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featherandferns · 6 months ago

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daylight - two

jj maybank x fem!reader | part 2 of the daylight series | read part 1 here

content warnings: drinking, mentions of sex

word count: 3k.

blurb: you join jj's friends at the chateau and find yourself playing hot seat.

“No.”

“Come on! It’s cute!”

“I mean this with all due respect: burn that top.”

Rolling your eyes, you look down at your t-shirt. You’d thrifted it from a shop near the harbour. Born to fish, made to work. You thought it was hilarious, and it was washed and worn-down into comfort. Stretched at the collar and slightly big on your frame, you fell in love. Mimsy? Not so much.

“It’s funny. I think it’ll go down well,” you tell her, keeping it on. You tuck the front into your pair of shorts before sitting down at your desk. Grabbing your hair brush, you begin taming your hair.

“This is the first time you’re meeting hot-mechanic-man’s friends and that’s what you’re wearing?” Mimsy says, disapproval heavy in her voice. “God, you really are lost without me.”

Mimsy had dubbed JJ ‘hot-mechanic-man’ after you recounted the story from two nights ago, when your car decided to call it quits on some random country road. All you’d done was tell her his name and that he was from the Cut, and she’d stalker master-minded her way to his Instagram. It was just as you had pictured it to be. Snaps of him surfing, some shirtless (score), and photos of him smoking. His friends were on there too. You’d counted it as homework for tonight in your sleuthing. John B with a head of brown-ish hair, curled and fairly long; Kiara with a brimming smile and ‘save the turtles’ branded backpack; Pope with his awkward grin which did not match his well-toned body. They seemed fun from the photos.

There was a video on his Instagram which you think Mimsy might have watched fifteen or so times. It was of JJ shot-gunning a beer with John B, stood in a yard beside a campfire. You’d watched it too, eyes fixated on his bobbing Adam’s apple, and promptly clicked out of the video. So, despite your teasing, you were grateful for Mimsy’s talents.

“How’re you getting there? Parents giving you a ride?”

“I’ll skate,” you say.

Mimsy nods. “Is it a good skate scene out there?”

“S’alright,” you shrug. Flashing her a smile through the camera, you say, “would be better if you were here.”

“Yeah, well, most things are,” she jokingly returns. The smile that follows is solemn. The two of you missed each other like crazy.

Mimsy looks past the camera into a mirror and continues working glitter onto her eyelid. It sparkles against her tanned skin. She's going out tonight to your usual haunt. Fake IDs got you into a social-club style bar in your local area, where most of your friends went. You missed the smell of liquor that clung to the walls and that uncomfortable tackiness of the floors.

“You nervous about meeting his friends, then?”

“I guess,” you say. “Kinda nervous about meeting him again.”

“Yeah, hot guys will have that effect on you,” Mimsy returns with a cheeky grin.

Rolling your eyes, you go to fire something back but get interrupted by a crackled yell through the speaker. Mimsy turns around in her chair, towards her door, and hollers back to her mother in Spanish.

“Pol el amor de Dios,” she mumbles as she turns back to the camera. “Sorry, babes. Gotta go.”

“Have fun!” you grin.

“Oh, you too,” she returns with a telling wink. Then she clicks off the screen. Your room is unnaturally quiet without her voice and company.

Checking the time, you get to your feet, pull on a pair of beat-up Reboks, and grab your bag and penny board. Jogging down the stairs of the two-story home, you call out to your parents. Your dad mumbles his reply just as you slip out the door. You take off down the street and head towards the address JJ text you. Your backpack is heavy with beer cans and unopened chips, and your cased digital camera. It felt wrong to leave your house without some form of camera: polaroid, digital, disposable. You were attached like a child to a safety blanket.

As you pull onto the road which supposedly leads up to John B’s house, the amount of tarmac depletes. Making the rest of the way on foot, you’re only semi-cautious as you start down a dirt trail to an old fish shack that’s only just visible through overgrown shrubs and trees. The echo of energetic chatter which carries to you calms your worry. You round the corner to find JJ stood on top of a tree stump, arms expanded as he tells a story. When his eyes catch yours, he stops mid-sentence and jumps down.

“Yo! You made it!”

The rest of the gang turns as JJ bounds over to you. He grabs you by the shoulders and coaxes you into the gathering.

“This is the girl I was telling you guys about,” he says to his friends.

They nod, wave and smile their greetings. JJ stands behind you, hands planted on your shoulders, and announces your name like you’re visiting royalty.

“That’s John B, Kiara and Pope,” he introduces. You think you do a good job acting like you’ve never seen any of them before.

"You're the damsel in distress JJ's been telling us about?" Kiara asks.

Laughing, you say, "that's not how I'd describe myself but sure."

The group smiles. John B nods down at the penny board you’re carrying. “You skate?”

“No, no, I just carry it around for street cred,” you dryly return. Pope sniggers.

“See! Told you she was funny!” JJ says. He makes his way to the beer cooler. “Beer or seltzer?”

“Beer,” you reply.

He tosses a can to you like he did at the garage. You catch and crack it open, and then take the empty lawn chair beside Kiara. She’s sitting crossed legged, nursing a bottle. The only lighting comes from the porch behind you. Everyone is sat in a wonky circle, lounging in their various seats. JJ has claimed the hammock. Chickens coo in a run not far from the group. The marsh water near John B’s home soothingly laps at the land. Crickets and owls accompany the quiet hum of music playing from a beat-up Bluetooth speaker.

“You came at the perfect time,” Kiara tells you. “JJ was just telling us a very interesting story.”

“Thank you, for that,” he replies, gliding past the almost-insult. “As I was saying, Priss snuck outta the party and nobody knows where she's at, right? Then, I'm heading out and guess who I fuckin' see her mackin' on? Fuckin' Bradley G.”

"You're so full of shit," John B snorts, shaking his head.

"I swear on my life! I swear on my God blessed grave, Priss and Brad G hooked up at that keggar the other night!"

You glance at JJ's friends and nobody seems very convinced.

"You're not allowed to go to parties unsupervised anymore," Pope says in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Shut up, Pope. Like you ever go to parties anyway," JJ mutters before taking a hefty swig of his drink.

Rolling her eyes, Kie looks to you. “Anyway. JJ says you’re new to Kildare?”

“Yep,” you reply.

“Where abouts you living? On the Cut?”

“Yeah, about ten minutes from here, actually,” you say. “Thanks for letting me hang with you guys by the way.”

“Course,” she smiles.

“Oh!” You suddenly remember your bag. Delving in, you produce two large bags of chips. “I brought snacks and drinks too.”

John B gets up and gladly takes the beers from you, placing them in the cooler with thanks. Kie tosses a bag of chips to JJ before opening the other, offering it around.

For a while there’s little chatter as you all relax. Kie hums along to the Bob Marley song that plays and Pope reads. John B’s head is reclined back, eyes shut, and a cloud of smoke sometimes billows out from the hammock cocoon JJ’s placed himself in. It’s reminiscent of how your friends used to be back in Vancouver. Chilled and cool, no pressure.

JJ breaks the quiet with a groan, shifting to sit up. “A'right. I’m bored. Let’s play a game or something.”

“Not strip poker again,” Pope demands.

“Oh come on! Why not!?” JJ protests.

Kie rolls her eyes. “Because you’re a card shark.”

“And because you always end up getting your dick out,” John B tags on. You snort into your can.

“Alright, alright, what then? I can’t be arsed setting up beer pong,” JJ grumbles, plopping himself down in a seat just opposite you.

“What about hot seat?” you offer. The group looks to you.

“Hot seat?”

“Yeah, it’s when someone sits down in a chair and they’re grilled for five minutes by the group. Any questions, no rules. If they don’t wanna answer, they drink,” you explain. “It’s fun.”

“I’m down,” Kie shrugs.

“Me too,” Pope agrees. John B nods.

JJ gets up, grabbing another abandoned seat (I mean, are these things multiplying?) and placing it in view of everyone, mimicking that of a courtroom layout.

“Alright, who’s first?” he asks. After a round of highest-lowest, Pope winds up in the hot seat. He shifts nervously as Kie readies her timer.

“Ready? Go!”

With that, an influx of questions follow. They range in severity: some joking and trivial and others bordering on existential. Pope drinks only once when asked if he’s into anybody, and before more prying can follow, the timer goes off.

“Now you get to choose who goes next,” you explain, somewhat giddy with the others.

“John B, you’re up,” Pope prompts. They swap seats and the group eggs the brunette on as he steels himself for questioning. The timer starts and the questions begin.

“Blow job or hand job?”

“Blow job,” John B answers JJ.

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

“Do you think the Royal Merchant is real?”

“Damn straight,” John B replies. You frown. Royal Merchant?

“Hottest girl in the county?”

John B deliberates. When he seemingly can’t decide, he takes a drink. More silly questions follow, most of which stem from JJ, and the group starts to crack up. The alcohol helps, easing everyone out of any boundaries. When John B’s round finishes, it’s followed by Kiara. She takes a joking bow before hopping into the seat. She’s calm and collected under their scrutiny. Rolls her eyes at JJ’s prying queries and entertains your own curious questions. From the way the group answers, and what they answer, you gain a better sense of their personalities. JJ is the next one up. He throws his hands up as he walks over, as if he’s heading into a boxing ring. He then man-spreads in the seat, shorts hitching up his muscular quads, and vapes as Kiara resets the timer. As your eyes skim up and down his body, they return to his face to find him watching you, amused.

“Timer’s going,” Kiara says. You snap your eyes away from his.

“Favourite sex position?” John B asks.

“Damn, that’s a tough one,” JJ replies. His finger swipes his lip almost tauntingly as he deliberates. You’re shamelessly intrigued. “Toss up between doggy and missionary.”

“Weed or beer?”

“What!? That’s evil!” JJ argues. “Weed, I guess.”

“Surfing or fishing?”

“Surfing. No! Fishing. No, no, wait…Can I choose both?”

You chorus with the others: “drink!”

He does as he’s told, swigging back his can. Nods when he’s done to prompt another question.

“If you could travel somewhere in the world, where would you go?” you ask.

JJ looks to you. His answer comes quick. “Anywhere. Fuck it - everywhere! I’d go to Mexico, and then Brazil, and then Argentina, and then I’d go to the Caribbean islands to see what’s happening there. And then Japan and China and all those places, and then a little backpacking stint around Europe and stuff. Finish off in Africa with the elephants and shit.”

The group hums their approval. As you glance around, you get the sense none of them have been very far. Neither had you. The farthest you’d ever been was North Carolina. Your family had never ventured out of Vancouver before; the only reason your parents had settled on North Carolina was because of your dad’s ties. He was born here and grew up not far from Kildare, in Wilmington. You think he might have been chasing nostalgia when he announced that you were all moving to Kildare.

“You into anyone right now?” Pope asks.

“Why? You offering yourself up?” JJ teases. Pope rolls his eyes, mumbling jerk under breath. “Yeah, I am.”

“Who?” Kie prompts, curious.

JJ’s eyes flash back to you and a telling smirk sneaks onto his face. “She already knows who she is.”

The group’s low whistles and ‘oo’s aren’t the only cause for your flushing. JJ’s stare is too. It flits down your figure tactfully before returning to your eyes, smirk only wider. You clear your throat, press your legs together and sip your beer. The timer goes off.

“Who’s up?” John B asks JJ.

“New girl,” JJ replies, clearing the seat for you to take his place. You gladly do so, laughing at the applause and whoops that come from the others.

“Do your worst,” you grin, squiffy from the beers.

Kiara starts the timer and the gang comply with your request.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

You bark out a laugh at Pope’s question. “Shit, starting off heavy. Um…Crashed my friend’s bike.”

“As in push-bike?”

“As in dirt bike,” you cringe. “Brand new dirt bike.”

“Damn, that is rough,” John B chuckles.

“Thing you like the most about yourself?”

“We talking physically or...?”

“Intellectually,” Kiara clarifies.

“And physically,” JJ happily tags on.

“Physically? My wrists, I guess. Don’t ask, I know that’s weird,” you laugh. “And intellectually…” Your eyes downfall to the grass ahead as you ponder. “Maybe my faith in others? I always try and see the best in people.”

Kiara nods, content with your response.

“What about the thing you dislike most about yourself? Intellectually, that is,” Pope wonders.

Your smile twists. “My faith in others.”

It was a double edged sword: you’d learnt that the hard way. You wash down the memories with a swig of beer.

“Body count?”

The sudden change in tone makes you laugh.

“You can’t just ask a girl her body count!” you exclaim through your giggles. JJ exaggerates his shrug.

“Why the hell not!? Anything goes right?”

You shake your head with a smile. As you sip your drink, you stare JJ down.

“Alright, favourite sex position then,” Kie says.

You comply with that question. Grinning, you say, “cowgirl. Or reverse cowgirl. Either, really.”

John B whistles as Kiara teases, "okay, girl, okay."

“If you had to hook-up with anyone here, who would it be?” JJ asks.

Laughing, you look to the sky as you toss back your head. “I met most of you guys like two hours ago!”

“Going off first-impressions, then,” JJ says. You can hear the grin in his voice.

There’s an obvious answer, at least to you. It’s the blonde who you’ve spent the whole night trying not to stare at. His rugged handsomeness and bedroom eyes mixed with the sheen of daytime sweat and sunscreen that settled on his skin, bathing him in beauty...Fuck, it’s not fair people like that exist. You want to know the recipe God used to make him. Want to keep it to yourself so he can’t make it anymore.

Fixing your posture, you train your eyes on JJ. Then, you take a long, long sip of your drink. Kiara laughs under her breath with John B. You swear you see JJ’s demeanour darken. It’s like a game of who can break first. In the end, it’s you, thanks to the surprise of the timer.

“That’s time…”

“John B. Get your butt back in this chair,” you say, getting to your feet.

He does as asked whilst you return to your old spot. When you glance up, you find JJ watching you. There’s a shadow of a smile on his lips and a barely-there expression on his face, but you can’t decipher what either means. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about it though. Reminds you of the same type of smile you saw almost a year ago, back in Vancouver, on a different guy's features. You look away and wash it down with your drink.

The game eventually dies down after two more rounds, without you or JJ returning to the hot seat. By now everyone is bordering on drunk.

The energy has amped up and the atmosphere is upbeat. As Kie, Pope and John B fall into a loud debate about something or other, JJ finds the spot next to you. He nudges your leg with his.

“You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” you smile. “Thanks for inviting me along tonight.”

“Course. You thinking you might a Pogue?”

“Maybe, maybe,” you reply non-committedly. You take another sip of your beer.

“Look, uh, I’m sorry if I weirded you out at all tonight, with all the hot-seat things,” JJ randomly says.

Frowning, you look at him. “It didn’t weird me out. I told you that at the garage, didn’t I? That it doesn't bother me?”

“Yeah, but, after tonight…Just don’t want to make you feel weirded out around me,” he replies.

It’s sweet that he cares about that. JJ seems the kind who talks first and apologies later. Whilst you know half of it's joking, you appreciate him checking that you’re comfortable with it. You’d had flirty guy friends before. Hell, you had flirty girl friends too. Mimsy, to name one. Maybe the different thing here was that you wouldn’t exactly turn JJ down. It wasn’t him that was keeping you at bay.

“Nah, you’re good,” you say. Glancing down, you watch your sneakers fidget in the grass. “I just, uh…I just have a lot going on right now and I don’t wanna jump into anything. Even if it’s casual, you know? At least not until I figure things out a bit more and get settled.”

It’s only half of the truth. There was something deeper holding you back. You could feel it now, creeping up behind you, always looming since December.

But you just met JJ. He didn’t owe you anything the same way you didn’t owe him. And trauma dumping isn’t the most certifiable way to make friends.

“Nah, I get it,” JJ hums, nodding. “Sides, if you’re gonna be one of us, we have rules.”

“I’m sorry, you have rules?” you snigger, looking to him.

JJ laughs. “Alright, alright, I know it sounds intense but hear me out! They’re to keep the peace and stuff. Keep us together.”

“That’s sweet. I, too, often trap people into friendships with rules,” you sardonically return. JJ nudges your leg away in joking disapproval. You laugh. “Go on, then. What are these rules? Should I get a notebook or…?”

“Alright, rule number one: no pogue on pogue macking.”

“Macking?”

“Kissing. Hooking up. That sorta thing,” he explains.

Pursing your lips, you nod. “Guessing that came about after your collective balls dropped and you realised Kiara’s hot?”

JJ doesn’t speak but his silence is answer enough. You laugh. A particular outburst from Pope catches your joint attention. John B and Kiara fall into hysterics and you smile at their joy. It distracts JJ from further rule-telling. Reaching down into your backpack that’s nestled under your seat, you fish out your camera and settle it on the trio. You snap a few shots. They’ll look perfect with a black and white filter. JJ watches you flick through them.

“You a photographer or something?”

“Kinda,” you reply. “I do it for fun, mostly.”

“Wanna take one of me?” It seems a rhetorical question.

Chuckling, you lift the camera and snap a shot of a grinning JJ. In one hand he holds up his drink and in the other he makes a surfer symbol. It’s cute. Shows his dimples and crowsfeet by his eyes. It reminds you why you were so infatuated by him at the kegger. The way the camera paints him is like a Monet. Before you can protest, JJ takes the camera from you and turns it. You complain as he snaps a shot: it feels unnatural being on this side of the lens. You snatch it back.

“Dickhead.”

“What? You look cute! Especially in that shirt - I fucking love that.”

You try to hide your fluster by placing your camera back. JJ gets to his feet. Offering out a hand with a smile, he helps you up. The casual touch somehow feels like you're shaking on something. An agreement, to be simply friends, at least for now. So, passing a smile and naturally retracting your hand from his, you follow him to the others.

“What we talking about?” JJ asks.

“Oh, shit! You guys have got to hear this story!” Kiara struggles out.

They all shuffle to make space for you and JJ. John B wordlessly offers you another can whilst Pope recounts his tale. As you settle into laughter with the others, cracking up at JJ’s teasing of his awkward friend, you find yourself happy with the thought of becoming a Pogue.

read part three here!

taglist:

@princessuki21 | @psyches-reid

#jj #jj x reader #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank series #jj maybank x reader series #jj series #jj x reader series #obx #outer banks #outerbanks #obx fic #outer banks fic #outerbanks fic #outer banks series #outerbanks series #obx series

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lanadelreyscokewhor3 · 6 months ago

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marvel men- stoner edition

this is how i think the marvel men would act while you (and them) are high:) please enjoy and get baked appropriately, whichever method you choose stay safe! <3

peter parker

- one word. munchies.

-this man prepares an entire feast before the two of you get high and he gets so hungry it’s not even funny. you pray to get a bite in… but he cooks such good food, so you can’t complain.

-you bring over a desert so it’s even, last time it was chocolate fudge brownies and he kissed the chocolate off your lips

- he’s very touchy, always wanting to cuddle!1!1 more than normal, like he literally sits you on his lap despite there being an empty chair next to him

-you guys watch starwars movies often, or compilations of brain rot that you both know all the references to- you laugh with him for hours to the point you’re silently dying, tears down your face and needing to call a time out

-often times you get high at his place, with lots of low, dim christmas lights, open windows for the nice breeze (and so you can sit on the fire escape) and he always makes sure your spot on the bed is made and has stuffies!

-essentials- fuzzy blankets. his camera (to take pictures of you), fuzzy peaches and baggy clothes

bucky barnes

- super good at rolling. you make him roll everything for you and he pretends to get annoyed but secretly he loves it

- he has a much higher tolerance then you so it’s super funny when you’re already on cloud nine and he’s barley high yet, he makes fun of you

- he’s super protective of you if you guys go out, normally you go to the gas station to grab snacks because it’s close by, but despite this he holds you close and always is slightly in front of you when people are around to shield you

- you guys typically smoke at the little creek by your house and watch the stars or in your room, from out the window

- he really likes your room (mainly your bed) and is constantly insisting on cuddling, which results in you freaking out because he threatens to wear his outside clothes under the sheets if you don’t hurry up

- super calm and relaxed, but still alert to protect you! even if you’re in your home, he’s still a guard dog

- you tend to play with his hair and put butterfly clips in it (he “does not” like this)

- usually if you’re at your house you watch lord of the rings

- essentials- his fancy lighter he likes to show off, chocolate covered pretzels, baggy clothes and a nerf gun (to protect you ofc)

steve rogers

- says “do a flip!” to anyone who is on a high surface, including you

- he always brings his notebook because he claims his ideas flow better when he’s had a few hits, so sometimes he’ll just randomly pull it out and write or draw

- he likes to draw you a lot whenever you guys get high together

- huge video game lover! you guys play Minecraft together at his house and build little villages (and then he brings you to the nether with no weapons so you’re running around freaking out)

- #1 fruit gummy and goldfish lover

- if he slid his hand on your upper thigh and gave you that look he knows drives you wild, you would have 216 nickles. which isn’t a lot but it’s weird it happened 216 times (you fuck after)

- does spot on fuck boy impressions to make you piss your pants from laughing so hard

- essentials- a game, lunchbox snacks, thin blankets (so he doesn’t get hot, he’s picky), and his notebook

matt murdock

- he likes to eat “treats” that you bake, his favourite is the homemade rice kripsies with weed butter

- you guys always cheers them before you eat them after a nice homemade, candle lit dinner

- typically you guys lounge on the couch and like getting stoned when it’s storming so you can listen to the rain on the roof (his high, echoing loft makes it louder:) )

- he’s old fashioned, you guys make a charcuterie board and play board games like chutes and ladders and battleship

- matt like to run you a bath, light some candles and play with your hair while you watch a cheesy sitcom

- lazy make out sessions allll the time, and being perched up on his knee while he rubs your arms and back

- words of affirmation… always. he already tells you stuff all the time but when he’s stoned it’s every two sentences. “you’re so soft and sweet and so good” is a classic, where he rambles on

- just really romantic:) also SEXY! but sexy romantic. he takes care of you and touch is a must

essentials- red wine, sweet smelling candles, his dog eared box game of battleship and some good italian bread

loki laufeyson

- this man… yeah. sex!

- the two of you stretch out with a soft blanket and watch compilations of people acting like idiots and getting hurt, or super bad reality tv to laugh

- i feel like he’s artistic! whenever you guys smoke that side comes out even more, so you guys often paint together- recently you did that trend where you painted your partner in real time

- he’s a cat man so your black cat locks is always with you, curled up in a ball or slung across his shoulder

- he really likes frozen/ cold fruits. like frozen grapes. i feel he would have a deep connection to them and would feed them to you like some greek goddess

- sometimes you guys smoke before a night out in town, and you go see a play or something and eat sooo much popcorn up in those little balcony boxes

- late walks in the city too, to look at all the pretty lights and such! he often snags you a fresh baked good from a vendor to nibble one

- essentials- his cat, his grapes, and his lady!! also he has this really soft pair of sweatpants he likes to wear, black of course! you guys have matching ones

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newtkive · 10 months ago

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shift shenanigans - social media au (pt. 2)

note: yes there’s the main work chat w carmy, the secret coworker chat w/o carmy, and the secret secret bestie chat w syd, marcus, and yourself. it would be canon.

warnings: crude humor, slightly offensive jokes

part one

liked by carmyberzatto, marcus.brooks11 and 40 others

chefboyardee: life lately

see all 9 comments

syd_adamu: that pho was life changing

↳ chefboyardee: i think it was the best i’ve ever had

marcus.brooks11: feet off the table @syd_adamu

↳ chefboyardee: leave my girl alone

↳ richietheking: I knew you guys were lez

↳ syd_adamu: we aren’t and you can’t say that

↳ chefboyardee: oh.. we aren’t? ☹️😔

↳ syd_adamu: 😑

carmyberzatto: 🍲🔥

THE GOLDEN TRIO

[ 7:45 AM ]

y/n: did you see

did you see

did

you

see

ogmgokggkowkfofsk

syd: pardon??

what did richie do oh my god

did he post another picture of him with the gun from that one day

fuckkkk carmys gonna be so mad

marcus: nope i wish

y/n: he commented on my post 😭😭😭😭

syd: who

marcus: think about it

who else would cause this reaction

y/n: carmy!!!!!!!

i woke up to him commenting 🍲🔥 😍😍😍😍

syd: woah and the heart eyes?

y/n: no that’s my addition

syd: the bar is in hell

HES YOUR BOSS

y/n: AND I WANT HIS BABIES??

marcus: y’all so hype to be pregnant THEN BOOOMMM ‼️ THE BABY’S UGLY AND BALD WITH ECZEMA 😩🤨

syd: LMFAOOOOO WHOS YALL THO????

y/n: bye im done

im leaving for work.

don’t talk to me ever again

done.

marcus: bye 👋

why do you leave so early fool

syd: so she can be teachers pet

marcus: smh always there before everyone

y/n: not true.

syd: i thought you weren’t talking to us

y/n: 😒

marcus: want me to bring y’all an iced latte again

y/n: …. 😁

WORK

[ 8:15 AM ]

y/n: AYOOOO

great job cleaning up after work yesterday 😊👍

richie: Is this a joke?

y/n: why would i joke about such a thing

carmy: Y/n what are you doing

y/n: u said to tell everyone their housekeeping is shitty

carmy: No I said I was going to tell them that, and you said no I’ll do it

This is not what I meant

y/n: well you yell too much

marcus: ouch

that’s my station 😔

carmy: Well clean it better

y/n: im using reverse psychology and positive reinforcement

carmy: Not what that means

y/n: well notice how no one’s mad at me

im making alliances day by day

richie: You’ve worked here for two years and we are already friends

y/n: so you’re saying you aren’t my ally

richie: No

We are definitley in an alliance

y/n: love u richie

richie: Don’t go that far

chefboyardee’s instagram stories

WE HAVE THE BEEF 🥩

[ 3:25 PM ]

y/n:

he so fine im bouta cermmmmm

syd: …..

marcus: :O

y/n: why are you acting shocked

like i haven’t said this daily

tina: Woah girl who?

y/n: HUH

richie: I’m not in the picture I don’t get it

syd: let’s just keep working before carmy notices

tina: I don’t care I’m on smoke break. Who are you talking about girl? Spill the tea..

marcus: she was talking about me you guys

y/n: the guy in the back

oh i mean yeah marcus

tina: The meat delivery guy? He has a wife..

y/n: we are having an affair

marcus: no it’s about me

richie: I didn’t know Marcus and Y/n were a thing..

tina: Something ain’t right. No way they are.

marcus: we aren’t it’s just our sense of humor

y/n: i was just being funny!

tina: What did Jeff just yell inside?

syd: came out of the office and said “just cuz we’re slow doesn’t mean you can play on your phones” 👍💯

tina: Whatever. No chance Y/n meant Marcus. You got the hots for Jeffrey?

y/n: what no

tina: Well I wouldn’t blame you. He’s cute

y/n: OMG RIGHTTTTTTT

its the tattoos isn’t it

richie: You have to be fucking joking

tina: I was playing..

y/n: im confused

syd: that was cruel

marcus: who cares it’s not a big deal

y/n: so you don’t think he’s cute tina?? ☹️☹️

tina: No he is cute… for you 😝

y/n: this is humiliating

richie: I’ll tell him

y/n: NO

stop

sSTOP THATS NOT FUNNY

richie im not joking i’ll put a bomb in your floorboards

richie: I’m just fucking with you kid

tina: This isn’t over.

THE GOLDEN TRIO:

[ 3:40 PM ]

syd: y/n….

marcus: you look like a ghost y/n

y/n: i cannot believe i sent that to the wrong gc

i’m done im so done

marcus: stop looking so sad it’s making me feel bad

syd: it’s okay! just be thankful it wasn’t to the work groupchat with him in it..

marcus: true it could be worse

y/n: i guess so

thank you for trying to cover for me marcus

marcus: anytime you know i got you

syd: let’s get back to work before we start looking obvious

927 notes · View notes

miryum · 6 months ago

Text

The Canary and the Robin (Jason Todd x Reader)

Summary: You find Jason being tortured by the Joker and decided to take him in, imperfections and all. If he happens to be your soulmate, so be it

Warnings: I know reader acts like a white person in a horror movie but bear with me, OOC Talia, descriptions of torture, Joker hurting Jason, descriptions of flashbacks of torture, allusions to sexual assault from the Joker unto Jason but not descriptive at all, panic attack, ignore locations and timelines, timer soulmates once they turn 8, swearing, a lotta angst (literally starts out with Jason’s funeral), but happy ending, hurt/comfort, Jason doesn’t have guns or an autopsy scar in this cause he’s Robin still and lemme tell you it’s so unnatural for me to write him without those, perspective switching, conscious wording (so everything is written like that for a reason), Jason’s awful parents and their drinking and harassment (just descriptions on them yelling and drinking and smoking), spoilers to Great Gatsby, kinda open ended, but also not at all? if that makes sense, lemme know if I missed anything

Word Count: 12k so grab some snacks and tissues

Canary in a coal mine is a common term meant to describe something that’s unusually sensitive to conditions that make it a useful early indicator of negatively changing circumstances.

Jason’s funeral was on May 16th, just eight months after he had been taken by the Joker. Alfred had chosen daisies, lilacs, and lotuses for the flowers, but Bruce brought a bouquet of hyacinths to lay on his son’s casket. As much as Bruce Wayne liked to flaunt his wealth, these hyacinths were hand pulled from his own gardens. Roots and dirts still clung to the end of the stems when Jason’s coffin was lowered into the ground.

Dick had come in from Bludhaven. When he had heard the news, his timer stopped and reversed itself until it added a year and a half onto his time. He had just gotten a brother and had been learning how to be a role model when his brother was dragged away from him, kicking and screaming. It wasn’t fair, Dick kept repeating to himself. A teenager shouldn’t be targeted just because he eagerly trailed on Batman’s heels, snarky comebacks and smirks ready to fire.

There was a public funeral where paparazzi clicked away at their cameras and Bruce stood stoically in the front row, clearing his throat at the podium when he had to make a eulogy. There was then a private funeral where the casket was actually lowered beneath a gladiolus bush. There were no eulogies for none of the family could bring themselves to say much. It was just Bruce, Alfred, Dick, and Barbara. Selina Kyle showed up that night in Bruce’s room and Dick pretended not to hear Bruce’s sobs. Alfred stood in the doorway of Jason’s old room, feather duster in hand. After a couple of minutes, he hung his head and walked off, closing the door behind him. Nothing was cleaned.

The next day, tabloids displayed the pictures of Bruce Wayne standing by a casket. Bruce stopped investing in any companies that did. His own stock dropped, but Bruce wasn’t answering his financial advisor’s calls. He wasn’t answering any calls.

It was late one night and Dick couldn’t sleep. He had been wanting to return to Bludhaven, but whenever he opened his suitcase, he couldn’t bring himself to pack. He found Alfred in the kitchen, pouring some hot tea. “I figured you would join me one night,” Alfred commented without looking back.

Dick couldn’t help but chuckle, rubbing his eyes. “Your sixth sense is never wrong, Alfred.”

Alfred slid a cup over to Dick who took it thankfully, not caring that the tea burnt his tongue. Perhaps it was what he deserved for not being there to help Jason. “I should’ve-”

“Mister Grayson,” Alfred cut him off. “The Joker was ten steps ahead of Batman. Not even the powerful Nightwing could’ve helped. And you could not have flown to Africa in time.”

“It was closed casket,” Dick whispered out. “I didn’t even get to see my little brother before he was gone.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.

“It was closed casket because Master Wayne couldn’t find Master Jason’s…” Alfred exhaled and corrected himself, “He couldn’t find Master Jason.”

Dick’s head lifted and his hands clenched around his cup. “What?” he breathed out. Desperation filled his voice, “but Alfie, he could still be out there! Jason could be alive!” Alfred simply gave him a stern look and Dick’s stomach bubbled with nausea. “Yeah,” he muttered bitterly. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” His jaw tensed and after a moment, he decided, “I’m going to go back to Bludhaven tomorrow.”

“Safe travels,” is all Alfred said.

It was then that Bruce woke from a nightmare of his dead son screaming out for him.

~~~~

You hadn’t meant to be passing by Arkham Asylum. It wasn’t something one did intentionally; in fact, many people went out of their way to avoid it. But it seemed as if fate wasn’t on your side today, for when your car broke down right outside Arkham Asylum, you didn’t notice the watch on your wrist ticking down quicker and quicker. You swore to yourself and took the mace out of your glove compartment before sliding your keys in between your fingers. Arkham Asylum had been practically abandoned for years, but perhaps there was a janitor or receptionist who could help you get service. Then you could call a mechanic and get the hell out of there.

The gates to Arkham had rust creeping up the edges and the lock clanged sharply against its chains. Maybe there wasn’t going to be a receptionist in the building… But perhaps there would be a phone you could use. In order for the gates to creak open, you had to force your bodyweight against the metal and try to shove the lock out of the way, praying you didn’t get tetanus in the process.

The door to Arkham, however, swung open without a sound. It seemed as if someone had been regularly visiting the Asylum, even if there was no one to visit – or love – in the building. “Hello?” you stage whispered, phone flashlight on, and finger on the button on your mace.

There was clearly a reason why the public wasn’t exposed to Arkham. All reports were classified and no photographers were allowed in. Wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape, you stared around at Arkham Asylum. The halls were long and dark, meant to cause paranoia and confusion. It was certainly working on you. The only light peeking through was from the grime covered windows and your flashlight. The ceiling was crumbling slightly and you were pretty sure Arkham had been under construction when it had been abandoned; otherwise, how could you explain all the dust, debris, and graffiti? You didn’t even want to think of the disease-carrying rodents that were surely scurrying underneath your feet.

“Is anything here? That can help me?” Your voice echoed down the cell block, vibrating off the metal bars and old bunks.

You reeled back when your foot kicked a pebble, sending it ricocheting off your sneaker. After the pebble settled some yards away, you took in a steadying breath. You heard a faint sound, one that didn’t sound at all like a pebble. “Hello?” you asked again. Shadows danced around as you shone your flashlight down the hall, messing with your mind.

When you strained your ears, it sounded as if a faint wail could be heard. Your brows furrowed with worry and instinctively, you started towards it. Your watch ticked down faster as disquietude and anxiety rippled through you like snakes, biting and twisting in your veins. Your flashlight bounced over empty, desolate cells as your pace quickened and the screams got louder. You contemplated calling the police, but when you checked your phone, you didn’t have any service. And who knew if the police would help or not? Arkham was a place only the brave or stupid went; right now, you were pretty sure you were the latter.

The screams took you deeper and deeper into the Asylum and you prayed that you would be able to find your way out. If you ever got out… your mind immediately thought.

It wasn’t long before the blood curdling howls shook you to your bones. They seemed to be coming from a cell, yet when you pointed your flashlight towards it, heart thumping at what you might find, there was nothing. But the screams were there. You weren’t making them up. Where the hell were they coming from– oh.

A shiver ran up your spine when you noticed the comical trapdoor in the corner of the cell. You wondered if the Arkham architects intentionally put it there when they were designing this horror house, or if an inmate had scraped a hidden passageway with a spoon they stole from the cafeteria.

Nonetheless, when you pried open the door, a wall of whimpers and cries from torture hit you full force. You shook your head, steeling yourself, before swallowing down the queasiness. The goosebumps on your arms were full-time residents now.

Your feet carried you down the dirt steps of the trapdoor. Your mind wasn’t particularly your own. Your brain was foggy. Your body felt like a child had taken your hand and was leading you down the steps. Later in your life, when you thought back to that moment, you knew the universe had been guiding you. But even if you didn’t make it out of Arkham Asylum, you knew your life was going to drastically change. The nonexistent hand squeezed yours in comfort as your heart jumped and pounded when the faint light at the bottom of the stairs grew brighter.

A small chamber resided under Arkham Asylum, as you found out that day. In the chamber were two people. One held a crowbar dripping with blood. His back was turned to you, but any citizen of Gotham would recognise that pastel green and purple suit anywhere. The Joker was alive.

But the second person caught your eye. He was strung up from the ceiling, crusty, brown chains trapping him midair. The red outfit he was wearing was being held together by tatters, but you didn’t know if the outfit was originally red or covered with blood. A black and yellow cape was clinging onto the victim’s back, burnt and torn. A green utility belt had been thrown in the corner, its pockets overturned and emptied.

And your timer buzzed against your wrist.

You didn’t register it at first, but after a moment of incessant buzzing, you tore your horrified stare away from the ruined man and to your wrist. A crude joke bounced into your head: so either my soulmate is the Joker or someone who wronged him… Either way, not ideal.

The Joker stood proud and tall, shoulders thrown back and grin wide. “Come on, Robby,” he taunted. “You and I both know these little excursions of ours go better when you make noise. How I love to make you sing…”

It was then you registered the Robin symbol on the man’s breast. You slowly pieced everything together, realising that the person in front of you was the presumably dead Robin. You couldn’t help the little, amazed curse word that slipped out from between your lips.

The Joker slid out a syringe from his pocket and slunk up beside Robin, injecting the green serum into his neck. Joker chuckled as he pressed the liquid further into Robin’s neck, whispering into his ear, “now, now, you mustn’t leave me, Robby. But whatever would you leave for? Now that the Bats has forgotten you.” Joker was mercilessly teasing the sidekick, spit flicking onto his cheek. Robin whimpered, a parched and cracked noise from the back of his throat.

“Louder, Robby, louder!” The Joker coaxed in a cooing voice. You grimaced and wanted to crawl out of your skin at his voice. Once you realised your mace wasn’t going to do you any good, your eyes darted around the small torture dungeon. Eventually, they landed on a discarded, bent pipe that had a disturbing red colour coated on. You willed yourself not to think of what the substance was.

Even though Robin’s limp, swinging body was facing towards you, you doubted he could see you. With the drugs running through his veins, his vision would surely be blurred and his mind muddled.

It was just your luck when, as you were inching towards the pipe, your phone decided to work and began buzzing loudly, indicating a call from your friend, Talia. The Joker whirled around, crowbar in hand and you squealed, grabbing the pipe. Before the Joker could react, his eyes widening in shock, you swung the pipe at his head. With the clang of metal against skull, the Joker collapsed, unconscious. You stared down at him, disbelief flooding your body. Oh my god, I just killed the Joker. Or, at the very least, gave him a good concussion. Your hands shook as a little pool of blood seeped out from Joker’s head. You dropped the pipe and it clattered to the dirt floor. A little groan that escaped Robin and your still-ringing phone brought you back to Earth.

“Shit, shit, I gotta get outta here,” you muttered, looking around frantically. Your phone kept ringing and with a swear, you brought it to your ear. “What?” you growled out.

“Wow, what has your panties in a twist?” Talia asked back snarkily.

You held your phone between your shoulder and your head as you hurried towards Robin. “Nothing, nothing, sorry,” you muttered as you attempted to free him from the chains. “Why’re you calling?”

“Why are you so stressed? You sound like you just ran a marathon,” Talia said through the phone. You could envision her checking her nails while doing so.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” You finally got Robin’s wrists to slip from the chains and he fell down onto you. You grunted under his weight. Apparently, just because he had been starved and tortured for months didn’t mean he had lost his superhero muscle.

Talia paused for a moment and you could practically hear the gears in her brian turning. “Do you need me to help hide a body?” she asked suddenly.

You laughed nervously as you shifted Robin to your shoulder and began dragging him towards the steps. “No?” you finally answered. “Though if you wanted to meet me by Arkham Asylum with your working car and a cure for an almost dead superhero, that would be great.”

“I will be there in twenty minutes.”

~~~~

“How did this happen?” Talia demanded, more curiosity in her voice than malice and anxiety. You were in her passenger seat, staring at the wounded Robin who was laid in the back. Talia weaved through traffic with ease, headed towards the Yuyan Building.

“I don’t know!” you cried out, panic infusing itself into your blood. It felt similar to the way the Joker had infused serum into Robin. You clutched at the seatbelt, hoping it would take some of your dread. “My car just stopped working and then I was just going into Arkham Asylum like an idiot and I found the dead Robin! He was supposed to be dead, right? It was all over the news!”

“And then Batman got another Robin,” Talia added, almost bitterly. You shot her a confused look and she glanced over at you. Her eyes flickered down to your wrist before you yelled at her to focus on the road again. “You are a rational person, Y/n,” Talia began as the car screeched to a halt outside an imposing, ornate building. You stared up at it as Talia got out of the car. You scrambled to help her with Robin. The two of you each had one of his arms over your shoulders, his feet scraping along the ground, head lolling to the side, as you carried him in. “I do not think you would go into Arkham Asylum without something else guiding you,” Talia continued. “Do not think I did not notice your stopped timer. He is your soulmate, is he not?”

You nodded, not trusting your words. You were worried you would start crying if you actually had a moment to process all of the day’s events. “Will your dad help?” you asked finally, voice wavering.

Talia chuckled dryly, eyes narrowing on a fixed point ahead of you. She led you and Robin deeper into Yuyan Building. “If it gets on Batman’s good side? Absolutely.”

“I’ll take him after you’re done healing him,” you added quickly. “I’ll take him back home and care for him if you and your dad help me this one time.” You realised it sounded like you were begging for help. Briefly, you wondered what had happened in such a short time to make you care so much for Robin. Part of you decided it was what any rational, kind human being would do – help someone who was badly hurt – but another part of you knew that wasn’t the case. You felt tied to this boy you didn’t even know the name of. Whether it was through your soulmate bond or not, you knew you were connected to Robin. You felt his pain and terror. Even though he was unconscious, you could feel his resistance tugging against you. He didn’t want to go with you. He was scared of what you might do to him. His emotions dug into you and you felt a whimper crawling up your throat, begging for escape.

It was then you steeled yourself and decided one thing: you weren’t going to let your soulmate die.

Yuyan Building held deeper secrets, you realised. Talia directed you down long hallways and steep stairwells and you felt bad for the custodians who had to clean up Robin’s trail of blood. It was long minutes, full of you groaning under Robin’s weight and Talia looking unaffected, before Talia stopped at a large, ominous door.

You couldn’t look Ra’s in the eye as he slung Robin into the Lazarus Pit. You could only watch the bubbling green liquid as Robin slowly sunk to the bottom. Agonising minutes ticked by, halted only by Ra’s and Talia whispers to each other.

You hugged yourself tightly after five minutes passed and you called anxiously to Talia, “do- does he need help? Is he hurting? Why is it taking so long?”

“He had a lot of injuries, Y/n,” Talia reassured you, coming to place a hand on your shoulder in comfort. “He will be okay.”

Yeah. He’ll be okay.

~~~~

Jason’s eyes burned. Green was all that he could see. He tried to breathe in, but the only thing that filled his lungs was the green surrounding him. When the liquid filled his lungs and he coughed out, bubbles trailed up to the surface like a safety rope guiding the way.

Jason stretched a hand out in front of him, muscles aching at disuse. “Well, we wouldn’t want you to run away, would we, Robby?” The Joker’s voice called after him as Jason kicked his feet futilely. “Not our little prince!”

A flitting feeling coursed through Jason: curiosity and concern, but he was too weak to form a thought. His arm, reaching out towards the bubbles that led him upward, didn’t look like his own. He remembered the scars criss-crossing along it and he remembered the dirt and grime infecting cuts and burns, even digging its way underneath his nails, but he didn’t remember looking so… strong. Since when did he have the muscles and veins that looked like years of exercise had paid off? Batman had kept him fit – Robin needed to be able to hold his own, but he didn’t quite remember it working so well.

His hand finally breached the top of the green waves, grasping up towards breathable air and safety.

Green. Like the Joker. Another one of his charades. A playing card, to show Jason he wasn’t free yet. He was never free.

Everything was disillusioning. His vision veered sideways before becoming foggy and nausea crashed through Jason, like the waves in which he was trying to fight against.

“Stop struggling!” he heard someone cry out, “you’re making your own waves! You have to swim.”

He saw someone reaching out towards him and without a second thought, Jason extended his bandaged hand, clinging onto the buoy in the storm. Their hand was soft and comforting and dragged him out of the water. Jason allowed himself to be dragged. He didn’t have the energy to fight the Joker. He had given up much too long ago.

“What did you do to him?” someone asked once Jason fell to the ground. The world spun around him and he couldn’t recognise whomever was speaking. He gasped in desperate air, filling his deprived lungs.

“Take in a good, deep breath, Robby. Smell that blood? It’s yours. A reminder that Bats isn’t gonna come save you. Doesn’t it smell delicious?” The Joker hissed at him, inhaling himself. He cackled and licked his lips. “You’re a sweet little bird, aren’t you?”

“Why does he look like that?” the same voice asked. Jason heard a small thud over the ringing in his ears.

“The Lazarus Pit not only receives, but it returns, ten times stronger,” a deep voice explained. “It takes what it has been given, and it blossoms it into its full potential. What it needs to become.”

Jason flinched away from the hands that rested on him. The hands retreated and Jason wondered what new tactic the Joker was trying. The Joker never retreated.

The voices were getting more frantic and his heartbeat seemed amplified. As Jason was slowly lifted up, he passed out.

~~~~

The next time Jason woke up, the first thing he noticed was the clock. There was a digital clock on a small table beside him, green numbers staring unblinkingly up at him. Green as in the Joker. Clock as in a bomb. Does he want me to defuse the bomb? Or is it all a trick? The Joker never let me see any clocks. Time was a valuable construct, one the Joker used to his advantage. If Jason didn’t know how much time had passed, the Joker could stretch the days and the torture.

It took Jason a moment to blink the sleep from his mind. Then, he let his eyes flick around the room as his body stayed perfectly still. It was a tactic he learned from Batman – never let anyone know you were awake. He could categorise helpful information for later, such as possible escape routes, and if the Joker didn’t know he was awake quite yet, there would be less time for torture.

The former Robin was in a room. He didn’t recognise it and that scared Jason more than he would ever admit. There was a dresser opposite him with pictures on it. He couldn’t quite make out who was in the pictures, but it didn’t quite matter yet. A closet door was closed and next to it stood a tall mirror that had a blanket thrown over it. A small bookshelf sat beside him and when Jason had the mental capacity, he couldn’t help but feel the pull to read the titles. It smelled better than anything in a long time. Instead of urine and festering skin, this place smelled like lavender and vanilla.

It was only then Jason realised he was laying on a bed. And there were no restraints tying him down to it.

What new tactic was this? What scheme was the Joker pulling? What game did he want Jason to play? What was the objective? The trick Jason had to uncover to live another day?

Green and purple and yellow whirled around Jason and he gripped his head, begging the colours to stop. Carnival music played loudly in his ears, that same damn tune for the past thirty six hours.

Strapped to a chair, there was nowhere to escape the Joker’s mind games. Jason had been sedated more times than he could count and dragged to new locations where the Joker found new ways to torment him. Today’s lucky special was the Joker’s old hideout at the abandoned carnival.

It wasn’t long before the Joker’s voice rang out from within hidden speakers. “Show me those street smarts, Robby! Play with me. Maybe I’ll let you go…” he jeered and inveigled.

The spinning stopped and Jason planted his feet on the ground. His head dipped and his mouth hung open, eyes crossed and half-lidded. The Joker stood before him, leaning on his crowbar. “Ah, ah, ah,” the Joker tsked. “You're losing your touch, Robby.” The Joker ran his tongue over his teeth, lips curling up in a tantalising grin before lifting the crowbar back.

Jason didn’t hear anything before he blacked out.

It had seemed that he had blacked out in real life too, for the time had advanced three hours and the sun had sunk in the sky. Next to the clock was a tall glass of water and a small plate of crackers. Two pills of unassuming tylenol sat nearby.

Someone had been in here, Jason realised. The thought made his skin crawl and he quickly flung off the sheets, not used to the feeling of cotton. After a quick analysis of his body, even though his skin was already wrecked and flayed, there weren't the telltale nail marks on his thighs that the Joker had been there in his sleep. The only thing out of the ordinary were the bandages and cleaned wounds. His armour was nowhere to be seen and he had been stuffed into pyjama pants and a shirt that seemed a bit tight.

Panic flashed through his spine and Jason flung his legs over the mattress. He promptly collapsed and his knees ached at the impact. It took a moment of forcing his lungs open and letting oxygen flow through his system once more until he was able to crawl pathetically towards the covered mirror. His fingers twisted around the sheet and dragged it downward, letting it pool on the floor and around his legs.

Staring back at him wasn’t his face. It was the face of someone who had lived ten more years and seen fifty more years of battle.

Jason promptly swung his fist at the glass, shattering the mirror and letting the shards rain down. But he could still see his reflection. Jason forced his eyes away from the unfamiliar face and the scars he could feel burning into his skin.

Just a trick of the Joker. That’s all it ever was. He was never free and never more would believe so. Everything was consumed by that pale skin, green hair, and purple nails. Everything was a mind game followed by excruciating pain.

His gaze drifted back to the water and crackers. It could be tainted. But the Joker also needed him alive to continue their games. There was always a grace period for Jason to heal before the next session began.

He limped back to the bed, downed the water, not daring to touch the pills, and fell back onto the pillow. He shifted and adjusted the pillow. It felt uncomfortable. He threw it to the other side of the room before rubbing at his aching wrists. His skin there was red and irritated, not used to being out of chains. That was unusual, when Jason truly thought about it. The Joker knew how powerful Jason was. Jason had even managed to escape his chains once, back when he was healthy and convinced Batman would come and rescue him. But a bullet to the malnourished stomach was enough to stop anyone.

He kept massaging his hands until his fingers skirted over the bare skin of the inside left wrist. It felt like something should be there. Something was missing.

“Well well well,” Joker’s voice crooned in his ear. The man’s fingers curled around Jason's wrist. Long fingers tapped a tune on the proud watch that sat on Jason’s skin, ticking like a heartbeat. “Does our little Robby have a soulmate?”

The boy’s muscles tensed, protesting against the Joker for the first time in weeks. He had been trying to keep the watch hidden for as long as possible, but he should’ve known it was futile.

“But who on earth could love you?” The Joker questioned deridingly.

Jason’s cracked lips parted and he forced a “no” from his parched throat. “Don’t.”

The Joker giggled – a high pitched, ugly sound that would haunt Jason’s nightmare’s for years to come. “Oh… and have you met your true love yet?”

“Stop it.” Jason wiggled away from the Joker’s searing grip but nothing helped.

The psychopath’s nails embedded crescents into Robin's skin as he forced his wrist around. “No no no,” the Joker tsked as he watched the clock inch down towards zero. “You haven’t met them yet… what?” He turned back towards Jason, eyes wide with fake innocence. “You think they’re gonna come save you, Robby?” A burst of laughter bubbled from the murderer. “Never,” he hissed in Jason’s ear, making the boy cringe away, his chains swinging with him.

A sob crawled its way up Jason’s lungs as the Joker grabbed his chains, steadying him, before licking a stripe up Jason’s cheek, leaving behind saliva and horrid breath. The Joker then licked his lips, relishing in the taste of Robin’s blood and tears.

“You really think you deserve anyone?” The Joker whispered in his ear, more serious than Jason had ever seen him. His fist clenched around Jason’s watch and the boy let out a whimper. “You don’t.” The glass cracked under the Joker’s force. “Deserve shit.” He ripped the soulmate watch from Jason and threw it to the ground. The delicate watch sprang open and the timer stopped in its tracks.

Jason let out a guttural scream as the Joker ground the glass into the dirt with his heel.

~~~~

A loud thump yanked Jason out of sleep. A sharp feminine yelp followed and Jason was instantly on his feet, no matter the spots that danced in his vision.

A small voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Alfred chastised him for not staying in bed and letting his body heal. “Master Jason, how are you supposed to fight crime if you can’t even walk straight?”

Nevertheless, Jason pushed open the door, raggedly breathing and clutching his side. He was sure he looked like a serial killer of some sort, blood staining through his bandages and hair sloppily matted to his forehead from sweat.

A girl stared at him from across the room. She was smaller than him, was what Jason noticed first. He then noticed her eyes. They were a striking colour and seemed to bore into him, knowing his every want and desire. They were cautious, yet Jason thought he imagined excitement running deep within the girl.

“Who’re you?” Jason mumbled out, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

The girl took a breath and said, “I’m Y/n.” A blanket was curled around her feet, much like the blanket that Jason had snatched from the mirror hours earlier. Her hair was a bit messy and Jason categorised a pillow propped up against the armrest of the couch.

“How’re you—” Jason cut himself off and shook his head. “What’re your… Who…” he struggled to find a question that encapsulated everything while not giving too much away about himself.

Y/n took a step closer, almost as if he was a wild animal that she didn’t want to startle. It didn’t work; Jason stumbled back over his feet and back into the bedroom. Y/n didn’t follow. “I was at Arkham Asylum three days ago and found you.”

“What were you doing there?” Jason demanded, his words slurred.

“My car broke down,” Y/n explained easily, though Jason didn’t believe her one bit. “I was looking for help and… found you instead. I had to call a friend for help.”

Jason was done with pleasantries. Alfred had frowned upon swearing, and the boy had quickly learned not to use the words he had heard on the street or the insults villains spat at Batman once they were in handcuffs. But he wasn’t standing next to Batman in bright spandex anymore. He was bleeding through someone else’s clothes and he wasn’t in his own body and there was a girl who was wearing a dark green sweatshirt and green reminded him of the Joker. “Bullshit,” he growled out. His voice didn’t have that prepubescent squeak to it anymore and his veined hand reached up to massage his throat.

Y/n’s brows stitched together and she stared up at him, slipping the cuffs of her sweater over her hands. “No. It’s not bullshit. I promise,” she said, her voice saccharine. “Look, you’ve been sleeping for almost three days, trying to sleep off that poison the Joker put in you, I’m sure.”

Jason flinched back so hard that he stepped back onto the glass shards from the mirror. It cut into his heel and he winced, blood already leaking from the wound.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Y/n exclaimed, crouching down and then standing back up quickly. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to help you with that? Why don’t you sit on the bed and I’ll grab some bandaids.” Y/n hurried away out of the bedroom and Jason stood still.

Help.

Help you.

“You’re gonna help me win back Batman, Robby,” the Joker whispered in his ear, spit flicking on his face. “You are vital. You will be his downfall.”

Help.

Help me.

Y/n came back, shaking Jason out of the parallels. “You’re not on the bed,” she commented. Jason’s feet automatically moved towards the bed — he knew better than to argue with the Joker, but then he remembered he wasn’t with the Joker. This was a girl who looked like one strong look would have her cowering beneath him, especially if he actually had the physique he saw in the now-broken mirror.

“Who are you,” he repeated his question from earlier, turning back to look at her.

“Y/n,” the girl reiterated, head tilting slightly.

“No.” Jason shook his head. “Who are you. Who do you work for?”

Y/n’s brows scrunched together in confusion and she said, “well, my boss is named Marlene, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t see how that’s particularly relevant.”

Jason’s chest rose and fell and he brought his hand up to claw at it. “Liar,” he hissed out. “You… you liar!” A yell curled its way up through him and his nails scratched at his throat, trying to tear this unfamiliar voice from him. Who was he? This wasn’t Jason Todd, the broken boy from Crime Alley. This was someone much more dangerous and unpredictable. Batman had always taught Jason how to analyse plans and choose the one with the highest success rate. But this was a different Jason. This Jason was a tornado, sweeping through every emotion he didn’t know how to handle.

He saw green. And that only reminded him of the years spent under the Asylum.

Jason tore the sheets from the bed. He shoved things off the bedside table and consequently the lamp fell, its bulb shattering and then flickering out. The room was plunged into darkness. The only source of light was from the barely rising sun, peeking its rays into the window and bathing the edges of the room with pink and orange and yellow.

The light danced across Y/n’s face as she stared around at the damage Jason was inflicting. Pity and guilt ran rampant on her face and she didn’t stop him.

Jason moved throughout the room, the only things he spared being the dresser and the bookshelf.

After some time, he collapsed onto the floor, heaving in breaths. It wasn't long before he slowly leaned back to lay down. Y/n carefully sat down next to him, staying a good couple feet away. "I know you don't trust me," she said. She slipped her sleeve down her wrist, tucking in her hands. The outline of a watch pressed against the fabric and Jason stared at it numbly and unthinking. "But my name is Y/n. I work at the Gotham Gazette. My boss's name is Marlene. She's pretty nice and I'm up for a raise soon. I've lived in Gotham my whole life, even while my brother moved away the first chance he got. I've contemplated leaving for a long time, but I could never bring myself to do it." She pointed to a picture that sat on her dresser – one of the only things Jason hadn't destroyed. "That's him. My brother."

Jason didn't move his head to look. His green vision began to fade.

“When I was growing up I had a fish. His name was Captain Sparkles,” Y/n kept on talking. “He was pretty cool and lived a long time for a fish. Two years, if you’re interested. I’m going to Gotham University and studying English so I can hopefully move up the line of command at the Gazette. My parents are chill and are empty nesters with two dogs out in the countryside. My dad always pledged never to get a dog, but now I’m pretty sure they’re ahead of me in the will.” She chuckled and tugged at her hair.

Jason turned on his side away from her and he missed her eyes trailing after him sadly. Y/n swallowed and blinked away the sting of impending tears.

“I have a little routine going,” Y/n continues, her voice cracking slightly. “You know, wake up, go to class — I’m a sophomore — come home and do homework. When I don’t have class, I go to work.” The girl wraps her arms around her knees and tucks her chin in. “What I’m trying to get at, I guess, is that I don’t work for the Joker.”

Jason flinched and cradled his head in his hands. Everything Y/n was telling him seemed true; she didn’t seem like an agent of the Joker, but his mind screamed at him to not trust anybody. Each syllable she spoke seemed like a reminder of how normal he was supposed to be. Day in and day out, when the Joker was pushing Jason’s limits, pulling him to the brink of death, Jason had wished to be normal. To not have met Batman that fateful day. To not have accepted the Robin pedestal. To go to high school and college and live in a dorm and get drunk and then regret it the next day.

What he would give to be normal.

“I’m sorry,” Y/n muttered. “I didn't mean to say his name. I know it must be triggering.” She exhaled and was silent for a moment. “I’ll go,” she eventually whispered. “If you need anything, let me know.”

Jason heard her stand and move to the door. No! Please don’t go. I- I can’t be alone. I don’t know how to be alone. But the words didn’t come.

The door clicked shut behind Y/n. Tears made their way down Jason’s face and his body shook with the effort to keep silent.

I would rather you torture me than make me be alone, he thought. My thoughts are more dangerous than any weapon.

~~~~

For all of Jason’s life, soulmates had always been in his realm of knowledge. Like bombs. He had heard the word in the news, playing with whatever he had scavenged off the street, his mom smoking on the couch behind him, TV blaring.

But children are oblivious and it wasn’t until later in his life that he figured out what the words meant. ‘Bombs’ became synonymous with Gotham City and ‘soulmate’ became a word Jason held close to his heart.

Everyone had a soulmate and it was common for the kids on the playground to compare their numbers ticking down. Younger children, who had yet to get their timer, gazed wistfully at older kids’ watches. Rumours of someone’s timer speeding up or slowing down blistered around the jungle gym and it chilled young Jason’s blood with the thought of not getting to meet his soulmate soon enough.

But besides those insignificant bouts of worry, Jason was very proud of his soulmate. He would be running around the playground and when he heard someone bragging about how soon they would meet their soulmate, Jason would stop the game of tag and go over to compare numbers.

Not everyone was as lucky as him, however. Some kids would be teased because their timer estimated that they wouldn’t meet the love of their life until they were on the brink of death. While Jason never stood up for the victim, he would never be the one to bully them. His own mom had smashed her timer when she met Jason’s deadbeat dad, wanting to defy the universe and choose her own lover. It had only led to jail time, alcohol, and negligence. Sometimes, late at night, Jason would wonder what happened to his mom’s true soulmate. Were they still out there with a paused timer, wondering who didn’t think them good enough? Did they also think they could find answers at the bottom of a bottle or did they pick themselves up and reroute their life?

What would’ve his life been like if he had two parents who loved each other and were destined to be together?

But whenever Jason was feeling down, or he got a bad grade (which didn’t happen often), or he was beaten up in the alleyways of Gotham, or his mom smashed a bottle by his head and screamed at him, he would cast his eyes down to his soulmate timer and just remember that someone out there was for him. That someone was fated to love him. And very early on, from the moment he realised what having a soulmate actually meant, Jason decided that he would wait for however long it took and go through whatever it meant to find them.

“Whose clothes are these?” Jason whispered, his voice cracked and desolate the next time Y/n came into the room to offer him the little food he could stomach.

“My brother’s,” she answered easily, setting down the plate of toast and some other easy food. “I thought they would be a bit big on you, but then the Lazarus Pit made you ginormous, so they’re a bit tight now. Sorry.”

“Lazarus Pit?” Jason pushed himself to sit up, muscles groaning in protest.

“I don’t know how much you remember,” Y/n admitted. “But once I got you out of Arkham, I brought you to my friend Talia. She has some… powerful connections to some influential people and was able to help heal you in the Lazarus Pit. I just didn’t know how much it would alter you.”

“That explains a lot,” Jason admitted dryly, thinking of his new physique, emotions, and tinted vision when he had gotten mad.

Y/n leaned against her dresser. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to help, but I needed to. You were going to die and I need…” she trailed off and her eyes flicked down to her wrist.

“You need what?”

“I couldn’t let someone die,” Y/n finally decided on.

Jason accepted her answer. He felt a small tug at his chest, almost as if something wasn’t right and he wanted to correct it. “What’s…” His eyes trailed to her lap where she held her hands. His jaw twitched and he shook his head. “Never mind.”

“You can ask me anything,” Y/n offered, a smile lifting the corner of her mouth. Jason’s eyes widened when he saw her smile and his heart fluttered. Jason decided that, even if he didn’t trust Y/n yet, he would do whatever it took to keep that smile on her face.

“No, I have nothing– I’m good– no–”

“Spit it out, Robby. What do you want to tell your darling Joker? What are your… worries? Your concerns? Your dear Uncle Ace?” The Joker circled around an exhausted Jason. “Trust me. You can tell me anything…” His speech was slow and intoxicating. Alluring, was the word Jason would use to describe it. It was tugging him in. Jason’s eyes slipped down into sleep just as another needle pierced its way into his skin, courtesy of the Joker.

Jason dug his nails into the palm of his hand over and over, fingers twitching over his cuticles. His face started to heat up and he swallowed roughly, blinking slowly. “I’m okay,” he mumbled out, even though Y/n didn’t ask.

“Do you need me to leave?” she offered.

Jason dragged his head back and forth, attempting to shake it. Eventually, it lolled back and banged against the wall. “Sorry, what?”

Y/n stood up on instinct. “Robin?”

The title sent lightening up Jason’s spine and his gaze snapped up to stare at her, fuming. “Don’t- don’t call me that!” he screamed out. “I’m not! Stop it!”

Dearest Robin. How Batman will miss his little protégé.

Robby…

Robin!

“Let me go!” Jason shrieked. He wiped his hands on his shirt before reaching up and pulling at his hair. Everything felt wrong. “Why won’t you let me go?! Just give up,” he pleaded desperately. His eyes, wide and frantic, swept around the room until they settled on the shards of the mirror he had smashed.

His body was a graveyard.

It was only then that Jason truly comprehended how imperfect he was.

Scars trailed down his arms and legs and he could even see a smattering of them peeking out of the collar of his shirt. Each scar and bruise was a reminder of each thing the Joker had done to him.

Each scar is an adventure, Batman’s voice resonated in his head. An image of Batman patching up young Robin’s bloody nose flicked through Jason’s mind.

Each scar is a reminder you were never there for me, Jason thought bitterly. Each scar is a reminder that I’ll never be free of him. I’ll always be tied to the Joker. And that’s what terrifies me the most. That’s what makes me hate you, Batman.

“Okay, okay,” Y/n surrendered, holding her hands up. “I’ll leave. But I can’t let you go. It’s not safe yet.”

It was then that Jason drove his fist into the wall. Y/n made a little squeak of surprise and seemed to flinch.

She quickly left and Jason didn’t have time to feel bad before he crumpled onto the bed in exhaustion, bits of plaster now on the floor and sheets.

~~~~

Time after time again, the Joker visited him. The Clown Prince of Crime had grown bored with the relentless torture. There had been new tactics — he had to keep it interesting, of course — but even waterboarding hadn’t quelled the ache that the Joker felt after the boy had grown used to the whipping of chains against his skin, leaving the boy bruised and internally bleeding.

So it was time to pull out all the stops. The Joker strolled into the makeshift dungeon. Robin didn’t even look up at this point. “You look grim,” the Joker stated, pouting theatrically, even though his audience was a despairing one. He strolled over to the table where he kept all his instruments. “Which one, which one?” the Joker sang, running his fingers over the knives, corkscrews, ropes, and other devices to land on a pitcher of water.

Jason inhaled and exhaled slowly. The Joker poured a generous amount of water into a glass before lifting it to Jason’s lips and tilting it back. “There you go…” the Joker cooed, caressing Jason’s cheek. “Drink it all up like a good little boy.”

Jason’s chapped lips searched hungrily for the water, not caring what the Joker’s motive was. He was too thirsty to wonder.

It was only the first in a long line of drugs.

“I don’t know what to do, Talia,” a lilting, frustrated voice came from the other room, stirring Jason awake. He was sure that whenever he heard Y/n’s voice, he would snap to attention, ready to throw himself to his knees and execute whatever she commanded.

Woah. Where did that dedication come from?

Even when Jason assumed the title of Robin, there was never such blind complaisantness to what Batman ordered. He would always have some street-kid spunk in him.

So why was he feeling so utterly protective over Y/n? It had to be the fact that she saved him from the hellhole the Joker had carefully curated and manipulated. Didn’t it?

Or was it something else?

“No, I’ve been trying to do all my work online, and it’s been working, but I can only go so long before I have to go into the office or go to lectures.” Y/n listened to her friend for a long minute on the phone and Jason strained to hear them. “No, but I feel responsible – that’s the wrong word – but protective of him.” There was a pattering of feet as if Y/n was pacing. “This is kinda a big deal. There are movies and books written about this connection and yet, mine is huddled in my room, sleeping off drugs and the evidence of torture!” Her voice cracked up at the end and Jason physically stood up.

Bile rose up in his throat and Jason’s knees slammed to the ground, pain shooting up his bones and reverberating in his muscles. He cursed under his breath and pressed his head to the cool hardwood, trying to overcome his nausea.

Stars swirled in his vision and laughs echoed in his head. Jason mumbled words of encouragement to himself, but they were distorted and ugly. Like the Joker. Oh, how Jason dreaded the thought of becoming him. His forearms hit the floor and instead of the Joker’s words stabbing at his brain, it was a static frame of white noise, blocking out everything. Vision was the first thing to go, eyes squeezing out the late afternoon light. The second thing to leave Jason, as everything does, was time. Was it minutes or hours he sat on the floor before the door burst open?

Words were muted and Jason nodded when Y/n asked if she could touch him. Warm palms encased his jawline, thumbs brushing along his cheeks. “He’s not here,” Y/n whispered. “I’m here. Robi- no, tell me your name. Please.”

“Jason. My name is Jason.” Somehow, Y/n had eroded away his concern and distrust, replacing it with ease and invulnerability. He would never have thought it possible in such a short time, even without his history with the Joker.

Y/n exhaled a small laugh and a bright smile came to her face. Jason looked up at her, brain still buzzing. “What? What’s funny about that?” he managed to get out.

“Oh, no no no,” Y/n was quick to reassure him. “I didn’t mean to laugh. That was rude of me. I’m sorry.” One of her hands guided down to rest on his back, rubbing soft circles. In his anxious stupor, Jason curled up in front of her, instinctively resting his head on her lap. If he could see her face, he would’ve seen Y/n’s eyebrows shoot up with hopefulness. However, he definitely heard her intake of breath. “It’s a very nice name.”

“How- how does your boyfriend feel about me staying here?” Jason finally asked after a minute of him slowing his breathing.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Y/n said, sounding amused.

“But you have a soulmate timer,” Jason pointed out.

Y/n tilted her head, curiously. She didn’t think he had noticed that. One of her hands moved to Jason’s hair, gently brushing it back from his forehead. She ran her fingers through the white stripe which she had come to find very attractive. Tension left the boy’s shoulders and he tucked his head into her lap. “Everyone does,” Y/n replied. “It doesn’t mean I’ve found my soulmate yet.”

“Have you?”

“Yes…”

“Oh.”

Jason laid in her lap for a long minute and eventually asked her, “is he nice to you?”

Y/n laughed lightly, sighing a bit before saying, “he’s still getting to know me. He’s a very reserved and tentative person and we only met a little while ago. However, he’s been opening up pretty quickly and I’m very proud of him.” Her fingers tapped against Jason’s hair, curling the strands around her fingers before lightly scratching at his scalp with her nails. She noticed how his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when she did that. Tucking that information away for later, Y/n added, “he’s gone through a lot in the past and I just want to make him feel safe.”

Deep in his bones, Jason could almost feel her sadness and dedication. He wasn’t sure what magic had given him the power to be so in tune with this girl, but he wasn’t going to let anyone take it away from him. Not even her soulmate.

Turning the conversation away from something that would surely wound him if he pried any deeper, Jason declared quietly, “I’m going to install some deadbolts and locks on your front door and windows soon.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s not safe for you to help me.” It never is for anyone. I’m a poison, infecting everyone I touch. “I want to make sure you’re safe before I leave.”

“Leave?” Y/n exclaimed, staring down at him. “No, you’re not ready to go yet.” A part of her was worried she was being selfish, wanting her soulmate as close to her as possible, but one look at the bandages she had just replaced the night before said otherwise. There was less blood than there had been days prior, but Jason was not in any condition to leave bed, much less leave the apartment.

“You can’t keep housing me forever, Y/n,” Jason muttered. “And I’ll be damned if I’m the reason you get hurt.” His head was still in her lap, but he couldn’t meet her eye. It was imperative that he play with the seams in his shirt.

Otherwise she might see him beginning to cry.

“Please leave,” he begged, voice breaking pitifully. Y/n couldn’t bring herself to argue, gently slipping out from her place underneath Jason and resting his head softly on the ground before closing the door behind her.

The nightmares were worse that night. ~~~~

True to his word, Jason ventured out into the apartment the next day like a zoo animal inspecting its new habitat. He crouched his shoulders, bowing his head in an attempt to diminish his size. He still wasn’t used to being so large and accidentally bumped into the kitchen counter and a lamp.

He was able to install the majority of the new locks and deadbolts until he slid the deadbolt of the front door closed. It whined and creaked beneath his fingers and his mind flashed back to when

Jason awoke slowly. A small groan left his lips, but he stayed still. It was a tactic he learned from Bruce – never let anyone know you were awake. He could categorise helpful information for later, such as possible escape routes, and it was quite possible that he was one movement away from death. He had to be careful.

But this wasn’t Africa. This wasn’t where Jason was desperately searching for his mother when Batman ran into the warehouse, seconds before the Joker let loose a bomb.

That’s all Jason could remember.

Blood was sticking his hair to his head and Jason clutched his side. It ached from bruised or broken ribs that pressed to his skin. However long he had been unconscious, it had been quite a while. His body was already malnourished and crying out for medical care.

Jason attempted to crawl to a standing position, but when his ankles and wrists caught against metal, restraining him, he knew something else was at play.

The whine and creak of a deadbolt unlocking caused him to turn his head towards a door he hadn’t noticed. A man in a pinstripe suit stepped through, a long crowbar in hand. Jason didn’t need the upturned red lips to know who was there.

“Oh, don’t worry, Robby,” the Joker coaxed as Jason stared up at him, pure terror gripping his veins. He had never been so close to the Joker without Bruce. Where was Bruce? Why wasn’t he here? The Joker squatted down to Jason’s level, running a gloved hand over the boy’s bloody hair. Jason flinched away, but it didn’t deter the Joker. “You and your Uncle Ace are going to have some real fun.”

“Where is he?” Jason sobbed, scared when he didn’t feel the blood on his hair. Why wasn’t he bleeding? What was the Joker’s new game?

“Where is who?” An unfamiliar voice asked despairingly.

“Bru— Batman,” Jason corrected himself in his stupor. “B-Batman.”

Y/n stuttered, “I don’t know Batman. I’m sorry.”

Jason groaned in pain before a hysterical laugh bubbled from him. He clutched his stomach, on all fours, eyes wide and clouding over with green. Must he always be connected to the Joker? If he could eradicate that damn colour, he would. His fingers ghosted over the place that the Joker threatened to brand him.

“Maybe I’ll make it permanent on our five year anniversary,” the Joker hummed, knife gently poking into Jason’s cheek. The faded scar of last month’s ‘J’ was what prompted the Joker to re-carve it into the boy. Blood dribbled down Jason’s cheek, joining his salty tears. It didn’t hurt, the wound being surface level, but just the thought of more things tied to the Joker made him gasp for air, crying softly.

“So you’ll always be reminded of who was the one to beat you. The Clown Prince of Crime!”

Y/n had barely noticed the ‘J’ until Jason dug his nail into his cheek, tracing the scar. The path was imprinted into his memory.

The skin turned red at the irritation and Y/n caught Jason’s wrist the next time he moved up to trace it again. “Stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

Jason muttered things under his breath at her, but he didn’t pull away from her hold. “He branded me,” he finally spit out. “And it’s only because you found me that he didn’t carve it into my skull,” he said sarcastically, malice in his voice. His eyes blazed a fervent green and he shook his head. “But at least I knew what was coming. At least I knew that a month had passed when he redrew his initials.”

Y/n opened her mouth to argue, but Jason spoke before she could. “I… I’m worried,” he began slowly. “I’m becoming more of the Joker than I am Batman. I was supposed to look up to Batman, but what if he and the Joker are one and the same? Both hurt me. One abandoned me and the other took that for granted.”

“He didn’t mean to abandon you, I’m sure,” Y/n whispered. “No one would ever willingly abandon you.”

Jason grumbled out, groaning at her words. His lips twitched downwards and his biceps flexed. “No one? Everyone did!” he screamed out. “My parents, Batman, Alfred, Dick! Everyone abandoned me!”

Y/n ignored the last name Jason listed off, before murmuring, “I haven’t.”

“Not yet,” Jason whispered after a moment. “But you will.”

~~~~

A couple days later, Jason peeked out of Y/n’s room, one of her blankets in hand. “You deserve your room,” Jason mumbled when Y/n looked up from her book, astonished.

“I– Jason, you need the most comfort,” Y/n said, gently closing her book. “I’m fine on the couch.”

“You need to get back to work soon,” he said, hugging the blanket close. “You said it yourself. I can’t be the reason that you’re putting your life on hold. You- you need to get back to normal.”

“You are my nor–” Y/n cut herself off before exhaling slowly. “Don’t worry about me,” she began. “I’ve slept on the couch many nights when I had papers to complete or binge-watched too many episodes of The Good Place.”

Jason’s features softened slightly and he took a step forward. Y/n took the hint and scooted over on the couch, placing her book on the small coffee table she had. “What’re you reading?” he asked as Y/n turned on the television, opening up to the first episode of The Good Place.

“The Great Gatsby, for one of my English classes,” Y/n said.

“Really?” A smile slowly grew on Jason’s lips, something he hadn’t experienced in years. His muscles ached a bit from the disuse, but Jason was now addicted to the feeling.

Y/n decided that she was now also addicted to the sight of Jason smiling. “Yeah. We’re covering the symbolism of water that spans throughout the book. In fact, in the first couple of pages, Fitzgerald references the White Star Line, which is a boat that sank on the same route as the Titanic. Gatsby, obviously, dies in the water, sinking, just as those boats did. Fitzgerald really is an excellent writer.”

Jason was pretty sure he was in love. Or maybe he still was on drugs. Whatever the feeling, it was nice and unexpected and new.

“I do think you’ll like The Good Place,” Y/n continued. “I won’t spoil anything, but it has some pretty amazing underlying themes.”

“I’m sure,” Jason replied quietly, burrowing under the blanket. It didn’t quite manage to hide his large frame, but it managed to hide his quickening heart and blush that was slowly spreading.

Just before the first episode started, Y/n quickly hurried to make some popcorn. She plunked the bowl in between the pair and then snatched some blanket away from Jason. “You run hot,” she explained when Jason shot her a bemused look.

The Good Place was a wonderful show, as Jason soon learned, but what was more wonderful was when Y/n’s cheek pressed against his shoulder and her knees curled up and her eyes fluttered closed. When her breath slowed with sleep, subconsciously trusting him enough to be at her most vulnerable, that, Jason found out, was what was truly wonderful.

Bruce Wayne had never before seen a street rat more excited to see Batman, especially when that street kid was trying to steal from him.

But what was particularly amusing was that the boy wasn’t particularly excited to see him, but more excited to show Batman his soulmate timer.

“No! No, you don’t understand!” the boy cried ecstatically. “It just fast-forwarded! Meeting you means I get to meet my soulmate sooner!” He bounced on the balls of his feet, eagerly shoving his wrist towards Batman’s cowl, showing the vigilante his timer.

“Yes, very… exciting,” Bruce hummed out, not sure whether to laugh or reprimanded him for trying to steal the Batmobile’s tires.

The boy laughed, a big grin covering his small features. “I wonder what they’re like. Have you met yours yet, Batman?”

Bruce raised his eyebrows and a chuckle slipped through. “Yes, I have. It’s a wonderful thing.”

As the child kept rambling about his soulmate, Bruce knew that he had just found the next Robin.

~~~~

Y/n sat on the kitchen counter, legs crossed. She had a textbook in her lap and was mumbling out phrases for memorisation of an upcoming exam. A small smile couldn’t help but expand on Jason’s face as he listened to her mumbles. He paused from his work in the small kitchen, back muscles rippling as he reached for the marinara sauce. When he went to dump the pasta into the strainer, the pot clanged against the metal faucet.

The Joker rattled his crowbar against Jason’s chains.

“Jay?” Y/n said softly, guiding him out of his memories before he could get too lost. “You can stop straining the pasta. All the water’s gone.”

“What?” he choked out, turning his head so he could see her.

“The pasta.” Y/n shifted forward so her legs hung over the edge of the counter. “It’s okay. It’s been okay and it will continue to be okay. You- you can let go.” The euphemism wasn’t lost on Jason.

He let the pasta pan drop in the sink and faced Y/n, eyes shining with unshed tears. “No. That’s not what I meant.” Swallowing down the feeling, Jason continued, “what did you call me?”

“Jay,” Y/n whispered.

The Joker paced around Jason after a few days without any torture. “It’s been too long, Robin,” he said, shaking his head. “I think it’s time to make you sing for your Uncle Jay.”

“Is that okay?” Y/n asked softly.

Bruce shouted from the other room, “Jay! Come on! The gala’s starting soon.”

“Jason,” Y/n repeated. She reached out and touched his shoulder and the boy came to stand between her legs. Jason dropped his head on her shoulder, beginning to sob quietly. Immediately, Y/n brought her hand up to rest on his head and the other arm to curl around his back. “Don’t you dare,” she shook her head as Jason began mumbling his apologies. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

And suddenly, everything was okay. Because Y/n was there. “Bruce called me Jay,” he murmured out. “An- and then he called himself Mr. Jay.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to trigger-“

“No, it’s okay,” Jason looked at her, eyes shining with tears. “I like it when you do it. When you call me that.”

“You do?” Y/n asked, hands on either side of his face, cupping them closer and when her hands trailed to hold his neck and then one brushed back his hair oh this must be heaven, Jason thought, eyes fluttering shut. What he would give to live within her arms, always feeling safe and always feeling loved. She had that strange power over him and while Jason usually didn’t like people having power over him, he decided that when it came to Y/n, he didn’t mind. Not at all.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice lilting up with an infliction of infectious love.

Jason stood there, comfortable in her arms and secretly hoping that Y/n would never have to go to work and would always just stay here. Where he could just keep… holding her and touching her and making sure she was safe because if Y/n wasn’t safe, Jason was pretty sure he would go on a rampage. If Y/n wasn’t safe, if Jason wasn’t holding her, then it was only because the Joker had found him and ripped him away from the only thing he had ever loved.

And that would’ve been the cruellest method of torture.

No amount of chains would hold him back. No amount of drugs would make him forget Y/n. And no amount of hate would make him forget the amount of love he felt when Y/n held him close and he could hear her heart beating steadily. In that moment, Jason could pretend her heart beat for him.

He knew his heart beat for her. Then his mind flashed back to it all.

The boy’s muscles tensed, protesting against the Joker for the first time in weeks. He had been trying to keep the watch hidden for as long as possible, but he should’ve known it was futile.

Jason’s cracked lips parted and he forced a “no” from his parched throat. “Don’t.”

“Stop it.” Jason wiggled away from the Joker’s searing grip but nothing helped.

Jason let out a guttural scream as the Joker ground the glass into the dirt with his heel.

“Oh, picky picky picky,” the Joker teased. “Sensitive, are we?”

“Lemme go! Don’t touch her! Don’t you dare!” His voice cracked and blood began to trickle down his arms as the chains rubbed against his irritated skin and broke the surface. But he would take the pain a thousand times over if it meant he could get to his watch.

His soulmate. His love. It was all gone.

“Yes!” the Joker cried out, exclaiming loudly. His hands began to shake and a large grin spread on his maniacal face. “Yes! Emotion, Robby! This is what I want! Give me the fucking emotion! If I had known, I would’ve smashed that watch a long time ago.”

Jason lunges towards the Joker, face contorted with rage. “Don’t you fucking dare! Get- stay- no! No!”

It was the most he had ever fought against the Joker. And the Joker adored it.

“You… you’re my…” Jason choked out, jaw tensing slightly as the dots began to connect.

He didn’t know when Y/n had begun to cry, but as tears streamed down her face and she nodded desperately, things seemed to all click into place. “It took you long enough,” she joked pathetically.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jason breathed out, his hands tightening on her thigh, a protective instinct washing over him. “Oh, no, no, no,” he shook his head and brought her head in his hands, brushing away the tears. “I didn’t mean- I’m sorry…”

“No, it’s not that,” Y/n’s voice cracked. ��I’m not unhappy, not in the slightest—” Jason was so sure of their bond that it hadn’t even crossed his mind that she might reject him or not love him due to his past. “—but I just never thought that you would- that I would-” She hiccuped and Jason’s eyes darted across her face, wanting to somehow help, but so unsure of himself.

Slowly, Jason sank to his knees. Y/n still sat above him, on the counter, staring down, baffled. Her eyes were red from crying and her lips were parted, but she had never seemed more beautiful. “What- what are you doing?” she murmured.

“I’m showing you how much you affect me,” he answered simply. “Quite literally, you saved my life, Y/n. And if that’s the only way you touched my life, I would consider myself the luckiest man on Earth. If no one has told you those words before, then everyone else is a fool. If you allow me to stay around and cherish the best thing that’s ever happened to me, gladly, I will.” Y/n slowly slipped off the counter, standing before him. “But that’s a lot of ‘ifs’. And I’m not willing to potentially lose you over some ‘ifs’. I know I’ve made you uncertain and I’ve wrecked your apartment and I’m so sorry,” he chuckled dryly. Jason’s hands were shaking as he slowly slid them up Y/n’s legs. She shivered under his touch, backing up until she hit the counter behind her. Jason lifted his hands from her, giving her a moment if she needed, but one look in her eyes led his hands right back to her body. “You’re like a drug,” he whispered, pressing his face to the side of her thigh.

“Drugs are very very bad,” Y/n managed to get out.

“I know.” A small smirk appeared on his lips. His lips suddenly looked very kissable. “The Joker taught me that. If I could go back and kill him, I’d do it in an instant, but… I’d also thank him. And I’d thank Batman. And Nightwing. And my mom. And everyone else in my life because they all led me to you.” Y/n’s knees buckled and Jason helped ease her down so she was sitting in front of him. He choked on his tears slightly before saying, “so many people believe in equality in the universe. So if all of that is true, then perhaps every bad thing that ever happened to me was just leading up to you. You… are so good that the universe needed to even it all out.”

Y/n began shaking her head vehemently. “Then let me damn the universe,” she whispered. “Because clearly, it’s been unfair. You were gifted to me, Jason. It’s not fair that you went through so much shit while I lived a fairly light life.”

“Maybe I’m not good enough…”

“Don’t you dare suggest that,” Y/n cut him off sharply.

“Then perhaps I took the hardship you were supposed to endure,” Jason offered the explanation. Before Y/n could argue, Jason said, “and I’d do it again.”

Y/n laughed lightly, drying her eyes with the heel of her palm. “I don’t want you to go through that again.”

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t need to,” Jason muttered, leaning forward slightly to nuzzle into Y/n’s neck. He slowly, as if testing the water, pressed a kiss to her skin. Feeling her inhale, Jason grinned and repeated the gesture, wondering if he would get the same reaction. He did. After a moment, he exhaled, his breath tickling Y/n. “I’m going to need time,” he muttered. “I’m not going to be the perfect soulmate you deserve right away.”

“I don’t expect you to be. You’re already perfect to me.”

“I’ll work on it,” Jason compromised. “I want to deserve you.”

“You do–”

“Y/n,” he pleaded desperately. “Let me do this for you. Let me be the best Jason Todd for you.”

Seeing that he wasn’t going to back down, Y/n nodded after a minute. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll get through it all together.”

“Maybe we should seal the deal with a kiss.”

A bubbling laugh filled Jason’s ears and he couldn’t help the large grin that came over him. “Hmm,” Y/n conceded. “Alright.”

And so they did.

“Mom, why’re we here?” A small hand gripped onto her mother’s.

“I signed us up for a soup kitchen,” her mom explained. “It’s coming to the holidays and we should be doing something good for others. Gotham isn’t always the nicest place to live and we’re fortunate enough that we can help when needed.”

“Hmm,” the girl conceded. “Alright.” She puzzled a bit over the thought that some people weren’t as fortunate as they were, before asking slowly, “do we need to help them any more than usual?”

“What do you mean, Y/n?” the mom asked, checking the street names as they passed. The girl frowned, her hair in small pigtails. “Well… Should we have brought clothes? Or blankets? How… How much do they need help?” She struggled to find the right words.

“No, they’re not homeless,” her mom said. “They just need a bit of help bringing food into the family, you know?”

“Okay,” Y/n accepted the answer easily.

“Just, hold my hand, will you?” the mom said, even though her daughter was already clutching her hand. “This isn’t the safest part of town, though nothing bad will happen. The sun is out, so there’s nothing to be worried about.”

Out of nowhere, a small boy barrelled out of an alleyway, shouting at some other boys that were running behind him. He crashed into Y/n, who’s mom scooped her up on instinct. “Oh, I’m sorry!” the boy cried out, head whipping from the two females back to the people chasing him. The boys behind him carefully came to a slow once they saw an adult with her daughter. “Uh, where are you two ladies going?” The boy asked, eyes darting back and forth between the groups. Ultimately, he decided that a stranger was more safe than those kids, simply because she was a mom.

“To the food kitchen,” Y/n supplied before her mom could shush her.

“I can show you the way!” The boy jumped at the opportunity, beginning to walk backwards away from the group of bigger boys. Y/n’s mom looked between the malnourished boy who was silently begging with his eyes to the group who had a smearing of blood on their knuckles.

“Okay…” she decided. “Show us the way.”

The young boy jumped up and began striding away, beaming with the safety of an adult. Y/n’s mom set her down carefully, gripping her hand tighter than before. “Stay close by,” she demanded. Y/n nodded.

The boy had dark hair that was cropped slightly at the sides with a tuft of it that fell over his eyes. His eyes were blue and he wore a red hoodie that fell just a bit too long over his jeans. “Wow,” he chirped as the trio got farther away from the alleyway. “Thanks. Let’s just say I’m not exactly on those guy’s good sides.” He kept rambling, Y/n’s mom shooting him cautious looks every once in a while, but he didn’t seem to notice. “What’s your name?” he asked Y/n, skipping over to walk by her side.

“Y/n,” the girl replied. “Y/n L/n.”

“That’s a nice name,” the boy grinned. “How old are you?”

“I’m five.”

“I’m seven!” The boy placed a haughty hand to his chest. “But my birthday’s tomorrow.”

Y/n’s mom hummed. “Oh. Are you excited to get your soulmate timer?”

“Yeah!” The boy beamed up at the woman, turning a corner. “Super excited. But this is the soup kitchen. You know, my mom should be stopping by soon. But thanks!” He began jogging off, waving goodbye.

“Wait! What’s your name?” Y/n called after him.

“Jason! Jason Todd.”

255 notes · View notes

luveline · 1 year ago

Text

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three | part four

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. CH4: You work up the guts to call him, Eddie drags you out on a date, and the looming shadow of an unknown photographer follows you around. [14k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension ish, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing, nudes MDNI

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Dora’s Convenience, Florida, February 1991

The air here smells like sulphur.

After spending the last four and a half days in Canada, Florida is a shock. The air is warm and thick and the smells are less than pretty —hot baked seaweed floats in on the sea, and the groundwater carries a naturally occurring bacteria that prompts a scent that you can't say you care for— but the people are kind.

Perhaps too long alone with only Morgan, Ananya, and your tour manager, Angel, for company has made you biassed, but so far everyone's been incredibly sweet. Hotel attendants, venue staff, a batch of shiny new techies; all smiling, happy, and willing to help. You haven't carried your own bag since the plane touched down.

Florida is hellishly humid. You miss the freezing bite of cold that accompanied you everywhere in Toronto. You long for a gust of wind that has no smell.

"Come on, wonderboy," Morgan says, tapping her uncharacteristic sneaker into your ankle.

You savour the last blessed seconds of the store's open freezer before closing the door with a brokenhearted frown. The effects of the cold and the clean smell dissipate near immediately, leaving you uncomfortable once again. Morgan continues on without waiting for you, a basket heavy in the crook of her arm. She's got enough glass soda bottles for everybody, yet you doubt she's in a sharing mood. You double back to grab one for you and another for Ananya, winding between aisles and wondering how people can eat half of the stuff on display when the weather is this hot. It feels unlivable.

At the front wall behind plexiglass and an unhappy cashier there's a TV playing Madonna, chirpy pop lyrics clearly not working any wonders.

His long hair shifts against his shoulder with the artificial breeze. He looks a little like Eddie, you think unwittingly, pretty in an unexaggerated way, his eyes big but not brown. You nibble on your lip and put the coke bottles down by Morgan's basket.

"You can go wait in the car," Angel says. Morgan's already left, happy for Angel to foot the bill and carry her things.

You shake your head. You don't mind waiting with her and the car is stifling in the heat. Better to linger in the open air.

The TV fades from Madonna to Guns 'N' Roses. You tilt your head to one side wistfully. No offence meant to your not-boyfriend, but half the rockstars on TV look like Eddie. With the picture small and blurry and up as high as it is on the wall mount, they could swap him out for Slash and you'd be none the wiser. Maybe not half the rockstars, actually —bleaching is all the rage right now, a contrast to Eddie's dark head of hair. You wonder if you'd still want Eddie to press you up against bathroom walls if he were blonde.

Probably.

You're thinking of Eddie less than you worried you would. Things are hectic beyond words, and most spare moments are spent showering, eating, or trying to sleep. Sleeping on the bus was difficult at first due to the tight quarters and loud noise, but you're at a point of exhaustion where Morgan's ranting might as well be a lullaby. The rap of Ananya's sticks against the bench in front of her or her compulsive thigh slapping fades away when you've been awake for eighteen hours straight.

You're in good spirits tonight at the promise of a double bed in your own room. A tiny room, you'd been told, but your own. Privacy feels like a myth lately; you're ravenous for some alone time to do whatever you want without judgement.

You're toying with the idea of asking Angel how you could maybe possibly get into contact with Eddie. You honestly don't have a clue in the world where he is, what state or country. He could be in Alaska and you'd be none the wiser. Where Godless follow locations where they know they'll have full venues, like the Midwest, Canada, and smaller shows in the 'worldwide' branch of their tour later in the year, Corroded Coffin are hitting every venue that's open.

You can't deny it any longer. There's no point, and now you're on good terms you see little worth in pretending Corroded Coffin aren't wildly more popular than Godless. You aren't saying better. But beyond subjectivity is the cold hard truth: Eddie's band are charting high.

Godless' new album is doing better than anyone on your team really expected it to, but, while you're unsure of the inner working politics, you know that the sales team were 'positive' rather than ecstatic. You can't fucking imagine how stuffed the vaults are about to become over at Rollerboy. If they skewed themselves in the right light they could be up there with Van Halen in a year or two. Not that they will, who knows? What you understand about the band is limited to the feel of Eddie's hands and Jamison's quiet rejection.

Point is, Corroded Coffin's new album is about to come out, and it's going to do well, and as far as you know their tour is a sell-out dream.

The cashier bags Morgan's overstuffed basket and moves onto your cokes. Your eyes slide to the magazine stand in front of the checkout.

Exclusive Conversation with Rising Stars of Rock: Corroded Coffin.

You grab it up and try to add it to your stuff inconspicuously, which means you couldn't make it more obvious. Angel snorts.

"Can I escape ridicule for one day?" you ask.

"The ridiculous deserve ridicule." Angel eyes the total and cracks open the touring purse. "You don't need a rockstar boyfriend."

"I'm ridiculous?" you ask wryly.

"Yeah, babe. You and the girls," —she hands over a pretty wad of cash with a keep-the-change nod and grabs the brown paper bags— "might not be the next Aerosmith, but that means jack shit. You guys are awesome, not just 'cause you're my responsibility. I've seen it. I've seen you guys. And I know you hate talking about being a girl band, but you are a girl band–"

You groan. Of course you are. Pretending gender doesn't play into it would be silly. But it gives you a migraine whenever you think about it, so you try not to.

"You guys could be as big as The Bangles. Especially if you stopped wasting time on silly boys," she furthers. Ouch.

Angel steps out into the sunshine. You follow, shielding your eyes as you look for the car, a pretty red Mercedes-Benz with all the windows rolled down.

"The Bangles," you repeat, genuinely surprised by her comparison. "The only thing we have in common with them is that we're girls."

"You know what else you could have in common with them? Mansions and early retirement. Hey, Hazy Shade of Winter was actually good. You should try something like that."

"Uh-huh," you say.

"Hey!" Morgan shouts, shoulders out the passenger side window. "Could you guys at least pretend you have somewhere to be? We aren't all social rejects. A sense of urgency, if you will!"

"Walk slower," Angel mutters. "Ooh, I've dropped my contact. You know, the ones I've miraculously started wearing?"

"Oh no," you giggle, kneeling down to feel for it. You must be rather overdramatic about it, incurring Morgan's whining wrath.

You find Angel's very real contact and return to the car. Morgan drones about her throat and how it's reacting to the constantly changing weather, and then swaps tactics when nobody is quite as pitying as she would've liked to complain about Ananya's "antisocial behaviour".

Ananya has taken to listening to her Walkman non-stop while not on stage. Bad for her hearing, good for her mental health, you imagine. It came about after a missing wad of cash and has yet to see an end. You resent and revere Ananya's determination, jealous that she's escaping Morgan's frankly horrendous behaviour, amazed that she has the willpower.

The more you know Morgan, the less you’ve felt you could love her. It might be cruel to recognise that. She demeans your style, pokes fun at your body, and worst of all, she takes the piss out of your constant dedication to the music you make.

Proud isn't the right word when describing the relationship you have with making music. You aren't proud of yourself for anything. You'd pictured a sort of satisfaction in getting to this point, now that you're a real musician in a famous band with sweetheart fans and the occasional acclaim. You should feel proud of yourself, but you don't.

You'd felt relief, and now the agony of clinging to it.

Worse is that this could all be different. If you were prettier, someone Morgan approved of. If you were smarter, and could garner Ananya's interest. Feeling like an outsider in the extreme that you do can't be good for you, but there's no quick fix. The only time it goes away is when you're on stage playing music for a thousand outsiders.

Or when you're with Eddie.

As you stupidly told him.

What good will it do, telling a boy how you feel? When he's off map, surrounded by people who think he's great and women who won't stop telling him so. Maybe boys, too. You can't get a read on him.

Naive as it was to tell him– whatever it was that you told him. I don't feel sick when I'm with you. How romantic. Naive as it was, you don't totally regret it. He'd sought you out at your show to take you to dinner and suddenly he's cutting the sleeves off of your t-shirt in a family owned pizza place and kissing your neck all slow and smooth like it's the only place in the world he wanted to be. His hand at your waist, and the way he stopped when you got quiet. His hug. That might be what you miss most. Boy's got a world-class smile that gives dizzying, sickly kisses but what you want to feel most is the weight of his arms around you. You want him to hold you steady.

People suck. Eddie sucks. He was mean and then he was sweet and now he's just not here.

You want to see him again.

What a sickening revelation. Anxiety pricks your fingers, pins and needles shooting down the lengths of your arms from your skipping heart. You stick your head as far as you dare to out of the window, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea.

If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog…

You grip the door.

You miss him, and it's terrifying. He can be cruel. You can be cruel too, but you'd been at his fucking mercy. He'd looked at you and he'd known exactly what to say that was gonna mess you up. He has a talent for it. You hate this, and you know now you won't sleep until you're sure things are okay between you, though there's no reason anything would've changed since the last time you saw him. What kind of pathetic does that make you?

It would be nice to hear his voice. The Eddie who dotes on you. Eddie under all his layers. You don't want him fucked on bad ice again, but the version of him you'd met that night makes you smile as you recall it. Wide eyes, quiet but honest.

I sent you flowers, because… because those girls are mean to you, he'd rambled, slouched on the stairs, slightly too heavy for you to help him up. And I didn't like seeing you fall over. I wanted you to feel better. I don't know anything about girls... Did you like the flowers?

The Mercedes-Benz rolls up beside The Blue Lily Club, its name taken from what it used to be, presently a hotel. It has all the trimmings of a music venue, big windows and wood, but indoors it couldn't be more plush.

Ananya holds a hand out for her room key at the front desk and doesn't speak a word. She's kind enough to smile at the chauffeur who'd helped carry your bags inside.

"It doesn't usually look this nice in here, don't get used to luxury," Angel warns. "They're redecorating."

You trail behind her, dragging your suitcase over hardwood floors. The wheels click click click. "We'll come here again?"

"Next time we're in Clearwater. S'where we stayed last time. You hadn't bumped up yet."

"Was it this hot when you were here?" You rub your hand across a clammy cheek. "It feels like summer."

Angel smiles. "You think it's hot now, try a week here in May. I usually don't remember different tour dates but that was hell on Earth. Air conditioning broke in one of the buses into Jacksonville. Holy shit."

Angel divulges her evening plans for ice cold cocktails in the hotel bar and invites you along. You decline outside of your hotel room, "I'll probably sleep."

She nods. "Nice. Catch up on what you missed."

She gets a couple of steps further down the hall toward her own room when you admit defeat.

"Hey, Angel?" You pull at the neckline of your t-shirt. "You, uh, wouldn't know how I could get somebody's number? Someone from Rollerboy?"

"From Rollerboy, huh?" she asks, knowing exactly who you want to talk to. Fuck the techie who saw you and Eddie leaving, and fuck Morgan for spreading it around.

You push your bottom lip against the edges of your top teeth and drag until the delicate skin there hurts.

"I'll see what I can do," she says.

Twenty minutes later you have a phone number for his hotel and instructions on how to actually get through their privacy wall. You perch on the edge of your white bed and stare at the phone, like wanting to talk to him will make it ring. You reach for it, hesitate, and reach for it again.

You dial the number one rotation at a time and wait for it to pick up.

"Four Seasons Houston, Samantha speaking. How can I help you this afternoon?"

You choke on air. Four Seasons? What kind of money are these losers on?

"Hi, I'm hoping to be put through to one of your guests, an Eddie Munson? Room 146?"

"And is he expecting your call?"

"No, ma'am."

"Who's calling?"

"Y/N." You consider giving your second name. Does Eddie even know your second name? You suppose he could've seen it in one of the magazines, but that's doubtful.

"Hold please."

You think about hanging up, but you've given your name. If Eddie's there and he's willing to talk to you and you hang up, he'll still know it was you calling. Is that worse? The embarrassment of chickening out versus the endless mortifying possibilities of what you might say when he answers, if he answers, oh fuck–

"Transferring now."

You hold your breath.

The phone clicks twice.

"Hi?"

"Hey," you say quickly. You inhale, intending on– on what? Your panic is palpable.

"Hi," he says again, something warm in his voice. "Y/N? My Y/N, or a fan who knows just what to say to get my number?"

You go a bit blind. "Your Y/N."

"Hey. How's Florida?"

You sit back in bed and kick off your shoes. The phone shakes in your hand. This is more nerve-wracking than any conversation you've had beforehand, and it's in the small talk stages. It should be easy, you wanted to talk to him, but this is the first time you've sought him out ever. It shows your hand.

"Hot. Really hot. The receptionist, uh, said it isn't usually like this early in the year. Yeah, it's hot."

"It's not so bad here, considering." He sounds unlike himself. You've heard him flirting, almost torturous, and you've heard him mad. You've heard him drunk, high, offended, salacious, smug, and soft. None of those memories align. "Hey," he says, confusing you even worse, "why're you calling? Is everything okay?"

You hold the phone up in the air and twist to smash your face into the huge hotel pillows. They're gloriously cold and nowhere near enough to cool the open flame that is your flushing face.

"Nothing's wrong, I'm sorry," you say weakly, pulling the receiver back to your ear, head craned awkwardly so you don't smother it. "I was– I was thinking about you," —holy fucking fuck— "uh, 'cause I saw you in Lastick Magazine."

You can still save it.

"Who'd you have to blow for that one?" you ask.

Wrong.

"Loser!" he cheers. Your heart sinks, but he goes on, "You gave me a heart attack, I thought something happened!"

"No, nothing happened," you say. If you were on better footing you'd make a sly joke about big scary Eddie worrying about you.

"Okay, good."

You smile, tugging at the sheer, cornflower blue fabric of your skirt as you think, He sounds happy to hear from me.

"How's Houston?"

"Babe, you wouldn't fucking believe it. They got us posted up in some four star skyscraper. Two mini fridges. Two. It's insanity, I'm basically royalty here."

You look around your small room. "Ah, but do you have a damp splodge on the ceiling shaped like the letter W?" you ask.

"They musta forgot to put it in the welcome basket."

You laugh suddenly, startled at his good humour. It's like it's been hooked out of your chest on fishing wire, an ugly garbling sound that infects him down the line.

"Shit, I think I was starting to forget what you sound like," Eddie says.

You know exactly what he means.

You won't tell him, though. Your heart is racing again as it did in the car; he's being lovely like you're friends, like you're more than that, and you love it but it scares you shitless. Boys do this kind of stuff, right? Say pretty things, kiss you like you're something treasured, and one day they stop answering your calls. Vet you through to their assistant, and piggy bank your affections by acting like you're still something the next time you see them in person.

Eddie kissed the top of your arm the last time you saw him. If he acts like you're just friends when you see him next, you're gonna scalp him. Or self admit.

"I meant to ask you about something before I left," he says, bridging a mildly awkward silence with a dip into flirting bravado, "but you were all over me, you know? Didn't have time to ask."

"Yeah? That's not how I remember it."

"No accounting for stupidity." You can hear his smile. "Can I ask, or are you gonna talk over me again?"

"I should hang up on you."

"After all the trouble you went to to reach me," he sympathises.

"Tell me how the dial tone sounds next time."

"Alright! Jesus, you're pushy. What I wanted to ask is, you're in Oklahoma in a month.”

“Where’s the question?”

“You suck. Fine, I’ll spell it out for you. I’m in Oklahoma next month, and you’ll be there at the same time, and I know some of your shirts still have sleeves which is lame and very 1989 of you. I could maybe take some time out of my busy schedule and help you with it. Consider it my charitable act of the year.”

You want to see him. He can’t know it. You don’t want to play games with him, and you don’t wanna get messed around. He can’t have all the power.

“I don’t know, Munson… I’m pretty busy, ‘n’ I kinda like my sleeves.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

He snorts. “Shit, fine. We’ll leave your sleeves alone. Maybe we could–”

“Are you listening to Loggins and Messina?” you ask suddenly, phone pressed so hard to your ear you know it’ll leave a mark.

“What?” he scoffs. “No, of course not.”

The music gets quieter, but you know what you heard. “You are! That’s Thinking Of You, I’d know it anywhere!”

“So what if I am?”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you say, not really thinking about how it sounds. “I love that song, it’s so sweet. I thought you were this big scary jerk but it turns out you’re just as soft as the rest of us. Turn it up, I wanna listen.”

Eddie doesn’t argue with you. He turns it up.

“What is that? It’s too clean to be on the radio. Don’t tell me you’re carrying a Loggins and Messina record around with you, please don’t, because I’d really have to tell someone about it.”

“Oh, you would, would you?” he asks.

“I’m gonna drag your reputation through the mud, Munson.”

Your too-big smile slowly fades when he doesn’t joke back. Was that too far? He can’t possibly think that you’re being serious — as if. You don’t have the power, influence, or connections to touch his reputation, let alone drag it. Your lips part as you hesitate to correct yourself, uncurling where you’d been comfortable on the bed.

Eddie finally puts you out of your misery.

“Did you hear that?” he asks.

“No? What was it?”

“That was me crying out in terror. You didn’t hear it?”

“That’s not even funny,” you complain. “I'm not the only one. You realise they’re calling you a womaniser in Lastick, right?” You grab your copy of the magazine from the end of the bed and splay it open, flicking through pages until you find his article. “‘Heartthrob guitarist Eddie Munson is barely entering his mid-20’s, but his masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike,’” you read, letting the magazine flop back flat.

“Did they really say ‘masterful fingering’?” he asks.

You smile at the sound of his laughter. “You pig. What’s funny about that, Munson?"

“Uh…”

“I’m messing with you. Mastery aside, you’re missing the point. They described you as a heartthrob in the third biggest music magazine in intercontinental America. Like, someone went to college for four years, worked their way up the corporate ladder, blood, sweat and tears included, to call you a heartthrob, and they didn’t lose their job.”

“Right, right. The point is that you think I’m ugly.”

“The point is that I have proof you’re…” You think about the point. You want to ruin his reputation as a heartthrob by telling everyone he listens to romantic soft rock. Because that makes sense.

“You have proof that I’m not just a heartthrob, I’m sensitive.” He sounds so fucking smug. “Making me even more of a heartthrob.”

You frown, taking the article back into your hands. “Oh, right! ‘His masterful fingering has captivated the hearts of young women and pro musicians alike, but is Munson the sweetheart he seems? Insider information hints that this young musician is spending less time making music and more time womanising the elite bachelorettes of Palm Springs.”

You blink. Your reading had become less smug as it went, and by the time you’ve finished you’ve the beginnings of a pit forming in your stomach. His alleged womanising had felt funny a moment ago. Why does it bother you now?

Because you’ve been confronted with the good. His laugh. His love songs. And you’re realising he isn’t as in your reach as you’d thought.

Eddie snorts. There’s a sound like he’s rubbing the receiver against bedsheets, and you wait apprehensively for him to speak.

“Sorry, I was turning the lights off. That’s a bit fucking rich. Who’s their inside source, Pinocchio the real boy? I was in Palm Springs for two days, and you saw me, I was fucked the entire time.” He has no clue how much you’d needed him to say that. “Maybe someone saw us together, you could pass for one of those pretty rich girls easy.” He also doesn’t know how much of an affect his easy compliments have on you, apparently. “I don’t know how someone could look at me and describe my behaviour as womanising. Pathetic, sure.”

There’s a hard edge to his voice. He made you feel better, even if he doesn’t know it. You don’t mind doing the same.

“You were sweet,” you argue mildly. “You were. You asked me how I was, and when you saw I was wearing heels you sat down in the middle of the staircase and made me sit with you.”

“You don’t usually wear heels.”

“Morgan says–” Eddie groans. “What?”

“Morgan says a lot of dumb shit, is what she says,” Eddie grouches. “Forgive me but she’s a fucking loser.”

You feel oddly protective of her for a moment, “She’s the opposite.”

“No, but her attitude ruins everything she has going for her. She’s talented, she’s the next Nicks when she sings that one song, Heartbreak House? She impresses me, but she’s fucking mean, sweetheart. You know she’s mean.”

“I guess,” you mumble, scratching the seam of your pants with your fingernail, not sure why you're defending her. “Aren't we all?”

Another patch of silence.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, we can all be pretty mean.”

“That’s the business, right?” you ask, knowing it isn't true.

“I think… we all have a propensity for cruelty when we feel pinned, and that…” He clears his throat. “Trying to make it when the scene is this competitive can feel like a looming hand. Just waiting to pluck you off of your pedestal.”

You laugh weirdly, all strangled breathlessness. “Easy to see who writes the lyrics.”

“Fuck you. You know what I mean.”

You do. Morgan’s probably trying her best, in the same way that you’re doing yours, balancing friendship and music and fame and a high-pressure job with little room for slip-ups. And now Eddie. Maybe Morgan has an Eddie somewhere, some larger than life loverboy with a penchant for sharpness and sweetness simultaneously.

“I want to tell you something,” Eddie says.

“Oh, gross. You can’t just say that, now I’m panicking,” you admit, sitting up in bed, knuckles aching at the tight grip you have on the phone. “It’s something normal, right? Or not normal. Did you get some unfortunately transmitted disease or something?”

“Unfortunately,” he quotes. “That’s funny. Definitely didn’t, the last person I touched was you.” It’s heart-rending, until he adds, “Apart from your fleas, I’m clean. And I’m trying to tell you something slightly serious, so if you could keep any allusions of disease to yourself for a minute, I’d appreciate that.”

“Okay, sure. Tell me something.”

There’s a small sound. Maybe he’s licked his lips, or changed positions. “When I… when we had that fight, in the Prover Theatre. I just want you to know that I regret how I treated you. I wish I could take it back, and… I wish I had the guts to tell you in person, but I don’t. Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not how I want to be, and I need you to know that you’re right about me, I’m a loser, but I’m the kind of loser who wants to take you out to dinner and knock my soda in my lap or try to kiss you too soon, not the kind of loser who leaves you hanging.” He laughs like you had, like it’s being dragged out of him, and you realise that Eddie Munson is panicking on the other side. “Shit, can I take some of that back? I’m cool, I swear.”

You smile hard, your cheeks aching. “No, you can’t take it back.”

“Fine. I’m a loser.”

“For the record,” you say, “you did kiss me way too soon.”

He laughs roughly, a sound half threat and half promise. “You annoy me so much. When you get to Oklahoma I’m gonna make sure you know it.”

A curl of warmth unfurls deep in your stomach. You have the good sense not to ask what he means by that.

Cowboy Cadaver, Oklahoma, March 1991

Eddie finds that he hates having an almost-girlfriend. In his head, in his chest, you're his girl. He doesn’t know how to explain himself beyond that. It’s this feeling like heat, like light, like the kiss of a sunbeam on a cold day warming his skin. And it’s the blessed breeze in a heatwave, it’s ice on an ache, it’s the feeling of your skin, your pulse under his touch. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder —it grabs wanting by the neck and squeezes all the air out. If he doesn’t get to see you soon he’s gonna lose it.

He tried explaining it to Wayne down the phone, because he’s being a good nephew now and actually calling, but he couldn’t take himself seriously, all those cheesy metaphors like chewed cud in his mouth waiting to be swallowed and yacked back up. He said, “Does it always feel like this?”

And Wayne sort of laughed, a derisive snort to seal the deal, and said, “Eds, you ain’t the first kid to fall for a girl.”

Which isn’t what he asked, but he reckons Wayne was telling him Yes, it always feels like this. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love before. He’d wanted to kiss that guy on the track team junior year so badly it kept him awake at night, and he was sweet on the soft bartender when he bussed at the Hideout to the point where the entire kitchen staff started calling him ‘squirty cream’ on account of how whipped he was, but Eddie can’t ever remember feeling like this.

He blames himself, thinking you were right after all – he did kiss you too soon. And for the wrong reasons. Now he knows what it feels like, knows what sound you make when you like it, how was he ever supposed to move past that? Your arm under his lips, or your hair against his cheek as he tried to hug the bone-deep dread out of your system, a faucet drip drip dripping by your thigh. He can’t remember what you smell like anymore, only that you smelled good, and he gets that this’ll be the nature of whatever relationship you two manage to cradle for a long while; he’d never ask you to follow him, and he thinks you’d rather die than do anything similar.

Still, he’s starting to offer up whatever it is whoever it is that’s looking down on him will take to get a quick hit. Sweetheart for his face in the curve of your neck, five seconds to breathe in the smell of your subtle perfume. It’s extreme, but Eddie’s feeling extreme right now. Every minute that you’re late winds the wanting coil tighter.

He doesn’t have anyone with him to tell him to get real. He pictures it instead, Jamison in the chair opposite, grimacing at the cider sticky table between them and the state of Eddie’s patheticness clearly displayed. Stop bouncing your leg, fuckhead. She said she’d meet you here, didn’t she?

He’s going over what-ifs when you appear. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that says ‘I visited the Great Wall,’ with a helpful picture overtop and jeans without rips. He’d be upset at the lack of skin if he couldn’t see the shapes of your thighs so clearly. He’s a sucker for them.

Better are your hands. No, better is your smile, because he knows you more than he should already and he knows what your smile means. You’re happy to see him, and you don’t want him to know it.

He hasn’t practised this part. Shock horror, he’s been too confident in his head yet again and assumed he’d know what to do when he saw you, but he doesn’t, God, he doesn’t have a clue. Can he kiss you? Hug you? It’s feeling like neither. You slide into the booth chair opposite and your shoe bumps his.

“Hi,” you say.

“Yeah, hi. Holy fuck.”

“What?” you ask, head whipping back to look the way you came.

“No, nothing, I just forgot how pretty you are. It’s kind of shocking up close. You know they called you ‘homespun’ in Lastick?”

“Fucker,” you say, not a hint of malice in it as you deflate in front of him.

“Mm. Nice sweatshirt. How was it? The Great Wall?”

“I don’t know, I got this at Goodwill.” You both pause, a synchronised, silently agreed upon ceasefire to take the other in. You look more than pretty, really, ‘cos he was fucking with you when he said it but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it is, you’re lovely when you smile and you’re smiling like he’s just told you he got a lucky scratcher and he’s giving you the winnings. “You look happy,” you say.

“Ditto.”

You grab at the collar of your sweatshirt. “Sorry, this is awkward, I don't know why.”

Eddie’s surprised at your honesty, not because you aren’t an honest person, but maybe because he’s used to skirting around the issue with you. There’s a mutual attitude that anything unsaid is untrue, and lately you’ve both said a ton of stuff you can't take back. He’s sorry, he wants to see you. You feel better when you’re with him. It’s embarrassing considering how little time you’ve spent together, and Eddie wants to change that. Hence dinner here in a blowout with floors that grab at your shoes and cigarette ash caked in the salt and pepper holders. The likelihood of an interruption is small.

“It’s fine,” he says faux confidently, while his heart is thudding against his Adam's apple. “I know how to fix it.”

Eddie reaches down under the table for the rumpled jansport he’d brought with him and pulls out two gifts. They aren’t wrapped, even though that would’ve been more romantic. He hadn’t found the time. He places them in front of you without ceremony, a chocolate rose in plastic wrap and a CD from that Indiana band you like, signed and sealed.

“What…” you mumble, picking up the CD with an adorably awed pout. “How’d you get this?”

“Asked around.” A lot. It was shameful.

Unfortunately for him, there’s a little more awkwardness to cut through, the shame of vulnerability or the realisation that you’re both standing on the precipice of something shiny and new. Suddenly, every word feels important. He has to make it clear that he’s repentant, and desperate, but only for you.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

You immediately nod, two tight dips of your chin as your thumb rubs over the plastic wrap irreverently. Your eyes are slightly widened, your pupils like dimes. “Eddie, I didn’t bring you anything.”

He leans back against the cool leather seat. “You didn’t have to. I’m just happy to see you.”

You stand up, and he thinks Oh thank fuck, you’re sitting on the bench beside him, you’re gonna kiss him saccharine sweet on the cheek like the darling girl that you are. His hand lands unabashedly atop the curve of your hip as you settle down beside him, his heart like the pull cord on a chainsaw that keeps skipping, your impending kiss the roar of the engine as it wakes.

Your hand touches his thigh. You’ve the chocolate rose in hand, a shy smile on your lips.

“Will you share it with me?”

He comes up short. Yeah, a kiss would be nice, but this is good too.

Dramatics aside (dramatics being the kinder word, because Eddie doesn’t feel dramatic at all, and that’s genuinely worse), he’s missed you without metaphor. Something in him relaxes as you unpackage the rose and snap it up. You offer him a carved leaf as you nibble on the stem. The awkwardness begins to fade, at least on his end, though that might be down to his lingering hand behind your back, not touching you but close enough.

“I told everyone I was going window shopping,” you say, covering your mouth with your hand as you meet his eyes.

“They believe you?”

“Nope. They know you’re here.”

“Mine were the same,” Eddie comforts, reaching for the flower of your rose to break it apart. He holds some up to see if you’ll let him feed you. You wrinkle your nose at him and laugh. He laughs back. “Open up.”

“No,” you say, laughing through your nose as he presses a petal to your lip. Your jaw softens as you lean back, and it’s a sight to see, your eyes lit with amusement and your lips pressed tightly closed.

He doesn’t wanna push his luck. He puts the chocolate petal in your hand and leans back to chew through his own, happy to watch you through half-lidded eyes. His squinting makes you squirm, until you figure out his angle and give him a playful glare.

It's swiftly interrupted by a big yawn. “I’m so tired,” you say, rubbing your eye with a sore looking hand.

“Your hands are fucked,” he says. It’s no wonder that you’re tired. You never stop. Even when the guitar pick’s fallen between strings. “That’s a bad one.”

He takes your hand in his to rub his thumb over the pad of your index finger, where the whorl of your fingerprint is cut decisively down the middle and scabbing over. The skin around it is mottled. His thumbnail scratches down the side of your finger gently as he looks it over. There’s nothing he can do to make it better.

“You know they invented picks for a reason,” he says.

Your middle and marriage fingers rest lightly against the meat of his thumb. Your pinky fits in the slight dip of his palm, its tip at the the bisection of hills at the bottom of his palm. Your nails aren’t long, but you’ve painted them an unassuming, translucent blue. He pushes his thumb into your fingers so they curl toward your own palm and slowly, you cover his thumb with yours. It’s a weird angle to hold hands, but he doesn’t mind. Like you can read his thoughts, you turn your hand into his, but then you must change your mind. You pull it out of his hold and face toward the table again, away from him, your forearms pushed together. You lean back with a tired moan. It turns his heart.

“I like shows, but I don’t like touring,” you say. “I think we should get to pick a venue and that’s it, that’s where we play. The fans can come to us.”

“The fans,” Eddie repeats.

He’s not trying to make fun of you. It’s weird to say something like that aloud and know that it’s true. You have fans. You both do. People like your music enough to come and see you play.

And you both like playing music enough to subject yourself to borderline torturous conditions. Packing yourselves up like parcels delivered from one stage to another.

“I bet Madonna loves touring,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“They aren’t making her live in a ten by two box sixteen hours a day,” he says.

“Don’t do math,” you plead, your head dipped back and drifting toward his arm. “I really am tired.”

“You could’ve cancelled. Not that I wanted you to.” He softens his voice, his best approximation of a caring boyfriend, though he’s never been one before.

“I didn’t want to cancel…”

“You need me to take you home?” he asks, concerned as you let your head drop on his shoulder.

“Can I just sit here a while?”

“Sure. Anything. Uh…” He wraps his arm around your shoulder.

Eddie would be content if you fell asleep but you fight your fatigue, and he’s glad for it when you move into easy conversation. This part he can do. Over the phone, he's told you about Wayne and growing up, and about stuff he doesn’t think he’s told anyone before, not secret so much as mundanities that no one ever wanted to listen to. He sticks to mundane things for now. Like the phone calls between you both (new, occasional, but always too long), he talks until he runs out of things to say, and even then he drags it out to a painful threshold.

Somehow, some way, you lay your head on his shoulder and keep it there for a while, and you tell him about your nightmare tour and all the fighting. Morgan’s not speaking to you, Ananya’s not speaking to anyone. She has a pair of headphones that she keeps on morning noon and night, sometimes during soundcheck, where she adamantly refuses to participate.

“Ananya used to be okay,” you say, nearly whispering like you’re worried you’ll get caught telling him secrets. “But she’s just as bad as Morgan now. They’re still fighting about Morgan’s– Okay, don’t tell anybody, but Morgan does a lot of coke–”

“Is that a secret?” Eddie asks.

He’s not being condescending, it’s just that half the people you see on MTV have a bad coke problem and Morgan is often on MTV.

“No, but she stole money out of Ananya’s purse at a party when we were first touring ‘cos she didn’t have a dime to her name, it’s pretty bad. I didn’t tell you on the phone ‘cos I was worried someone was listening to us.”

Eddie blanches. “You think people were listening to us?” He said some brave things to you last time, a cheeky promise wrapped up in platitudes.

“I mean, no? But the secretaries can listen on the line in some places, ‘n’ you were staying in all those skyscrapers. It’s not, like, a thing. Morgan swears she was gonna pay it back. Anya got mad, ‘n’ Morgan implied that any money in Anya’s purse was money she made.”

“I see.”

You lift your head slightly. “Please don’t tell anyone. They’d kill me if they knew I told you.”

He smiles at you reassuringly. “My lips are sealed.” He eyes your pretty mouth, your face as close as it is. “Well, mostly sealed. Ooh, you could buy my silence.”

“How does one go about that?” you ask quietly, knowing exactly how, he’s sure.

Eddie gives you the softest kiss he can manage, hiding his nervousness well. He grabs your upper arm, and grab isn't the right word but it’s the only word that makes any sense given the quickness of his movement; he's leaning in and he needs to be touching you first, steady himself. You smile into his lips.

“That’s not gonna be enough,” he says as you pull away. You startle him by leaning in again quickly, your lips parted a fraction and hot against his as your hand stretches out across his chest.

He’d intended to stay chaste with you. He's trying to rescue the head-first plunge that was his handful of confessions, make your possible relationship one that works, but he can't help himself. He takes it slow, admittedly, but slow kisses become long, and he turns lax at the feeling of your fingertips over his heart.

Eddie pulls away when he can make himself, cupping your face in his hand in an effort to communicate how much he wants to be kissing you still. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Why? Do I taste bad?” you ask. You have a shiny mouth.

“You taste like chocolate. I just figured I should buy you a drink before somebody else does.”

“Eddie,” you say, leaning into his palm ever so slightly, “there's no one else here.”

“Can’t say I blame them. Who names a bar ‘Cowboy Cadaver’?”

Your lashes kiss in the corners as you smile.

“Your band is called Corroded Coffin.”

“And it’s a good name.” He pecks you quickly. “Yes?”

Your answering hum tickles.

“Why do I feel like we aren't supposed to be doing this?” you ask, second hand joining your first on his chest.

“Because we’re meeting in secret?” he suggests, covering your hands with one of his. “Or mild secrecy. We aren't subtle.”

“You're not subtle.”

“No,” he agrees, and forgive him but he’s feeling positively sunny and sounds it.

“This is okay, though? We both want this?” you ask.

“I-” No more running away. No more casual cruelty. “I definitely want this.”

You grin, leaning up in a move that surprises him as your arms wrap around his neck, his hair under your arms. You smile sheepishly before ducking your face under his, the tip of your nose crushed to the soft part beneath his jaw. He has a grin all his own as he grasps your back. Eddie kisses the side of your head, any skin he can reach, three times in quick succession, and feels an acute sense of relief. There’s something final about it like a puzzle piece clicking into place that explains the photograph, or the snap of a finishing line against his stomach. He's suddenly pin-sharp ecstatic, and he shows it with a rough squeeze.

“You smell really nice,” he praises, his nose by your hair.

“That’s pervy, I think.”

“I’m trying to be nice,” he says.

He can hear even to himself how brazen he sounds, that awful flirtation he can't help from enacting with you now he knows you like this. He wants to impress, and he wants to be honest at the same time. He wants to be himself. It’s getting easier.

“Nice isn’t a word I’d associate with you,” you say, but you sit back to meet his eyes and amend, “That’s not true. You can be lovely.”

You give him a look that can only be described as loving. It’s pure affection, and if he weren't sitting he’d have fallen over from how it makes him feel. You lean forward until the top part of your face is on his cheek, your eyelashes twitching like a butterfly’s wing.

“Thank you for the presents. You didn't have to get me anything," you say.

He looks behind your head to the bar around you both. He's been so distracted by your looming presence, your arrival, and now having you in his arms, he hadn't noticed the patrons milling in as happy hour draws nearer. There’s a couple of older men at the bar, and one looks unseeing toward your public display. It makes him uneasy.

“You're welcome," he says. "We have an audience."

You follow his gaze over your shoulder and promptly untuck yourself from his embrace when you see the bar isn't as empty as you'd thought. There’s no time for heartbreak —you weave your fingers with his and hide them between your thighs, a small smile playing on your lips.

Eddie could get used to this.

—

Marriott Dean Music Store, Oklahoma, (still) March 1991

There’s a black and white Gibson Les Paul hanging on the wall. It caught Eddie’s eye as soon as you arrived, and while you have no use for it (and your Fender bass's gonna jinx you if you touch an instrument that isn't her, you just know it), you kinda wanna feel it for yourself.

“See the headstock? The line wrapped around the bottom?” Eddie says under his breath.

There's a storehand standing behind the small counter not too far from your position near the entrance.

You nod carefully. “Yeah?”

“Relacquered. And conveniently not mentioned on the price tag. It might be a new one, sometimes they crack backward from the pressure of the strings.”

You glance between Eddie, his pale face and a new crop of sun-wrought freckles, and the ‘like new’ label on the guitar. An ‘87 standard has no need for lies, it’s not as if the price difference between it and the new ‘91 is overlarge.

“Are you looking for something new?” you ask.

If Eddie functions anything like you do, he’ll have his own hardware but won’t hesitate to borrow from a well-packed bank of state-of-the-art instruments that follows the tour. He might even change instrument mid set. He won't need something new, but need and want are estranged.

“Nah,” he says, nudging you gently away from the guitar display. His hand ghosts your elbow, like he might steer you around. “I have a Rich Warlock, you seen those? I got a new one last year ‘n’ the output level for the bridge pickup is giving me grief, but I’m not an asshole. I could sit down and fix it myself, but…”

You brush aside a beaded curtain and take a short step down into the store, where a wealth of CD’s, cassettes and vinyls are packed in rows on tables. There’s an older man flicking through records, but beside that the room is empty. A big yellow sticker faded from the sun warns of CCTV.

“You’re too busy,” you finish.

“I'm way too busy.”

There's a calmness to being with him here you hadn't expected. It's like lying on the stairs with him all over again, but he's missing that awful far off look to his eyes, he's tip top shape: Eddie Munson is sober. He said it like it's no big deal, and maybe it isn't, but you squeezed his hand anyways because you figure you'd want someone to feel proud of you if you stopped. You don't have a problem, just every dalliance with recreational substances is a chance at something worse. He should feel good about what he's doing.

Especially when you understand the feeling that drives you there in the first place. The insane stress of wanting to prove that you're worth something, and the feeling like lukewarm water dripping down your spine when you're standing in the middle of a room, in the middle of a crowd, and you realise you could disappear and nobody would know until the next show. That confrontation of how small your life has become, through your own mediation and everything else.

You'd give anything to escape that feeling. Some nights, you do.

You told yourself you'd play it cool. What happened between you and Eddie, what's happening, it's muddled. You remember the profound hurt feeling of his final blow, and you hold it up against how you're feeling now as his fingertips coast down your arm, a thoughtless touch as he stands beside you to give his opinions on the box of records in front. He's nice. He's more nice than not. You wanted to squeeze his hand and you had, cool girl facade on the back burner.

Maybe you're the one who was cruel. You think back to how it all went down. The details grow fuzzier in the distance, but you know you hurt him like he hurt you. And unlike him, you can't remember having said sorry.

You turn your head and find his face remarkably close to your own. He doesn't flinch nor move, only smiles at the weight of your gaze and flicks to the next vinyl.

"I'm sorry," you say, awkward but earnest. You don't give yourself the time to chicken out.

You can't stand thinking you might have hurt him now. Even if he hurt you worse. The guilt of hurting anybody at all feels heavy, worse because it's you.

"For what?" he asks.

"For what I said. At the theatre. And for walking away at Monsters of Rock."

"I walked away," he says, confused. "I pretty much ran. Not my finest moment."

"No, at the store."

Recognition crosses his features. He smiles rather weirdly, inclining his head close enough to kiss you.

"You didn't have to listen to me. I respect that. You know that, right? You don't have to listen just 'cos someone has something to say." His brows crease inward. "I hate what I said to you at the theatre. And I felt guilty about it. You make me so mad, and I'm childish and I can't deal with that. But it's not your fault. You don't deserve a lashing every time I have one to give."

Eddie tilts his head to the left. "Sorry," he adds. "Don't try to make me feel better– don't, I can see it on your face. It's not why I said it."

He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then pulls back to see if it's worked. You're smiling. He takes it for a win.

"I'm a big girl," you say after a short second of staring at him, the ridge of his nose and the curls silhouetting his slight hint of cheekbone. "I don't need you to take all of the blame."

"Ah, but I'm selfish. I want it all." He shrugs. "Better luck next time."

"Nerd."

"Loser."

He goes back to the records with a smile. You look at it a little longer, allowed and aggrieved at once. He shouldn't be that pretty.

You watch his hands, hoping he'll give himself away and falter. A gift deserves a gift. CD's aren't cheap. You could buy him a vinyl. He must have a player of some sort, considering his Loggins and Messina habit.

"Think they'll have your new LP?" he asks.

"They'll have yours."

Eddie shakes his head. "I'm not asking about mine."

"They won't have it here, this place is tiny. City stores are the only place I've seen any of our stuff," you say.

"Well, you guys are plastered. I saw the cover on the side of a bus in Pasadena."

You gawp at him. "You did not."

"I did! Think I don't know that ugly font by now? Godless in huge black and white letters. It's a bad name, by the way," he ribs.

"What am I supposed to do about it? I wasn't there when they chose it."

Eddie shrugs, the toned muscle of his arms shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. It might've been black once upon a time, but the merchandise he sports now is a washed out grey. You put your hand over the curve of his bicep because you want to, and pleasure simmers when he doesn't move away.

"If it were me," he says, in a tone of voice that spells irksome teasing a mile off, "and the name were that bad, I'd go on strike. Refuse to play. That'll make them fix it, while you still have time."

"I'm sure you could get away with that," you say.

"You don't think you would?"

"I'm not really tenured."

"Ah, but who could say no to such a pretty face," he praises, pushing the box of records away from himself. "Shit, guess we better go ask for a test run on that Les Paul. This is all… questionable."

"You're gonna serenade me?" you ask, returning his teasing.

"You're gonna serenade me. I know you know your way around a rhythm guitar. You're holding out on me," he says, knocking your elbows together.

You love this. All these familiar touches. Like a moth to a flame, you follow him back up into the main storefront and sit beside him on top of a crate, cradling the Les Paul like a baby you're terrified of dropping. Even with tour money you couldn't pay for it now. At the end, sure. But you doubt the manager would take an IOU.

"What do I play?" you ask.

"Anything."

"That's not helpful."

"Something fun," he says.

Your fingers slide up the fretboard to an E flat. You bite your lip. "I'm in bass mode." It's automatic. You'd immediately set yourself up for a baseline.

Baseline to riff for rhythm guitar is easy enough. E flat becomes E flat major. G becomes G minor.

"Pentatonics," Eddie whispers when you hesitate.

"You really aren't helpful," you laugh. "This is hard."

"I'm telling people you said that."

You mess around until you have the basis of a simple riff down, hoping you'll impress him. He shouldn't be impressed, you've seen him play things a thousand times more complicated in person, but he beams as you work your way through a verse and then an impromptu chorus.

"Is that fucking Blondie?" he asks.

"No."

"It so is! Hanging On the Telephone, everyone knows that song."

"And everyone knows it's a cover. I'm doing The Nerves version, obviously."

You smile at each other until he cracks. "Obviously," he concedes. "Do the rest."

"Like I'm your dog," you say, a joke that brushes too close to home.

You fumble over the strings, gaze resolute on the body of the guitar rather than his face.

You don't care that he said it —you care that he knows he said it. It doesn't make sense in so little words, but the feeling is contrite. It doesn't allow for sensical explanation.

The humiliation of being seen is worse than a spurned insult thrown haphazard at your feet. His insult isn't as bad as your reaction to it. The fact that he knows it upset you. That's the worst part.

It's embarrassing because he was right. Of course it is. And it doesn't get better, because you're still the same. Still running back after every kick. No matter the leg.

You play him the rest of the song. Or rather, your best approximation. It's incredibly difficult to play by ear and you haven't heard the song in a while. When the guitar sounds more like a transparent translation of the lyrics than the actual meat of the instrumentals you give up, picking at the strings and listening to the individual tuning of each once. Eddie doesn't speak. Each second of his silence grows worse, your throat dry as the Sahara and horrifyingly thick. Why isn't he talking?

His hand covers your shoulder. Fingers in a row across the slight dip of it, thumb rubbing reassuringly into your shoulder blade. "You're so fucking talented," he says quietly, his voice just above your ear. "I hope you know that."

"I got lucky," you say, shaking your head.

"No, you worked hard. There's a difference."

His hand slides over the hill of your upper arm. Eddie gives you a gentle shake. You let your head flop into the crook of his neck. His hair tickles your forehead, but he smells so good you stay longer than you should.

"Play me something," you say, trying to sound less morose than you feel.

Whether he hears your emotion or not, he pats your arm and sits up. You hand over the guitar, and Eddie props the body over his thigh and runs his fingers up the fretboard, feeling the craftsmanship appreciatively despite his earlier disapproval.

"What do you wanna hear?" he asks.

"What do you know?"

"God, I know everything. You should know that."

"Well, you can't play anything too impressive, you'll draw attention."

He nods very seriously at your sarcasm. He's immediately more at home than you'd been with it, and his hands look like they have a mind of their own. He plays a tight riff you recognise from one of their songs that is, to your horror, a warm up. He turns the amp down, and before you know it he's elbow deep in a complication of chords that might genuinely have you sweating if it were you rather than him. He does it like it's nothing. A walk in the park, and one he so clearly takes pleasure in. His eyes light up, the kind of look he's had before when he's made you laugh, or something a little milder than the electricity of his rough stageside kiss.

You're in awe.

He fucks up somewhere and laughs. A sweet giggle.

"S'what I get for trying to show off."

He plucks a string sharply. Hair's falling in his eyes, nearly hiding the sheepish curve of his lips. You see it, and adore it, and don't know what you're supposed to do about that.

"I'll get him to put this away before I break it and we can get something to eat," he says, looking up from the guitar.

"It's weird to be with you. Without anything in the way," you say before you can stop yourself.

You're glad you've said it when he raises his eyebrows. "Super weird. No more excuses. Wanna get freaky in the employee bathroom?" He laughs at his own joke. "It feels right, though," he adds warmly, before sincerity gets too much and he looks away.

He gives the store employee back the Les Paul for its case and swings his backpack over one arm. He holds the other one out, wriggling his fingers so you know it isn't optional. You'd have tried it if he didn't offer.

You hold hands out of the store and onto the street, busy but not crowded, and try to think of what you're supposed to say. You're in the soul of Tulsa, rather than the heart —you and Eddie decided to meet somewhere far enough from the city centre as to miss anyone who'd know who you are (or, more accurately, know who he is). You're not the kind of musicians who get papped often, or ever. Morgan's snow exposé was opportunistic, and Eddie was on the news for his epic destruction of property, but beside that it's purposeful photoshoots or moot. But this, this thing, whatever it is, it isn't for anybody else. You don't want anyone knowing quite yet. If Morgan found out you'd probably chuck up from the anxiety of what she'd do, some 'well-meaning' sabotage. Contrary to what she'd said in the past, how you should pick up the phone if Eddie calls, you know how she functions. Jealousy, or maybe some unjust belief that she deserves every ounce of lust or affection or attention, would absolutely wreck her. She doesn't like you enough to let you have this. You know it.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks.

The sunlight makes him paler than usual. Pasty skin, dark dark hair, he'd be a vampire if his hand weren't warm in yours. You tighten your grip.

"I think I'm not half as cool as I want to be."

He licks his lips. "You're cool."

You lift your chin to look at the sky, the wind moving over your hair gently. You trust Eddie enough to let him pull you out of harm's way. At least, you think you do.

"I'm worried about people finding out about us."

"Us?" Eddie asks. Horror surges. It's smothered as quickly as it comes by your hand swung in his, and his pleased little smile as he says, "There's an us."

It's useless to pretend otherwise. And if it makes him that happy, you're thrilled. Genuinely.

"Would it be so terrible?" Less sun and more apprehension, Eddie fails at bravado. "If people knew about your smoking hot plaything?"

"You're not my plaything, you're– not my plaything," you stammer.

"Bummer for me. I think I'd be into it."

He guides you around a fire hydrant and across a short gap in the sidewalk. You have no idea where he's leading you. It's sunny enough that you don't complain.

"I don't want people to know about us because– because I barely know about us, and, um– I'm sorry, this is the opposite of attractive."

"How many compliments do you want?" he asks seriously, "'Cause I have a couple locked and loaded."

"Let's go back to when you didn't like me."

"Who cares how attractive you are? Not that you're not. But I don't want you to not tell me things because it's not hot. What kind of relationship would that turn into? Superficial, who wants that?" He stops swinging your hand abruptly, and to your pleasure, his cheeks are pink. "Do you want that?"

"No," you mumble.

"Oh. Good."

"What kind of relationship do you want?" you ask.

"A nice one." He does his fucking ridiculous giggle again and you could kiss him right here in the street. "You're ruining my reputation. I used to be respectable. Now I'm a bigger loser than before, and people are gonna clock on."

"They've clocked on."

"Cruel!" he says, delighted.

"I…" You look anywhere but his face. His hand is so, so heavy. "You really don't care if I'm honest?"

"I want you to be honest. We're not seventeen. I know girls do all the same gross stuff that boys do, babe."

"What do you think I'm about to say?" You laugh.

"Something really disgusting from the way you're freezing up."

The breeze kisses at your cheeks. A stray leaf falls from the tree to your left and twists through the air, dancing in circles until it stops at your feet. You step over it gingerly.

"Eddie, I just want you to know what you're getting into–"

"What am I getting into?"

"I'm not– I'm–" You struggle for words. There's no dictionary for how you feel. There's so much stuff wrong with you and he can't know any of it. You're stupid and lazy and bad at the things you're good at. You're tired, and sick, and you can't seem to get things right. You love sincerely and it's hardly ever enough. "I don't really know why you want this."

He speaks with lips barely parted, mumbling but somehow unafraid. "I don't really know why I wouldn't want this."

Eddie turns the corner and pulls you with him. An empty sidewalk beckons, white and stretching long down the boulevard. He pulls your joined hands up into the air and guides you into a slow twirl.

"I think you're beautiful. You impress me, and you make me wanna write bad songs," he says, rubbing his thumb over your fingers. "What am I saying? I can't write a bad song. It's impossible. Especially if they're about you."

"But I don't get that, we don't get along."

"What do you call this?" he asks.

You come to a stop. There's a coffee shop to your right with huge open windows. Warm yellow light pours out into the slowly darkening sky.

"I do want this," you say, worried you're giving him the wrong idea. He visibly relaxes at your statement, his grip on your hand strengthening once again. "I do," you continue, "whatever this is, I meant what I said, you know. You… make everything quiet for me. And I think you're–" Beautiful, you should say. "You're Lastick's heartthrob, everybody wants you. I like you."

"I'd hope so," he says, pulling you toward him, his second hand vying for yours. He tugs you right up against him, face lit with cocky happiness.

You hold your breath. His lashes are super long at the corners, emphasising the deep dark brown that lines his pupils and the gentler bark that surrounds it. He lays a hand against your cheek, encouraging your head up to his. He isn't soft with you like he'd been at the bar, but he isn't mean. You like how sure he is as he pulls you in, as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyes shutter closed with the pressure.

"I don't care if everybody wants me," he says, and kisses you again, your noses smushed together. "That's not true, anyway," —he laughs quietly into your open mouth, his breath warm as it fans over your lips and tongue— "and if it were," —he kisses you a third time, his head tilted to the side, his lips parted a fraction like he can't wait long enough to line up with you— "it wouldn't change what I want."

You have to take a breather if only to let your brain catch up with what he's saying.

"Okay," you breathe.

He pulls your still joined hands to his heart. "Yeah? I'm not trying to freak you out 'n' go too heavy. I know I'm on thin ice."

"You're not on thin ice."

"I should be."

Maybe. "You're not." You glance down the sidewalk to make sure your public display (you're becoming those people, apparently) isn't in someone's way. Thankfully, there's nobody around. "Sorry. This has been a really nice day, and I'm ruining it."

"Date," he corrects. "It's a date, and it's great, and you haven't ruined a thing. We're gonna get dinner and talk about music and Gareth's disgusting bunk and you can feel however you want to feel, long as it's within arms reach. Yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," you say. You manage a firm nod.

A date. Maybe you're a fool who doesn't deserve him for an almost-boyfriend. If you keep getting in your own way, you'll definitely be one.

"What's for dinner?" you ask.

Eddie smiles.

—

Colo Do Amante Hotel, April 1991

"Do you think you'll ever move away from glam metal?"

Eddie looks up from the notebook in his lap. He licks his lip to give himself more time to answer, searching for the right thing to say to you. The more time you spend together, the more he wants to say the right thing, and the more sure he feels that there isn't a wrong thing.

You are, quite simply, a wonder. A love.

He shouldn't be here. Eddie's playing a show tomorrow night halfway across the country. If even one thing goes wrong with his red-eye, he's fucked. Someone from Rollerboy will murder him, and he'll deserve it. But he's here, because he wanted to see you and miraculously you wanted to see him. A late night phone call from one hotel room to another, his quiet confession.

"I miss you," he'd said.

You'd hesitated for half a second, if that. "Come and see me, then."

So he ditched the bus, got a cab, flew out with his rockstar money and crawled into your bed. You haven't slept together, only laid with one another talking about how much being a musician sucks and how awful you both are for complaining. You'll relax around him now, and he thinks more about seeing you again than he does your muddled past, and he knows that counts for something.

"Do I think I'll move away from glam metal?" he repeats, thoughts not strictly yours.

He's trying to write about how you look now before you move, before he can forget it. Your figure curled up yet limp beside him, your hand on his stomach and your shirt climbing up the hill of your hip, the pudge of your stomach peaking out. You're wearing something much more showy than the last time he saw you, having done press a couple hours before his arrival and with no will to change. Your tights are dark and floral lace, stretched over sweet thighs vaguely hidden by your black skirt. For all the leg on show he can't see a hint of your top half before your neck. You're layered in fabrics. He loves it, you look awesome, and you'd been amazingly flustered when he told you.

Careful not to smudge your glittery make up, he'd tried to kiss you in the lobby. You'd nearly squeaked, grabbing him by the arm to pull him to the elevator bank.

"Can't blame a guy for trying. Have you seen yourself today? Actually? You're fucking killer."

You'd shushed him and clicked the wrong floor button. He pretended not to notice when you corrected yourself.

Most of the makeup is gone now, kissed off and the rest washed away, but your lashes are still lengthened and they look it as you prop yourself up by his hip and ask, "Well?"

"No," he says honestly. There's always room to grow, and music changes with time and with an evolving scene, but Corroded Coffin are famous for how they sound now. "I love how we sound… Do you think you'll ever move into glam metal?"

"Is there any room?"

"No, but when has that ever stopped anyone?"

He folds his pen between the leaves of his notebook and chucks it toward his bag in the corner of your room. You shift yourself, not quite sitting up as you pull off your sheer long sleeve and the regular long sleeve beneath it, exposing your arms and your chest to his view. He hadn't been expecting a tank top beneath.

He whistles. Can't help himself.

You dive to hide your face in the sheets, one arm tucked uncomfortably under your weight and across your chest, the other sliding away from his navel. "Shut up," you murmur.

"Sorry. You're just pretty."

"Didn't say that before I got my tits out, I notice."

He laughs at your grumbling and leans down to talk softly. "Ah, but I did, didn't I? Told you you were 'fucking pretty' but maybe you didn't hear me, you were kissing me so hard–"

You reach blindly for his face and push him away from you, not half as roughly as you could.

He's messing with you. It's his prerogative.

Being your almost boyfriend comes with privileges, like being privy to how you're feeling. Once unbeknownst to Eddie and probably everyone in your life, you're not a very happy person. He could guess why, he's not blind, but thinking it and knowing it are two different ponds. You don't say much about it, embarrassed by or maybe unable to verbalise how you're feeling beyond, "I'm tired of everything today," and, "Sorry, I'm just worried."

About what? he'd asked.

You'd nibbled your lip. Everything. Nothing worth saying out loud.

He'd make jokes anyhow, but he makes more of them when he thinks you're feeling down. Teasing you is a surefire trick to distract you from all the stuff you can't handle.

It's piling on, he knows. Morgan on the news again, shirtless in a public club, your startled face in the background. You'd been poked fun at by TV hosts and journalists alike. Nothing cruel, but making you the butt of a joke nonetheless. Then there was Ananya's continued selective mutism, disagreements over stage blocking, your ever-present employment anxiety, your very first hate letter disguised as a love note, and, to Eddie's surprise, radio silence from your friend Dornie.

He didn't like Dornie to begin with. Now he hates him.

"Don't push me away," he whines.

"Don't make fun of me."

"But you look lovely when you're mad." He grins at you where you're glaring, only your eyes and brows visible in your position. "Exactly like that."

"Lovely," you say. He can hear in your voice how the mock fight you'd started has sputtered out. You sound genuine again, a little raspy with oncoming fatigue.

"You don't like that word?"

You lay flat on your back. Head on the pillows, hands to your collar and fingers picking at one another, you look down at them and away from him and Eddie can't stand losing your attention. He ushers away his notebook on the sheets and climbs toward you on knees. He checks your face as he positions himself between your legs. You smile. He smiles back. He thinks maybe this is what you secretly wanted him to do.

"You like Status Quo?" you ask.

He smiles and lets his weight press down on you, not paying much attention to what goes where, only the feeling of being on top of you, this close, and being allowed. "Yeah?"

"Showaddywaddy?"

"Beg your pardon?" he jokes.

"Let's go for a little walk," you sing under your breath.

"Yeah. I liked that song." He sings, "I wanna tell you, that I love ya." You nod happily.

"Queen?" you ask, quieter still.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"It's weird that we managed to find each other," you say. "Though everything. You had to like all that music, we had to want this bad, we had to be born at the same time, in the same scenes, and we had to go to the same stupid party."

He hangs his head. "I was in a mood."

"You were. I figured you were an asshole, you know?"

Eddie takes a deep, deep breath. "I remember."

"I was… pathetic," you say softly, letting your hands drop flat to your chest. You change your mind, tuck a curl behind his ear. "I was desperate, your friend Jamison… it doesn't matter. I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"There's a difference between pathetic and lonely. You tried to make friends, and I was being a dick because–" He sucks the inside of his cheek.

"'Cos you tried to talk to me and I made fun of your court case?" you ask, self-deprecating.

"Because you didn't know me."

You poke his cheek gently. "That mattered that much to you?"

"Sweetheart, we met before."

Eddie watches you hear him, and spots the resistance to what he's suggesting. He needles his arms under your waist to feel the breadth of your back in his palms, close enough to kiss you, but wanting to hear what you have to say about it more.

"We did," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"I think about a year before we met at the party, we met at the airport. You weren't in Godless, you weren't even a tech yet, you were on your way to meet the tour in New York. We met, and we talked about music, and I told you to come and meet me if you ever found yourself in the same place."

You'll put me on a list? you'd asked, charmed by his wanting to see you, as impossible as it may have seemed then.

I'll put you on the list.

"When I saw you," he says, eyes on the curve of your bottom lip, "I was hoping you'd come to see me, but you didn't remember me, I could tell straight away, and I– I'd gotten so used to people saying yes to me that I got more pissed than I should've. I feel like a loser, telling you now, but–" But it meant something, meeting you before. It meant something.

"We did meet," you say, voice like a line of spider web weighed down, and abruptly plinking back up. "You gave me a sticker. I dropped it down a storm drain straight off the plane."

He nods encouragingly, "I gave you a Corroded Coffin sticker–"

"With a rose in the background," you interrupt.

"Yeah. You remember? You had those huge can headphones and your guitar was falling apart, and I told you about Sweetheart 'cos she was still pretty impressive at the time. You didn't have time to try her before boarding, so…"

"So you said I could give her a try the next time we saw each other."

Eddie bites his lip. "Yeah."

Your breath is noticeably quickened, your gaze snapping onto his face. Recollection lights your eyes, and then, like he'd so desperately wanted to see months ago when he wandered into you of all people at a sticky, snow-loaded party, you smile at him. Like you missed him. Like you can't believe your luck.

"Well, hey, stranger," you whisper, your thumb rubbing along his bottom lip, fingers tucked neatly behind his ear. "I remember you."

"You took your time," he says.

"You could've said something," you say, chin dipping to your chest. "How did you remember me after that long?"

He's trying not to get broken up with before he's officially your boyfriend; he wants to say, You're hard to forget, but he refrains.

He leans in for a silky, soft kiss. "Immaculate memory," he says in the slice of time your lips aren't touching, a second gap as he turns his head to better kiss your top lip.

"Is there anything you can't do?" you indulge.

"Can't get this one really beautiful thing to let me take her photo," he says.

You giggle and push him away. "'Cos I know what kind of picture you want, Eddie!"

"I already told you that's not true, dirty photos are an epidemic I've yet to feed into." He's a man, not a Saint —he'd fucking love a dirty photo, but he really does just want a Polaroid for his wallet. "How about we both have a Polaroid of each other? So you don't forget me?"

Guilt lines your smile. "I'm sorry," you say, dragging him down for a kiss. "Sorry, sorry. I won't forget you again, Munson…" You rub his cheek with your thumb. "If I let you take a photo, will you forgive me?"

You're already forgiven. "Three photos."

"Deal."

"Should've asked for five."

"You could've asked for the full cartridge and a dirty one and I might've said yes. I can't believe we met before.."

Eddie rests his nose on your cheek, eyes closed, already trying to remember how many photos there are left on his camera. "I don't want a picture of your tits because you feel guilty, babe." He laughs as he talks, then, the joke feels that good to say, "I want one because you have the most amazing, killer, gorgeous pair of–"

You screech to cover his bold compliments and whack his chest playfully. "Get off of me, you freak! Get off, get off, get off."

Eddie flips onto his back, chuckling.

"How would you even know?" you ask, slipping off of the bed with a little thump and down by your suitcase. You chuck your shitty Polaroid Spectra onto the sheets by his arm and rifle around for a foil sealed cartridge. "You've barely seen them."

Like past Eddie, this Eddie still wants to fuck you stupid, but he also really isn't interested in intiating anything before you're ready. He's hoping you'll make the first move, and maybe soon, but watching the tip of your tongue breach your lips as you climb on your knees to fiddle with the Spectra, he's not really thinking about sex.

"I've seen them," he disagrees.

"You have not."

"Have too."

"Have not."

"I'm seeing them right now."

You look down at your chest. The tank top you're wearing isn't especially scandalous, Eddie just loves your shape.

"Okay," you say, shyness creeping into your voice and stature, your shoulders bunching up toward your neck a touch, "if I say something and it's too weird, you can tell me no. Please tell me no."

He shakes his head gently when you don't add anything else. "What?" he asks.

"Do you really want a dirty photo? You could take one. I wouldn't mind," you say.

Your voice drops to a murmur with the last two words. Eddie hikes up on his elbows, smile curling and appling his cheeks. "You don't still feel bad about forgetting lil ole me?"

"Of course I do, but it's not why I'm offering. I really like you, Eddie. I want to do things other couples do."

Earnestness has you sounding your best: your voice has always been one of his very favourite things about you. Your voice, your smile, your passion (maybe that one most of all). When you talk as you are now, without anything in the way, he thinks he might be at his most infatuated.

"I really like you," he says, reaching out to steal your hand from the camera. "What I want most is one with your smile, get me? One I can flash at the boys while I'm away, brag about you."

"I thought we weren't telling anyone," you say gently.

"Not for now. I'll need it eventually, right?"

You beam at him. "Right."

You pick up your camera and aim it at his face. He knows how he must look, his hair frizzy from hours on a small plane, lips sore from kissing you, ridiculously happy. Now you know everything about him he'd been purposefully hiding. All the bad in all of the good, and all the good in all of the bad. He can't wait to tell you the rest.

The flash blinds him for a split second, and your camera chugs as it ejects the photo. You drop it on the sheets and you and Eddie crane your heads together, foreheads kissing while the image appears.

"That's a good one, right?" he asks. Upside down, he's not sure.

"It's really perfect," you say.

Eddie lifts your chin for another silken kiss.

"Listen," he says as he breaks away, his lips tingling, heart in his throat. "Can I be your boyfriend?"

He hadn't meant to ask like that.

You nod slowly, then quickly, trying uselessly to tamp an ecstatic smile as you paw at his arms. Eddie pulls you back up onto the bed and you make camp in his lamp, hands in his hair and lips like an undulating wave against his. He kisses you until he can't think.

—

The photographer standing outside of the Colo De Amante is cold, fingertips frostbitten and nose like ice, but it's worth it for the photo he gets. Eddie Munson peeling out of the hotel in the late night when he's supposed to be in a different state, hair banded out of his face, giving the photographer a great view of his pleased features.

The camera clicks.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! please reblog if you have the time!! i love them being all loveydovey but im excited for the drama to start again

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fic

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vinyldreamsfuckup · 5 months ago

Text

Pose

Warnings: drinking, smoking, fluff, banter

You were always known to be quite fiery. Most of the guys would call you stubborn and feisty but also incredibly hot, kind, and endearing. you found yourself at a t-shirt shop making a custom t-shirt for your boyfriend all because of something he said, and it all kind of clicked. Maybe you were quite stubborn and you definitely followed through on your pranks.

So here’s how it started, you were out on the road with Guns N’ Roses. You and Axl had become quite close considering you were dating Slash. And you two LOVED pulling pranks on him. Lived for it actually. This one might just be the funniest one yet. It wasn’t one where someone could get hurt or something like a simple jump scare. This took time and effort. Slash and you had quite the dynamic, always teasing and poking fun at each other. So when Slash said you were “getting old” and would “have gray hair soon” you took it a step further. You and Axl had been making fun of Slash ALL WEEK. Practically convincing the poor 24 year old he had gray hair. Calling him Grandpa, telling him he’d need hair dye and a cane soon. You realized you might have taken it too far when you’d seen him checking his hair for gray hair.

So all of it leads to now, you two had come up with a truce. He wears a specially made t-shirt and you’d both stop with the old jokes. Even though they didn’t even make sense because you were only 22 and he was 24, but it was beside the point. So here you were, standing in the dumb t-shirt shop in Ohio just hoping you finished soon so you wouldn’t make everyone late. You were making him a “World’s Sexiest Grandpa” t-shirt with the dot above the ‘i’ being his iconic top hat. And when they held up the first for you to inspect it, you knew it was perfect.

You stepped onto the tour bus holding the shirt behind your back. Axl looked over at you with a huge smile. Slash was sitting on the couch drinking and bantering with Axl and Duff. When he saw Axl’s wide grin he turned to look at you.

“Hi baby, whatcha got there?” Slash asked raising an eyebrow.

“Oh nothing,” You bit back a smile and kept your hold on the t-shirt. Axl chuckled.

“You’re being really suspicious,” Slash said with a small laugh and he stood up. He set his cup down on the small table that was bolted to the floor, “What is it?”

“Okay, I have a present for you,” You said with a smile. Slash’s eyebrows furrowed and Axl laughed even harder.

"A present?" Slash raised an eyebrow. You nodded and giggled slightly, "Well what is this present?"

You gently pulled the shirt from behind your back and showed him the shirt. Axl and Duff started laughing loudly and Slash's jaw dropped.

"Oh my god. It's even better than I thought it would be," Axl laughed out. Duff was wiping tears from his eyes as he tried to breathe through the laughter.

"No fucking way," Slash laughed and stood up. He walked over to you and grabbed the shirt from your hands.

"Is that his fucking top hat?" Axl asked through his laughter. You nodded proudly as Slash immediately took off his shirt and pulled on the new one.

Duff's laughter bubbled out of him, filling the whole tour bus with the sound, "Oh my god! It's even better with it on."

"Wait! Wait! Oh my god!" You chuckled and ran to the back of the bus. Slash giggled and lit a cigarette. He leaned on the small dining table and crossed his arms.

"Yeah yeah. Laugh it up. I think this whole "grandpa" thing is growing on me," Slash chuckled out. Axl and Duff could barely breathe as they watched him. The shirt was a size too small and was tightly pressed against his chest. You walked back down the small hallway of the bus holding a Polaroid camera.

"No. No, I will not be taking pictures in this," Slash chuckled out as he straightened.

"Oh come on. Don't be a grumpy grandpa," You chuckled out. He rolled his eyes.

"Fine, one picture," Slash said seriously. You laughed.

"You'll be taking more than one," You said jokingly. You brought the camera up to your eye and prepared to take the picture, "Smile."

Slash rolled his eyes and posed for the picture. He put his hand on his hip and smiled goofily. You chuckled and took the picture. Axl and Duff laughed and went to grab the picture as it rolled out of the Polaroid.

It turned into a full of photoshoot with Slash goofily taking pictures in the shirt that was much too small for him. You were so in love with him. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around you. He pulled you close to his chest.

"Are you happy now?" Slash asked. You nodded.

"I am," You responded, Slash set his head on your shoulder.

"So no more grandpa or grandma talk?" Slash asked as he raised an eyebrow. You couldn't help but smile.

"No more grandpa or grandma talk. Even if you are the world's sexiest," You said with a teasing tone. He let out a breathy laugh.

"God I love you," Slash said with a smile.

"I love you too," You responded and bit back a smile.

#guns n roses #slash gnr #slash guns n roses #guns n roses fanfic #guns n roses fluff #slash fanfiction #imagine #axl gnr #duff gnr #axl rose #duff mckagan #gnr #gnr fanfiction #slash fluff #slash serpentine🐍#saul hudson #gunsnroses #guns n roses imagine

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 1 year ago

Text

Spilled Ink

Pairing: Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.

Warnings: Lots of tattoo talk, obviously, which includes needles, tattoo guns, pain, mention of bleeding, etc.; reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent because I said so; yearning; lots of kissing; Marcus Pike being a goddamn menace and he fucking knows it

A/N: @kedsandtubesocks made a post about Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike (original post HERE) and then I wrote 7.5k words in 12 hours, as one does. All credit for the idea goes to the amazing Erika who entrusted me with this idea and THANK GOD SHE DID because I don't think I could have gotten it out of my stupid brain otherwise. Header pics credit go to Erin @perotovar, who made these with Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike in mind and I'm just WOOFWOOFBARKBARKBARKBARKHOWL. Thanks also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who suffers through HOURS of me sending screenshots every time I write anything. Love you <3

Additional Note on Canon: I am pretending that we never got to see Marcus Pike in short sleeves in the show despite it happening twice. He has full sleeves on both his arms in this fic that he covered up during his time working at the FBI. Because sleeves are hot and I said so.

Masterlist

It’s not unusual, these days, to wander down the sidewalk staring at your phone. Some people are texting. Some people are reading the news–because hey, this is D.C. Others, like you on this brisk morning, are watching the little blue dot on a tiny representation of the city streets, trying to find the address you had typed into the search bar.

A text box pops up, informing you of your arrival, and you finally look up.

No wonder it took you so long to find the place–it’s hardly what you expected at all. You always picture tacky neon signs, bars on the windows, undesirables milling about on the street, smoking cigarettes.

Okay, so you admittedly don’t actually know much about tattoos.

All you know is that you want one–a fact you confessed to a friend over lunch the other week: a conversation that led you here.

“Okay, so get one,” she had said bluntly.

“It’s not all that simple,” you had protested.

“Why?”

“It’s just… it seems like a lot. Mentally. Physically. I’m not sure I have what it takes.”

“They don’t hurt that bad,” your friend had insisted.

“I’m not just talking about that, I’m talking about… y’know, just everything. The noise. New people. Strangers touching me. It just doesn’t seem like something I’ll be able to do.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Because of the… yep. Actually I might have something for you,” she said, taking out her phone and scrolling through that app that drives you crazy–it’s overstimulation in a convenient package–full of noise, chaos, and flashing lights.

She must have seen you pull a face, because she held out her hand placatingly.

“Just finding the name of the place, hang on. It’s a shop right here in DC that went ‘viral’ for this video of a guy with autism who wanted a tattoo to commemorate his dad, but he was only comfortable lying on the floor–so the tattoo artist just… got on the floor with him! It was really cute, and anyway I guess he caters to all sorts of people, so… I dunno. Check it out.”

And here you are. Checking it out.

The words “Government-Issued Ink” are spelled out on large windows, and the punny name–apt for its location not far from the Capitol–makes you snort.

The shop is bright, warm, and inviting–tearing down your outdated preconceptions that tattoo places must always be run-down, dark, and dingy. It’s also empty this early in the morning, save for a lone figure in the back, seated at a well-worn desk, his head pitched forward over his work.

He’s so enveloped in whatever he’s sketching that he must not have heard the light ringing of the bell as you had entered. You watch him for a few moments–taking in the graceful movements of his hand and the way his fingers grasp the pen. He’s dressed in a plain blue button-down dress shirt, which also doesn’t fit your assumed archetype of ‘Tattoo Artist.’ You can’t see his face; his head is leaning forward too much and a few short locks of dark brown hair obscure your view.

Suddenly wondering if you’re being incredibly rude, staring at someone without announcing your presence, you open your mouth to introduce yourself.

“Um.”

While not exactly eloquent, it serves its purpose. The man startles and looks up in surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet and letting the pen clatter carelessly to the desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head rapidly. “I was, um…” You blink a few times, your nerves getting the better of you as the man comes around his desk to approach the front of the store.

“Interested in a walk-in consultation?” he offers, holding out his hands in a gesture that could either be an open invitation or a shrug.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I was thinking about getting, uh, a tattoo, and I was told this shop was… good. With tattoos. And other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” he chuckles, smiling warmly.

“You know… with people who… might not be good at getting tattoos.”

“What makes you think you aren’t ‘good at getting tattoos?’”

“A hunch,” you shrug, expelling a little huff of laughter through your nose. “I was told to ask for a Marcus Pike?”

The man’s smile widens. “You’re looking at him.”

Oh. You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Marcus Pike is well-dressed and clean-cut, almost startlingly so. You scan up and down, looking for any sign that this man could possibly be a tattoo artist, but the only evidence you can find is a small black target inked between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Don’t… tattoo artists usually have more ink? Of course, with him almost completely covered from head to toe, you obviously can’t create a full picture of Marcus’s skin, but the fact that he wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nearby government buildings still takes you by surprise.

You realize you haven’t said anything in response, but Marcus doesn’t seem to be bothered by your deer-in-headlights stare. Instead, he grins again and steps sideways, extending his arm in a silent invitation to come deeper into the shop.

“Come on in. If you’d like, go ahead and sit wherever you want, and we can talk about it. No pressure,” he promises. “I’m not here to push ink on you like a used car salesman; I’m here to collaborate with you. Figure out what you really want. And, if what you want ends up being ‘nothing,’ I totally support that, too.”

There’s something innate and intrinsic about Marcus Pike that sets you completely at-ease. You cast your eyes around, taking in the eclectic seating in the shop–all mismatched, all different colors, styles, and shapes, but all looking incredibly comfortable and inviting. You settle on a giant turquoise beanbag that seems to swallow you whole when you sink down into it, and Marcus grins and sits down in the bright yellow saucer chair beside it.

“So at the very least, you’re thinking about a tattoo,” Marcus leads. “Can you tell me about that?”

You nod, feeling encouraged by his openness. “Yeah, so… my mom, she passed away a couple of years ago, and it just seemed like I should… memorialize her in some way. Like, in a way that leaves its mark on me like she left a mark on me, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of getting some kind of permanent art that commemorates her.”

“That’s a great idea,” Marcus says softly. “Lots of people choose to do that after losing a loved one.”

“Yeah, the only problem is that I’m not good with um… noise, or people touching me, or… pain, really,” you confess. “I’m like, the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.”

Marcus chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I think anyone can get a tattoo done if they want it, provided they get it done in a way that feels safe and comfortable.”

“My friend, she uh, recommended your shop because apparently you’ve done some stuff for people with autism and it went viral on TikTok…” you ramble, “and I thought maybe that meant you’d be a good fit for… for me.”

Understanding flickers in Marcus’s expression, and he nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I hope so,” he says with quiet earnesty.

A beat passes–just a few seconds of silence–but something small and soft and warm settles down between the two of you, and the comforting feeling sinks down into the pit of your stomach and stays there, latent and waiting.

“So, let’s talk design,” Marcus announces. “Do you have anything in mind? Any images or ideas, however vague? I can do anything from replicating designs to building something completely from scratch for you.”

“I like the idea of it being a unique piece,” you tell him.

“I prefer original designs too,” he says. “Not to sound incredibly cheesy, but there’s no one like you, you know? In–In the general sense, of course.” He chuckles sheepishly, looking down at his hands. “I like knowing each person that comes in here leaves with something unique. Something all their own—I’m rambling,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “One thing about me is that I talk too much. Anyway–did you have any ideas you can share with me about what you’d like?”

“I don’t have a good image in my mind,” you confess anxiously. After all, how can he build a design based on the swirling, disjointed images in your brain? “I think I want it to be colorful, like she was. And… I keep getting thoughts about, I dunno, the cyclical nature of life, something corny like that.”

Marcus laughs. “Sometimes the corny stuff is what sticks with us. So, colorful and commenting on the cyclical nature of life,” he lists off on his fingers, still grinning. “Anything else?”

“I’ve looked through your galleries online,” you tell him. “You have a few that look like watercolor paintings, and I really love how they look.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna throw out an idea—Feel free to tell me ‘no,’ because I’m just brainstorming here, but I keep thinking about a tree of life. The leaves could easily be done in watercolor and could be any combination of colors you want.” His right hand twitches–as if reaching for a phantom pen–as he speaks, and his gaze seems to be fixed on a spot on the wall, his eyes glimmering with enthusiasm as he starts to speak faster.

“You could have the leaves and the roots connecting on the sides, making a circle, maybe even having her birth date and death date embedded in the roots…” He blinks rapidly a few times, as if dispelling the image from his head. “Anyway. That’s a possibility.”

“I think that’s amazing,” you say softly, watching Marcus with something like amazement in your expression. “Actually… I really like that idea. It sounds… perfect.”

“Oh,” he intones softly, looking at you in surprise as a bright, toothy smile breaks across his face. “Oh. Well then, let’s do it, huh? One final question: where do you envision getting it?”

“I was thinking on my shoulder. Here,” you indicate, pressing your hand to the skin of your upper arm. “That way it’s visible when I want it to be, but easily hidden if for some reason it needs to be.”

“That’s perfect,” Marcus says. “Plus, the circular design will go really well there. Okay. Great. Um, some things to know about the process. We’ll exchange emails, and you can contact me at any time with any questions, concerns, ideas, changes, anything. In the meantime, I’ll get started on a design for you, and I’ll share initial sketches that you can give feedback on before I move to the final stages of the design. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maximum, depending on any changes you ask for. My only request is that you’re always honest with your feedback–don’t tell me you like something when you don’t. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.” He grins widely. “After that, you book an appointment on a day that works best for you. I almost always book the whole day for the appointment to factor in time for copious breaks and making sure you feel comfortable. Does that work for you?”

You nod eagerly.

“Last question,” Marcus says. “Is it okay if I get a close-up picture of your upper arm? That way I can make sure it fits the curvature of your arm, it’s the right size, stuff like that.”

“Mhmm,” you nod again, pressing your lips together and trying not to look nervous. Thank god you wore a sleeveless top under your sweater.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he insists.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, removing just the one arm from your outer layer and pulling it aside.

You watch as Marcus grabs a little ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera from his desk and comes back to your side.

“This is just used for design purposes,” he promises. “I delete them after the design is done.”

“I trust you.”

His resulting expression could light an entire room. “Thank you,” he answers quietly. “Okay. Super close-up, just your arm. Cool?”

“Cool,” you confirm, and you hear the camera click several times.

“Actually,” Marcus says, still staring thoughtfully at your bare shoulder. “Would it be okay if I made a couple of little marks–washable marker, of course��to make sure the dimensions are how you want them?”

Oh. You normally don’t like it when people touch you. You knew it was going to happen eventually, obviously, because how else was he going to get the design onto your skin? But it was something you had planned on working yourself up to, not something you had to do today. On the other hand, something about Marcus’s entire bearing makes you inexplicably ache to be touched by him.

“‘No’ is an acceptable response,” he interrupts your dithering with a quiet reassurance.

And actually, that works to seal the deal for you, and your decision is made in an instant.

“Yes. You can. That’s fine.” And, to your surprise, you mean it.

Marcus seems just as surprised at your answer–his eyebrows shoot upward almost comically at your response.

“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s perfect. Hang on.” He jumps up again to retrieve a black marker–from what was clearly a children’s set of washable markers. He meets your eyes, and again you take in that sincere, earnest, patient look that endeared you to this man from the moment you entered the little shop.

“Is it okay if I touch your arm?” he asks quietly, still watching you carefully as you nod.

“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to your shoulder again. His touch, when you feel it, is just as warm as you’d imagined. He’s gentle, cautious, and when he speaks again, his voice remains at that same, soft volume and tone. “I’m envisioning being from about here–” he makes a little black dot, “–to here. What do you think?”

You nod. It’s the perfect size–large enough to cover your shoulder but stopping just above the point where the sleeve of a regular t-shirt would hit.

“That’s perfect.”

“Okay, so that’s–” he tsks softly, measuring the distance with his finger, “–about four inches, so that same distance across, and–” he makes two more marks on either side of your shoulder. “About like that. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer, smiling with enthusiasm.

“Great! Let me just…” Marcus draws a few short lines denoting the proposed boundary of your design, and you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes you at the cool tip of the marker on your skin.

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “One more picture?”

At your nod, the camera clicks one last time.

“Like I said, that’ll wash off with soap, no problem,” he promises with a smile. “Thanks for that, makes it easier to scale.” He grabs two business cards off his desk and hands them to you. “Can you write your email on this one for me? And you can keep the other one. Like I said, anything you need, just email me. And uh, barring that, you’ll be hearing from me in a week or so with a rough sketch. Okay?”

You scribble down your email and hand the card back to Marcus before pulling your sweater back over your bare arm. You slip the other card into your purse and rise to your feet. “Thanks,” you say, nodding to him.

“Hey, no–thank you,” Marcus returns. “Thanks for entrusting me with this. I mean it.”

Surprising yourself, you extend your hand toward him, and, when he takes it, you feel enveloped with warmth again.

“Thanks,” repeat, a little bit more breathlessly this time, before turning and hurrying out of the shop before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Your shoulder still tingles from his touch hours later.

Rather than it being a week before you hear from him, you receive an email from Marcus Pike just three days later.

Subject: Initial Sketch

Hello,

Please see attached. It’s just pencil for now, but I made a note of the general blocks of color I was thinking for the leaves. You’ll see what I mean when you open the file. Sorry, I know it’s a pretty rough sketch, I was just excited to get this to you. I look forward to your feedback!

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Eagerly, you open the attachment. First of all, there’s nothing “rough” about the sketch other than the fact that it’s just penciled in. The details are already so intricate, and you find yourself smiling in amazement as you take in the design.

It’s beautiful.

Brackets, each labeled with a different color in Marcus’s neat, tidy handwriting, surround the top of the tree. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet.

At the bottom of the image is another handwritten note: *All the colors will blend together and the result should look like a rainbow.

Tears spring, unbidden, to your eyes, as you feverishly type out your response.

Subject: Re: Initial Sketch

Marcus,

I really don’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. Made me tear up. Look forward to seeing it in color.

Thanks again!

Not even five minutes go by before your phone vibrates with another email.

Subject: Re: Re: Initial Sketch

I’m sorry if I made you cry! Obviously wasn’t my intention but I’m glad the design evokes emotion :) I’ll move forward with the design as-is and you should hear from me soon with a full-color image.

Marcus :)

You can’t wait. The next week and a half stretches out excruciatingly, but finally, on a Wednesday evening, you receive another email.

Subject: Final Design

Hey there!

Hope you’ve been doing well. Thought you might like to see the final design of your tattoo ;) See attached and let me know if anything needs to be changed. Be critical! Don’t hold anything back! Once we agree on a final piece, we’ll get you on the calendar.

Best regards,

Marcus :)

Your mind skims over the fact that Marcus used a winking-face emoji in your email, because you honestly aren’t equipped to process that right now, and open the attachment instead. This time, you start crying in earnest. It’s perfect. The colors are so vibrant, and they make the tree look as though it’s in a constant state of movement. Your mom’s birth and death dates are entwined seamlessly into the roots themselves, in a way that makes them not readily apparent at first glance, but seeming to just appear out of nowhere upon further inspection.

Subject: Re: Final Design

Marcus,

If I had any critical feedback, I would share it, I promise. But I have nothing. This is everything I’d imagined and more, and it means the world to me.

Thank you so much.

After a few more messages back and forth, you settle on a date one month out.

You can’t wait.

As excited as you’ve been for the past month, when you step foot back into Marcus’s little tattoo parlor, the air of finality makes your body thrum with anxiety.

You’re really doing this.

Marcus is at the back of the shop, busying himself with setting up his workspace when you enter. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley that looks just as soft as he is, and seems to complement his features even more. As soon as he hears the chimes, his head snaps up, and he grins widely.

“Hey!” he calls out excitedly. “Just getting everything ready. Do you want something to drink before we get started? I’ve got water, juice, soda…” he trails off, waving his hand in the direction of a mini-fridge in the corner.

“I’m okay for now.”

“Sounds good, but when we take a break, you should have some juice or something else with a bit of sugar in it, okay?” You nod, and he continues. “Okay! Where do you want to sit?”

“Don’t I have to sit in the chair over there?” you ask, gesturing to the traditional chair and bench near Marcus’s work table.

“Not at all,” he protests. “The table is mobile, I bring it to wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I’ll go ahead and sit in the chair, though.” Of all the options, it looks like the easiest–you aren’t entirely sure how Marcus would be able to comfortably tattoo you whilst sitting on a bean bag chair.

“Your choice,” he insists, spreading his hands out in an open and unguarded stance.

You settle in the chair and he sits down on a rolling stool beside you.

“Okay, so I’ve got a stencil of your design here,” Marcus says, holding up a paper with an outline of the tree for you to see. “It’ll transfer onto your skin exactly how you want it to go, and I’ll just trace it. Make sense?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Before I do that, though, I have to make sure nothing interferes with the design, including tiny little hairs.” He holds up a pink safety razor. “Are you comfortable with me doing this for you?”

At your tentative nod of consent, Marcus leans forward and gently swipes the razor up and down your shoulder until he’s satisfied. His eyes dart between your skin and your face the entire time–making sure you’re still with him. After he’s done, he talks you through the stencil–confirming its location, gently applying it to your shoulder, and then holding up a mirror for you to approve.

“It’s great,” you whisper excitedly.

Marcus returns your smile and begins to absentmindedly roll up his sleeves in preparation to start working–-and the question about tattoos that you’d asked yourself upon first seeing the man is suddenly and unexpectedly answered.

You can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes from you when you catch the colorful patchwork of designs on both of his forearms, disappearing under the pushed-up henley and suggesting that they go all the way up.

Marcus catches you staring and grins, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I didn’t know,” you say softly. “You keep them covered up.”

“Force of habit,” Marcus shrugs. “I had a desk job for a long time.”

“Doing what?” you ask, curiously. You can’t see the man doing anything but this.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he jokes, winking in your direction.

Ignoring how the wink makes your heart stutter in your chest, you bark out a laugh at his answer. “What? Were you like a secret agent or something?” you tease.

“Special Agent,” he corrects, grinning.

“Get out,” you deadpan. “I can’t imagine you as a Fed.”

Marcus shrugs, giving you another one of his boyish, crooked smiles. “Would’ve been fifteen years this year had I not finally seen the writing on the wall and run for the hills a couple of years ago.”

“What made you leave?”

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s a long story. How sensitive are you to noise?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“Uh, I dunno. Kind of depends on the day and the situation,” you shrug.

“Fair. Well, I usually let newcomers listen to what the gun actually sounds like, so there are no surprises. If it’s too loud, I do have noise canceling headphones.”

And miss out on hearing Marcus’s soft-spoken reassurances? No matter how loud the tattoo gun is, you’d rather endure it just to be able to hear him talk.

Marcus turns the instrument on, and the room is filled with a mild buzzing sound. On your worst days, admittedly, it would probably grate upon your nerves, but you’re feeling relaxed, comfortable, and excited about your new tattoo.

“It’s not bad,” you tell him truthfully.

“Perfect,” he grins. “Are you all set to get started?”

Heart rate increasing with pleasant anticipation, you nod giddily.

“I’m obviously gonna be touching your arm a lot,” Marcus says, “so let me know if you need a break from that, the noise, the needle, anything.” Seeing your solemn nod, he continues. “I’m gonna do a little dot right here to let you see how it feels, okay?” He gently touches his index finger to your skin to indicate where.

“Okay.”

The gun turns on again, and Marcus presses it lightly against your skin for just a second before pulling back.

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it would hurt more,” you confess.

Marcus laughs. “Well, the same feeling over and over again in a small area can start to be pretty uncomfortable. I’ll check in regularly to make sure you’re still doing fine. Good?”

You smile widely. “I’m really excited.”

His smile softens, his gaze becoming warmer and more tender. “I’m glad.”

His other hand gently cradles your arm as Marcus leans in, a look of intense concentration settling over his features as he begins the design. Engrossed in his work, you take the time to study his forearms. They’re a hodgepodge of designs, clearly done at different times and by different artists, but you can see themes throughout. He likes classic styles, you can tell, and in between some of the more traditional works you can see beautiful references to an assortment of famous paintings. A Dali melting clock here. A sunflower clearly inspired by Van Gogh there. On his opposite bicep, you can just barely make out the side of one design that looks like it might be of a Greek statue. Tilting your head, you realize it’s Nike alighting on the bow of a warship, and you inhale sharply. That’s one of your favorite sculptures.

“Still okay?” Marcus asks, glancing up at you with concern in his eyes.

“Sorry.” You shake your head quickly.

“Just checking,” he says softly. “Try to be just a little more still, okay?”

“Sorry,” you repeat, laughing sheepishly.

“Don’t be, you’re doing great.”

You try to fight the way your entire body seems to grow warm at Marcus’s praise, but you can’t stop the way the feeling stampedes through you. You’re being ridiculous, you chastise yourself. He’s doing his job, and you’re getting all moony-eyed.

In order to distract yourself, you continue playing ‘Spot the Famous Artwork’ on Marcus’s sleeves–although, as distractions go, it’s not your best work. You can’t help but focus in on the way his forearm cords with muscle as he holds the tattoo gun, controlling each movement so delicately and precisely, creating a beautiful, intricate design on your shoulder.

After finding a bit of yellow patchwork that's clearly a reference to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss near his right elbow, you break your silence.

“You like art, huh?”

It seems like a stupid thing to say to a fucking tattoo artist of all people, and you immediately kick yourself internally for saying something so obvious.

Marcus glances up, and, seeing how your eyes are focused on his own ink, smiles. “Always have,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to your shoulder. “Some of those are years-old.”

“Is that how you got into being a tattoo artist?” you ask.

“Sort of,” he answers, brow pinched in concentration as he continues working. “I uh, apprenticed for a shop in college to pay the bills before going to Quantico for training.”

“You’re really talented,” you tell him. “I was surprised to find out you haven’t been doing this your whole life.”

Marcus hums his appreciation as he carefully fills in a root.

“Can I ask what made you join the FBI instead of opening your own place after college?”

He huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Parents would have killed me, going to college and then doing nothing with it.”

“Running a small business isn’t exactly doing nothing,” you point out.

“Well, public opinion on tattoos wasn’t what it is now,” Marcus says. “They were scandalized by my apprenticeship, but it paid the bills, so they couldn’t complain too loudly.”

“Was it them who wanted you to join the FBI?”

“Mm, not so much,” he murmurs. “It was more like ‘whatever you want to do, so long as you can make a lucrative career out of it.’ Being an artist wasn’t one of those things, so in lieu of becoming one myself, I decided I wanted to protect them instead.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Protect them how?”

Marcus grins up at you and waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Art crimes,” he answers. “Being an art detective was kind of in the limelight in the early ‘nineties after the famous Gardner Museum theft, and I got swept up in the craze.”

“So you spent the last fifteen-ish years recovering stolen art,” you fill in for him.

“Stolen, forged, looted, illegally traded or smuggled…” Marcus offers, not breaking his concentration again. He wasn’t wrong–the repeated drag of the needle across what felt like the same square centimeter of your skin was starting to wear on you.

“Uh-huh,” you say, forcing the discomfort out of your tone.

Noticing the tightness in your voice immediately, Marcus’s movements stop. “Feeling okay?”

You shrug.

The gun switches off.

“You gotta be honest about how you’re feeling,” he reminds you. “I might be able to create designs based off of customers’ vague descriptions, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”

“It’s a little uncomfortable, but I can endure it,” you insist.

“There’s no need to endure something that’s painful,” Marcus argues with an amused smile. “Even if it involves choosing to repeatedly jamming a needle into your skin.”

You can’t help but laugh, and your heart swells when he joins you.

“C’mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

You let him lead you to the other side of the shop, where he stops in front of a large storage cabinet that you'd assumed held various supplies. When he opens it, however, you find that isn’t the case at all.

No, the entire cabinet is filled to the brim with a collection of stuffed animals just as eclectic and varied as the furniture. There's also a couple of shoeboxes filled with every manner of fidget toy you could ever imagine.

"You can grab one, if you want. I know it might feel kind of goofy, but I promise they help with the pain."

"Okay," you breathe. Your gaze lingers first on the IKEA shark, then on a very soft-looking cactus with an adorable grumpy expression, but when your gaze lands on the largest and arguably oddest toy in the collection, your hands can't help but move toward it.

"The big guy, huh?" Marcus laughs, taking the giant squid off of the shelf and placing it in your arms. You have to laugh at how large and ungainly it is; its massive black eyes stare vacantly back at you, but the effect is dopey, rather than menacing.

"Where do you get all of these?" you ask in amazement.

"Most of them are gifts from past clients, including that one," Marcus says, indicating the squid. "But I think he originally came from the Smithsonian. I was told his name is 'Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.'"

"Thank you," you say in a small, appreciative voice.

"'S'fine," Marcus shrugs. "Feel up to continuing?"

You nod, looking down at your partially-inked shoulder. "Guess you didn't get very far before I had to stop," you remark, somewhat self-deprecatingly.

"It's not a race," your artist says earnestly. "We've got the whole day, and we go at your pace. You're paying me, after all." Another wink in your direction.

"Yeah," you nod, confidence growing again. "Yeah, okay." You plop down in your seat, with Cthulhu in your lap, and Marcus takes his place beside you.

“Gonna turn this back on again,” he announces as the now-familiar buzz fills the room, “and I’m gonna touch your arm–” his fingers wrap warmly and gently around your skin, “–annnd here we go.”

The needle scratches insistently against your skin, but it isn’t so bad–not really, not with the hilarious giant squid on your lap and Marcus’s gentle, soothing voice in your ear. He talks while he works, sometimes asking you questions about your own life–to which he listens intently and always seems to have follow-up questions–and sometimes telling you stories of his own. You discuss art, obviously, but also music, books, movies, and baseball of all things.

You find yourself wondering if he has this type of easy rapport with everyone who comes in, but you assume he must. He might be the most disarming person you’ve ever met, and it’s hardly a stretch to believe he’s like this with everyone. Still, there’s an ugly, jealous part of you that wishes the connection between you was unique, special. That he’s only this warm with you.

Marcus was right–squeezing the stuffed toy on your lap is a perfect distraction from the discomfort of the needle, and before long, the sensation fades into the background. As the time drags on, though, the persistent drone of the tattoo gun causes an ache to creep in and settle between your eyes. You take in a deep breath through your nose, count to three, and exhale slowly through your mouth.

Marcus glances up, watching you for a split-second before cutting power to the gun and stretching his back with a satisfied sigh.

“Break time,” he announces. “Hand’s getting a bit sore.” He shoots you a knowing glance and another one of those crooked smiles. “And you should probably have a little something to drink, maybe a snack.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you say gratefully as he walks over to the little fridge.

“Apple juice?” he asks, holding up a little juice box that looks slightly comical in his large hands. When you nod enthusiastically, he hands it to you.

His fingers brush yours.

If it were anyone else, you’d recoil, but it’s him. It might just be the forced proximity, but…

You’re developing quite the crush on Marcus Pike.

Shoving the thought aside for the moment, you stab the straw into the little hole and take a long sip. Marcus settles down beside you with his own choice–a little can of vegetable juice–and holds it up in a silent ‘cheers.’

Feeling emboldened, you ask the question that’s been burning in your mind since you started.

“So what made you leave the whole ‘helping other artists’ thing behind and start a tattoo business instead?”

Marcus presses his lips together, and for a moment, you fear you’ve crossed a boundary. Just before you’re about to apologize profusely, though, he speaks.

“Have you ever just… woken up one morning, and realized that everything you were working toward, everything you thought you wanted in life… was a lie?”

“I… I don’t know,” you confess quietly, surprised at the emotion behind his words.

“Happened to me,” he laughs softly. “I had moved to DC for what I thought was my dream job, with who I thought was–” he shakes his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “I had spent my entire life checking boxes: College degree? Check. Well-paying job? Check. House? Check. Check, check check. I spent so much time trying to get ahead, like life was some kind of game to be won. If I said all the right things, did all the right things, if I did everything right… I’d have the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“It was bullshit, is what it was. Saw one too many rom-coms as a kid, I suppose. I thought I was after the picket fence, the dog, the wife and two-point-five kids, that sort of thing. And one morning I woke up, realized that… that relentless pursuit of something I couldn’t even hold–it was all bullshit.”

“So you just… quit?”

“I quit. I wanted to create things again. I wanted to feel inspired. After a bit of uh… frantic soul-searching before I ran out of money entirely, I sold my stupid, too-big condo that I hated and bought this shop instead.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, I’m not bankrupt yet,” Marcus says dryly.

“No, I mean… did you feel inspired again?”

“I did. I do. So very much so,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and that comfortable warmth that had settled in between you the first time you had met him… grows. Mutates. Until the warm, tingling feeling feels a lot more like electricity.

An unspoken moment seems to pass through you, but then Marcus clears his throat roughly, setting the empty can aside and standing again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wanna keep going?”

Breathlessly, you nod.

In no time at all, you’re settled back in the chair with one of Marcus’s warm, strong, large hands cradling your arm as the other gently wields the tattoo gun. As he starts to fill in and blend the colors, the pain starts to increase, and you worry one of the fuzzy tentacles back and forth in your hand as you grit your teeth.

“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes quietly. “The color’s the worst part, but you’re being so good for me.”

It helps you to watch him work, so you do. He’s blending in the colors now, and you watch with interest as it starts to take shape. It’s so mesmerizing that you hardly even notice the buzz of the gun or the light sting of the needle anymore.

“And you said you ‘weren’t good at tattoos,’” he teases gently, noticing your obvious interest.

“Did I say that?” you laugh, teasing back.

“I believe your words were, ‘I’m like the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.’” he reminds you. “And look at you now, huh?”

You duck your head at his praise, unable to withstand the intensity and honesty in his gaze.

“Doing okay after all, I guess,” you say with a sheepish smile.

“You’re doing amazing,” Marcus corrects, smiling warmly. “The type of client any artist dreams of.”

You don’t know how to respond to the things this man says to you. Stunned and at a loss for words, you stare awkwardly at your hand where it still wraps around Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.

“I’m sorry.” The words are soft, concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just meant that your enthusiasm and your curiosity is the stuff that makes me want to be an artist in the first place.”

“Are you saying I inspire you?” you try to tease, but it falls flat.

Just audibly, over the hum of the tattoo gun, you hear his whispered response.

“Yes.”

As Marcus wipes away the last of the stray ink on the purple bit of tree, the tattoo gun suddenly switches off. The silence is almost shocking, and you blink rapidly in confusion.

“Break time?” you ask.

Marcus chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “It’s all done.”

“It is?” you ask, although you can see the answer for yourself in the large mirrored wall to your right.

“How’s it feel?” he asks.

“My arm kind of aches,” you confess, “but oh my God, Marcus… it’s beautiful.”

It’s his turn to preen under your praise, the tips of his ears blushing pink as he grins back at you.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Here, let me give you a little something for the pain.”

He squeezes a glob of light-green cooling gel and coats the angry skin with the barest of touches. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up at you for confirmation.

After the harshness of the needle, the soft press of his fingers is more soothing than ever, and you have to resist the urge to sigh and melt into his touch.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re going to want to keep this covered for a couple of hours, up to overnight,” Marcus says as he carefully applies a dressing to your shoulder–still softly, but more businesslike than before as he walks you through all of the instructions for care. “Once you take this off tomorrow, you’ll probably see some fluid leaking from it–that’s totally normal. It’s blood, plasma, and extra ink, and it should stop after a few days before it starts to scab over.

“You’ll want to keep it from drying out; I’d recommend scent-free, dye-free lotion if you don’t already have some,” he continues. “Wash it twice a day and put lotion on after. When it starts to scab, I can’t stress this enough: don’t pick the scabs.” He gives you a serious look. “Repeat that back to me.”

“Don’t pick the scabs.”

“If you do, you could cause it to scar, or even pull out the ink. One more time for me,” he prompts, and you get the feeling that this is always the sticking point in his speech.

“Don’t pick the scabs,” you repeat.

“It’ll take three to four months for the lower layers of skin to completely heal,” Marcus tells you. “During that time, keep it out of the sun, keep it hydrated, and you’re in the clear.”

“And don’t pick the scabs,” you say teasingly.

Marcus winks at you. “Exactly. Any other questions for me?”

“No, just… thank you. It’s amazing,” you tell him. “You did such an incredible job.”

“Hard not to, when I have such a beautiful canvas.”

Your eyes dart up, expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes, but all you can see is heartfelt sincerity. You swallow thickly, and he tracks the movement, his eyes dropping down, then back up to meet your eyes. Is it… not just you? Does he feel it, too? Realization slams through you and threatens to overload all of your systems. Marcus’s lips are parted slightly, and the look in his eyes… it’s desire.

“Marcus…”

“Wait,” he says urgently. “Hang on. Come… come over here for a minute, let me–” he dashes awkwardly over to the till on the counter and gives you your total. Frowning in confusion–he wants to do this now? Interrupting that electric moment that had passed between you?–you dutifully swipe your card and numbly take the receipt.

“Now you’re no longer my client,” Marcus explains softly. “I–sorry–I was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss you, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be unethical, I–”

“Yes,” you say simply, giving your response to his un-asked question.

It’s all he needs to stride forward, gently take your face in his warm palms, and, seeing no hesitation in your eyes even as he searches your face desperately—presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is as soft and as tender as the man himself, which hardly surprises you. Your eyes slip closed as his lips move against you with aching caution. He’s careful in all things, including this–taking your cues, giving you the lead, letting you feel everything he’s giving you.

All too quickly, he pulls back–but his eyes only sweep your face again, a growing smile on his lips as he sees nothing but want reflected back at him.

When he lowers his lips to yours again, he’s less gentle. One large hand leaves your face too hook around your waist, pulling you closer, closer–and when the proximity causes you to gasp softly, Marcus is ready. His tongue gently slips between your parted lips and you practically melt into him. When your knees buckle, his strong arms are what keep you standing upright, and still–

He can’t seem to stop kissing you.

You break before he does–pulling back to suck in a few shaky, heaving breaths, and he smiles through his own labored breathing.

“I wanted–I–” he begins, before hastily pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as if he can’t help but do so.

“I’ve thought of you,” he tries again. “I thought of you like this for the last month,” the confession finally spills out. “I wanted to–wanted to kiss you so badly all day, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t let myself.” He kisses you again. “But now,” he promises, whispering the words against your mouth. “Now I’m gonna get my fill.”

To punctuate his statement with one of your own, you slant your head and deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around Marcus’s neck and pulling him closer still. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and the grip on your waist tightens. You lose yourself completely to the feel of his tongue sliding slowly against yours, until he suddenly pulls back.

“I’m doing this all wrong,” he whispers–although he’s still smiling. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner, first.”

“So ask me,” you say with a giggle.

“Come have dinner with me,” Marcus murmurs, shaking his head in quiet amusement as he steals another gentle kiss. “Right now. Tonight.”

“You might have to open all the doors,” you tease. “My arm hurts.”

Another kiss.

“I’m wounded that you think I wouldn’t open every door regardless.”

“Are you always such a gentleman?” you remark with a wry smile.

Another.

“Well,” Marcus grins wolfishly. He places on last, lingering kiss on your lips and then makes a show of offering his arm. “Not always.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #pedro pascal

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