

“Say you!” The kid said, ripping out a fist full of Sausage's hair causing him to scream out and call the kid an array of colourful names.

“Shut up Dick.” One of the twins walked over and plucked the child up from the scruff of his collar, like a cat holding its young. “You weren't supposed to leave your tent.” The young Grayson started kicking his legs in the air, wiggling and struggling to get free.

“And you! That's not very nice to call us names!” The other twin pointed at Sausages and Y/N just before pulling Bruce off her by his arm. Brush shrugged him off and stood up on his own. Window of escape had closed. He had better luck following along if he wanted to see what the penguin was up to.

Once getting up onto his feet, the twin tried to roughly grab him but Bruce punched the guy in the face from behind. Did some mighty damage but the big guy just shook it off and punched Bruce in the face in return. While Bruce was stunned for a second, the twin grabbed both of his arms behind him and held him hostage.

“Got a solid punch there pretty boy.” The twin spat out, spitting out some blood. Bruce dipped his head down and remained quiet.

The situation was dealt with. Y/N scrambled up to her feet. “Thanks…”

“Would have been over with a lot sooner if you had just asked nicely” The twin who held the kid in the air said. Y/N mocked a polite smile his way before turning to Bruce. She wanted to sock him in the jaw so badly but one glance through his dark and long lashes to look at her- she felt soft for a moment and her throat became dry. She didn't want to even bother anymore.

Scoffing, turning to face Sausages who has blood running down his face, just to avoid looking at Bruce. Y/N could quite frankly kill for a shower right now. Covered in mud and dirt, she rubbed her forearm on her forehead wiping off her pathetic spit off her.

“Hey, big boy. Did you just call that kid a dick? Low blow.” Sausages muttered lifting his shirt to soak up the blood from his face.

“That's his name.” spoke up the twin holding Bruce.

“What?” Sausage's face was a grimace. Pulling the fabric away from his face for a second, squinting at the twins.

“The kid's name is Dick Grayson, wise guy.” He gently shook Dick Grayson in the air, showing him off.

“Don't talk about me when I'm right here!” Dick was still swinging his legs and swinging punches in the air. “It's rude!”

“Wow, your parents must really hate you kid.” Sausages snickered while Y/N shook her head.

^v^

In an isolated room, illuminated by the warm glow of the Victorian lights in Wayne Tower. Alfred sat holding his hands on his lap. A paramedic was attending to his wound on his knee. They were having small talk and bantering about the mess of the hardwood floor.

The paramedic wore bright green and yellow uniform, a radio strapped to their breast that buzzed in and out about locations and alerts. They kneeled down besides Alfred with their box’s mouth open wide besides them exposing their tools. Alfred couldn't help but look- reminded him of his younger years as a MI5 agent. He would constantly get injured and saw medical attention regularly but as time had its way with him, he saw it less and less.

He of course had his own ‘tool box’ for when Bruce would come back from a night black and blue. Alfred was all Bruce had and that even meant for company, family and support.

A smile flashed across his face as he remembered fondly teaching Bruce how to sew a wound himself.

“Not the first time a mess like that has occurred.” Alfred had an upbeat tone to his voice. Hinting at the messy crime screen.

“What, with blood?” Asked the paramedic, applying petroleum jelly to the open wound, prepping it for stitches.

Alfred flinched from the striking pain. “No no no- Mr Wayne got a little joyful with the spray paint one time.”

“Psh- why on earth would Wayne spray paint his own floor?” Pulling out a curved needle, sterilizing it. “Seems out of character for a guy like him.”

“Mr Wayne likes his arts and crafts I guess.” Alfred eyed the paramedic. Preparing himself for the pain to come. Taking in a deep breath and letting it out as he straightened his posture. “The tabloids don't really do him justice. He is just like any man his age.” Besides the fact that he is severely mentally ill and dresses up as a bat at night, yeah. One could say he is just like any dude his age.

“I surely cannot imagine Bruce Wayne with spray paint let alone making macaroni necklaces.” The paramedic forced a laugh at their cheesy joke.

“Oh we have loads of those actually- somewhere. He had made his mother a few macaroni necklaces when he was young.” The paramedic put the needle through the outside of his wound, starting to stitch it close. Alfred drew in a sharp and shaky breath.

“That's actually- cute.”

“It is, isn't it. He was a sweet kid, Had an eagerness for learning and tinkering.”

“Ah- so that's what he does in this big old tower.” Tying up the wound. Putting down the suture scissors and the dirty tissues in a medical tray to the side. “You're really lucky the person who shot you had only a hand held. If it was a shotgun you’d no longer have a knee. Just a giant hole where one should be-”

“Mr Pennyworth.” Called out Gordon, interrupting them.

Gordon walked into the room, scratching his chin, thinking carefully how to approach the situation. His train of thought was interrupted by Alfred’s polite correction.

“Detective. Please- just Alfred.”

Gordon let out a breathy laugh, making his way over to the two. “So, Alfred- Where is the man of the house?” Looking around the room. Hoping to pick up any more clues missed.

Bruce Wayne had a good staff, the place was immaculate. That or just a really good butler.

“Are you referring to Bruce Wayne? I assume he is at the after party of the Gotham’s Flood Charity Auction.” The paramedic pulled out a large square bandage, peeling back the paper on the sticky side to place it over the stitched wound on Alfred’s knee.

“Actually- a bunch of my men are there right now. Bruce Wayne is nowhere to be seen as well as the donation he handsomely offered to auction off.”

Alfred hesitated. Bruce was either actually missing or was running around Gotham as Batman. It was always hard to keep up with him when he was obsessing over something especially if it involved Batman or a case. It consumed him body and soul, became his waking thought while everything else was left as an afterthought even his health and hygiene. If his parents could see him now- Alfred knew it would break Martha’s heart to see her child tourture himself like this.

“I recall making strict requests to not have that auctioned off but to just showcase Martha Wayne’s and Thomas Wayne’s support in spirit.” The image of the man with the suitcase came into his mind, bashing against the man by the nickname Sausage's head several times. Felt like forever ago.

“A cute sentiment. That's besides the point. Bruce Wayne and the donation from Wayne Enterprises is nowhere to be seen and I was hoping to know if you had any clue on where they both are?”

“I reported earlier to the operator and to your other detective that I saw the suitcase and the guard it was attached to being taken away by the two who were trespassing. They also left a mess.” Indicating his knee. The paramedic laughed. “And I came up to hopefully find Bruce. I just assumed he was sidetracked and is just wandering around a party buzzing from the alcohol.”

“You don’t sound too worried that your boss is possibly missing Mr Pennyworth. Some people would be jumping to place a missing persons report.” Gordon pushed, hoping Alfred would let something slip.

“It hasn't been 24 hours. I’m more concerned with the break in and the robbery of the suitcase containing Wayne’s family heirloom.”

“It is a common belief that you have to wait 24 hours before reporting but it’s not true, you can make a report to the police as soon as you think a person is missing.”

“Detective. The suitcase is a high priority and I assure you. Bruce Wayne will show up.” Alfred was blunt.

“Pennyw- Alfred. We have CCTV footage of Bruce being held at gunpoint at the party, escorted out and then abducted. From the Auction held here- at the Wayne Tower.” Sounded completely made up but not really out of the realm of impossible to Alfred. He clasped his hands together on his lap and then pushed a polite smile. He had nothing to worry about Bruce will be fine… He hoped.

Gordon opened his mouth to continue but decided against it. He really didn't have much to go on apart from evidence found in a storage cupboard near the elevator, the footage that security handed over to the GCPD of Bruce’s abduction, the missing suitcase and the guard and then the car that sped out of the scene. They were just lucky enough to get a number plate but it was a stolen number plate swapped over onto the car. It was pretty darn smart to be honest.

Alfred was the first to speak while the paramedic was packing away their equipment. “Then… I’ll trust you’d find Mr Wayne, bring him and the suitcase home safely.” He couldn't fight anymore for Bruce’s defense. He knew he could hold his own especially if he was with the two he had encountered earlier Bruce would be fine.

Gordon gave a subtle nod before reaching over with something in his hand. “If you have anything else, call me.” Gordon handed out a card, subtle off white colouring with a watermark, in the centre it read: J. Gordon. Alfred laughed to himself, not at all expecting this man to have this kind of business card.

Without another word, Gordon walked out of the room, leaving Alfred staring at the card. Letting out a sigh. Talking to Bruce about this will be like pulling teeth.

Growing anxious with the GCPD looking for Bruce, who was now presumed missing. Wherever Bruce was, Alfred hoped he’d return soon or better yet be okay. The toll of the Riddler did Bruce in so badly it took him weeks to recover and he was still dealing with a lot of it emotionally all alone.

Batman was consuming Bruce even in the aftermath of chaos.

“Hey- They’ll find him.” The paramedic tried to reassure Alfred. Picking up their equipment, giving Alfred a comforting smile they left. Alfred sat there alone staring at the business card.

#The Batman #Robert Pattinson #Battinson #batman x reader #Battinson x reader #fanfiction #battinson x reader #bruce wayne x reader #DC #70's vibes

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