#BILLY!!!!!!!!!!! SPINS U AND HIM AROUND | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

monicfever · 3 months ago

Note

Hiiii 👋👋👋 could you write hcs about punisher n daredevil characters finding reader badly injured? Like in the brink of death. Maybe in a scenario where reader is a vigilante, your choice :)

you’re critically injured 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher headcanons

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse / wesley

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

the first thing matt notices is the smell of blood. sharp, metallic, thick in the air. his heartbeat spikes as he’s running through the alley, scanning the shadows with a heightened sense of panic. he hears the faintest shift of breathing, shallow, labored, and he knows. he knows it’s you.

his heart sinks into his stomach when he finally locates you, crumpled against a wall, blood staining the concrete beneath you. you’re barely conscious, barely holding on. his hands shake as he drops to his knees beside you, instinctively checking for a pulse. it's weak, but it's there.

he’s trying to keep it together, but the fear in his chest grows. his senses are overwhelmed: the sharpness of your blood on the air, the brokenness in your breathing, the way your body is trembling under the weight of what you’ve endured. matt’s fingers graze your skin, feeling the warmth of your body despite the chill of blood pooling around you. his usually steady hands tremble as he pushes your hair back, his voice soft but firm. “stay with me. please, don’t do this. please.”

his mind is racing, calculating, desperate. every second matters. he can feel the damage, but he knows there’s no time to waste. he’s no doctor, but he knows the signs of severe blood loss, and he won’t lose you like this. his grip tightens on your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles, even as his thoughts are whirling in a thousand directions. you’ve always been the one to keep fighting, to push through the impossible, and it kills him that he can’t be the one to save you this time.

the guilt hits him like a punch to the gut. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. he’s supposed to protect you. but he didn’t. now he’s staring down at you, blood staining his hands, the overwhelming scent of iron mixing with the faint scent of you. his radar sense is a mess, overwhelmed with every small sound: the crackle of your shallow breaths, the faint tremor in your heartbeat, the sickening thud of blood dripping onto the pavement.

every instinct in him is screaming. no. no no no. not like this. he’s scrambling, trying to hold you together in his arms, his voice urgent and strained. for the first time in a long time, he’s terrified. he’s scared. his world is spinning out of control. you’re in his arms, slipping away.

you open your eyes just enough to meet his gaze, and that small, fleeting moment of connection — your weak, barely-there smile breaks him in ways he can’t explain. he hates himself for not seeing this coming, for not being there sooner. “i’m sorry,” he stutters, his voice shaky, barely a breath as he presses his forehead to yours. “i’m so sorry. i should’ve—” he cuts himself off with a sharp, frustrated sound. he’s shaking, his control slipping further as he feels your blood seep through his fingers, your body limp in his arms. the sound of your heartbeat is slowing, and every second that passes is like a knife in his chest.

without thinking, he scoops you up. he’s already calculating, running through every alley, every shortcut he knows, his mind fixated only on getting you to the hospital, getting you help before it’s too late. matt’s mind is already running, already picturing the faces of the scum who did this. they don’t get to hurt you and walk away. he bursts through the hospital doors, a breathless, wild mess, the doctors rush to take you from his arms.

as they pry you away, matt lingers in the doorway, his heart still in his throat. he’s torn between wanting to follow them, make sure they’re doing everything right, and wanting to tear through the streets and hunt down the monsters who put you in this state.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

the second he sees your body slumped in the dirt, blood staining the concrete beneath you, something inside him snaps. not breaks — snaps. like a wire pulled too tight finally giving out. a deep, terrible silence settles over him for half a second. then it’s gone. replaced by fire.

“no, no, no.” he growls, running to you. his knees hit the ground hard but he doesn’t even register the pain. all he can see is you. broken. bleeding. your gear torn. your skin pale. your chest barely rising. the world around him turns red. frank’s voice is low and frantic as he presses his hands to your wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. “you stay with me. you stay with me, goddamnit.”

you’re still alive, barely. he can hear it. the ragged hitch of your breath, the faint stutter of your heartbeat. it’s the only thing keeping him from completely losing control. just barely.

he scoops you up in his arms, movements stiff with rage, with desperation. there’s no subtlety, no care for being quiet — he’s a storm tearing through the night, carrying your broken body like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade out of hell. the hospital is too far. too slow. he takes you to someone off the grid — a medic he knows, someone who won’t ask questions. and even then, even when they start patching up, frank can’t sit still. his fists are clenched. jaw tight. body vibrating with fury. he stares at the blood on his hands like it’s proof that he failed you.

he doesn’t say it out loud, but the guilt is unbearable. he should’ve been there. he should’ve known. the second he took his eyes off you, someone tried to take you from him. and now all he can think about is revenge. he demands a name. doesn’t care if you’re awake enough to answer. he’ll find out anyway. he always does. and once he does, that name becomes a death sentence.

there’s no hesitation. no mercy. whoever did this is already dead, they just don’t know it yet. frank will hunt them, one by one, slow and brutal. no warnings. no speeches. just bullets and blood and silence. he’s not out for justice. this isn’t about balance. this is personal. they tried to take you from him. they crossed a line, and frank castle has never let something like that go unanswered.

the second they say you’re stable, just stable, not awake, he’s gone. no words. no goodbye. just the heavy sound of the door slamming behind him and the fire in his chest finally given permission to burn the world down. the rampage doesn’t start with guns. it starts with intel. names. faces. affiliations. once he has them it’s over. brutal. no survivors. they’re not just dead, they’re erased. to frank, this isn’t about sending a message. it’s about making sure they never touch anything he loves again.

the bodies pile up fast. each one worse than the last. there’s no pattern except brutality. knives. bare hands. point-blank execution. he’s not even covering his tracks — he wants them to know who’s doing it. he wants the fear to spread. he leaves behind chaos. and a message, unspoken but loud: you fucked with the wrong person.

in the rare moments he’s not out hunting, he’s sitting beside you. still bloodied. still burning. he watches your chest rise and fall like it’s the only thing keeping him alive too. sometimes he talks to you. quiet, raspy words like confessions. he wipes the sweat from your forehead with a rag, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the carnage he left behind hours before. his thumb brushes your cheek, he breathes deep. you’re still here.

he doesn’t sleep. doesn’t eat. not until you open your eyes again. and when you finally do, even if it’s just for a second, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment he found you bleeding in that alley. “i got ‘em,” he says, voice low, gravel-rough. “every last one. they won’t ever touch you again.”

but even when you’re awake, he’s not the same. there’s something darker in him now. something permanent. he’s more aware that you are easily a target and can get ripped from him at any point. depending on the strength/length of the relationship, the next time you see him once you open your eyes may very well be the last.

if he has to become the devil to keep you safe — so be it. he’s already halfway there.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

he’s not supposed to find you like this. he’s supposed to be waiting at home, maybe pacing with a mug of coffee gone cold, maybe falling asleep on the couch with the tv on low. but instead, he’s running through a dark alley, heart in his throat, phone in his shaking hand, following some half-panicked tip from someone who "saw someone in your suit" go down hard. he rounds the corner and sees you crumpled on the ground. at first, he doesn’t even register that it’s you. the blood, the way your body is twisted, your mask half torn. it doesn’t look real. it looks like a nightmare he’s having with his eyes open.

“no,” he whispers. it’s the only thing that comes out. then louder, frantic: “hey! hey, baby, come on. stay with me.”

his knees hit the pavement. he doesn’t care about the blood or the dirt or the way his hands shake as he pulls you into his lap. you’re too still. too quiet. your breathing’s shallow. he presses his hand to your side and it comes away soaked. he nearly vomits. “you’re okay. you’re gonna be okay. we’re gonna — shit, okay— i need to call someone.” but he can’t even dial. his hands won’t stop shaking. his voice keeps cracking. “you’re gonna be fine, i swear. you’re not dying. you’re not dying. you’re not dying.” - he tells you, but it’s more for himself.

foggy has seen matt come home busted up. he’s patched bruises, stitched wounds. he knows what this life does to people. but this —you — he never imagined this. and now that it’s happening it’s like time is moving too fast and too slow at once.

he finally calls someone — matt, karen, someone who knows what to do. he blurts out the location, doesn’t even know if they can understand him through the panic in his voice. “they’re hurt, they’re — shit, they’re not waking up.” when help does arrive, he won’t let go.

at the hospital he’s a wreck. pacing, snapping at nurses, tears in his eyes. trying to keep it together but failing miserably. there’s blood on his clothes. he hasn’t sat down in hours. he keeps replaying it over and over — how pale you looked. how quiet. how close he was to losing you. when the doctors say you’re stable, he sits down for the first time and just cries. full-on, head-in-hands, silent shaking sobs.

he doesn’t leave your hospital room. not for food. not for sleep. not even when they ask him to. he’s curled up in one of those uncomfortable chairs, arms crossed tight like he’s physically trying to keep himself from falling apart. his eyes are on you constantly, watching your chest rise and fall. counting the seconds between each breath like it’s a lifeline.

the doctors tell him you’ll be okay. they say it a few times, gently, like they think it’ll finally sink in. but foggy doesn’t believe it until you open your eyes. when you finally do, he lets out a breath so heavy it sounds like he’s been holding it since the moment he found you. “hey.” he greets, voice cracking just on that one word. he tries to smile but it’s broken around the edges. “you look like hell.” you say, and then his eyes get glassy again because even half-dead, you’re still you, and he almost lost you. the tears come quietly this time. no drama. just him brushing your hair back with shaking fingers, but he’s not himself enough to joke. he just leans down and rests his forehead against your arm, letting the silence say what he can’t.

when you’re strong enough to come home, he sets up everything. extra pillows, blankets, meds. he googles like ten different recovery guides and keeps your favourite soup on the stove. he jokes, tries to keep things light, but you can see the fear still living behind his eyes. he flinches when you wince. apologizes for things that aren’t his fault. checks on you every few minutes, even when you’re asleep. “i know i said i could handle this,” he whispers one night while you’re resting, your hand in his. “but this, what happened, I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

he won’t ask you to stop. not out loud, because he knows this is who you are. he’s proud of you. scared for you. but proud. still, of course he wishes you would quit. he’s not a fighter. not in the way you or matt or frank are. but he’d go to war for you all the same, and you know if he had gotten there a minute later that night, he would’ve never recovered.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

it’s not the first time someone she loves has bled out in front of her. but this hits different. it’s you. and karen has already buried too many people. she told herself she couldn’t do this again, couldn’t love someone who runs headfirst into danger. but then there was you. and now you’re lying on the cold floor, broken, barely breathing, and she can’t stop shaking.

she stumbles when she finds you. almost slips in the blood. her hands go to her mouth before she can stop them — silent shock. her heart is in her throat. she drops on the floor next to you, her hands hover over you, afraid to touch, afraid she’ll hurt you worse — but she has to do something. she presses down on the worst wound, even though her hands are slick with blood. her fingers are slipping. she’s talking to you the whole time, voice trembling, like if she stops talking, you’ll slip away. “hey, hey, i’m here. you’re gonna be okay. just keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

her phone’s already on speaker, the dispatcher talking her through what to do. she’s holding pressure, crying without realizing it, trying not to fall apart because you need her. and she’s not going to let you die — not when she just started to believe maybe, just maybe, you were the one she wouldn’t lose.

when the ambulance arrives, they have to pull her away from you. she fights it at first, grabbing onto your jacket, her bloodstained fingers clutching the fabric like she can keep you tethered to this world just by holding on. at the hospital, she’s stone-faced. too still. too quiet. people keep asking if she’s okay, but she just stares straight ahead. she’s not okay. she’s watching nurses rush in and out of your room, scrubs soaked red, machines beeping. it all feels too familiar. and the worst part? she doesn’t know if she can do it again. the waiting. the not knowing.

when they tell her you’re stable, she doesn’t cry. she just walks into your room like a ghost and sits by your bedside. she doesn’t touch you at first. just watches you breathe. listens to the steady beep of the heart monitor and lets it stitch her back together, one slow beat at a time. eventually her hand finds yours. she stays the whole night, doesn’t sleep. just sits in that hard plastic chair, watching the sunrise paint shadows across your face. her eyes are red. her soul is tired. but she’s there. because she always is. because you’re worth the pain.

when you wake, she smiles — small, watery, but real. not forced. relived. “hey,” she says. “you scared the hell out of me.” she doesn't ask you to stop. she knows she can't. but her voice goes low, soft, trembling with something fragile. “next time, come home. don’t make me find you like that again.”

after the worst is over, after the colour starts returning to your face, karen shifts. she goes quiet, withdrawn. controlled. because that’s how she survives this: by doing something. by finding out who did this to you and making sure they can never hurt you again. she starts digging the second she leaves your hospital room. doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat. just her laptop, a folder full of crime scene photos no one should have, and a growing web of connections on her wall — sticky notes, red string, scribbled names and locations.

she’s not reckless. she’s methodical. she calls in favors, slips into police records she’s technically not supposed to have access to, traces shell corporations and burner phones. if the people who came after you thought they were ghosts, they picked the wrong woman to cross. every night she comes back to your bedside like nothing’s changed. she talks to you softly, like she hasn’t spent the entire day tearing through criminal networks with a pen and a stare.

her version of revenge isn’t bullets or fists. it’s facts, it’s evidence, it’s exposing everything they’ve done and nailing them to the wall in court. she’s seen what blood-soaked justice does to people. it nearly destroyed frank. nearly destroyed her. so she’s doing it her way this time. but even she has limits, and when she finally tracks down the name of the person who ordered the hit on you, when she sees their face, reads their file, realizes how close they got to killing you - - there’s a split second where she considers just sending that name to frank. or matt. or taking a gun and doing it herself. she doesn’t. not yet. but the thought lingers.

there’s steel in her eyes when she looks at you. love, yes. but fire too. a dangerous kind of loyalty. she almost lost you. she kisses your forehead and brushes your hair, “you just focus on healing,” she says softly. “i’ve got the rest.”

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

she finds you by scent first. blood in the air, and her instincts flare. everything in her stills. her fingers twitch toward her sai. her heart? it drops, immediately. she knows it’s yours. her body starts moving before her brain catches up. the sight of you nearly guts her. crumpled. gasping. blood soaking into the street like it’s trying to swallow you whole. her face doesn’t change, not yet. but her heart is screaming.

“you idiot.” she breathes, kneeling beside you. her hands hover, uncertain. for a second, she looks down at you like you’re already dead. like she’s staring at a body and trying to convince herself it’s not real. then she snaps into action, fast, precise, pressure on wounds. a whispered curse in greek under her breath.

she doesn’t call for help, she is the help. she picks you up, cradling you close to her chest, and moves like a shadow through the night. rooftops. alleyways. no hesitation. she gets you somewhere safe, somewhere secret. a place no one but her knows. her hands are stained red by the time she’s finished patching you up. it’s messy, but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t stop moving. if she lets herself feel even for a second, she’ll come undone.

and then she disappears. without a word. you’re alive — so now someone else won’t be. she hunts with the kind of violence that comes from fury. she doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t give warnings. she carves a path through the people who touched you like she’s making a statement in blood and she smiles while doing it. not because she enjoys the kill — but because it quiets the ache. for a moment, revenge is the only thing louder than her fear. she doesn’t care who they are. a gang, a syndicate, a hand of god — it doesn’t matter. they’re in her way and they die for it.

when she returns, days later, she’s cleaner. calmer. like she’s shed the blood and stepped back into her skin. but when she looks at you, still pale, still healing, that mask slips just a little.

she doesn’t sit by your bedside like matt or foggy or karen. she watches from the shadows, perched near the window like a ghost. barely breathing. doesn’t want you to see how shaken she is. doesn’t want you to know how deeply she feels this. how much of her identity unravels the second she admits: you’re not just another casualty. you ask her where she went, her gaze sharpens. “handled it,” she replies flat. but her jaw is tight, her knuckles white. you know what that means.

the night you wake up crying from pain, she’s already there. no sound. no warning. just a gentle hand on your ribs, shushing you softly. “breathe. it’s just pain. you’re alive.” but you see her eyes shimmer for a split second. not with tears — she doesn’t cry. with something that looks like grief curling inward.

when you ask if she’s okay, she laughs. cold and low. “you almost died, and you’re asking me?” she cups your face then, thumb brushing your cheekbone. the softest touch from the most dangerous hands. she doesn’t promise you’ll be safe. she never lies. but she does promise one thing, with venom in her voice: “if anyone tries this again, they’ll beg for hell by the time i’m finished.”

some nights you wake to find her pacing. barefoot. silent. a blade spinning in her fingers out of habit. it’s not restlessness, it’s restraint. she’s still seething beneath the surface, waiting for another name, another threat, another reason to hurt something in your name.

she starts training with you again before you’re ready. not because she’s cruel — because the thought of losing you again is unbearable. her touches are rougher. her critiques sharper. but her eyes never leave you. she’s watching, making sure it never happens again. you confront her, tell her she’s pushing too hard, that you need time. her jaw clenches. “time didn’t stop them from almost killing you.” she snaps.

she doesn’t ask you to stop being a vigilante. she’d never try to take that from you. but she does expect blood if anyone touches you again. it’s not a question. it’s a fact.

and still, on the quietest nights, she curls into your side like a girl afraid of the dark. because she’s seen death. been reborn by it. but the only thing that’s ever truly terrified her is the thought of living in a world where you don’t exist.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he finds you by accident. it’s not a tip. not intel. he’s just out — tracking someone else — when he turns the corner and sees you. the second he recognizes your body slumped on the pavement, he freezes. mid-step. breath locked in his throat, eyes wide. everything goes quiet in his head. no noise. no inner voice. just a sudden, terrifying blankness that only ever comes with trauma.

and then it all slams back in. heart pounding, breath shaking, footsteps too loud as he rushes to you, dropping to his knees hard enough to bruise. his hands are shaking. “what the fuck —no, no — hey. hey. look at me,” he snaps, voice cracking as he lifts your face roughly. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to leave me.”

he presses his hands to your wounds, barely noticing that he’s getting blood all over himself. his suit. his arms. his face. he doesn’t care. he’s muttering now, voice slipping fast between anger and panic. “you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re gonna be fine.” there’s a twitch behind his eye, the way it always starts when he’s unraveling. the restraint is gone. he’s fighting the part of him that wants to go find whoever did this and carve their eyes out with a fucking pen.

he carries you himself. doesn’t trust anyone else to touch you. gets you to a safehouse, not a hospital — he doesn’t trust them, either. “i got you,” he keeps saying, over and over like a mantra. “i got you. i got you. i got you.” he patches you up with the kind of surgical precision only someone trained to kill would have. he’s been taught where to stab, where to shoot, where to break. now he’s using that same knowledge to keep you alive. hands still shaking. breath uneven. eyes wide and glassy.

when it’s over — when the bleeding’s stopped, and your breathing evens out — he just sits next to you. hands covered in your blood. staring at nothing. numb. it doesn’t last. the next day he’s gone. doesn’t say where, doesn’t leave a note. when he comes back there’s blood on his collar. a new rip in his jacket. a dark look in his eye. he doesn’t say a word. just washes his hands in the sink, slow and quiet. “they screamed,” he mutters later. voice low. flat. “when i found ‘em.” he doesn’t ask for forgiveness. not for the blood. not for the kill. he needs you to know what he did. in his mind, that’s love. that’s loyalty. that’s what he is.

at first he tries to hold it together. stiff jaw. blank face. but it cracks fast the moment he hears you groan in pain, or sees you wince when you move — it’s like a glitch in his programming. he paces. mutters. his breathing gets shallow. hands in his hair. “fuck. fuckfuckfuck.” he can’t stop replaying it. you on the ground. the blood. your eyes going glassy. the way your body felt in his arms — too limp. too quiet. it haunts him. he’s twitchier than usual, zoning out mid-sentence, jaw clenching like he’s trying not to scream.

when you sleep he stands at the door with a gun in his hand. all night. doesn’t blink. doesn’t rest. he hears every sound, every creak, every car outside — and for every single one, he’s ready to kill. he will not let it happen again. you wake up and find him cleaning weapons on the kitchen table. obsessively. over and over. something in his expression isn’t right. too calm. too blank. eyes dead.

you tell him you’re okay now. he snaps. kicks a chair so hard it splinters against the wall. slams his fist into the fridge. breathing too fast. too shallow. “you almost died.” he shouts, turning toward you, eyes wide and wild. you try to calm him. he steps back. shakes his head like he’s trying to shake the panic out of his skull. “i can’t lose you. i can’t—” voice cuts off. he’s choking on it. shaking. “if you leave, i’ll fucking burn down the world.”

he becomes obsessive. even more controlling — not in a cruel way, but in that desperate, self-destructive, bpd way where his fear of abandonment becomes everything. he checks on you every hour. double locks the doors. hides weapons around the apartment. watches you sleep like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. doesn’t want you going out with anyone that’s not him. “i don’t trust the world with you,” he tells you. “only me. only i can keep you alive.”

god help you the moment you try to suit up again. he begs. angry, terrified. “please don’t go.” his voice goes so soft, like he’s reverting back to the little boy inside him who just wanted someone to stay. he will beg you to quit, to stop, to give up that part of your life completely. if you go anyway he unravels. waits at home, pacing, crying, screaming into his hands, punching walls, whispering your name. “please come back. please come back. please come back.” when you finally do, and you’re safe, he grabs you, pulls you into him so tight it hurts, and presses his face into your neck. he’s trembling. sobbing.

he doesn’t let go for hours. doesn’t care how messy it looks. doesn’t care how unstable he seems. because when it comes to you? he needs. it’s not just love, you’re his survival.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

the moment he sees you, his whole body freezes. it's not panic — it's shock. billy's usually composed, cold, the kind of guy who can walk through hell and come out smiling. but this is different. you're not just another casualty in his world, you're his everything. and when he sees you lying there, barely conscious, blood seeping into the concrete, it feels like the air leaves his lungs. for the first few seconds, he doesn’t move. his eyes go glassy, disbelieving. his heart is pounding in his ears, and he can’t process it. he doesn’t know what to do. everything he’s ever known, every instinct, every move, every cold calculation — it’s gone.

when he finally rushes to you, he’s all hands, desperate to pull you close. “hey. hey, baby. hey, look at me,” his voice shakes slightly, like he’s trying to ground himself in something real. something that isn’t this nightmare. “you’re gonna be fine. you hear me? you’re gonna be fine.” he pulls you into his arms and holds you against his chest, completely oblivious to the blood staining his suit. all he cares about is keeping you conscious. “just stay with me,” he mutters under his breath, over and over again. “don’t close your eyes. don’t fucking close your eyes on me.”

he knows hospitals aren’t an option. hospitals don’t work for people like you — people with blood on their hands, people like him. so he takes you to a private location, and pays for you to be privately attended to. he’s talking to you. low. soft. like if he can just keep you engaged, keep you anchored, he can fix you. “don’t think for a second you’re getting away from me,” he says, trying to sound confident, trying to sound calm. but it cracks. “you’re too much of a pain in my ass to just die on me, okay?”

the bandages are tight. the pain meds are there. but when you don’t respond, when you still look too pale, too still — he breaks. he can’t stop there, not now, not ever again. the fear that’s gnawing at his chest is unfamiliar. he doesn’t like it, so he drowns it. dives headfirst into revenge. the people who did this to you? they don’t just die. no. they’re tortured. billy goes into full punisher mode — ruthless, calculated, brutal. nothing is off-limits.

the nights are worse. he stays close, watches you like a hawk, like if he looks away, you’ll disappear. he doesn’t want to admit it, but there’s a fear in him now. one that claws at his insides, reminds him of all the things he’s lost before. he doesn’t let you go anywhere alone. not even for a second. when you try to go out, when you even mention getting back into the game too soon, he flips. “don’t you dare.” his hands grip your shoulders a little too tightly. “you’re not going anywhere. you almost fucking died. you’re not risking it again.”

if shit hits the fan and you’re caught in the crossfire again, if things go wrong, if you're too exposed, too vulnerable, billy goes feral. the change is instant, an animal’s rage flipping the switch in his brain. his body goes into autopilot as his mind snaps into pure chaos. without hesitation, he’s on the offensive. you’re the only thing that matters, and anyone who tries to get close to you, even just a second too long, is dead before they know what hit them.

he doesn’t give you time to breathe after that. the moment the adrenaline settles, billy’s back at your side. he’s close, too close. his hands roam over your body, making sure you’re intact, making sure you’re real. “are you hurt?” he asks, though he knows you’re not, he’s just making sure. his eyes don’t leave you for a second. his breath is still fast, ragged from the violence.

when you try to pull away from him, when you try to leave his arms or distance yourself even an inch, billy tightens his grip. his whole body freezes, and his gaze darkens. “don’t.” it’s low, dangerous. it’s a warning. and you can feel it. that slow, creeping panic that is threading itself into his soul. billy isn’t just holding you now, he’s clinging. because if you slip away again, if you pull too far from him, he’ll lose himself. and he knows it.

if you think you can get away to go out and continue your work he’s already planning how to stop you. every exit is blocked. every path you could take, every little crack in the world you could slip through, billy knows it. he knows because he’s thought about every possible way, and he’s ready for it. it’s not just that he wants to keep you close. it’s that he can’t breathe when you’re not around.

the possessiveness isn’t even the scariest thing about him. it’s his insecurity. billy russo knows he’s capable of destroying anything — and that includes you, if it comes down to it. “I’m the only one who can protect you,” he tells you in the dead of night, his face barely an inch away from yours. “no one else can. not like I can.” his presence is more a demand than an option.

his world is you. the only one who’s ever loved him. the thing that keeps him going, the thing that defines his decisions. no matter how violent, no matter how twisted, he’ll do anything to keep you.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

the moment she finds out you’ve been hurt, she’s frozen. it hits her like a ton of bricks. when she gets the call, when she hears what happened, she can’t breathe for a second. her chest tightens. her hands shake, but she doesn’t let it show. she’s a professional. she’s been trained for this.

her first instinct is to get to you fast. dinah’s never been one to waste time. but when she sees you, when she takes in the severity of your injuries, something inside her snaps. that sharp edge that’s kept her moving forward, her ability to compartmentalize? gone. in its place is the cold, biting realization: this is all too familiar.

she fights to keep it together as she kneels beside you at the hospital, checking for signs of life. her hands hover above you, but she’s too afraid to touch you at first. afraid she’ll make it worse. but when she sees your eyes flicker open, when she hears you weakly call her name, she snaps into action. her voice is low, soothing— something she learned to use to keep people calm in the chaos of her work. “you’re okay,” she says, even if her voice shakes. “you’re gonna be okay.”

but the worry doesn’t fade. in fact, it just makes her more determined to hunt down the people who did this to you. she’s driven by vengeance. this isn’t about breaking the law or falling into chaos — it’s about justice. it’s about doing things the right way. she has to — she’s always believed in the system.

her flashbacks hit harder now. she thinks of sam, how he died, how she couldn’t stop it. every time she closes her eyes, she sees him. his blood. his empty eyes. she sees you in the same way, and the guilt starts to fester. she’s relentless in her search for answers, and every dead end, every failure to get closer to them, feels like she’s failing you all over again.

the guilt and anger bleed together in her dreams. she wakes up in cold sweats, her mind flashing back to that night, the night sam died, and how helpless she felt. then there’s you, and the helplessness is even worse. the thought that she couldn’t save you. that she might lose you too.

but when she gets closer, when she finally has the chance to make them pay, it’s not a feeling of triumph — it’s just a cold, hollow satisfaction. revenge, for dinah, doesn’t bring peace. it doesn’t bring closure. it just empties her further. she’s not sure if what she’s doing is right anymore, but she can’t stop herself. the justice she’s been chasing her whole life feels hollow now.

the weight of the revenge still hangs over her, even after she gets it. madani knows that she’s done what she had to do, but there’s no true peace. the law isn’t enough, and she’s not sure she’ll ever find solace. the trauma lingers, the flashbacks to sam, and the faces of those who hurt you haunting her every step. but she’ll keep going. because that’s what she does. she survives. she endures. and for you? she’ll keep fighting.

⏜︵ DAVID / MICRO. 𐂯

fear grips him hard. you’re everything to him — he can’t even process the reality of what’s going on. he tries to call you, but there’s no answer. panic sinks in deeper. he’s trying to keep it together, but it’s all falling apart. he can’t lose you.

he knows he can’t do this alone. he’s smart, he’s good with computers, but this is beyond his control. so, without even thinking, he picks up his phone and dials frank. he needs help — real help. not the kind of tech solutions he usually works with, but someone who can find the people who did this and make them pay. frank picks up. david’s voice cracks when he speaks, but he tries to keep the desperation in check. the words spill out of him, but he knows frank doesn’t need any more details. frank doesn’t need him to explain — it’s always been a silent understanding between them. frank will help.

frank’s response is immediate. there’s no hesitation in his voice. “get to me. now.” david doesn’t need to be told twice. he hangs up, grabs his bag, and doesn’t stop moving until he’s at frank’s location. he’s shaking, from fear, from the overwhelming guilt and helplessness clawing at him. when david finally arrives it’s a blur of frantic energy. he’s pacing, his mind spiraling through a hundred different thoughts at once. frank listens, david explains what little he knows, but it’s clear he’s not thinking straight. his focus is broken, distracted. he keeps glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to come after him. frank doesn’t judge him for his panic. he knows david’s been thrown into a situation he’s not prepared for.

with castle at his side, david dives headfirst into research for revenge. he’s typing away at the computer, pulling up every piece of data he can get his hands on, but he’s still not in control. every lead he follows feels like a dead end. he’s so close, and yet it’s so far. he feels helpless again, like he’s failing you. frank knows exactly what to do, starts tracking down leads the way only he knows how, and it’s not long before david starts feeling that old rush of adrenaline. david watches as frank works, and a part of him feels sick. he doesn’t like the things frank does to get answers — he never has — but in this moment, he doesn’t care. he wants the people who did this to you to suffer. they will pay.

when he gets back to you, he’s exhausted, drained. he holds you close, his fingers trembling. the adrenaline’s worn off, and now he’s just done. his mind keeps running through what happened, but he’s too tired to make sense of it all. all he knows is you’re here, you’re alive, and somehow, somehow, that’s enough for him.

even with everything settled, the guilt never goes away. david knows he couldn’t have done it without frank, and that thought haunts him. he hates that frank had to be the one to pull him out of his panic, to get him to this point. he feels weaker for it. but he’s trying to hold it together for you. he’ll always try to hold it together for you.

⏜︵ JAMES WESLEY. 𐂯

it’s like his whole world stops. wesley is used to being in control, to managing every detail of his life with precision, but this is different. you are different. you’re the one person he can’t control, the one person he’s allowed himself to care about, and now you’re in danger. it shatters his calm, makes everything feel like it’s slipping through his fingers.

the moment he hears what happened his first thought is to get to you. immediately, he starts making plans, pulling strings, organizing everything in his mind with military precision. nothing is left to chance. he won’t leave anything to luck or fate. he’s already running through every possible solution in his head — getting you to safety, finding out who did this, and making them pay.

when he sees you hurt, it’s worse than he expected. his eyes narrow, scanning you for injuries, his expression hardening. this shouldn’t be happening. you shouldn’t be in this state. he’s quick to assess the situation — if you’re still conscious, he’ll call your name, trying to keep you awake and alert, reassuring you that everything will be taken care of. but deep down, he’s losing control. this is his fault. he wasn’t there when you needed him, and that thought claws at his gut.

he doesn’t waste time on emotions, at least not outwardly. wesley is all about efficiency. he’s trying to keep his cool because he knows if he loses it, if he shows any sign of weakness, the situation could spiral even further. he pulls you close, his tone sharp, “we’re going to get you help. stay with me.” there’s no comfort in his words, no softness. just cold, calculated action.

he won’t take you to a hospital. he’s already got another plan in place, one that he knows will guarantee your safety. he’s not leaving your side for a second, and he’s certainly not letting you be treated by anyone who could jeopardize the situation. he’ll take you to one of fisks safe houses, somewhere he’s already set up for emergencies. he’ll make sure you’re patched up, but not by a doctor, by someone he trusts, someone he knows won’t ask questions.

the person who did this is as good as dead. wesley doesn’t even need to think twice about what he’s going to do. the moment he finds out who’s behind this, they’ll pay. he’s methodical about it, just like everything else in his life. he’ll track them down, piece together every detail, and make sure no one escapes. they’ll regret crossing him, crossing you. he’ll track down every lead with obsessive precision. while youre recovering he’ll monitor every movement, every conversation, making sure no one can get close enough to hurt you again. he’s already planning, moving pieces on a mental chessboard, keeping you protected in ways you can’t even fathom. it’s almost clinical the way he works, and it’s terrifying. there’s no room for failure. when he catches the person who hurt you, there’s no mercy. wesley doesn’t do mercy. there’s no room for hesitation. he’ll handle them swiftly, in the way he’s always been trained to — calm, efficient, without remorse.

once it’s over, once the danger has passed, he’ll find himself restless. he won’t relax. not fully. the guilt gnaws at him. no matter how much he tells himself he did everything right, that you’re safe now, he’ll never fully shake the feeling that he could’ve done more. he’s been trained to protect, to control, and yet, in this one instance, he couldn’t stop what happened. it eats at him. he wasn’t fast enough.

when he checks on you later, there’s an unreadable look in his eyes. he’s there, by your side, but it’s not the gentle reassurance you might expect. he’s not soft about it. he’s focused on your well-being, but there’s that edge to him, an intensity that makes it clear he’s not quite done. not done with protecting you, not done with his need to control the situation. he’ll stay close, but it’s not because he’s worried for you. it’s because he can’t bear the idea of losing you or letting anyone get close enough to hurt you again.

if you ask him about it he’ll brush it off with his usual coldness. “it’s done. you’re safe. that’s all that matters.” there’s no emotion in his voice, no sign of the internal battle he’s fighting. because for james wesley, admitting weakness, admitting fear, isn’t an option. he’ll never show that side of himself.

but deep down, the fear never really goes away. it’s not just the fear of losing you, it’s the fear that he’s not good enough to protect you in the way he needs to. he’ll bury it. he’ll hide it. but the cracks will start to show, just a little. and as time goes on, he’ll start to wonder if he’ll ever truly be able to shield you from the world that’s out there.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

everything else fades away. he’s used to the violence of his world, the chaos of being part of hell’s kitchen, but seeing you in this state — broken, bleeding, close to death — shatters him. he’s good at shutting down his emotions, but this? it’s like a punch to the gut.

his first instinct is to move you, get you out of there. he doesn’t care about the blood or the injuries; he just needs to get you somewhere safe, somewhere away from the people who did this. he’s not gentle when he picks you up. muse’s hands tremble, but his movements are urgent, almost frantic, because this isn’t just any injury — it’s you. the one person who’s shown him a hint of softness, the person who doesn’t treat him like a joke. and now, you’re this. he hates it.

when he gets you to a safe house or wherever he’s decided you need to be, he’s not leaving your side. he’s patching you up as best he can, trying to stop the bleeding with hands that shake. he’s muttering to himself, cursing, moving like a man possessed. he knows this isn’t going to be enough, that the injuries are too severe for him to handle, but he can’t bring himself to call for help. not yet. not when he’s still trying to keep control over this.

when he finds out who did this to you it’s bad news for them. muse isn’t the type to sit around and wait for someone else to fix things. he’s always been the kind of guy who takes care of problems on his own terms. and if someone hurt you? well, there’s nothing stopping him from hunting them down and making them wish they’d never laid a finger on you. he’ll go after them with everything he’s got, no mercy, no hesitation, draining every last drop of blood from their body.

he gets reckless. the more he tries to keep his head together, the more the anger builds. he wants answers, he wants vengeance, but most of all, he wants to fix things for you. he’ll keep pushing until he finds out who did this, and when he does, he won’t hold back.

he’s constantly checking on you, watching you like a hawk. when you wake up, he’s there, hovering over you, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief, panic and concern.

as much as he tries to stay detached, you’re changing him. the more time he spends with you, the more he cares. it’s not something he’s used to, not something he can easily admit, but it’s there. you’re important to him in a way he never thought possible.

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

462 notes · View notes

nolovelingers · 6 months ago

Note

I love ur writing sm. Could you please write a Billy or Stu fic? Thank u sm!

PUSH AND PULL, BABY! ⋆ ˚｡ ୨୧ stu macher

⠀⠀⠀ ︵ requested 𓈒 𓄧

⋆ ★ ex lovers rekindle their (constantly flickering) flame after stu is pushed towards confronting you upon seeing you with someone new.

cw ᝰ .ᐟ sfw ,, jealous!stu ,, ghostface!stu and billy ,, stu is intoxicated ,, several mentions of alc

PURPOSELY LOWERCASE 🎧 &&. written on iphone sorry if funky format =)

in the dimly lit, smoke-filled living room, the atmosphere was electric with the energy of dozens of young, carefree souls lost in the throes of music and alcohol. the air hung heavy with the mingled scents of perfume, sweat and the tang of burning cigarettes. bodies swayed to the beat pulsing from the speakers, a mass of limbs and laughter in the flickering glow of the disco ball spinning lazily overhead.

the house was a sprawling two-story affair, its once-pristine walls now adorned with band posters, graffiti art, and the occasional drunken scrawl. the hardwood floors, long since stripped of their varnish, creaked and groaned beneath the weight of the revelers. the kitchen counters were littered with the night's worth of drinking - empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, and the remnants of half-eaten snacks scattered across.

cordless lights strung haphazardly from the corners of the house and the still of the windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the scene below. the light played across the faces of the dancers; painting them in shades of blue, green and purple, their eyes reflecting the pulsing glow as they moved in time to the music. the air was thick with the acrid tang of marijuana that clung stubbornly to the life within the home.

groups huddled together, engaged in loud conversations. the distant sound of laughter and the occasional shout of drunken revelry; coming from two boys in particular.

stu, his eyes glazed and twitchy from god knows what, sidled up to billy amidst the writhing throng of bodies, pressing up (in billy’s opinion) way closer than he needed to be. he leaned in close, invading his personal space as macher tends to do, shouting over the cacophony of the party to be heard.

his eyes, bloodshot and manic in the disco lights, flicked over to billy with a drunken, lopsided grin. he had to grab billys shoulder to steady himself.

macher grinned maniacally, his eyes darting. "dude!" he hollered, slapping billy hard on the back, nearly knocking the shorter boy off balance. "this parties a fucking BLASTTTTTT! i fuckin' just- i fucking love these things, ya know?!" he gestured vaguely at the gyrating crowd, nearly tripping over his words.

billy scowled, stepping away from stu’s proximity. "jesus, macher. could you not breathe down my neck? and watch the fuckin' hands." he glared at stu’s grinning face.

stu giggled, a high pitched noise that cut through the thumping bass. “my bad, bro.” his grin doesn’t falter, if anything it seems to widen, hardly a trace of a thought behind his eyes. he held up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning like an idiot. "im just tryin' to spread the love, ya know?"

billy rolled his eyes, "more like spread the creep, you fuckin' weirdo." he shook his head in exasperation.

stu laughed, a high-pitched, almost hysterical sound. "creep? man, im just a lover, not a fighter." he punctuated his words with a clumsy, off-beat dance move, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. when he caught himself, he wound up swaying around in one place, his eyes stuck on the floor.

he seemed out of it all of a sudden, like he was reminded of something. “im a lover, bro.” his eyes stayed stuck on the floor for a while, dissociated in place.

billy eyed him in suspicion. "you dumbass." he crossed his arms. "what's the deal with you tonight, stu? you snort a whole fuckin' bag of crazy or somethin'?"

stu giggled again, a bit too loudly and with an edge that was almost unsettling. "nah man, just the usual shit. ya know, same as always." he waved a hand dismissively, but his grin was starting to look more like a grimace.

he was trying too hard, billy could tell. stu was always a bit of a wild card, sure, but this was different. he was acting even more erratically than usual, his eyes too wide and his laughter too high-pitched. billy had known stu for long enough to recognize the signs of something being off.

he was trying to distract himself, that much was clear. but from what? loomis’ brow furrowed as he studied his friend's stretched smile.

he was trying to act casual, but his body was coiled tight, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"you're being a fuckin' weirdo. more than normal. somethin's up with you." billy's voice was low and serious, his eyes narrowing as he studied stu's twitching face. he followed the way stu's gaze kept flicking to the doorway, to the spot where his (freshly) ex - y/n - had been standing by with a guy.

stu licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. he needed to change the subject. fast. "who, me? man, im just fuckin' lit, ya know?" he forced out another giggle, but it sounded hollow and false even to his own ears.

he was trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding in his chest, the way his skin felt too tight and too hot. he was trying to ignore the way his mind kept flashing back to the sight of you, all over that fuckin' prick's arm. that fuckin' prick who wasn't him. thatstupidfuckingprickwhothefuckevenisthisfuckingguywhyshisfacelooksofuckingstupidijustwanttofuckingkillhimwhatkindofoutfitevenisthat

stu could feel a pressure building in his chest, a tightness that had nothing to do with the beer he'd guzzled or the joints he'd smoked (or the things he’d snorted). it was a different kind of tightness. a squeezing, churning sensation that made it hard to breathe. he pressed a hand to his sternum, trying to will the feeling away, but it only seemed to intensify.

his hand clenched into a fist, knuckles turning white as he pressed it harder against his chest. the pressure inside him was building to a crescendo. he could physically feel it pulsing through his veins, setting his nerve endings alight with a unstable energy.

"fuck, i can't stand seeing them together." stu’s voice was low and guttural, barely audible over the pounding bass. he completely seemed to forget about the fact that he was meant to be covering his jealousy in front of his friend. "it makes me wanna...fuck. I dunno what i wanna do to him exactly, but it's definitely bad." he laughed, but it was a harsh, bitter sound that had no joy in it whatsoever.

“i just wanna- i just wanna kill him. billy, let’s fucking kill him. should- should i talk to them? i should talk to them. i should go over there. billy, i gotta get over there.”

“take it easy, man, that’s a terrible idea, y’gotta chill the hell out first.”

he watched them from across the room, watched as you threw your head back and laughed at something your new boy toy had said. watched as you touched his arm, your fingers lingering on his bicep in a way that made stu's blood boil in his veins. he watched as you leaned in close, your faces inches apart as you whispered and flirted with each other.

it was too much. it was more than he could take. stu felt like he was going to explode, like he was going to tear apart at the seams from the force of his own rage and anguish. he couldn't stand it anymore. he couldn't watch you together, couldn't see you touching someone else, couldn't bear the thought of you smiling at anyone but him.

“fuck it,”

without thinking, stu pushed his way through the crowd, his eyes laser-focused on the ‘couple’ across the room. he marched up to you, his steps heavy , the manic and unstable ear to ear grin that had always lingered on his face returned.

stu sidled up to you, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light, smile eerie as ever. "hey there, lovebirds," he drawled, his voice dripping with false cheer. "having fun, are ya?"

he looked the guy dead in the eye, his gaze intense and unblinking. "i gotta say, man, it's pretty fuckin' ballsy of you to be all over my partner like this." stu’s voice took on a mocking, incredulous tone.

behind stu, billy rolled his eyes and sighed, shaking his head at his friend's reckless behavior. he knew stu was just trying to cover his jealousy with his typical macho bullshit, but he couldn't understand why he had to be so fuckin' obvious about it.

stu watched with a sense of grim satisfaction as the other guys face paled, realization dawning in his eyes. "what the fuck?" he sputtered, taking a step back from you. "you didn't mention anything about having a fucking boyfriend."

stu smirked, crossing his arms over his chest as he loomed over the shorter man. "oh, didn't tell you that little detail, huh?" he snorted, making sure to speak louder than you were trying to, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“fuck this, and fuck you too."

with that, he turned on his heel and stormed off, shouldering his way through the crowd and disappearing into the night. stu watched him go, a laugh bubbling up from his chest as the realization that his plan had worked sank in.

and just like that, it was just the two of you, standing in the middle of the writhing mass of partygoers. the air between you was thick with tension, the silence stretching out for a long drawn-out moment as you stared each other down.

stu's grin softened, taking on a more genuine, almost tender quality as he looked at your beautiful, angry face. "guess it's just you and me now, babe," he said softly, "just like old times, huh? fuck that guy." he had no guilt or remorse displayed as he spoke.

he reeled back slightly, his grin turning impish as he took in the exasperated expression on your face. "what, you're not happy to see me?" he clutched at his chest in mock distress, his eyes wide and wounded. "im hurt, y/n. i thought we had something special, you and me."

despite your annoyance, you could feel a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. stu's playfulness was infectious. you shook your head, trying to maintain your irritation even as his grin threatened to chip away at it.

"you're such a fuckin' idiot," you muttered, "i can't believe you just did that. what if i really liked that guy?”

stu's eyes lit up with a eager gleam as your words sank in. "wait, so you didn't like that asshole?" he grinned widely, his face splitting into a triumphant, feral smile. "i knew it."

he stepped even closer, backing you up against the nearby wall and trapping you there with his body. his hands came up to rest on either side of your head, caging you in as he leaned down to murmur in your ear.

"tell me you don't still think of me. tell me you don't miss the way i make you feel. you know nobody can love you as good as i can, baby." his voice was low and intense, breath hot against your skin.

you could feel a shiver running down your spine at the proximity from the heat of his body being so close to yours. his eyes were dark and intense, boring into your own with an almost hypnotic force. you swallowed hard, heart starting to race in your chest.

"stu..." you breathed, voice barely above a whisper. "we can't...i mean, we're not...you can't just..." but even as you protested, you could feel your resolve starting to crumble, the old feelings rising up to the surface like a tidal wave threatening to drown you at his intrusion of space.

his grin turned wolfish, eyes glinting with a predatory light as he watched you struggle to find the words.

"c'mon, baby," he purred, his voice a low, silky rumble. "use your words."

one of his hands came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her bottom lip. "tell me you don't want me to kiss you right now."

his other hand drifted down to your waist, pressing his body closer to yours and causing you to feel the cool hard wall behind you.

his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head back, making you look up at the whopping 6’3 man.

stu's grin turned absolutely wicked as your breathless words reached his ears. "kiss me.”

“i thought youd never ask, babe.”

and with that, he closed the distance between you, capturing your mouth in a searing, hungry kiss. it was a kiss that spoke of pent-up longing and aching need.

his lips moved demandingly against yours. one hand fisted in your hair, holding you in place, while the other slid down to grip your hip, pulling you impossibly closer.

he kissed you like a man starved, like a man who had been wandering in the desert for fifty years and had finally found water.

he kissed you like he never wanted to let you go, like he wanted to devour you whole and make you a part of him forever.

after a long, heated moment, stu finally pulled back, a smug grin spreading across his face as he took in your kiss-swollen lips and dazed expression. "fuck, i missed that," he murmured, "i missed you."

you blinked up at him, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. you couldn't help but grin back. "youre still a fuckin' idiot. i can't believe i fell for that. again. this is seriously the third time youve pulled this exact stunt with different guys."

stu just laughed, a sound that seemed to rumble through his chest. "aw, but you love it, baby." he leaned in close, his nose brushing against yours as he murmured, "don’t you?" his eyes had a sort of soft look in them, like he was looking for your approval. like he’d resemble a kicked puppy if you told him otherwise.

you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't suppress the giggle that bubbled up in your throat. "youre impossible," you said, shaking your head in exasperation. "seriously, who teaches you your moves? some shitty rom-com?"

"nah, im a natural born lover, baby. its all me." stu's grin was positively sinful, his eyes sparkling with mischief and amusement.

his grin softened into a more genuine smile as he gazed down at you, his eyes searching yours with a newfound sincerity. "y’know, i’been thinkin'..." he murmured, his voice low and thoughtful. "what the hell were we thinkin' when we broke up in the first place, huh?"

you giggled, shaking your head as you leaned back against the wall, your eyes sparkling with a hint of nostalgia. "i don't even remember anymore," you admitted, your smile turning a bit wistful. "does it really matter?"

stu's grin widened, his eyes glinting with a playful, mischievous light. "nah, i guess it doesn't," he agreed, his voice taking on a teasing lilt.

he leaned in closer. "soo.. you wanna get back together?"

and then you smiled. a slow, soft smile that lit up your whole face. "yeah," you whispered, voice barely audible over the pounding music. "i do."

stu's face split into a wide, joyful grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed softly. "hell yeah, baby," he murmured, pulling you in for another kiss. "welcome back."

` ੈ˚ ★ a / n : HI ANON thank you sm for the compliment btw ^_^ ill probably get a billy fic pumped out soon i just gotta think of a plot or smth . i feel like this was short idk :? im sorry

started 1.15.2025. finished 1.15.2025.

( scream masterlist )

©️ nolovelingers 2025

267 notes · View notes

svnluns · 7 months ago

Text

⋆ fuck ur boyfriend

I was sitting at the end of the stairs, crying my eyes out at this party. I thought that partying would have cleared my mind after my boyfriend broke up with me but ig no.

I pulled out my phone out of my pocket and scrolled a bit on it.

I then caught a shadow approaching me. I looked up from my phone and looked at the girl in front of me.

I knew her since a few years now because we have always ended up in the same classes but i never really talked to her, mostly because i didn’t really care.

“Hey, whats up? Ur good?” She says, looking at me with pity.

“Yeah im fine” I answered, wiping my tears away and setting my phone on my lap.

She sat next to me and looked at me.

“You don’t seem ok, your eyes are all red, like you’ve been crying for weeks, whats the matter?”

She seemed actually “worried”. Maybe i should open up, i mean it’s no harm.

“My boyfriend broke up with me” I say, sniffing.

“Damn, i’m sorry, i’m sure is an asshole, u deserved better anyway” she says looking at the crowd of people dancing and then at me.

I didn’t really know what to say. She had a point, I put so much effort into this relationship for nothing.

“You want a drink or something?” She says, taking me out of my thoughts.

“Yes thanks Billie” I say with a weak smile.

She turned her head to me and looked at me with a confused look.

“How do you know my name?” She says.

“We’ve been in the same classes for years, i might have never talked to you but i remember your name eh”

“hmm” was all she said, turning her head and walking away.

We ended up in the kitchen. She took 2 red cups and poured some vodka and some coke.

“fuck your boyfriend, just have some fun tonight, you will have time to cry about it tomorrow” She says with a smile.

“fuck him, he wasn’t even good in bed” I say with a chuckle.

“that’s what i like to hear” Billie answered with a smile.

She grabbed my wrist, and dragged me into the living room where people were dancing and drinking.

Billie started to dance with me, grabbing both of my hands and spinning me around. I started laughing before i could stop myself.

Her smile defined that seeing me smile tonight was all she had hoped for.

“See you’re finally smiling, i’m glad that i could have helped you clear your mind”

We then stopped dancing and she leaded me to get some air. My head was spinning and that’s exactly what i needed. It feels like she was reading my mind.

We sat on a chair and she spoke again.

“Are you feeling better now? Please tell me that you don’t think about him anymore, i did everything that i could to make you feel better tonight” She says playfully.

“I am in fact feeling better, thanks you so much, i own you”

“Nah don’t worry about it, you’re good” She says, looking at me up and down.

I knew what was about to happen already, how she was looking at me meant only one thing.

She leaned in and kissed me. She kissed me with passion, like it’s one of the things that she wanted to do tonight beside making me happy.

I kissed her back and positioned my legs on her lap.

As we kissed, I felt a rush of emotions and a burning desire that I hadn’t felt in a long time. Her hands roamed over my body with a hungry urgency, and I knew exactly what i wanted.

Without breaking the kiss, she stood up, pulling me with her, entering the house, we were giggling while making our way to one of the empty rooms in the house.

As we entered the room, she pushed me against the door and pressed her body against mine, her hands roaming under my shirt and sending shivers down my spine.

I had no idea that this would have happened tonight, and i hid no idea that she could make me feel that way.

She pulled me closer, her lips finding mine in another passionate kiss. Her hands wandered down my body, touching every inch of my skin with a hungry touch. Her touch made me shiver, and a low moan escaped my lips.

She smiled, her fingers tracing over my stomach and trailing down to the waistband of my jeans.

She slides her hand down in my jean, and started to touch my pussy, rubbing her hand on it.

She unbuttoned my jeans and pulled my thong to the side, so she could have a better look of what she was doing.

A few moans escaped my lips as she was now kissing me to keep me quiet.

I couldn’t stop arching my back, she knew exactly what she was doing, her fingers moving with an expert precision that made my legs tremble.

“You’re so sensitive, i love it. She whispered.

#billie eilish #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fic #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x you #billie eilish x female reader #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish smut #billie eilish x y/n #svnluns

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goosita · 2 years ago

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Ahhhh Thank u so much for writing my request ab Billy dealing w stress!!!! U made my night I fr was kicking my hair and giggling like there was no tomorrow. U & ur writing are everything and more fr <333

Another idea just occurred to me…what would Billy like you to wear? Take this as you will, but I can see him losing his mind over off the shoulder frilly things…maybe….

clawing at the carpet and biting the drywall tbh bc he so would like lace and ruffles make this man fall to his knees !!

i think there’s really two ways this could go. billy has moods, yk?

on the one hand, he thinks you look beautiful in anything you put on. but he has a particular fondness for the days when you meet him out in the meadow, blouse tucked into a well-fitted pair of pants and your riding boots. it means he gets to haul you up onto his horse without the fear of muddying or accidentally tearing any of your pretty skirts or dresses.

he also likes it because he can tell you’re so comfortable in it. the way you move, the way you’re so much less careful. billy can get you seated nice and comfy, your back to his chest and his arms around you as you ride through the tall grass or weave through trees in the woods. he likes the way this particular type of outfit makes you less self-conscious, and makes you feel more free to have fun with him…❤️

on the other hand, this darling man will lose his ever lovin’ mind if you appear before him in soft laces and frills. you’re already always so soft compared to him, when you sit perched on his bed in a little lacy nightgown that barely brushes the tops of your thighs; one that only just falls over your hips. billy is at your mercy and you both know it. his eyes wouldn’t know where to look first, to your shoulders where the delicate ruffles slip down? to your chest, framed so beautifully by the dainty fabric? or to your legs, so neatly folded atop his blankets?

he’d be on you in an instant, laying you back and crowding into your space. billy is a rough man— but not with you. not with his precious angel. his lips are already skimming your throat by the time your head is cushioned by his pillow, his hips slotting between your eagerly spread thighs.

“jesus christ, sweetheart. you’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathes, almost purring against your skin. his teeth nibble at your skin and it makes you giggle; his favorite sound in the world. you can feel his smile before you see it, when he lifts his head and gazes down at you with the most charming and boyish grin. he adores you, and tells you as much before he’s dipping his head back down to smother you in slick, eager kisses that make your head spin.

billy takes his time working you up, littering your body with lovebites and feeling the way you writhe beneath him. it’s not long before he has you gasping his name, pulling at his hair and begging him for things that used to make you blush, things that you used to be too shy to say in front of him. you aren’t shy anymore, though. you know billy will always give you anything you ask for.

your hands reach down to pull your little nightie off, and he growls softly, catching your wrists in his hands and pinning them above your head.

“leave it on, baby. please? for me?”

yeah. yeah, he likes you in anything, but soft frills may be his favorite.

#(smacks head) this baby can hold so many billy thoughts #anon #billy is a simp and a softie and by god he will turn to mush fir you #billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid x you #tom blyth #william h bonney #tom blyth x reader

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chrissv4mp · 1 year ago

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i'll love you 'til the day that i die! MATT S.

summary: you and matt have been frenemies since the 8th grade. when you both go to homecoming, you get picked for homecoming queen, and chris is your king. matt can't help but storm outside of the school angrily.

pairing: matt sturniolo × fem!reader

warnings/topics: arguments, vulgar language, fluff, sorta angst, confessions, highschool au, etc.

a/n: LOVE THIS SONG SMSMSMS also this probably makes no sense towards the end cause i was purely running on 2 bottles of water😖

"matt," you exclaimed, running into his room without any warning.

he jumped a little, eyes snapping toward the direction of his bedroom door.

you took a seat at his desk, pushing yourself toward his bed with your feet before spinning around to face him.

"why do you have so much energy this early in the morning?" he groaned, rubbing his eyes as he had just woken up a few minutes ago.

"cause, i just got big news? and, sorry for being so happy to see you?" you joked, rolling your eyes and leaning back in the chair.

matt hummed in curiosity, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to make it look better, "and what's the news?"

you almost couldn't stay still, changing the way you were sitting every moment or so.

"i got nominated for homecoming queen!" you all but yelled, making matt flinch slightly at the loud noise.

his smile was small, but very smug as if he was gonna say something to bring you down.

he could never shut his mouth whenever you brought up something good that happened to you, he always had to one-up you.

"cool, cool, but i've gotten nominated for homecoming king like years in a row. it's nothing big to be nominated once," he shrugged, keeping direct eye contact with you and watching as your face contorted into a subtle look of sadness.

your frown was small, and if matt hadn't been the one to trigger it, then he probably wouldn't have noticed.

he always did this, and you should've been used to it by now. but, god, did matt know how to push your buttons.

"yeah, well, i didn't see your name on there this time. you're not someone special, y'know?" you laughed, trying to hide your frustration.

matt's grin only widened at your words, "huh. well, it'll be there by tonight. those girls can't resist my charm, not even you, y/n."

"shut up. nobody wants a homecoming king that's an asshole to every girl he meets." you groaned, crossing your arms over each other.

"maybe, but you're the only girl i dislike at the school." matt bit back, leaning against his headboard as he stared you down.

you let out a quiet huff, looking around his room and letting your eyes land on the corkboard he had on the wall opposite his closet.

there were letters, pictures, and polaroids of all of his friends. and in one corner, there was a polaroid of you and him at the beach.

there was writing below it, 'i want u to stay 'till i'm in the grave<3' it was in dark blue sharpie.

your lips upturned into a small smile. he didn't hate you. he never really could, even if he tried.

"doesn't seem like you dislike me," you broke the silence, pointing over at the board.

matt's smile dropped, and his face flushed a soft pink color as he sat up straight. "just get out, would you!"

you giggled to yourself as you got off his chair, not forgetting to give him the middle finger before closing his door and walking back down the hall.

nick looked up from the sink as he heard your footsteps walking past the kitchen, turning around to look at you.

"bye, y/n," he smiled softly, waving over at you and accidently splashing water on the kitchen counter.

"see you later, nick," you smiled, waving back before resuming your walk down the stairs and out of the house.

"birds of a feather," chris said, breaking the silence between the four of you.

nick raised an eyebrow, looking to the side to see if chris was talking to him.

the younger boy was pointing over at you and matt, at the opposite end of the booth you all were sitting at.

"what?" matt laughed over the loud chatter of the cafeteria, crossing his arms before looking over at you.

you were confused just as he was, staring over at chris with an unsure look on your face, "right... and what are you yapping on about this time?"

chris looked dumbfounded, staring at the three of you in disbelief as he scoffed, "you guys seriously don't know that saying? i thought you were older than me."

"by, like, 2 seconds?" nick said, leaning on the table as he picked at the cafeteria food with a plastic fork.

chris punched his brother softly, rolling his eyes before explaining, "birds of a feather flock together, it basically means you guys are alike in one way or another."

matt laughed, looking over at you before giving his attention back to chris, "we are nothing alike, trust me. she's horrible at communicating, and i'm amazing at it. i'm popular. she's not."

"yeah, he's stupid, and i'm smart. remind me how we're alike, again?" matt looked away at your remark, silently mocking you.

"look at your outfits right now, if i didn't know any better i would think you guys are matching." chris pointed out, nodding his head in your direction.

nick nodded, "he's right, you guys look like a couple."

both yours and matts face flushed bright pink, and you looked seperate ways, embarrassment washing over the two of you.

"yeah, more like a couple of friends." you forced out, looking back up at nick and chris.

nick raised his eyebrows, looking away.

"and not to mention the many times you both have said the same phrase. like, tell me you hang out too much without telling me you hang out too much?" chris joked, laughing at himself.

nick chuckled quietly, nodding his head in agreement with his brothers.

"that's a coincidence." you mumbled, sitting up straight.

"it's happened more than i can count, i don't think it's a coincidence of any sort." nick said, looking over at matt, who just dragged his hands down his face.

"well, whatever. not like it's gonna last forever," matt said, and before anyone could reply, he stood up and left to his next class.

the bell rang a few seconds after, and you, nick, and chris gave each other confused looks.

"sorry, y/n. he's probably just had a rough day, i promise you he doesn't mean it." nick reassured you, reaching over the table to hold your hand.

he left a few moments later, and chris stayed with you.

"don't take it to heart, 'kay?" chris muttered softly, smiling at you.

you nodded, and chris began to add on, "i've seen him cry over you. he tells me he doesn't know why. all he says is that he doesn't think he could love you more than he already does."

nodding, smiling softly before watching chris get up and leave. now it was just you and your thoughts at the table alone.

huh. who would've thought matthew sturniolo, one of the most popular guys at school, would be crying over you, quiet, kept to herself, y/n l/n?

you couldn't tease him about it, you did the same thing for him. you always cried over matt, not even knowing why because he had never really hurt you.

you always just sobbed to nick about how you would love him 'til the day that he dies. and after those words registered in your head, you only cried more at the thought of matt dying.

but those nights, you were usually drunk or super high. nick always knew how to calm you down, though, he was always there for you whenever you needed.

matt had also occasionally been there for you in your lowest times, never hesitating to break the speed limit getting to your house.

he always confronted the boys that had stood you up, never let anyone talk bad about you or even give you dirty looks. even if he didn't consider you a friend, you thought of him as one.

"i just don't understand," matt whispered shakily as he looked up at the night sky, stars scattered all around and lighting the place around in just the slightest.

you sat next to him, fingers playing with the blanket the both of you were on, "what don't you understand?"

he shrugged, "i don't understand how anyone could love me."

your neck snapped in his direction, eyes widening a little as a million thoughts came to your mind.

you wanted him to see how he looked in your eyes. he was the funniest, most handsome, kind boy you have ever met (even if he did occasionally tick you off).

you wanted him to know how many subtle compliments you gave him that he never noticed, but still took.

but then again, you wanted to just tell him how he was so full of shit. he knew that anyone and everyone was capable of loving him.

he knew that he could get anyone wrapped around his finger in less than a week. hell, he sure got you wrapped around his finger in just a matter of 2 days.

"i just don't get what people see in me. sometimes i just want to quit everything i do at the thought of it." matt added, finally turning his head to look at you.

your gaze softened as he looked you in the eyes, a subtle look of concern plastered on your face as you reached out to pat his shoulder.

"don't be stupid, matthew. i think that if anyone even glanced in your direction, they would instantly fall in love. you're all any girl would want."

matt smiled, and you reached over to move his hair to see his face better. he was truly beautiful. you couldn't ever get tired of the sight of him.

"you really think that?" matt asked, and there was just the tiniest hint of smugness in his voice.

you nodded, tilting your head to see matt better in the pale moonlight.

"i do," you whispered, and before matt could speak, you cut him off, "and don't ruin this moment with one of your stupid remarks, matthew."

matt's lips parted, but he chose to stay silent. he was grateful for moments like this with you, when it was just you two alone and nobody else.

he loved being alone with you, especially late at night when you guys would have these deep talks. no words spoken here would ever leave, neither of you would bring those topics up.

it was a nice feeling, one that made him feel safe and secure in your presence.

as the months passed by and new memories with you were made, matt felt like you were slowly creeping into his heart, invading all of his senses.

all he could think about was you now, and he couldn't ever get you out of his head. not even when he was in boston, more than 2,000 miles away from you.

it came so fast, and you almost couldn't believe that you were standing outside of your high-school with your best friends, all dressed formally.

you were wearing a satin dark blue dress that went down to your knees, while matt and chris were wearing suits and ties.

matt's suit was navy blue, his dress pants being white to match with chris, who was wearing a white suit and navy blue dress pants.

nick wore an all blue suit, his tie being the only white thing on his outfit besides from his collared shirt he wore underneath the suit.

"holy shit, you're stunning, y/n!" nick exclaimed, stretching his arms out before you hugged him tightly.

he smiled into your hair, patting your back before pulling away from your embrace.

"talk about stunning, look at yourself, nicolas! you look amazing, blue looks beautiful on you." you complimented, smiling up at him before walking to stand beside him.

he interlocked your arms, and you finally got the chance to look over matt and chris' suits.

"we look better than you guys ever could," matt said, swinging his arm over chris' shoulder and pulling him closer.

chris smiled, nodding in agreement as he wrapped his arm around matt's waist.

"i don't know, y/n's dress might beat us." the younger boy shrugged, to which matt rolled his eyes at.

"you tell yourselves whatever you want, we're gonna go inside to get the night started," nick stated, pushing past chris and matt and purposely shoving matt playfully.

the two brunette boys weren't slow to follow you and nick, chris rushing in front of you to hold the door open.

when the four of you got intonthe gym, it immediately felt like you guys were gonna have the best night ever.

the lighting was a darker blue, illuminating all the bodies beneath it and capturing every small movement the kids made.

"wow," you whispered, and nick echoed you.

"hello, and welcome, los angeles lions to our 34th annual homecoming dance!" madi exclaimed into the microphone, her eyes scanning the paper she was holding.

the school cheered in excitement, and chris screamed out an encouragement for madi.

she smiled at all the familiar faces before leaning into the microphone to read from the paper again, "these past few weeks have been a little chaotic with all of the new nominees for both homecoming queen, and homecoming king, and tonight won't be any less chaotic."

"now, i'm honored to welcome up on stage the nominees for homecoming queen," madi spoke before flipping the paper over to the other side.

she read over the names, and a big smile came to her face when her eyes landed on the first one.

"please welcome up to the stage y/n l/n," she said, her smile frowing impossibly wider.

chris and nick shoved you around playfully before you finally came to your senses and ran up to the stage. it was an unreal experience, being one of the nominees, you felt like you couldn't compare to any of the other girls.

"alahna estrella," madi said, reading a few more names over the loud cheering of the students before she moved onto the boys.

the gym went silent once madi announced that she would be calling up the boys for homecoming king, now.

"now, i'm very happy to call up to the stage one of the very popular sturniolo triplets..."

matt got ready to walk up to the stage, but when the name fell from madi's mouth, he froze in shock.

"christopher sturniolo!" she said happily, clapping along with the other students.

your eyes widened at the sound of chris' name being called, and you clapped for him.

nick watched as chris made his way up the stairs onto the stage, yelling out his name and clapping for his brother.

matt clapped slowly, the realization that he wouldn't get to be the homecoming king washing over him. whatever, it didn't matter anyway because he already had 3 crowns from past years.

more names were called, and even nate was invited up to the stage as a nominee for homecoming king.

when the crowd settled down, madi had began to speak again, "now, the announcement that we've all been waiting for... this year's homecoming king is.."

madi's eye widened in surprise before she smiled big and read off his name, "christopher sturniolo!"

matt sighed, clapping for his brother. he was happy sure, but then again he was jealous. things always went his way, and he just wasn't ready for this happen.

was he being selfish?

after chris was crowned homecoming king, he stood beside madi up on the stage, smiling big at all the students of his high-school.

"and, for your homecoming queen. this year's homecoming queen is y/n l/n!" madi said, clapping proudly at you as she watched you get crowned.

you couldn't believe it. it felt surreal, like you were in a dream you couldn't wake up from. as you walked over to chris, he pulled you into a huge hug, muttering a quiet, "congratulations." into your ear.

madi took yours and chris' hand as she walked back up to the mic, bringing all of your hands into the air as she yelled out into the microphone.

"please give big love to our new homecoming king and queen, y/n and chris!"

the students cheered, some jumping up and down out of excitement as they screamed their hearts out.

matt huffed angrily, jumping out of his seat before pushing his way past multiple people to get to the exit.

he didn't go unnoticed by you, your eyes following him as he stormed out of the gymnasium.

you were surprised the door hadn't made a sound, it looked like he slammed into the door without even flinching.

"shit," you whispered, worry flashing over your features.

as soon as you got off stage, you ran out of the gym, ignoring all of the people who tried to congratulate you on your way down.

you ran outside of the school, turning every way to try and spot matt. when you did, his eyes locked with yours.

he was sat on the sidewalk, a streetlight illuminating his face as the spotlights had done inside.

you ran over to him, taking a seat next to him and scooting close to him.

it was silent for a few minutes. the two of you just absorbed in all of your thoughts about what just happened.

"congratulations on homecoming queen, i'm happy for you." matt said, looking over into your eyes.

you smiled, "thanks."

"sorry you weren't nominated, i thought you would have been considering you have been every other year." you apologized, and matt shook his head softly.

it wasn't just that, it was the fact that his brother was your homecoming king. it was the knowledge that matt would never get to be your king.

it was the fact that he would never get to be yours.

"i'm sorry, i just can't do this anymore, y/n." matt stood up from his spot, and you looked up at him.

you raised an eyebrow, worry still lingering in your head from matt's earlier outburst, "what? you can't do what?"

you stood up next, now face to face with the boy you both hated and loved the most.

"i just don't understand what we are, what i mean to you and what you even think of me. you keep giving me these fucking mixed signals and i don't know how to interpret them!" matt held his head in his hands, rubbing his temples in an effort to calm himself down.

you swore you felt your heart shatter at his words. maybe this wasn't gonna be the best night you've ever had.

"what- mixed signals? i.. matt, what are you talking about?" you thought you knew what he was getting at, but as the words came out of your mouth, the thoughts fled from your mind.

matt muttered inaudible words before he finally spoke clearly, "you keep pushing me away and then pulling me back again, and i don't know what to do, y/n."

"do you want me, or am i just some guy you're toying with to get popularity? one minute you're nice and you have my back, and the next you're so fucking cold it's like i'm not even there, like you don't even care about me."

your eyebrows furrowed, he was explaining exactly how he made you feel.

"don't be a hypocrite, matt. i don't even act that way, you're explaining exactly what you make me think. i have all these thoughts and ideas i want to share with you, but when i do, you come over and push them down. why would i even want popularity? i don't give a shit about it, matt!"

"why do you do this to me, seriously?" your voice cracked, and only then did matt realize you were crying.

he groaned, taking small paces back and forth as he breathed heavily.

when he stopped, he was right in front of you, gaze soft as he stared into your e/c eyes.

"because i love you," he finally spilled it, and he didn't regret it. not at all.

the look on your face was not at all what he was expecting. he thought you might he disgusted or even angry.

"don't act so surprised, y/n." he said quietly, cupping your face with his hands.

they were cold, but you still leaned into his touch as he wiped away your tears.

he pulled you closer to him, and you ended up in his arms as you began to calm down. "god, i hate you, matt."

"yeah? well i'll love you 'till the day that i die." he muttered softly.

you laughed quietly, punching him playfully before pulling away.

he stayed silent, a soft smile on his face. as he continued to stare at you, he started to realize more and more things.

one thing he realized was that he never wanted to say goodbye.

maybe chris was right. maybe you two were birds of a feather.

. . . . . . . . .

tags: @cindylcuwho

#Spotify #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matt x reader #matthew sturniolo x you #matthew sturniolo fanfic #matthew sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo x reader #sturniolo #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo x reader #the sturniolo triplets

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taintedcigs · 2 years ago

Text

GETAWAY CAR — rockstar!e.m. x f!reader

CHAPTER ONE: BEST OF TIMES, THE WORST OF CRIMES

next chapter →

✦ summary: in which you return to hawkins to attend your best friend nancy's wedding, facing the problems you left behind, and the one person you abandoned; eddie munson. (wc: 9.4k+)

✦ warnings — ANGSTANGSTANGST, pining and slowburn, reuniting <33, strong language!, mentions of alc*hol and drg use and a toxic relationship, reader is sad and feels guilty. kinda mean eddie but not rlly.

✦ pairings — rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader, past billy hargrove x fem!reader

✦ authors note — okay so its finally HERE. im SOOO EXCITED for u guys to read it!! i have tried to proof-read this a lot but my mind is fuzzy so ignore all mistakes!! if u need some stuff to listen to while reading this long ass chapter or the songs mentioned in it u can check out the playlist !! hope yall enjoy it mwah <3

series masterlist | series playlist

I'm a cold heartbreaker Fit to burn and I'll rip your heart in two

The sound coming from your slightly jammed stereo while the rain gently pattered on the roof of your car could’ve been heavenly.

If only it weren’t the roads of Hawkins that you were travelling in. Five years that had passed were seemingly nothing when you recognized the familiar streets and the infamous forest, heart skipping a beat when you finally arrived on Maple Street.

The cars parked just outside of the Wheeler House were enough to give you anxiety, especially when your eyes spotted that van. His van. Why did he still have it? Wasn’t he a rich rock star by now? There was an unnecessary bitter taste in your throat, and your gaze was stuck on the van now, gulping physically as you tried to ignore those guilty feelings bubbling up inside of you. Mind quick to revel in all those memories you had with him in that stupid vehicle.

5 YEARS AGO.

“Hurry!” You whisper-yelled, still looking around, Eddie was right behind you, his tongue darting out of his mouth as it always did when he was focused, running like hell as his calloused hands harshly gripped the tequila bottle that you two had just stolen.

The angry voice of the shop’s owner had long disappeared by now, but you could never be too careful. When you finally got close to his van, you stopped Eddie immediately. “Behind you!” You yelled in a fake-worried voice, causing Eddie to start sprinting forward toward the car.

When he noticed you not following and breaking into laughter, his worried face eased as he realized your little prank, giving you a humorless laugh as he started sprinting towards you.

You squealed when he grabbed you by your waist, lifting you off in one swift motion, spinning you around as your giggles filled the space.

Eddie’s grin faltered quickly. “I hate you,” He mocked in a serious tone.

“I’m sorry, but I just love that worried look on your face. And, oh god, that sprint! You know what you should be?” You asked, a smirk forming on your lips as you waited for him to fall into your trap.

Eddie sighed exhaustedly, a grin plastered on his face, he put you down.

You squealed happily as he did so, “A... Tiger!” You mimicked pompoms with your hands as you tried to re-do your cheer routine, chanting after Eddie.

He playfully nudged your shoulders, “Oh, Pinky... You are on a roll today, huh?” He asked, the nickname rolled off his tongue so sweetly. It was a stupid fucking name, sure, but you loved it. It somehow stuck, the entire town calling you Pinky ever since you pronounced ‘Pinky Promise’ wrong once and your parents funnily referred to you by it.

You nodded, giggling, stealing the bottle from his hands, and chugging a sip. “This was a great idea.” You hummed, pointing to the bottle, the bitter taste burning your throat, almost coughing with how big of a chug you took.

He quirked his brows, flying over to your side as he opened your car door.

“Let’s go, thief.” He tilted his head, hands gesturing forward animatedly.

“What a gentleman!” You mocked dramatically, sliding into the messy van easily as Eddie heaved a sigh.

He sprinted toward the other door, cursing as he struggled to open the rusty door, eyes bulging out of his head almost as he checked to make sure the coast was clear. “You know…” He started with a muffled sigh as he hopped into the driver’s seat.

“Everyone thought I would be a bad influence on you… or that you would at least be a good influence on me, but ever since I met you, all we have done is illegal shit.” His voice was mocking. “I think it’s time you give up that good girl cheerleader title, princess. Because forcing your best friend to steal booze is definitely not good girl material.”

Throwing your hands up in defense, you turned to him. “And they still think you are the devil worshipper!” You added, a hearty laugh escaping from your slurry lips.

Eddie sighed when he couldn’t turn the ignition properly, his van—Aurora, which Eddie of course named himself—was too old now.

“Oh, come on, baby,” He whispered when his fingers roughly tried to turn the key further, earning a hesitant cough from his precious Aurora. “Pleasepleaseplease…” He whispered, engine roaring back to life now with his second try. “There you go, honey, thank you!” He exclaimed as he threw his hands up in the air, mouth quick to press up against the wheel, giving Aurora a thousand kisses, causing you to squint your eyes.

“You are… pathetic,” You scoffed with a shake of your head, a teasing smirk playing at your lips.

“Oh, we’ll see who’s pathetic,” He disagreed dramatically. His eyes diverted from the road as he sneakily grabbed your bag, causing you to protest quickly. “Hey!” He didn’t mind your tug on his bicep when he dug his whole arm into your bag, fiddling as he tried to find your cassette tape under all the mess.

“There we go,” He hummed when he animatedly pulled it toward your sight. ‘BEST MIXTAPE’ The tape dramatically read when Eddie snatched it out of your view stuffing it away from you.

“If you make fun of Aurora, you lose your music privileges.” He hummed all-knowingly, a troublesome look overtaking his features as he focused back on the road. Your gaze squinted, barely able to see his plump lips that were now quipped into a grin.

“Really…” You hummed, hiding behind the way your lips twitched mischievously.

Eddie’s curiosity was quick to perk up; you not whining ‘Eds!!’ as you elbowed him and huffed when you called him a jerk meant only one thing.

You had some really good new music.

“You sure about that… Munson?” You quirked a brow, grin growing wider as you seized your bag from his hands, earning a groan from Eddie.

��What have you got up your sleeve, sweetheart?” He asked, stealing a quick glance at one of your pretty smiles before he turned his attention to the road.

“Something really good…” You hummed, hand diving into your bag again before you reclined in your seat, throwing him a knowing look.

“Jesus…” He whined. “What d’ya want?” He implored, his gaze squinting.

You wanted to keep the game going, tease him further, and get him to his breaking point. But the way his eye twitched with curiosity, tongue licking his lips with need made you want to tell him everything, let him in on your little surprise.

“Hmm… Music privileges…”

“And?” He asked with a huff, knowing that’s not all you wanted.

“And, I’m gonna pick the place where we drink this cutie!” You exclaimed, hand pointing toward the tequila bottle you had a firm grip on.

He threw you a glare; it wasn’t a hard glare, you knew it and he knew it, he did it just to tease you, and that’s exactly what had you so giddy about him. “Fine…” He whined, teasing further. “Whatcha got?”

You clapped animatedly, pulling out the cassette with a huge grin. The Cure’s ‘The Head on The Door’ album was swaying in your hands as Eddie groaned.

You pouted. “You got me all excited for The Cure?” He pinched his brows together, causing you to gasp dramatically, huffing.

“What’s wrong with The Cure? You love them!” You protested, glaring at him.

“You love The Cure, sweetheart.” He grinned, earning a scoff from you as your hands were quick to wrap around your chest annoyedly.

“Just for that, you won’t get to know what the second album is. And it really was a good one.” You shrugged, putting the bag in front of your legs, just out of Eddie’s reach.

“Oh, come on!” He sighed, eyeing you with squinted eyes.

“I was joking! I love The Cure.” He murmured, but you shrugged again, eyes falling toward the window as you started giving him the silent treatment playfully.

“Really?” He understood your play. “Jesus H. Christ.” He huffed, attention turning toward you.

“Just check the glove compartment.” You ignored him again.

“Pinky.” He called out. “Do it.” His eyes pointed toward it, causing you to sigh as you opened it unenthusiastically.

A bunch of cassette tapes fell toward your lap, you squealed at the contact. “Eddie!” You exclaimed with a chuckle.

Three Imaginary Boys, Seventeen Seconds, Faith, Pornography and The Top was sprawled across your lap, and your eyes widened.

The Cure’s discography. Just sitting in his glove compartment.

You turned to him with an affectionate gaze, hands covering your mouth as you stood speechless.

“Wh-what are these?” You were a stuttering mess. Did he really do all of this for you?

“Uh–I’m pretty sure those are albums, princess,” He mocked you in a playful tone as you tilted your head, tongue sticking out in a childish manner.

His smile grew wider before he shook his head. “Started collecting those–uh… after that day–uhh, you remember that?” His gaze avoided yours.

“We–uh almost got kicked out of The Hideout?” He muttered with a sly grin, eyes focused on the road just so you wouldn’t notice the slight flush on his cheeks.

“Eds–” You attempted to speak, but he didn’t let you. “You remember that day? You asked me what my favorite band was?” You nodded furiously, Eddie didn’t even have to take another glance at you to know you had a warm smile on your face, sensing your head bobbing up and down excitedly.

“Y-you know, before they tried to kick us out?” You gave him a slight giggle, humming.

“I told you mine was Dio. And you told me yours was The Cure?” A dizzying grin was stuck on your face, cheeks stretching with pain from how big it was. And Eddie knew if he looked, even for a split second, he’d fall for you all over again. He knew that he couldn’t contain those feelings inside of him anymore. So he avoided it. He avoided that one glance thrown your way because he didn’t want to lose you.

You bowed your head to say ‘yes’ again, words didn’t dare come out of your grinning lips. You didn’t know what to do; you wanted to hug him, feel his arms wrapped around you. You wanted to kiss his flushed cheeks and his apparent dimple, which you couldn’t get enough of.

The silence hanging in the air was killing you. “I remember.” You muttered, almost shyly, like the two of you weren’t teasing the hell out of each other mere seconds ago.

His brows furrowed when you leaned over your seat again, digging something from your bag as you hid it behind you.

“That is why…” You smiled, hands shaking as you hid the cassette behind your back. “I got you this!” You exclaimed, swinging the tape in front of his bulging eyes.

His eyes squinted before the realisation set in. You remembered that day. Just like he did. You remembered his favorite band. Just like he did yours.

He didn’t want to get his hopes up, you were just being friendly, right? You didn’t do this in the same loving, caring way he did. You did this as a friend. You were a great friend. And he was an asshole for harboring these feelings for his best friend.

He couldn’t help the squeak that escaped his plump lips. The car came to a halt quicker than he intended it to. Swinging you over your seat, making you squeal with him.

“Jesus, Eddie!” You giggled, turning to face him and seeing his speechless face as he admired you. You could feel your cheeks heat up, and it was embarrassing.

Why did he have to look at you like that?

Why did he have to complicate things for you?

You wouldn’t be good enough for him.

And there was Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy—

Your inner thoughts were interrupted by his childlike screams as he seized the Sacred Heart album by Dio from your hands.

He didn’t hesitate—like you did—to engulf you in a hug. Hands securely resting on your lower back, and you could feel your breath hitch.

You would spend all of your work pay checks on stupid damn records if it meant you could see him like this again, and you’d happily starve if it meant you’d have him hug you like this again. But that’s what friends did, right?

“Oh my god.” His eyes widened, tone much calmer before his excitement rose up again.

“Oh my fucking god, Pinky!” He yelled in delight again, taking you by surprise when his hands were holding your shoulder in excitement.

“Y-you… shit- you got this for me?” He asked with a sympathetic gaze.

You nodded quickly. “Of course!”

“Why’d you think we had to steal that bottle?” You winked teasingly, causing him to snort.

“Pinky, you’re the fucking best.” He muttered into your hair, a grin overtaking your features when he held your face in his hands, honey-glazed eyes boring into yours.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.” His fast-paced mantra left you giggling again before he pressed a small, appreciative smooch on your forehead.

He was just being friendly, you thought. There was no way he could want something more. You were beyond fucked up for that, and Billy was the only proof you needed.

He sighed contently when he relaxed back into his seat. “Wherever you want to go, princess, let me know.” He winked with a childish smile.

The two cassettes were replayed over and over again before the two of you made your way to your ‘special destination’.

Dragging Eddie through the woods while he whined earned several giggles from you. He chugged the bottle in his hands with a sour face.

“How much longer do we have to fuckin’ walk?” He complained, his feet dragging on to exaggerate.

“We’re almost there, you dork.” You squinted your eyes at another frustrated groan escaped his lips. Laughter erupting from your stomach teasingly before you handed him the stolen bottle, Eddie chugged quickly, and his face soured, “How did you even find this place anyway?” He asked.

“Skull Rock?” You asked, and he nodded. “Wait, you don’t know about Skull Rock?” You questioned, eyes widening, causing Eddie to roll his. “C'mon, Pinky, not all of us hang out with the prissy popular kids.”

You gasped and playfully but still harshly hit his chest, “Ow!” He flinched. “Shit, are all cheerleaders as heavy-handed as you?” He asked, furrowing his brows. “Hey, I barely touched you!” You smirked while he faked getting hurt, rubbing his chest mockingly.

“Skull Rock is known as the make-out spot of Hawkins.” You enunciated dramatically as Eddie ooh-ed, “Thanks to, ‘King Steve’”, you mocked, mimicking air quotes.

Eddie’s eyes widened. “Wait… wait,” His walking came to a halt when he tried to process that information. “Y-you and Steve?” He asked, dumbfounded, a slight overtone of jealousy was apparent in his tone, mixed with his own insecurities, and your face was quick to sour. “God, no!” You scrunched your nose; you loved Steve, but not in that way, never in that way.

“Who do you think taught him this place?” You tilted your brows.

“I came here the first time my parents left with a tiny note stuck on the fridge.” You shrugged. You were used to your parents always leaving you without any notice other than a scribbled note that told you that they’d be gone for a while. And you never knew if it would be for days or for months. Now that they've been gone for the last four months, you assumed it was permanent this time, and even though you never admitted to it, it fucking hurt. Coming here has been your only escape lately. And all you wanted to do was share it with Eddie, have him in your comfort zone.

Eddie’s face soured; you could see that red tint on his cheeks, almost like he was furious. And he was, because he understood. He understood what it was like to have deadbeat parents who were fucking useless, he understood the pain it brought and how it could make a person feel so fucking unwanted. But at least he had Wayne. You didn’t have anyone. The closest thing to you had that resembled a family were your friends and the Wheelers—and even that wasn’t enough to give him some peace of mind.

“When Steve had his first heartbreak, I brought him here, but that fucker turned this place into an orgy party,” You continued, a simple chuckle escaping your lips.

“And after that, people started coming here all the time for their little make-out sesh.” Your hands stretched forward to make a point, and you rolled your eyes.

“Even Billy took me here one time,” You murmured the Billy part, wanting to avoid the talk with Eddie because you knew neither of them liked each other, and you rarely, if ever, spoke about him with Eddie, while Billy always announced his distaste for Eddie, murmuring about how it was obvious that the “freak” just wanted to get in your pants.

“You know, Billy is one of those people who think I’m a bad influence on you because I’m a “freak” and “devil worshipper,” right, sweetheart?” You avoided his gaze.

You didn’t want to talk about Billy, at least not with Eddie, and not now. You just wanted one thing to yourself without him being involved, which seemed impossible.

You forced a smile. “Well, Billy is…” an asshole, an idiot, and sometimes a fucking narcissist, you wished to say, but you didn’t want to drag Eddie into your relationship problems. Billy was still your boyfriend, and in all honesty, your on and off relationship was something that no one actually understood.

Nancy gave Billy a glare each time he came around, Steve and Robin constantly reminded you how awful he was. But it didn’t matter, because you couldn’t let him go, each time he fucked you up in a different way, you went back to him.

You took him back because you didn’t know any better, you accepted him because love was supposed to be like this, wasn’t it? It was supposed to be a challenge, it was supposed to be fucking hard. It was supposed to be something to fight for.

But it was so…exhausting. Trying to get him to understand you, trying to get him to care, trying not to make him mad—walking on egg-shells each time you were around him.

And everything was so fucking different with Eddie; things were so uncomplicated with him and so fucking fun. You didn’t want to admit that you wanted that… that you wanted him.

Because he was easy—and in the best possible way. He was so easy to love. He was safe and he made you feel safe. When he caressed your back, when he opened a door for you, when he let you walk in front of him with his hand ghosting over your lower back, when you asked him to hold your bag and he swung it over his shoulder. He laughed at things easily, he made you laugh easily. He listened intently, when you just wanted to open up for a bit, he was quiet; when you needed someone to talk to, he gave you all the advice in the world.

And more than anything, Eddie cared. He cared about you, in a way you had never been cared for before.

He brought a side out of you that you never knew existed; relaxed. He was gentle with you, he knew how to joke around, and he didn’t have any problems being who he was. He was open and nice; he didn’t get angry at everything, and it was just… nice to be around him.

You shook your head at your thoughts, “Billy is Billy.” You concluded, eyes fixed on the ground. Eddie just gave you a small smile, as if he understood your train of thought. His hands caressed your back reassuringly in a way that was telling you that it was okay to think what you were thinking, and it brought an imminent smile to your face, knowing that he would always be there for you.

You remembered that night clearly when the two of you drank an entire bottle of booze you stole, and smoked Eddie’s stash, bodies lazily laying next to each other, Skull Rock had the best view, stars filled the empty sky, and a crescent moon appeared between them.

It was relaxing, lying with Eddie, high out of your mind.

“There’s no way you think Honeycomb Cereal is the best breakfast food.” You shook your head as Eddie scoffed.

“I do! It counts as breakfast, and you can also eat it as a snack on its own, what more do you need?” He raised his brows, taking a puff from the joint sitting between his index fingers.

“Uh? I don’t know, waffles? Eggs and bacon? Actual good cereal?” You mocked, causing Eddie to nudge your side lightly.

“Oh, and which cereal does the princess think is the best?”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch, of course,” You said proudly.

“You are disgusting.” Eddie scrunched his face. You shrugged with a grin on your face as you snatched the joint from his fingers, reaching for the lighter in his hand. And before you could even light the blunt sitting in your fingers, the carved lighter caught your attention.

It was a silver Zippo lighter with a dragon print and had scratches all over it. You scrunched your brows as you looked up at Eddie and said, “What the hell is this?” You held the lighter up, and Eddie seized it from your hands.

“A lighter?” He replied smugly, causing you to huff, “Where did you even get it?” Your curiosity peaked.

“Bummed it off a guy at the bar last night, pretty fuckin’ cool, huh?” He asked, getting excited as he showed you the print, the carving of the dragon was so detailed that you could basically count its scales.

“Stealing is considered cool?” You murmured, causing Eddie to give you a huff as he placed the lighter on the rock between the two of you, allowing you to get a more detailed look.

“Really, Pinky?” He almost snorted. “How about you answer that one, because the tequila bottle you’re holding wasn’t paid for... If I remember correctly,” He mocked a thinking face, dimples ever-so apparent as he tried to contain his grin.

“I–We!” You expressed in a higher tone, “Didn’t steal that bottle because it was cool, doofus. We! did it because we’re poor.” You enunciated the ‘us’ part again before nudging his rib slightly and prodding, earning a “Hey!” from Eddie, who was ticklish.

“Anyway.” You giggled, handing the lighter back to him with a grin on your face, “Would’ve been cooler if it was pink.” Eddie gave you a weird look.

“What?” You implored, shrugging carelessly.

“Pinky liking pink… what a surprise, huh?” He said sarcastically, causing you to groan.

“Don’t be such a guy, Munson,” You warned, you liked pink, but both of you knew that wasn’t why the nickname stuck. And it didn’t matter what it truly meant because you liked it. You liked that it was the only thing you had from them that didn’t leave—something that was truly yours, something that would never abandon you.

“Oh, you know that’s not why, you doofus.” You rolled your eyes. “Have you ever seen a pink dragon?” You gushed, and Eddie shook his head.

“See! Case closed.” You grinned.

“Pink dragons are cool,” You said with a determined face, and Eddie couldn’t help the grin that was plastered onto his face now.

You spent the rest of the night giggling like a bunch of kids over nothing, the chilling breeze of the Hawkins nights providing comfort to you that you had never felt before.

When your shivers hadn’t stopped, you heard Eddie sighing, “Okay, you are getting my jacket,” He insisted, annoyed, because you had refused his offer for a jacket a million times just because you didn’t want him to be cold.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head before you could open your mouth to refuse. Calloused hands quick to securely wrap his infamous black leather jacket around you. You looked up at him, a sympathetic gaze apparent, as you tried to refuse, tried to insist that he would get cold, but he didn’t accept it. “Better I freeze off than you.”

Your heart fluttered before it was apparent on your face, lips twitching into a warm, sickly sweet smile as you accepted, “Thank you,” You murmured, almost shyly. The jacket fell comfortably on your shoulders, a whiff of weed, beer and the old leather smell engulfed you, warmth taking over your entire body.

You liked the feeling of wearing something that was his. In fact, you liked it too much. Something about Eddie always provided some sort of security for you. He made you feel comfortable in your skin, like he was meant to be there for you, like he was supposed to help you, even when you repeatedly told him you didn’t need it. You cleared your throat to gather your thoughts, taking the joint in his hands as your head slowly but comfortably fell on his shoulders.

Taking a puff from it, you looked over at Eddie. “As soon as I graduate, I’m leaving this place.” You could feel his head turn toward you, his gaze almost burning its way through your hair.

“Eight months, eight fucking months left.” Your tone was the most serious he had heard that night, and he couldn’t help but have a baffling look on his face. You had mentioned something about ‘leaving this hellhole’ before, but he never knew how serious you were, at least until now.

He shook his head quickly to gather his thoughts. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it and scare you away, so he shrugged. “Fine, but you can’t abandon me, I’m coming with you.” His tone was nonchalant, and it brought a smile to your face.

“I would never leave without you.”

NOW.

You shook your head at the memories, at least you had achieved one of those things. You got out of the hellhole that was Hawkins as soon as you graduated, being selfish enough to not care about the ones you had left behind, but you needed to do whatever you could to survive, and you shouldn’t have to apologize for it, right?

Right?

It’s what you kept repeating to yourself, but there was one part of you that always felt guilty for leaving without a goodbye, cutting off all contact. And that guilt returned with Nancy’s invitation; you knew you couldn’t hold off on her wedding, no matter how much you wanted to escape the town that caused you agony.

Nancy was your best friend when you were living in Hawkins, she was there with you through everything, and the Wheelers were there when your parents abandoned you, inviting you to their home as if it were nothing.

You've seen Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Robin several times in the last couple of years. Especially after Nancy told them the exact reason why you left, they understood and welcomed you.

That’s what you loved about them; even though you spent some time apart, they would always be your best friend. And that is exactly why Nancy picked you as her maid of honor—because she knew you’d always be there. She trusted you with her whole life, and so did you. The two of you knew things about each other that no one else did.

And I'll leave you lyin' on the bed I'll be out the door before you wake

You huffed when you turned the stereo off, the lyrics giving you a stupid familiar feeling, like it was written about you and Eddie. Like Axl and Izzy were hiding somewhere in the California apartment you and Eddie stayed in right after you left, as if they witnessed you leaving him there.

The song became an afterthought when you realized you actually had to go in now or one of Wheeler’s snobby neighbors would surely call the cops on you for suspiciously watching the house while hiding in your car like a coward.

Eddie was already in there.

What if everyone else was there too?

Would they cuss you out and tell you to fuck off?

You surely deserved it.

You cursed yourself when you exited the car, feet dragging you all the way to the door, knowing that you needed to do this. Inhaling a deep breath, you rang the bell, even the tune sounded the same, and the guilt inside of you started rising up again.

“Will you get that?” Nancy’s screaming voice could be barely heard from your side of the door, and your eyes immediately pressed shut together.

Please don’t let it be Eddie. Please don’t let it be Eddie. Please don’t let it be Eddie. Please don’t let it be Eddie. Please don’t let it be Eddie. Please don't let it be Eddie—

When the door swung open, the eyes that met yours blinked quickly, not knowing whether they were imagining it or not.

Your blinking eyes were quick to open widely as well, and a sigh of relief left your chest.

It wasn’t Eddie.

But it still wasn’t any better. Your face was quick to feel hot as your gaze met hers, and you felt ashamed. Not knowing what to say, you murmured a simple “Hey.”

Max stood in front of you with an unreadable expression, and you were afraid. For the first time, you were afraid of her.

Was she going to slam the door in your face? Was she just going to ignore you?

You bit your lip out of nervousness at the silence, and just as you were about to open your mouth again, Max squealed—which you had never, ever heard her do before—as she wrapped her arms around you in a jump-like hug.

Your breath got caught in your lungs, and a hearty giggle escaped your plump lips as you embraced it, melting into the hug.

“I can’t believe it.” She squealed, pulling away from the hug to see your face fully again, her eyes almost prickling with tears.

Jesus. She had grown up so fast.

Her face that fell around your shoulders felt weird now that she was so much taller and much closer to you in height. She looked different, and you couldn’t decide whether to feel ashamed or guilty about it.

Your eyes widened, almost in shock, you never expected to be perceived in any way positively, especially by Max. And she could sense that shock on your face, with the way your mouth visibly stood agape.

“You-uh… you’re not mad?” You implored, eyes almost widening with the need to know.

Her eyes softened, and the sorrows in your heart were quick to dissipate with it, she shook her head lightly, almost in an all-knowing way. “Uhm- I-I know what happened.” She almost whispered, gaze falling toward the kitchen, implying that Nancy had already babbled about the day you left.

Damn you, Nancy Wheeler.

Your head popped up toward the kitchen, where Nancy was, as if you were going to run up to her, your cheeks fluttered with embarrassment, you never wanted Max to find out.

“Don’t… please don’t be mad at her.” She turned your attention back to her with a gentle touch on your arm, easing your tense body with just one touch.

“If she didn’t tell me what happened… I don’t think I’d even talk to you, Pinky.” She admitted shyly, your gaze on her still widening.

“Wh-what exactly did she tell you?” You asked, you weren’t going to get mad at Nancy, you knew she didn’t have any malicious intentions, you just never wanted Max to know what her step-brother did. At least not until she was much older. Your brain almost short-circuited as you looked at her once again. She was already much older; you knew Nancy made the right call.

“Not much!” Max blurted quickly, maybe to ease your worries; maybe it was the truth.

“Just that- uh-that… Billy did something horrible, and that you and Eddie left and then uh… the two of you went to.. uh—Chicago?” She stuttered, head hanging low before she looked back at you, trying to read your expressions.

“California,” You muttered. “Uh-Los Angeles, to be exact.” You breathed, correcting her. Did she know more? Did she also know that you left Eddie after that, too? Did she know that you had been carrying the guilt of leaving Eddie, her and those four little idiots too? The only ones you didn’t have any contact with in the last five years?

“Is that… is that where you are now?” Her brows pinched together; she knew where you were—New York, Nancy had told her. But she just wanted to hear more from you, and you could sense it.

You shook your head. “New York.” Your lips pursed together, and she gave you a slight nod as if to ask if there was anything else going on in your life, you caught it immediately. “My cousin helped me get this apartment, and she, uh, has this record shop there.” Max gave you a tight-lipped smile.

“And, uh, it has like a tattoo shop behind it—records by day and tattoos by night.” You revealed more, awkwardly, your stupid joke made you want to hit your head against the perfectly white marbled walls of the Wheeler’s. “I’m actually training to become a tattoo artist now,” You said with your gaze stuck on how much she had grown now, almost feeling embarrassed for some reason before Max’s gasp turned your attention back to her.

“No way.”

“Dude, you’re still so fucking cool.” She nudged your shoulder, and your face instantly lit up. All the worries in your head disappeared, giddiness replacing it when you realized Max still saw you as her cool older sister.

“You think so?” You teased, giving her a light-hearted chuckle, “Uh… yeah? Dude, you work at a record store that has a tattoo shop in the back… you invented cool at this point.” She encouraged, surprise and fascination washing over her face.

“If Mad Max says so” You teased, muffling her hair and earning whines from her.

And you hated that it took you back to five years ago. Every stupid fucking thing you saw or did in this town made you take a trip down memory lane, but it was the worst with Max, because almost every memory with her had your head wandering off to the certain redhead’s step-brother. A chill ran down your spine at the idea of him even being back in town. But there was no fucking way, right?

You had heard from Nancy that the Mayfield-Hargrove’s had moved out and returned to California by the time Max started going to college—somewhere far away from them. However, she and the other kids always returned to Hawkins in the summer. You assumed she wanted to reunite with her friends and that she was trying to avoid the step-fuckers—a nickname Max herself gave both Billy and Neil Hargrove.

“He-uh… He doesn’t know about the wedding, right? Or he isn’t… he isn’t back in town? Is he?” You stuttered eerily; you knew Nancy would never invite him, but you still wanted to make sure that he didn’t know about it or that he wouldn’t know you were back in town.

“No—god, no.” Max shook her head quickly. “He’s in California with the ‘parents’.” She scoffed. “He has no fucking clue.” She added.

And you nodded simply; one of your worries was now at ease.

“What about…” You trailed off, pretending to sound nonchalant about wanting to ask about Eddie, you were anything but as you fiddled with your fingers.

Max picked up on it immediately. “Eddie?” she asked almost smugly, making you nod quickly—too quickly to appear nonchalant.

“Oh!” She grinned, making your cheeks feel hot.

Damn it. How did he still have this effect on you without even being present?

“He came like an hour ago. The last I saw him he was arguing with Dustin about their nerdy game.” She rolled her eyes slightly.

“Oh, uhm, that’s—that’s good…” You said unsurely, you knew he was here, because of his stupid van that was parked outside just behind your car, but what the fuck were you even going to do when you did eventually see him.

Would you pretend like nothing happened?

Would he pretend like nothing happened?

How the fuck were you supposed to do that when your feelings for him were still all over the place? You already felt dumb for not managing to get over him in the last five years, it just seemed impossible considering how things were left off.

You cleared your throat, turning your attention to Max. You didn’t need Eddie to cloud your mind right now, the guilt of abandoning Max still filled your stomach.

“Max…” You caught her attention softly, and almost as if she knew you were going to bring up the subject, a pout overtook her features.

“I—I’m sorry…” You started, voice shaky. “I fucked up, I should have let you know... A message, a call, a note… Jesus—anything.” Your voice was meek, causing you to gulp.

“I should have done something, I—Fuck… I don’t know what to say, just that I’m really sorry.” You were stumbling over your own words when your vision got blurry, eyes glossy as you looked up at her.

“Pinky…” She muttered comfortingly, you didn’t expect this kindness from her that you thought you were unworthy of. You had left her without anything, and she still greeted you with open arms.

Maybe you were wrong. Maybe people could forgive you, maybe they could forget. Maybe Eddie would laugh it off.

“I know that…” She offered a sympathetic gaze. “I knew deep down that you would never leave without a goodbye if it wasn’t important.” She gulped, physically, that familiar lump in her throat returned with the emotional weight her words held.

“I’m not a kid anymore.” Max gave you a small smile. “I know how hard that must’ve been for you, okay?” Her hands were quick to take yours into hers, fingers gently soothing you. “I don’t blame you. So don’t fucking blame yourself… I know how you get.” Her hands stood on your shoulder now, shaking you lightly in the guise of making you feel better.

A poor smile appeared on your lips, Max possibly didn't realize how much her words mattered to you, how you needed to relieve yourself of the guilt. One gesture from her almost enough to heal the wound that coming back to Hawkins split open deep inside of you.

“Oh my god!” Nancy’s shriek caused you to turn around.

“Pinky, finally!” Her voice beamed, and before you even got a chance to say anything, she engulfed you in a hug.

“I was about to lose it,” She whispered into the hug before her eyes widened at you and Max.

“Shit…” She muttered, knowing Max had probably already told you that she blabbed about your disappearance.

“I was going to mention that…” She tilted her head adorably, a shy smile adorning her lips as you brushed it off with a laugh.

“Don’t worry about it, Nance.” You waved your hands in dismissal. “I can’t be pissed at you for anything… at least for the next five days…” You hummed.

“You better use your wedding privileges wisely.” You said, throwing her a wink, as you pulled away from the hug.

Your hands rubbed together quickly. “So... uh–where’s everyone?” You stammered, you were mostly asking about Eddie, but you also wanted to know where the hell Steve and Robin were. You missed those two idiots who were attached at the hip. They could calm you down better than anyone.

“The other kiddos are only going to be able to make it to the rehearsal dinner and the actual wedding.” She pouted, knowing that she planned a five day full of activities for all the people closest to her and Jonathan, but Mike, Lucas, El and Will were all going to miss it.

She huffed. “And uhhh… Steve and Robin are coming later tonight.”

“You remember we got that brunch thing at Steve’s tomorrow, right?” She asked, eyes squinting with doubt, before her arms crossed against her chest.

You almost groaned, head falling back. Fucking Steve and his stupid brunch plan.

“How could I forget?” You said through pressed lips, trying your best to seem enthusiastic, it wasn’t that you had a problem with it—it was because you were nervous, so fucking nervous to be in the same close proximity of Eddie again.

“And Jonathan should be...” She eyed the backyard. “Yup, in the backyard with the band. I left all the band planning to him.” She shrugged, making your eyebrows quirk.

Shit. She really did fucking love Jonathan, didn’t she? She would’ve never let anyone meddle with her own plans otherwise.

“Uhh–Dustin and… the others–” Her voice slightly cracked, and you instantly knew she was talking about Eddie.

“They’re-uh they’re just in the basement… uh—getting something I needed.” She nervously scratched her head. “I’m sure they’ll—uh… say hi when they can.” She gave you a nervous smile, eyeing Max before turning her attention to you.

And just like clockwork, just as Nancy started to babble more about the plans she had for the five days you were supposed to be in Hawkins, her words were quickly interrupted by the loud voice of Dustin, “Shut up!”

“Shut the fuck up!” He exclaimed excitedly as you gave him a slight giggle.

“I wasn’t talking,” You joked, and before you could get another word out, Dustin squeezed you in a tight hug, causing more giggles and excited squeaks to escape your lips.

“Looks like somebody missed me, huh?” You raised a brow.

“What have you been up to, Dustybun?” You asked with a sly smirk, causing Dustin to cringe at the nickname.

“Me? Jesus, you’ve been gone for five years, and you’re asking what I’ve been up to?” You shrugged.

“Where the fuck have you been?” You couldn’t pinpoint if it was genuine curiosity or a slight anger lingering in his tone.

“New York,” Max spoke before you, the attention in the room shifting towards her.

“She’s a tattoo artist now.” She exclaimed excitedly, causing Dustin’s eyes to widen.

“You?” He questioned, causing Nancy to join in and nod in excitement.

“No fucking way!”

“Well, I’m not exactly—”

“Dude, that’s so fucking cool!” Dustin gushed, interrupting you.

“Man, I knew those sketches were too cool to let them go to waste on Eddie’s bedroom walls,” He snorted, but your brows quipped, his bedroom walls? Did he still keep those?

“You have to tattoo me,” He raved, interrupting your thoughts as you stared at him in disbelief.

“No way, do you want Miss Henderson to kill me?” You huffed, crossing your arms against your chest.

“Oh, come on, just one little favor?” He pouted.

“Nuh-uh! The last time you asked me for a favor, she chided me for months, months!” You emphasized, “She even left me one too many voicemails scolding me!” Dustin sighed.

“How about something not-too-big? Like the bat one you did for Eddie, it looks so fucking—”

“You talkin’ bout me, Henderson?” A voice rang from the basement, and the slight sound of his footsteps dragging closer and closer toward the two of you caused you to stop dead in your tracks. You always knew Dustin was too loud for his own good.

You gulped, physically, and that lump in your throat reclaimed its place, his voice caused further suffocation in your throat, not being able to breathe when you could recognize that husky tone anywhere.

But it felt different.

Something about him felt different.

Your brain was struggling to comprehend a thought, your mouth had dried up, and it was getting harder to breathe.

“Dude... you could not rock a tattoo like me, no matter how fuckin' hard you—” And there was a pause, a small hitch in Eddie’s breath, as he finally realized who Dustin was talking to. And you could feel that hesitation, that uncomfortable tension filling the room that was once comfortable.

“Pinky?” You could recognize him just by his footstep alone, but now you’re sure it’s him, the nickname still rolling off his tongue so easily and sugary, like you had never left, like everything was okay again.

You’re slow to turn to face him, heart pounding with worry before you fully take him in, trying to decide his facial expressions, waiting for the anger, disappointment, shame, and fury.

You cannot place what his gaze holds, but you have missed the small glimmer in his eyes, the same one he always had when he saw you, so promising, so mellow that you feel your heart tightening.

You take him in now more than ever, his cheekbones are hollow and his face is more defined. He has so much more muscle on him, and it makes you question how long he has been working out.

His hair still lays messily on his forehead, bangs framing his face perfectly. Black jeans paired with a band-tee, and not just any band-tee, a Corroded Coffin shirt that unintentionally has you smiling. His dark brown eyes are mesmerizing as ever, eyelashes fluttering as he tries to accept the sight in front of him. Trying to make sure that he isn’t hallucinating, that you are actually here.

He looks good, so good that you can feel your mouth dry up, words getting stuck in your throat, the guitar pick necklace adorning his neck makes you want to pull him closer toward you.

You study him more than you should; those deep brown eyes are staring at you like a deer in headlights.

When he takes a step closer, gaze still locked to yours, you feel as if your souls have made a bridge, one you weren’t sure if you would be able to mend.

Close. He’s very close, but still, not close enough, not to your liking anyway. You want to be close enough to take him in wholly; you want him to engulf you in his arms, protecting you from all that’s bad in the world, feeling every ounce of him. The one person you had been yearning for was standing a foot away from you, and it was truly painful.

“You came,” Was all that left his plump lips, his gaze was still soft. He was as nervous as you are, something that you didn’t manage to pick up on.

If only he knew why you had to abandon him, maybe he would understand… Maybe he would even rid you of your guilt.

“Y-yeah, I did,” You stuttered.

“Max, Dustin!” Nancy announced. “Why don’t you two help me in the back?” Nancy threw a look that both of them understood immediately, running off after her without another word exchanged.

The incessant throb in Eddie’s heart returned when his attention turned back to you, he knew you would come, but he didn’t know how much that would crush him.

That rage in him, bubbling up at the surface, subsided quickly when you gave him that gentle look. “What’s Dustin yapping about?” He asked with a chuckle, attempting to lighten the mood and ease his own worries.

“Oh— uhm… just that he wanted me to tattoo him,” You couldn’t help the nervous crack in your voice.

“You? Oh my god, you finally did it?”

“Well… not exactly.” You gave him an awkward chuckle. “I’m training to be one, though.” You shrugged.

“You know I’m a happy customer of yours.” He gave you a smile before he flashed his forearm, showing you the bat tattoo that you gave him five years ago.

He had much more tattoos now, but the bat tattoo you gave him still stood out among the thousand others on his forearm, at least it did to you. “Oh!” He breathed, attention diverting to something else as his hands fiddled behind him. He dug them in his back pocket, he struggled to get something it out. “Aha!” He exclaimed, waving the worn out notebook in front of your curious gaze. “But I’m definitely not giving you the ‘Promise’ notebook back!”

Your pupils dilated at the sight; he still had it. He still had the notebook that your stupid sketches were sprawled all over. You gave it to him sometime during senior year, when he was having some trouble with his songwriting process. Your parents got you that notebook as a joke as soon as they saw the handwritten ‘Promise’ on the front, a silly play on your nickname. And you wanted him to have it; you wanted it to inspire him as much as it did you; your art mattered, and you wanted him to see that, so did his.

“You… you still have that?” You asked, an astonished look still not leaving your features. “Yeah, it really played a key role on our first album.” He beamed. A crimson red blush was quick to wash over his cheeks; he wasn’t sure if he should’ve told you that or let you in this quickly when you left him on a whim in LA.

“But… that’s— that’s still so fucking cool, Pinky,” His eyes widened, he shook off his thoughts in a flash. He had missed you, so fucking much—more than he let you on.

“So I’ve been told.” You meant to sound nonchalant.

“What have you been up to?” You asked as if you didn’t know, as if you didn’t try to gather some information about him from Nancy and Jonathan. As if you didn’t listen to their album the second it came to your record shop.

“Just making some music, here and there.”

It was a lie.

He knew it was a lie, and you knew it was a lie.

Eddie made it big after the last time you saw him, signing onto the biggest record label and releasing an album that became way bigger than even his group had intended to.

“You don’t have to be so humble, I know how big you guys have made it.” You offer him a slight smile.

“Maybe a little bit.” He gestures with his hands, causing you to giggle. “Even had a gig here last week, the crowd was crazy.”

“It’s funny, though.” He murmured, causing you to raise your brows. “All the fuckin’ people at Hawkins who called me a freak and tried to shun me out was screaming my name... pretty weird fuckin’ feeling, huh?” He shrugged.

“I guess I know how the popular princess feels now,” He teased.

You nudged him slightly, “Guess you’re the popular boy of Hawkins now, huh?” He gave you a slight smile, and it felt comfortable, he was so easy to be with.

“Yeah, Jonathan worked really hard to get us for this wedding thing, you know?” He joked, giving a slight smirk.

“You and Jonathan, huh?”

“I don’t even know how you guys became best friends.” You added, wanting to joke.

“Yeah, I guess a lot happens when you don’t abandon people.” Ouch. You guessed you had deserved that one, but it still hurt to see him think of you this way, the entire atmosphere of the room had shifted, the casual conversation you had wasn’t as genuine as you thought it was, and you could see that he was hurt.

You knew he would be angry, but this seeming grudge wasn’t what you were hoping for. Maybe it was selfish of you, but you wanted him to miss you, tell you that he wanted to be with you, engulfing you in his arms as he spun you around, muttering how much he loved you.

But that wasn’t realistic, was it?

You gulped, feeling awkward, and now it was Eddie’s turn to feel bad. He internally cringed as he saw the look on your face, he knew that look so well. The way you played with your hair for some sort of comfort, he could sense that the guilt was eating away at you.

“I— I guess I deserved that.” You forced a smile, chuckling ironically, sensing the visible shift in Eddie’s face, the initial shock of reuniting with you wearing off, and his anger and hurt taking over.

The tension that lingered in the air was interrupted by Jonathan swinging open the sliding door in the backyard and the four people standing behind him.

Before you could comprehend who they were, a squealing voice caused you to turn around, and a blonde-haired woman brushed past you. “Eds!” She called out, walking toward Eddie.

You looked up to see Jonathan leading Gareth, Jeff, and Frank to the backyard, telling them something about their gig, but you could care less as you stood still in your place, eyes glued on how Eddie greeted the girl, focus shifting solely on her as his hands caressed her shoulders, comforting her, as if you weren’t there, as if he didn’t care.

That screeching voice sounded familiar, but you couldn’t tell who the hell she was supposed to be when all you could see was her back and Eddie’s hands ghosting over her waist.

You were starting to feel small, trapped in your own body, with nowhere to go. Why was she hugging Eddie? Why were they so fucking close?

When she finally turned around, tucking her straight blonde hair behind her ears, glimmering blue eyes met yours, and you immediately realized who it was.

Chrissy.

The same Chrissy that was your supposed friend in high school, the same Chrissy who suddenly turned on you and made your life a living hell in senior year.

That’s why you didn’t recognize her—the strawberry blonde color she had was now more vanilla, and you hated to admit that she looked pretty—too fucking pretty.

Your eyes were narrowed with distaste; you had no right to be jealous, but you were powerless against that ugly emotion when it came to Eddie, swelling your chest way quicker than you intended to and stinging you harder as you struggled to keep a forced smile on your lips.

Huffing, your mind drifted to Eddie. Surely he wouldn’t want anything to do with her, you decided. He knew some of the horrible things she did to you during your senior year, so there was no fucking way he would want anything to do with her.

Right?

“Oh my god, Pinky!” She squealed once again when she saw you, and you wanted to chuckle bitterly. With your tongue rolling inside your cheek, you tried to keep your damn mouth shut. She didn’t get to call you that nickname. Not when she did all of that during your senior year.

You didn’t return the hug she forced you into, eyes drifting to Eddie who was now avoiding your gaze. Lips pursed shut as he twisted his rings. Something weird was going on, and your stomach churned at the thought.

When Chrissy’s forced embrace on you ended, you barely forced a smile, and with a dead look on your face, you waited for her to disappear.

Why was she even here?

Who even invited her?

Running up to Nancy and asking her what the fuck she was thinking inviting her here would’ve been an exaggeration, you realized.

As envious thoughts sank further and further into your head, you realized something was wrong now. The way Chrissy leaned in to whisper something in Eddie's ear, giggling as she threw her head back.

It meant something. It was like a sick feeling of deja-vu. A sinking feeling twisted your stomach, and a pang of insecurity gnawed at it. Your jaw clenched involuntarily; Eddie didn't even spare a glance in your direction. His attention was fully on her, and a wave of rage surged within you, threatening to overflow. The need to separate them, to pull her away from him, was almost unbearable.

Still, you knew you couldn’t do anything, and that was what made your blood boil, Eddie was nothing to you, he wasn’t even a friend to you—at least not anymore, something that you made sure of five years ago.

And before you could say or do anything more,

Chrissy smashed her lips against Eddie’s.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson series #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x you #stranger things fanfic #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson imagine #getaway car #getaway car series

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vampaiaz · 2 months ago

Text

– faygo dreams

blurb about billy and eddie

pairing: billy hargrove / reader / eddie munson

tags: 18+ smut, afab!reader (she/her pronouns), billy and eddie are into each other too, this is just a small blurb about a three-way kiss with billy and eddie hehe

a/n: i'm writing this blurb based off of one of my perv eddie + billy headcanons hehe! thank u for reading and pls enjoy :3 u can request also! should i turn this into an actual story? let me know!

your lips were still tingling when the bottle spun again. but everything else felt loud—your pulse, the bass of the music bleeding in from the hallway, the way billy’s hand hadn’t quite left your waist.

eddie caught your eye, tongue poking at his cheek, like he was still tasting you. he leaned back on one hand, lazy and loose, but the way he looked at you? anything but casual.

“you alright?” robin mouthed at you from across the circle, half-smiling, half-incredulous.

you just nodded, trying not to laugh.

the bottle landed on steve next, who got dared to take a shot every time someone in the circle had hooked up with someone else there. after three shots, he dramatically flopped to the floor, hand on his chest. “i regret college.”

nancy rolled her eyes and passed him water.

billy leaned closer to you. “didn’t know munson kissed like that,” he said low, like it was a joke. but it wasn’t.

“jealous?” you murmured.

he just smirked and flicked your braid gently over your shoulder. “maybe.”

eddie’s voice cut in before the bottle could spin again. “actually, new rule,” he said, sitting up straighter. “if you kiss someone, and it’s good, you owe them a dare.”

“that’s not—” steve started.

“shut up, harrington,” eddie said. “i’m making it interesting.”

the bottle now sat forgotten. a new game had started.

eddie looked at billy. “truth or dare.”

billy’s eyes narrowed, but he tilted his chin. “dare.”

eddie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “i dare you… to let y/n sit on your lap the rest of the game.”

billy didn’t blink. “gladly.”

before you could react, billy had tugged you toward him, pulling you into his lap like it was always meant to happen. his hand splayed across your thigh, possessive. his voice dropped next to your ear. “comfy?”

“we’ll see,” you said, heart pounding as your back pressed to his chest.

“your turn,” robin said, raising an eyebrow like she lived for this.

billy’s arms locked around you tighter. “eddie. truth or dare?”

eddie tilted his head. “truth.”

billy smirked. “you like y/n?”

eddie didn’t flinch. “obviously.”

the air thickened again. someone let out a slow, “oooh.”

you didn’t move. didn’t breathe. but you felt both of them—billy’s pulse under your hand, eddie’s eyes on your face.

you reached for your drink, casually. “guess i’m the most popular person in this room.”

billy hummed. “you sure about that?”

eddie gave you a lazy grin. “there’s only one way to find out.”

the tension wrapped around the three of you like smoke. and even though the game kept going—more dares, more shots, someone flashing a tattoo they probably regretted—you couldn’t focus on any of it.

not when billy’s hand was tracing slow circles on your thigh.

not when eddie’s fingers brushed yours every time he passed you a drink.

not when both of them were looking at you like they were already planning round two.

and maybe, just maybe, you’d let them.

the game carried on, background noise now. someone dared steve to take a selfie in jonathan’s bathroom wearing only a towel. someone else had to eat a banana in a way that made everyone uncomfortable.

but none of it really registered. not when you were in billy’s lap, one arm slung low around your waist, his fingers absently tapping a rhythm on your skin. and not with eddie sitting across from you, eyes dark, a slow grin spreading across his face like he was in on some secret only he and billy knew.

he wasn’t looking just at you anymore.

he was looking at both of you.

and billy? he noticed.

you felt the shift when billy leaned forward a little, resting his chin near your shoulder, eyes locked on eddie. “you keep staring, munson.”

eddie tilted his head, cool and unbothered. “can you blame me?”

“depends.” billy’s voice was lower now. rougher. “you staring at her?”

his hand slid a little higher up your thigh.

“or me?”

eddie didn’t miss a beat. “both.”

your breath caught.

no one else in the room seemed to notice how the game had stopped. how it had quietly shifted into something else. something hotter. heavier.

billy laughed, soft and sharp, like he liked what he heard. “you into this or something?”

eddie raised a brow. “you not?”

and just like that, the heat between you three sparked again—different this time. deeper.

you turned slightly in billy’s lap, looking between them, heart hammering.

“am i a shared fantasy or something?” you asked, half teasing, half breathless.

“not a fantasy,” eddie said. “you’re real.”

“and right here,” billy added, his gaze flicking down to your lips, then to eddie’s mouth, then back again.

a moment passed.

“we should talk,” eddie said suddenly, too casually to mean anything innocent.

billy raised an eyebrow. “yeah?”

“yeah,” eddie said, already pushing up from the couch. “come on.”

he didn’t wait for an answer—just turned toward the hallway, disappearing past the half-open door that led to the kitchen. you felt billy’s chest rumble behind you as he laughed under his breath.

“subtle,” he muttered, squeezing your thigh once before standing too. he didn’t say anything else—just took your hand and followed.

the kitchen was warm and dim, lit only by the dull glow of the microwave clock and the soft hum of the fridge. it smelled like weed, cheap beer, and leftover pizza—but it was quiet.

eddie was already leaning against the counter, chewing on the edge of a plastic straw he’d found, eyes flicking up when you walked in.

you let the door swing shut behind you.

“so,” you said, trying not to sound breathless, “we’re talking?”

eddie grinned, tossing the straw. “sort of.”

billy stepped behind you again, his hands resting on your hips. “you gonna make another dare, munson?”

“thinking about it,” eddie said, eyes dragging from billy’s hands to your mouth, then back up. “but we’re off the record now, yeah?”

no circle. no crowd. just you three.

“so what happens now?” you asked.

“this,” eddie said, stepping forward—and kissing you.

not like at the game. not for show.

this was slower. deeper. his hands cradled your face, and he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it all night. maybe longer.

billy didn’t stop him.

his hands slid up your sides, warm and grounding, and then he leaned in too. his mouth brushed the corner of yours just as eddie pulled back, breath caught in his throat.

and then billy kissed eddie.

your eyes widened.

and not like a joke, either—not a dare, not for laughs. billy kissed him like he meant it. like he’d wanted to. slow, deliberate, tongues brushing and lips parting and hands fisting into fabric.

eddie made a sound low in his throat, pulling billy closer by the front of his shirt.

you stood there, caught between them, heat blooming low in your stomach.

when they finally broke apart, they looked at you at the same time.

“your turn,” billy said, voice rough.

you didn’t hesitate.

you grabbed billy by the jaw and kissed him hard, biting his bottom lip just enough to make him growl, and then turned to eddie and kissed him just as deep—messy, hot, needy.

somehow, it all blurred together—hands on your waist, fingers in your hair, mouths crashing together like none of you could get enough.

it was reckless. chaotic. perfect.

a three-way kiss, if you could even call it that—because it was more than that now. it was tension spilling over, three different heartbeats syncing up, too many hands, too much heat, not enough time.

when you finally pulled back, all of you were flushed, breathing hard, clothes wrinkled from tugging and grabbing.

you were still sandwiched between them. billy’s hand was under your shirt. eddie’s thumb was brushing your cheek.

“well,” you said, blinking. “so much for just talking.”

eddie chuckled. “best conversation i’ve had all week.”

billy licked his lips, still staring at both of you. “round two?

#stranger things #billy hargrove #eddie munson #billy hargrove smut #eddie munson smut #stranger things smut

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sethsclearwater · 2 years ago

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hi! would u write a fluff with Paul and pregnant reader where he is really happy about it and goes around telling everybody (the elders, Sam and Emily) that they're having a baby at every opportunity he has and everybody is so proud of him. Just some tooth rotting fluff

i love him🥺🥺

...

"isn't she just the prettiest thing you've ever seen?" paul asked jared and sam, happily holding the ultrasound picture he'd insisted you get printed out at your most recent doctor's appointment.

jared laughed, "paul you literally can't even see anyth-" he started, but was quickly cut off when sam smacked him upside the head, eliciting a loud groan from the male.

"she's adorable paul," sam smiled, "they said everything is okay with both of them?" he asked as he leaned up against the counter of his and emily's kitchen, his question referring to you and the baby.

paul nodded, coming to stand behind you at the kitchen island, setting down the ultrasound picture so he could slide his hands over your shoulders to gently rub them, "all good," he reassured, "right princess?" he asked you, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

you giggled and nodded, sliding your hands over your protruding bump, "all is well with the lahote girls," you teased, squealing as paul leaned down to pepper your cheeks with kisses, "paul-" you laughed, rolling your eyes as he slid his hands down your sides so he could also rest his hands atop your bump.

jared rolled his eyes, going to grab one of the muffins from the plate emily had set down just before running upstairs to check on hers and sam's sleeping toddler. sure enough, emily appeared a few moments later. she was quick to spot the sonogram, immediately stepping over to the two of you to pick it up, "oh my god is this her?" she squealed, beaming at the two of you when you and paul both nodded, paul momentarily stopping his kisses to nod.

"oh she's the cutest!" emily exclaimed, spinning around to face her husband who let out a breathy chuckle and nodded, "we need to have another one," she said, all of you letting out laughs at her comment.

"maybe after olly gets out of this sleep regression phase," sam offered, chuckling when emily nodded, setting the sonogram back down on the island so she could wrap her arms around sam's waist, hugging him tightly.

paul pressed one final kiss to the crown of your head before he was reaching down to grab the sonogram from the table again, "we should send this to billy and old quil, right?" he asked as he grabbed his phone, smiling when you nodded and giggled.

"do you wanna send it? you can totally send it-" he started, quickly realizing you might want to be the one to show everyone the sonogram picture but you were quick to shut down his worries by pressing a quick kiss to his bicep.

"you can send it," you reassured, smiling up at him as he nodded, quickly snapping a picture of your sonogram before he was texting it to old quil (who you were, quite frankly, surprised he knew how to text at all) and billy.

"you two are the cutest," emily mused as she got out of sam's arms to step over to the fridge so she could figure out what to make for dinner, "did you sign up for those birthing classes i sent over to you?" she asked, pulling out some chicken and flour, looking like she was going to be making breaded chicken or something similar for dinner.

you nodded, "just figured it out last night actually," you giggled, "you saved us so much time with that," you added, smiling gratefully over at emily who nodded, smiling back at you.

"they start next wednesday," paul added and sam nodded, both him and emily happy to know the two of you used their recommendation for the birthing class they had used.

"you're gonna love it y/n, they're so helpful and can definitely answer more of your questions than i can," emily explained and you let out another laugh as her comment, both of you well aware of just how many questions you'd texted her throughout your pregnancy so far.

you went to respond to her but were cut off when you felt a soft flutter in your belly from your baby, causing you to let out a soft gasp as you ran your hands down to where you just felt the kick, "paul come here," you said even though he was still standing right behind you, quickly taking his hand and pressing it down where the baby just kicked.

"what-" he started, quickly stopping himself when he realized what you were trying to show him when he felt another familiar kick under his hand, "oh princess," paul murmured, "'s not hurting you, right?" he asked softly and you shook your head, leaning back into his chest as paul ran his hands over your belly, loving knowing your baby was able to somewhat interact with him even from in your belly.

"she's kicking?" sam asked, chuckling when paul nodded.

"oh that is so weird-" jared started teasingly, letting out a loud laugh when paul whipped around to glare at him. you giggled, already knowing paul was going to make him regret saying that.

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billskeis · 1 year ago

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can you do smut with 2014 or 2015 Bill

ᡣ𐭩 bill's faux fur coat

bill and the rest of tokio hotel were filming a new music video, they were back for a new era and you were for sure they were gonna kill it! the five of you were chilling in the dressing room, prepping and looking for outfits to wear at the shooting.

“how’s this jacket meine liebe?” bill asks.

bill pulls out a long faux fur coat, the pattern on it adorned that of a cheetah. or maybe a snow leopard? who knows. your eyes widened at how amazing such a piece was on its own.

over the course of the years you and bill have been together, his style has changed quite a bit, more frequently.

bill has been able to explore a more ambiguous type of wear that he’s always dreamt of, since society is now more open and welcoming in comparison to the past.

“i love it!” you exclaim clapping your hands together, bill does a twirl for you as you giggle admiring your boyfriend, “touch the jacket y/n! it’s soo soft,” “oh wow, it feels almost real,” “you know i would NEVER get real fur though,” “i know i know, you’re such a sweetie bill,” “you know i am,” bill smirks at you.

while going into the shoot, your eyes were glued onto bill. who while wearing the jacket, wore nothing underneath it. pants, obviously, but he has no top on.

this reveals the multiple tattoos he curated over the years, your personal favourite was his chest piece, he got that tattoo twinning with tom whose tattoo was the same above his elbow.

not only did it show his tattoos, but his one nipple piercing that you swore you hated but it seemed to have grown on you.

not to mention, bill wore low rise jeans that revealed a section of his happy trail, which, bitch..

had you drooling.

“i want it,” you said out of the blue, “h-huh?” one of the managers replied to your strange comment, “the jacket. i want it after the shoot, can i have it?” you plead looking straight into the stylist’s eyes who dart a confused look at the manager, “i don’t see why not, we won’t need it after this,” you smile brightly at this, “oh thankyouthankyou!!”

bill came running backstage after the filming was finished and brought you into a hug off your feet, spinning you around, “babybaby how was i!?” “just perfect bill! but take this jacket off—i’m going home by the way,”

bill pouts as he begins removing the clothing garment, handing it to you. you put the jacket on immediately and snuggle into it.

“so soon?” he questions giving you his puppy dog eyes, you usually couldn’t resist but it was for his own good, “uhhh yeah! i gotta’ start dinner, see you?” “awww okay baby but i expect my favourite!” he places a kiss on your cheek as he walks away for another outfit change.

it’ll be his favourite alright.

8:36pm

filming done schatzi! coming home rn

8:37pm

okkk :)

8:45pm

u don’t sound 2 happy D:

8:51pm

nonsense billy! just cookin.. come home quicker ;)

9:01pm

omw asap <3

the sound of keys turning can be heard through the apartment hallway of which you shared with bill. as the door turned open bill closed it behind him and turned to where his eyes met something, or rather someone filling the usually empty hallway.

there you stood, in the jacket. in the jacket that he wore during the shoot. what was under the jacket?

nothing, the only thing you wore was your panties, each jacket flap covering both your tits, only middle cleavage showing.

“y-y/n! what’re you doing baby someone could see you..” you giggle as bill ushers you further away from the front door despite it already being closed.

his attempts to close the jacket in front of you proves useless as you pry his hands and arms away from your body, twirling in all your glory as the jacket flies from the gust of wind you create exposing your body momentarily.

“meine liebe.. you’re driving me nuts.. what’s for dinner?”

“me.”

“s’much bill! you’re being too rough!” “yea? well, you’re being such a fucking brat.. s’not what you wanted?? didn’t wanna be under me and have this pussy fucked??” bill pistons his hips into yours, abdomen constantly teasing your clit every time he brought his body closer to yours.

it’s the second time you came. before this, he played and teased with your tits, nipples puffy, definitely way more sensitive than before and heavy dark hickeys left all over the surface area.

bringing his lips to yours, bill kisses you deeply. the kiss was filled with sex, he’s rough and not sweet, sucking on your bottom lip which was for sure going to be a little swollen after. you run your tongue over his two lip piercings and he scoffs.

“still wanna continue your antiques huh?” bill lifts up one of your legs for better leverage and fucks closer to your cervix, “o-oww.. bill,” “oh please, i warned you beforehand but you want things your way. such a whore for me huh..”

he drags his length in and out of your cunt, nice and slow, but his thrusts are hard, and unexpected. still keeping a rhythm, he thrusts, edging himself slightly so he can pump you with more of his load.

“gonna come, come with me baby..” he now brings his other hand to leave circles on your clit while his latter still straddles your leg, “oh fuuuck bill!”

you convulse as electricity pulses through your body, third time coming. the pressure being too much as your squirt sprays a bit of bill’s pelvis while he fucks you through your orgasm, “shit!”

feeling how you clench around bill, he can’t help but come right after you, fucking his cum deep into you as it shoots within your cervix.

he takes himself out of you and watches how his cum ribbons out your cunt, giving it a little slap, “a-ah!” “get up schatzi, not done with you..”

with the little strength you have left in your body, you sat upright against the headboard. bill, a little higher than you inches his hips closed to your mouth, dick still stiff.

he uses his hand to guide the tip of his head to your mouth, rubbing it side to side on your bottom lip, “open,” he demands and you widen your mouth cavity to welcome in his length.

he glides his dick in and out your throat, mouth agape to let out such whorish moans. you mentally question whether it’s you the whore or bill.

you ensure your tongue remains still against the bottom of your mouth to lick clean bill’s shaft. tasting bitter, you take in a mixture of your’s and bill’s cum.

“fuck y/n.. you do so well f’me, love you so much, stick your tongue out more yea?” and that you do, as he places his tip onto your tongue, you jerk the rest of his shaft to a rhythm he particularly likes.

as you can feel him shake and see his hips jerk slightly under your touch, bill can’t help but moan “u-ugh fuck, coming..!” whimpering, bill shoots ropes of come onto your tongue, thick, and surprisingly a lot.

riding out his high, he finishes, breathing heavy. you close your mouth to ingest all of bill, sticking out your tongue to your boyfriend who smiles down at you proudly. he brings himself a little bit lower to wipe the sweat off your forehead and gives you a quick peck.

“thank you baby, so proud of you,” “mm, now what’re we going to do about the jacket..?” you both look at each other and the state of how the jacket was left in.

matted, dirty, definitely stained or soaking in.. well god knows what, you guys only had it for one day yet it was already fucking ruined.

“let’s see what time dry-cleaning opens tomorrow.”

#tokio hotel #tokio hotel x y/n #tokio hotel x you #tokio hotel x reader #tokio hotel smut #bill kaulitz #bill kaulitz x y/n #bill kaulitz x you #bill kaulitz x reader #bill kaulitz smut #2000s #fyp

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thelovelylolly · 1 year ago

Note

Hey! Love your billy fics I have so many ideas but for now I'll go off the valentines prompt list! Can I get a billy x reader with the prompts 24. "I don’t like them, I like you." and 25."it's always been you."

Make A Move

Summary: Billy only has eyes for you Warnings: like a smidge of self doubt, reader is described as shorter than Billy, teenagers partying and a lil mention of alcohol, not proofread bc im super busy srry Word Count: 811 Notes: thank u so much for this request, I’m so happy u enjoy my Billy fics <3 sorry I didn’t get this out super fast, my power went out so I didn’t get the chance to write as much as I wanted to <3

You weren't much of a party goer, but if Billy went, so did you. You two were good friends and you may have developed some feelings for him. Usually, you would keep to yourself at parties, picking a corner to stand in with a drink in hand. But with Billy? You were by his side, smiling and laughing with everyone else.

One of Billy's buddies was throwing a party and you tagged along with him. You didn't mind being an observer as Billy moved from group to group, talking and laughing. You were just happy to be with Billy, even if you just stayed by his side and let him do the talking.

Your drink was running low, so you tugged on Billy's sleeve and he leaned his head closer in order to hear you over all the noise.

"'M going to get another drink. You want anything?" You asked.

"I'm good, thanks, babe," he replied before jumping right back into his conversation.

That was another thing. He called you things like 'babe' or 'sweetheart', blurring the lines between friends and more. You couldn't tell if he had feelings like you, or if he was just comfortable as friends.

You gave the group a quick smile before turning and going towards to the kitchen. You slipped your way through the crowd of half-drunk teenagers. You found the kitchen and quickly refilled your cup with your drink of choice, careful not to bump into the random couple who totally weren't making out.

You left the kitchen to go back to Billy, taking a refreshing sip of your drink. You could spot him through the crowd, those golden curls and blue eyes being hard to miss. But you nearly dropped your cup when you saw a girl pulling at his jacket while he smiled down at her.

Were you jealous? Maybe, but you weren't going to admit it to yourself in that moment. You caught Billy's eye from across the room and his smile dropped. You watched as he pushed the girl away but you were making your way to the door before he could try to get to you.

You knew Billy was a flirt, you had watched a bunch of girls try to win him over, so why were you so upset at this? Because you love him, you thought before quickly pushing it away. You made your way out into the yard, the cool night air more refreshing then the crowded indoors. You tossed your cup into a bush, the drink splashing onto the ground.

You heard Billy's boots hitting the concrete as he raced to catch up with you.

"Hey, where are you going?" He asked, grabbing your arm to stop you.

"I'm going home," you answered, trying to pull yourself away from him but he wouldn't let you go.

"What's wrong? What's going on?"

"Nothing's wrong!" You yelled, spinning around to face him. "Now, go back to the party. I don't want to keep you from all the girls in there."

Billy stared at you for a second, then smiled. "What?" He asked, almost laughing.

"I saw that girl in there, and I've seen girls trying to get with you," you answered. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, sweetheart. I don't like them, I like you. It's always been you," he said, stepping closer and slowly closely the space between you two.

"You...what?" You whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

"I like you, hell, I may love you at this point," he replied, matching your volume as he tilted your face up with his fingers. "I was waiting for you to make a move."

You smiled, your face heating from his touch, words and gaze. "I was waiting for you to make a move."

You saw his eyes fall to your lips and before you could fully process it, his lips were on yours. It took a second, but you quickly melted and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He moved the hand that tilted your chin up to your cheek, cupping it while his other hand fell to your waist. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears rather than the loud music from inside.

For those few moments, it was just you and Billy.

Then, he pulled away and you were pulled back into reality. Both of his hands cupped your cheeks as he pressed his forehead to yours. You covered his hands with yours as you smiled at him, a smile which he returned.

"Is that enough of a move for you?" He asked.

You giggled. "I may need one more kiss, just to be sure."

Billy started to pepper your face in quick kisses, causing your giggles to erupt into laughter.

And just like that, it was just you and Billy again, and you wouldn't trade it for a stupid party.

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove x you #stranger things fan fiction #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fan fic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things x reader

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whyareyouhere66 · 2 years ago

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Omg cool I have an angsty request 😈(if you’re comfortable writing it<3)

Kind of Tom!Peter Parker x Male!Stark!reader x Tony Stark(platonic obviously) ??

Reader has a rocky relationship with his dad Tony, just wants his attention, to be seen by Tony etc. but once Peter joins and takes Tonys full attention reader just automatically hates him for ‘stealing his dad from him’. As time goes on reader just gets more hateful and jealous of Peter, maybe getting into fights with Peter on purpose. Suddenly there’s a new villain/anti-hero (??) that’s been interfering with there plans or just wrecking havoc to go after Peter. Plot twist when they finally catch them/they’re too hurt to keep fighting, it’s revealed as reader. You can make it as angsty as u want!

(A.K.A. Reader is Loki, Peter is Thor and Tony is Odin lol)

AHH THIS

I love this trope-

So glad you requested this, (and thank you for checking stuff first) and enjoy

Also note that I’m not too fresh on the marvel timeline, if you notice anything that doesn’t exactly align with the movie than I’m sorry just brush past it- this also might be the longest fic I’ve ever written so

Implied to be set around the start of Peter’s Spider-Man stuff.

Look What You Made Me Do

Male Stark Reader x Avengers

“If I loved you, was a promise….

Would you break it, if you’re honest?”

[idontwannabeyouanymore, Billie Eillish, 2017]

Cw: violence/fighting, Tony being a bad dad, slightest mentions of drinking, angst Kind of jumping straight into it too-

I’ll fix a few things later I’m tired I want this one to be out and about

If you were to ask anyone about the wealthiest men in modern day New York, it’s inevitable for Tony Stark to appear somewhere on that list.

He’s rich, handsome, a superhero. New York’s knight in shining armor.

Most believe his life is a dream, somehow oblivious to the fact that maybe a superhero doesn’t live life in the dream house. But when he’s made his brand through money, fancy houses, big parties, and shiny military weapons it’s easy for people to see no further than surface level.

That isn’t the case for his son, though.

From a wealth aspect of it- the young Stark knows how grateful he is, how grateful he should be, for his father.

If it wasn’t for him, he wouldn’t be currently sitting in this large bedroom, with a view most would pay a couple grand for, wouldn’t be surrounded by the various expensive objects linked to his little interests. It doesn’t even matter how much Y/n would insist on paying- he never seems to think much of it. Maybe it’s his way of showing affection.

That’s what Y/n hopes, at least.

Because if not- there’s not much there. Tony Stark has never been much of an affectionate person, some may blame it on his own father. Others would blame it on the business- no time for distractions on a long days work.

But neither of those reasons matter- for all his son ever wanted is for Tony to love him the way he wants him to.

Static crackles through Y/n’s small speaker, and quickly the boy perks up. A short glance over and he finds the old Queen record spinning aimlessly, with the tone arm at the end of its songs.

Pushing himself off the bed, he walks over to the stand where Tony’s old record player sits. Taking the arm off- he flips the record over to side b, before returning it to its place.

The intro of Queen’s “Hammer to Fall” begins ringing from the speaker, and a small, satisfied smile grows on Y/n’s face.

He hums the beat, nodding his head with it while turning back to his bed- but something catches his eye.

Outside, there’s two figures standing out front. One eyebrow raises, Y/n slowly steps closer to the window.

“Who-?”

Recognizing his dad, dressed in his best suit, Y/n leans closer. The other figure isn’t quite as tall as Tony, and looks quite obviously nervous.

Y/n furrows his eyebrows.

….That’s Peter Parker.

What the hell is he doing at Stark’s house?

***

The sound of a backpack falling to the ground echoes through the foyer- and immediately it’s a sigh of relief. The sweet, sweet air conditioning here is heavenly in contrast to the one at school.

Y/n faintly feels a vibration in his pocket- grabbing it only to see multiple notifications coming from a group chat.

‘What are they on…’ he wonders, scrolling through countless messages worth of nonsense. He goes to reply, when-

“Y/n!”

His head snaps up at the voice, echoing out from the couch.

‘didn’t realize he was home…’ he looks back at the window, finding his father’s car parked in the driveway.

“Oh.”

Deciding the group chat can wait, the teen wanders to where his father sits.

“What’s up?” Immediately Y/n sees the scattered papers piling on top of one another on the coffee table, the short crystal glass filled halfway with rum. You’d think he’d wait until at least five, but that’s not the Stark way.

“I found a uh, form on the coffee table,” his voice sounds bored, tired, “something about textbooks for school?”

Y/n notices the forms sitting at the edge farthest from Tony, as if they’d been pushed away as far as they could go.

“Oh, uh, yeah.” He says awkwardly, looking at the dirty laces of his shoes, “it’s fine, I got it.”

“Well I can pay for them, if that’s what you’d like.” The eldest Stark shrugs, finally looking at his son from over the rim of his glasses.

Y/n almost feels embarrassed- when had he asked for that? He shakes his head, though it doesn’t hide the surprised look on his face.

“No, no you don’t have to-“

“Oh please, I got it, education is our future or something, right?” Tony shrugs, taking off his glasses and beginning to stand up from his chair, headed for the black leather wallet he’d left on the dining table.

Y/n isn’t quite sure why he’s now rushing to step in front of his dad- there isn’t much harm in the gesture after all. Maybe he just doesn’t want the weight of depending on his father for everything to lay on his shoulders. Either way, excuses are already falling from his mouth.

“You really don’t have to, dad-“

“You’re acting like I’m handing you the presidents treasury,” Tony deadpans, “besides, you don’t have a job.”

Y/n pauses.

“Wha- yes, I do-“ does his dad really not know about his job?

“Look, it doesn’t matter, I can get them used anyways-“

Before he can take one step closer, a nervous voice quips up from the doorway and ends the race for the wallet.

“Um, Mr. Stark?”

Curiously, Y/n and his dad snap their heads to see who has just joined them.

“Peter-?”

Peter Parker stands in the large door way, curled into himself with his backpack strap folded between his fist. His eyes are wide and questioning, looking between his classmate and his idol as if he had walked into the wrong room.

Suddenly, Tony’s shoulders drop- and he’s no longer interested in any textbook or wallet.

“Ah, Parker, didn’t think you’d make it.” He says bluntly, strutting away from his son and towards the obviously nervous boy.

“Here, sit down kid.”

With the man’s hand pressed into his shoulder blade, Peter has no choice but to follow him towards the various seats lining the dining table. And from the side- Y/n watches, absolutely lost.

After he had seen his father and Peter talking, he kept it to himself. Knowing the boy, he had simply assumed Peter was asking for an autograph or a picture, just like half of the city.

But now, he is in his house. At his table.

What the hell is this?

“Um,” Y/n’s voice sounds blunt, almost too similar to his father- who’s already sitting down across from Peter with his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised, as if this was a press conference.

Peter looks at him first, while his father throws a glance over his shoulder.

“What’s this?” Y/n asks, pointing to the strange teenage boy sitting down in his seat. Tony tiredly leans back in the chair, twisting to the side just slightly so he could look at Y/n head on.

“Y/n, this is Peter, Peter, this is Y/n.”

“Uh, yeah, we know each other.” Peter pipes up, giving Y/n the shortest, most awkward smile it seems he could muster. Y/n’s face stays blank.

“Yeah, I meant what is he doing here?”

Tony doesn’t seem at all phased by the rude undertones of Y/n’s question.

“Peter is gonna work as my intern for a little while, I’m training him.”

Y/n’s eyebrows furrow.

“For what-“

“Hey, quit interrupting, will you?” Tony dismisses him with the wave of his hand, turning around so he’s fully facing Peter. And Y/n lingers there, processing. He doesn’t like feeling like a shadow, not in his own home especially, but that’s the feeling that begins to overtake him.

Intern…?

He tries understanding what that means- there’s many possibilities. Assistant, maybe. But when he looks between his dad and his classmate one last time, seeing that he’s been nearly forgotten in the room (aside from the short glances from Peter’s end) he turns around to retreat, fists clenched.

His dad has had interns before, Peter likely won’t be much different. Possibly.

***

It’s been 5 weeks.

And multiple times, for each of those weeks, Peter has been somewhere mixed into the tangle of Tony Stark’s extensive schedule, far more entangled than Y/n has been for the past few years.

He shows up to dinner, trains at the Avenger’s tower. He comes knocking on the door randomly asking for life advice, or something- he’s everywhere.

It wasn’t even until week 4 that Y/n discovered the truth behind his sudden presence, when he saw the suit for the first time.

He has his own suit, god can you believe it?

Y/n watches on as Tony seems to easily bring Peter under his wing- hating how he has to avoid the burning green envy that burns his ears. How has Tony managed to take on the father figure role to Peter, when he barely manages that role with his own son?

‘It shouldn’t hurt this bad,’ y/n will think to himself, ‘you’re independent, relying on him will only make it harder in the long run.’

But he couldn’t help the hardened glare that arose every time he saw his dad, his own dad, bonding with someone else the way he had been wanting for what- 16 years?

Even now, sitting at the table, while the teen stares into the bowl of cereal in front of him, it’s just so irking to think about.

His spoon scrapes the edges of the bowl, gathering the now soggy cheerios into a cluster in its silver dip. Then, they get lost in his mouth. Rinse and repeat- he does it over and over while staring a blazing hole into the wall.

What is Peter doing that he can’t?

“Mr. Stark-“

Speak of the devil.

Y/n’s grip on the spoon tightens.

Peter comes stumbling into the room, out of breathe as if he sprinted all the way here. He doesn’t even knock anymore, Y/n thinks, he’s made himself at home.

“Kid? What’re you doing here?”

The nickname sends a shivering twitch through Y/n’s already sore muscles, tugging his face so he can’t control the annoyed look that comes through.

They’re talking to each other now, Peter trying to tell a story far too quickly for either of them to follow. Y/n blocks their voices out.

His chair scrapes against the floor, and he grabs his bag to leave.

“I’m going to school.” He says loudly, cutting off their conversation.

“Oh, I guess I gotta go too-“

“No,” Peter freezes, looking at Y/n curiously, “no, no stay here longer why don’t you? Practically your house.” Venom leaks from his words, the sarcasm so loud it makes Peter flinch.

“Y/n,” Tony groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly. Y/n’s stare only hardens.

“What?” He snaps, now looking at his father.

“Really?” Is all that Tony manages, before Y/n is rolling his eyes and spinning on his heel.

“(F/n) is waiting for me.” He grumbles, snatching his phone and stomping out of the room.

How does his dad not get it? Is he so blind he can’t even see his own blatant favoritism?

The look of exhaustion displayed on his face would make you think hes working day and night having to put up with Y/n’s attitude- yet he’s unaware he’s exactly what’s causing it.

Y/n doesn’t want to blame Peter, in the back of his mind he knows that it’s his dad’s fault. But it feels like his father is being stolen.

But can it really be theft if there wasn’t much of him in the first place?

Y/n knows that he’s picking all the fights, starting all the arguments just so that twisted part of his head gets some satisfaction.

It shouldn’t be working so well.

The young Stark doesn’t return home until it’s just about dark outside, his backpack hanging loosely off his shoulders.

He walks the long halls of his home, past the doors that could either be a guest bathroom or a weapon closet. Even if there’s more entryways than doors, his father opting for large empty frames, he walks the length of it with no specific destination in mind.

He isn’t too sure where he’s headed anyways, considering he’s passed the way to his bedroom already.

Through half lidded eyes he guides himself through this maze of a house, bitter jealousy bubbling in his lungs. It’s such a haunting thought, a looming presence, and he wishes he could push it down the drain but it seems that he can’t.

“Stupid, stupid Peter…” he mumbles, hand grazing the wall beside him.

Ned’s voice still rings in his ears, breathy from how he had been exercising for most of the class.

“You don’t know what he looks like- what if he’s like seriously burnt?”

“I wouldn’t care, I would still love him for the person he is on the inside.”

Of course it caught their attention- Peter’s little crush on Liz wasn’t hard for most to notice.

“Peter knows Spider-Man!”

How horrible.

Across the room, Y/n’s head snapped to where the pair was on the gym floor- Peter’s jaw slacked. It didn’t matter how much he tried to quickly say otherwise- Flash already had slid down the climbing rope with another remark slick on the edge of his tongue.

And Y/n watched on, eye twitching, feeling how his friends slapped his arm in amusement.

“I can’t tell if he’s for real or not-“ F/n mumbled from next to him. Y/n’s eyes never tore away from the scene playing out ahead, tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah,” and his eyes squeezed shut, “me neither.”

Y/n’s fists curl together, knuckles scraping the wall for a moment before he’s pulling away.

It’s so frustrating.

He’s walking further down the corridor, eyes sliding open just in time to catch a door left slightly ajar- and he pauses.

He’s passed the door many times, no doubt, but this time it’s different. There’s something pulling him inside, an unknown source that’s too intriguing to walk past.

Slowly, he pushes open the door. And there it is.

Old bins and cabinets with junk gadgets shoved inside- worn blueprints from his fathers old work. One eyebrow raises, cogs turning and grinding in his head.

There’s some things still in tact, some that have been broken apart and scattered about. Y/n kneels down to observe closer.

He feels the smooth surface of a metal clasp against his fingertips, grazing the jumbled objects.

This is his answer.

The backpack slides off his shoulders, thumping on the ground beside him. This room is one that his father doesn’t visit much anymore, now much more caught up in other things such as the Avengers, Peter, the scattered piles of paperwork that seem to constantly consume him.

And in the corner, there’s a bend in the wall partially hidden by a cabinet- if you were to tuck something inside, no one could see from the door frame.

Y/n already feels his mind blooming with ideas as he skims over the various parts and pieces in front of him.

If he can’t live up to his fathers standards, his fathers name,

then he’ll make his own.

***

Multiple nights pass, weeks go by and Y/n finds himself spending the time after dinner until midnight cooped up in Tony’s old gear room.

He likes to think it’s a family trait, something tying him to the Stark name, also known as his skill for parts. He can take a few glances at both his own notes as well as the old blueprints and suddenly have the necessary concept for a retractable weapon, built to strike out of an arm piece. And when he’s done, he simply drags it all into his tucked in corner- hidden until night falls again the next day.

Time not spent at school, occasionally in his room, or in his new lab- is now spent taking full advantage of the gym on the higher floors.

The Avengers don’t question it, barely even using it at the same time as him anyways. He’s planned it so no one is around to see the training he does, the work put in to not only muscle- but also skill.

He doesn’t have a vigilante name just yet- but perhaps that’s the fun in it. He’s totally anonymous.

And as the firm punching bag jerks beneath his incoming fist, he feels the creeping joy of power.

Y/n puts lots of thought into the first strike against the city- building an elaborate yet somewhat reckless attack plan, a formula.

No citizen will get hurt- it’s only the churning, growing need for revenge he wants so badly to be satisfied. Among the jumbled emotions, and new discoveries, he knows what he wants, and he knows just who he wants to be.

Y/n Stark may never be the millionaire superhero his father is- but he will be something. Something that no one will ever expect.

***

“A new vigilante seems to be on the loose, unidentified. They’ve struck many times already, but police have noticed that, interestingly enough, among the pattern of crime scenes none of the main public areas or citizens have been hit. Could this be the work of an Anti-hero, perhaps? Down at the Avengers Tow-“

The anchorman’s voice is cut off, mid sentence, and Tony holds the remote firmly.

Around him, on the expensive couches sit the Avengers themselves, but their faces are dulled by distress, their knuckles tense from a firm grip.

“We gotta find this guy,” Bruce sighs, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. Beside him, Natasha agrees.

“If we don’t catch them soon, people will start doubting us.” She says it like it’s so simple, lips pressed into a thin line. Steve groans.

“They aren’t gonna start doubting us-“ he tries, but no one seems to believe him.

“Oh really? Sounds like you’ve got some superstar solution then, huh?” Tony, always packed full of sarcasm, looks absolutely exasperated. He’s been looking tirelessly for this new ‘vigilante’ of the sorts - they don’t even seem to have a name. They work quickly and precisely, yet go at it with a powerful vengeance. Their skill- it’s almost something he wants to respect.

The group begins to speak again, switching between civil turn taking and overlapping words. They don’t even notice the figure standing by the door.

Y/n peaks his head around the door frame, watching these strong, powerful superheroes stressing over him. Oh, they just have no clue.

As they’re still talking, planning unknowingly within earshot of their own enemy- Y/n takes his notes. He listens, until finally he slips past the door and walks quietly down the hall as the sick, strong feeling of triumph sinks into his stomach.

He’s got them.

***

The rumbling fill of chaos echoes from all around- machines jittering, codes breaking, and a light flickers down the hall.

Y/n stands at the center of the room, looking around at one of his father’s many warehouses from all around- this one being stationed north of his own home state- Maine, USA.

His dad brought him here only a few times as a kid, once or twice perhaps. He always hated it- still does, actually, hence the small bombs scattered across the place.

It would be funny, to think that not even the Avengers have caught on to his pattern- but that may be jinxing it. Plus, he knows the common traits of each area he’s hit so far, the places holding the unjust power. This stop, though, he’s been waiting to finally hit.

“Stark Enterprises” - a sign once strung together in big letters, now laying at Y/n’s feet broken into pieces. The boy crouches down, picking up a chunk from the “E” and crushes it in his hands.

Under his mask, he grins.

His suit, not quite as advanced as those made by his father, fits him well. The sleeves are tighter, snugly wrapped around his biceps with streaks of purple running through the black material. Padding, like thin layers of armor, protect his torso and the pants are the most loose- cargo, with big pockets.

A mask is what pulls the whole thing together, though, concealing the entirety of his head underneath its black and purple coloring.

Littering his hands, and even weaved into the material all across, are the gadgets he’s spent so many hours on. Rings sealed into the gloves have enough sharp metal twisted together inside that when activated, spread into blades. In the pocket around his waist band- is a button, the button, that with one push turns this warehouse into a cloud of orange and yellow.

Y/n is still watching the crumbling sign fall from his palm, like grains of sand, when the door caves in behind him.

“Put your hands up, tough guy, we caught you.”

Captain America, confident as ever, bursts in at the front of the group with his shield held high. Behind him, Tony, Peter, Natasha and even Bruce waltz right in after him. For a second- a glimmer of pride washes through Y/n’s body, they brought 5 to a fight against 1- he must be special.

“Yeah, times up buddy.”

Seeing his father, dressed in the famous Ironman suit, reminds Y/n of the whole reason this started- and another twisted feeling knots itself in his stomach.

The moment he’s been waiting for.

They can’t see him as he smirks underneath the mask, deciding to toy with them just a bit. He doesn’t speak- no one’s heard his voice when spoken through the filtered material yet. It seems they’ll be the first.

Y/n’s head cocks to the side, and raises an eyebrow- something the Avengers can see through the imprint of his mask. A challenge.

Bruce’s battle cry cuts through the air- and suddenly the Hulk is charging. It startles Y/n for a moment, but quickly he steps to the side and lets the green giant crush the ground beside him. As Hulk gets back up, snarling and growling, Y/n is already grabbing a long beam, bent from where it fell with the rest of the Stark Enterprise’s sign, and strikes Hulk right in the gut.

The giant man stumbles slightly, yet still stomps forward. But Y/n isn’t in front of him.

“Hulk!” Natasha yells out, watching from across the room as Y/n comes from behind, mid air, wielding the same beam from before. Hulk is barely able to tilt his head an inch before the metal is crashing down into the area just below his head, and bruising his neck.

He’s out within a few seconds, stumbling around clumsily while black dots tease his vision. Then, he falls to the floor.

“Well shit.” Steve mutters, bending his knees like a bull preparing to charge. He should’ve known sending in Hulk with no preparations would be a bad an idea.

“Sending the big one in first, huh?” Y/n looks at them cockily, “do you see me as a threat, Ironman?”

Tony raises an eyebrow, “oh look at that, he can talk.” He doesn’t even skip a beat as his suit begins to whir, the arm unfolding so a mini blaster pokes out from the forearm.

The vigilante barely has time to react as strings of energy are thrown his way, jumping and dodging each of them narrowly. Tony doesn’t wait for him to regain his footing though, flying straight towards his figure.

Steve eyes Natasha, gesturing for her to move. The woman obliges, creeping around the fight so Y/n’s back is in front of her.

Ironman grabs Y/n by the shoulders, pushing down with such strong force that the latter is forced back a few steps. He holds the metal sleeves with a firm grip, and at first Tony doesn’t notice as the boy’s rings begin to scrape against the surface. Sparks fly like the touch of a welding torch, grazing the edges of Tony’s mask just in time for him to realize mini blades are beginning to prod at his suit. Y/n doesn’t hesitate to take the opportunity and shove the man away from him.

Natasha watches closely, seeing how Y/n stumbles from the impact. She jumps at him.

Y/n extends his arm in her direction, not even turning all the way around, and his rings grow from small blades to a sharp spiral of metal pointing right at Black Widow’s chest.

She freezes, he smirks.

Of course, it’s not his intention for someone to die. That’s not what he does. This, well, is simply defense.

“How about we get right to the point.” He says, slipping his free hand into one of the pouches around his waist band. Out with it comes a cylinder- black and sleek with some sort of dial built in, a bright red button on top.

Steve feels his stomach drop.

“Pick a number.”

Tony, seemingly unaware of the detonator to have just been introduced, rolls his eyes, he’s growing impatient.

“Alright, fine, 5- you wanna quit it with the games now?”

Big mistake.

Without skipping a step, Y/n is scrolling through digits on the small screen built into the detonator. It’s almost too quick for any of the Avengers to realize what he’s doing- and it’s far too late by the time they do.

“Alright, then.” Y/n presses the button.

Steve goes to lunge forward, tries to make a grab for the device, but he waited too long. The whole room rattles, and the section just to the left of them suddenly bursts. Bombs.

Y/n watches with a special glint in his covered eyes as everyone stumbles, yet his feet stay firmly planted in the ground. They’re startled, bits of the wall flying around and clattering against the floor. Peter snaps his head towards Y/n in shock.

“Who’s next?”

“Oh my god.” Peter mumbles, wide eyed. It’s the sound of his voice, his first time saying a word, that catches Y/n’s attention right away.

His teeth grind together, thumb smoothing over the button’s smooth surface. His mind mumbles, Do it again.

Staring into the large white panels of Peter’s mask, his guard is left fallen for just a moment too long. Tony sends one more blast his way.

A jolt of pain seers through Y/n’s thigh. The energy was strong enough to surpass the material of his pants, leaving a heavy ache in the area. Y/n glares.

“You asshole,” he grunts, spinning the dial with his thumb before slamming down the button.

Above them, part of the ceiling crumbles.

Bits of concrete come tumbling down, Peter and Natasha diving for cover. But Y/n is no where near finished.

“How many bombs are there-“ Peter asks to no one in particular. His question is soon to be answered.

“Let’s not wait to find out,” Steve grunts, sprinting to where his opponent stands at the opposite side of the room. Y/n feels the previous feeling of confidence, the smooth and cocky facade, slipping away. He wants to win.

Each of Captain America’s hits clang against metal couplets clasped to Y/n’s wrist- chaos ensues around them. Tony firing shots, Peter surrounding the fight, Natasha running for a hit at close combat- and hulk just starting to stir from his little nap.

But Y/n doesn’t let up- not until it’s too late.

A fiery blaze heads straight for him, straight for his face. It’s beginning to sizzle against his ears, he can feel it coming. But he doesn’t react in time, trying to defend himself from too many things at once.

The blast, coming from his own father’s hand, hits him.

His mask begins to spark, edges curling into themselves as slowly, Y/n feels the right side of his face being revealed.

His hand meets the wall, holding him up as he recovers from the impact. They haven’t seen him yet.

He hears Steve’s heavy breathing from behind him, something so familiar it almost tricks his mind. Then, Tony’s voice.

“It only takes a few hits, huh? If I knew that’s all it took I wouldn’t have wasted so much time.”

More sarcasm, Y/n almost laughs.

“Who are you.” Natasha doesn’t even make it sound like a question, her voice strong and firm.

Silence ensues, just for a moment, Y/n’s head is swimming.

Yet, over all the thoughts and noise, one thing screams loudest over the rest.

“Do. It.”

“Don’t you recognize me?” Y/n’s voice, no longer protected by a filter, is raspy and hoarse. He slowly turns around, head peaking out of the shadows.

“You know me already…”

Holy shit.

A loud clang echoes through the now dead silent room, the red white and silver shield rolling across the floor.

“…Y/n?”

Tony’s helmet folds into itself, revealing a sweaty face with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

A bitter smile is what he receives.

“Dad.”

Tony looks around, dumbfounded.

“I-“ he stutters, nearly speechless, “what- what the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Y/n steps forward, voice dry yet dripping with venom.

Tony chokes, “being an absolute moron, that’s what-“

Y/n barks out a rough, quick laugh. “Ooh, rough.” He rasps. Steve steps forward, putting a hand onto Tony’s shoulder and pulling him back. It’s like a warning, silent communication because next, he’s the one to step forward.

“Y/n…” the words die on the tip of his tongue, throat running dry, but he still tries, “what- I mean, why?”

Y/n has begun to pace slightly, taking slow steps around the shocked group. He peels the mask away from his face.

“Yknow, most people tend to turn to the worst of their options when in a dark time,” he says smoothly, feeling each and every set of eyes watching while he walks. Hulk watches through blurred vision, completely disoriented.

“I mean, hate to give you the classic origin story and everything, but…”

“Hold on,” the thoughts are almost visible, loud and heavy in Tony’s head, “is this about something I did?”

So he’s finally getting it.

“What could Tony have possibly done?” Asks Natasha, and Y/n looks at his father directly.

“You don’t care, ok, that’s what-“ his voice is breathy, and he scowls, “You can’t even talk to your own kid, Stark. It’s like you don’t realize what I am, to you- what you are to me!” Anger rises with each word that shoots like poison from Y/n’s mouth.

Tony gets defensive, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. “That’s not true, I know damn well you’re my kid-“

“Oh really? Cause you seem to have it a bit mixed up.” Y/n’s eyes flicker to Peter’s frame, and everyone tenses.

“Is…is this about Peter?”

At the mention of his name, Peter tears off his mask, a concerned, heavy look on his face.

“I, Y/n it’s not like that-“ he tries, only to be interrupted.

“Yknow,” Y/n’s voice sounds so pained, “I always thought maybe you aren’t too upfront with your affection. For years, ok, I would wake up, go to school, come back, and go to bed all without saying more than a few words to you. Years, dad.” A lump is forming in his throat, but it’s too late to turn back now. “But then, out of nowhere, someone else comes into the picture and suddenly you’re taking him to lunch, you’re picking him up from school, basically spending way more time with him, than with me.”

Bold, bitter, and wavering- Y/n doesn’t stop. Even as his father, his classmate, the people he’d grown up with thinking were like family, just watch with feeling burning in their eyes.

“Y/n,”

“You made it look so easy with him.”

“Hey, kid, c’mon-“

“Are you serious?!” Y/n yells in disbelief. “Are you gonna tell me I’m wrong? Is that it? I’m just exaggerating, or what-“

Tony straightens his posture, swallowing hard.

Y/n’s face almost crumbles from the way his fathers face wavers. But he just doesn’t stop.

“You can be the greatest hero in the world,” Y/n breathes, sweat sparkling around the frame of his face, “you can put on a face for the interviews, and train Peter to perfection,” a step closer, “but don’t forget that I’ve always been here too.”

Y/n’s voice sounds so dark, unfamiliar and breaking, it’s gone raspy from the pounding drum of his heart beat.

Ringing silence once more. 6 melting souls standing in the waste of their own troubles.

Y/n feels budding tears threatening to spill.

“And now look what we’ve done.”

#x male reader #Avengers x male reader #Male stark ready #Tony starks son #Avengers x vigilante reader #Peter Parker #tom!peter Parker x male reader #66 recs&replies #Pls say you like it

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monicfever · 3 months ago

Note

Hmmm hello, could you maybe do - in headcanon style - how it was for the daredevil people fall in love with reader?

Btw I'm loving your blog <3

falling in love 𝜗𝜚 daredevil & punisher hcs

r e q u e s t e d ♡

characters used ᝰ .ᐟ matt murdock / frank castle / foggy nelson / karen page / elektra / ben poindexter / billy russo / dinah madani / muse

⏜︵ MATT MURDOCK. 𐂯

he falls in love through sound first. it’s your laugh. that’s what stays with him.

the way your laugh catches in your throat like you’re surprised by your own joy. sometimes soft and tired, sometimes wild and unexpected. he memorizes the rhythm of it before he even realizes he’s falling.

he tries not to get used to you. tells himself it’s dangerous. comfort is a trap. but then you show up with coffee just how he likes it, or rest your head on his shoulder without a word, and suddenly he wants to forget how to be alone. that scares him more than anything.

your voice becomes something like home. in the courtroom, on the street, through a half-open window — he hears you. even when you’re not talking to him, he listens. it calms the part of him that’s always spinning too fast. he hears the shift in your tone before you know you’re upset. he leans closer before you ask.

he notices the silence when you’re not around. it’s not just quiet — it’s peaceful. there’s a difference ever since he’d met you. the silence doesn’t press on his chest. it makes him feel like he can breathe for the first time in a long time. he doesn’t realize how loud his world is until you’re in it, softening the edges.

he feels selfish for wanting you. you’re light. steady. you remind him of everything good he thought he wasn’t allowed to want. he keeps his distance sometimes, disappears without warning. comes back with a quiet apology and a bruise he won’t talk about.

he listens more than he speaks. you talk about your day, about something you read, about nothing. he listens. not because he doesn’t have anything to say, but because he doesn’t want to break the spell. your voice makes things feel less heavy.

he notices how you move through the world. you make sounds other people don’t notice. the way your fingertips brush surfaces absentmindedly, how your keys jingle in your pocket, your breathing when you’re focused.

he starts turning toward you without thinking. even before you speak, even in a crowd. it’s instinct. you come into a room and his body just shifts. like a flower tilting toward the sun. he doesn't fight it anymore. he doesn't even notice he’s doing it until foggy calls him out with a smirk.

your presence is a texture. warm skin. soft fabrics. the scent of your shampoo lingering in the air hours after you leave. your touch is electric in the quietest way — never overwhelming, always grounding.

he never expected to fall in love like this. not with the city screaming. not with his past dragging behind him like a shadow. but you showed up, and you didn’t flinch at the broken pieces. you made space for him. slowly, without pressure.

he keeps finding traces of you on him. a stray thread from your scarf clinging to his coat. the faint scent of your perfume on his pillow. the echo of your laughter in his head when he’s perched on some rooftop, bleeding and tired and aching for the next time he gets to sit next to you in silence.

he doesn’t say it right away.

he’s scared of love. of needing someone. of you realizing what he really is. but one night, when your fingers graze his and he doesn’t pull away, you smile like you know. and maybe you do.

⏜︵ FRANK CASTLE. 𐂯

he feels like he’s stepping on dangerous ground. every time you smile at him, or when you simply sit next to him, he’s aware of the space between you, the space he always tries to keep. it’s an instinct to stay distant, to protect you from getting too close. he’s been through too much, seen too many people get hurt because they were too close to him. the last thing he wants is to drag you into his mess.

he keeps you at arm’s length, but he notices everything. frank doesn’t let you get too close, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t see you. he notices the way you adjust your coat when it’s cold, the small sighs you let slip when you’re tired, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something that matters to you. it eats at him. he’s terrified of what it means.

keeps the tough guy act, but you’re starting to crack it. when you’re with him he doesn’t let his guard down easily. he keeps a distance, still in control. but then, there are moments — like when you ask him if he’s okay, even after he’s been gruff with you. he won’t admit it, of course, but he’s slowly realizing how much he wants to be something other than broken for you. he can’t be weak, not with you. but in the same breath, he doesn’t want to lose what you’ve given him.

frank’s instinct is always to shield you. it’s not just about protecting you from the world, he’s trying to protect you from him. every time danger crosses your path, he’s there, stepping in front of you, keeping you behind him, telling you to stay out of it. deep down, it’s not just about the danger. it’s about the fact that if you get hurt he won’t be able to live with himself.

he’s strict with you, but it comes from a place of care. won’t let you make reckless decisions, won’t let you put yourself in harm’s way, and he’s relentless about it. you can tell he’s trying to keep things together, keeping his rules in place like armour. he’s afraid to get too comfortable.

he’s never been good at letting people in, and with you, he doesn’t know how to act. there’s this undercurrent of fear that runs through him every time you seem to trust him, every time you get close. the fear that eventually, he’ll destroy whatever peace you’ve given him. he knows the darkness in him is dangerous. it’s only a matter of time before it pulls him away from you.

he’s strict with himself too. frank has learned how to control everything — his emotions, his impulses, his need for connection. with you, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. when you touch him, even accidentally, or when your eyes soften, it’s like a fuse is lit inside him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that. he pulls back, hard, and tries to convince himself it’s just a moment. a brief thing. but it doesn’t feel brief.

he’s scared of what you could be to him. he’s used to being alone, to being the one who walks through the darkness without anyone beside him. you’ve brought light into his life without even knowing it, and that’s the part he can’t quite figure out. you make him feel things he hasn’t felt in years. it makes him feel like he could lose everything. he doesn’t know how to hold onto something so fragile, so pure. but god, he wants to.

he falls in love with your silence. it’s not the kind of silence that feels heavy, or suffocating. it’s the kind that comes after a long day, when you’re sitting beside him with nothing to say, and you’re perfectly content.

he doesn’t know when it happened, but you’re his calm. there’s something about you, something steady. when he’s with you, the world outside quiets. the chaos in his mind, the ghosts of everything he’s lost — somehow, with you, he can breathe. he doesn’t trust it at first. he’s not used to feeling safe.

he’s drawn to the way you move. there’s a grace to it, the way you carry yourself, like you’ve seen enough to know what’s worth paying attention to. he never misses when you come into a room.

your kindness is a weight he didn’t know he could bear. frank is used to people needing something from him. demanding things. but you? you don’t want anything but his time. it feels like too much at first. he pulls away, convinces himself it’s easier this way. but when you reach out, when your hand brushes against his, he starts realizing he doesn’t want to let go.

you are his soft spot, even if he doesn’t show it. he has layers of armor built up — physical, emotional, mental — but you slip past them without trying. you don’t force him to talk about the things that haunt him, but you’re always there when he needs to. it’s not that you fix anything, it’s that you stay.

he notices the little things. how you laugh when you’re nervous. the way you drink your coffee, always just a little too hot but never waiting for it to cool. the way you curl up with a book, lost in the world for hours, and he sits in the background, thinking he’ll never understand how something so small can make him feel so at peace.

he wants to be the one to keep you safe. it’s a selfish thought, but when he’s with you, he can’t help but feel like he wants to be the one to shield you from the world, from the violence he’s known, from the things he can’t erase.

he finally admits it, not with words, but in the way he holds you. one night, when the world’s still and you’re lying beside him, he doesn’t pull away. he lets you rest against him, his hand on your back, your breath steady against his chest. it’s a quiet thing, but it’s his way of telling you: you’re the one I need. somehow, in the silence, you understand.

⏜︵ FOGGY NELSON. 𐂯

it happens quietly with foggy, so natural he doesn’t even notice it at first. he starts saving little inside jokes in his head to tell you later, ordering your food just the way you like it without thinking twice, feeling your name sit a little heavier on his tongue when he says it.

he realizes he’s in love when you laugh at one of his worst jokes — the kind even he knows is awful — and it makes his chest hurt in that sweet, aching way. it’s not fireworks, it’s a heartbeat skipping a step. it’s the way he looks at you and feels like he’s finally home.

he loves the way you listen. really listen. like his words matter. he’s used to being the sidekick, the comic relief - - with you, he feels seen, whole. he loves your messes, your sleepy voice, your texts that don’t always make sense. he saves photos of the sky when it reminds him of you. he notices the way you carry yourself, the way your hands move when you’re talking, the curl of your smile when you’re trying not to laugh.

he gets nervous around you sometimes, still —rambles more, tugs at his sleeves, rehearses what he wants to say and still forgets half of it. he wonders if you notice how often he looks at you when you’re not looking. he loves that you make him believe in good things. soft mornings. safe places. things that last.

he’s the kind of guy who buys two toothbrushes when he’s out just in case you forget yours, who always puts the fluffiest towel on top of the stack because he knows you like the soft ones best. he remembers the weirdest little things you’ve ever mentioned in passing, your childhood cereal, the movie you always watched when you were sick — and they just start showing up in your shared space like magic.

saturday mornings become your thing. he makes pancakes too thick and always burns the first one, but he gets this proud little look when he flips one perfectly, like it’s a win worth celebrating. you sit on the counter in his shirt, coffee in hand, and he bumps your knee with his hip like you’ve been doing this forever.

his place starts to feel like your place. there’s a mug you always use, your book left open on the couch, a hoodie that mysteriously became yours (he lets you steal it without saying anything, but he absolutely notices). foggy loves slow things with you. grocery store dates. late-night reruns of shows you’ve both seen a hundred times. trying new recipes and failing spectacularly, then ordering takeout and laughing until your cheeks hurt.

he talks about you like you’re already part of his future. “we should go there next fall,” or “you’d love this,” like there’s no version of his life where you’re not in it. he doesn’t say it to impress you — it just slips out easy, like breathing.

he loves you in the kind of way that feels like sunday light through old windows, like warmth that lingers, like home. falling for you, for him, feels like putting the final piece in a puzzle he didn’t know he’d been building. when it clicks into place all he can think is oh.

⏜︵ KAREN PAGE. 𐂯

karen falls in love like she’s afraid of it. like it’s a secret she’s not ready to tell herself. it starts in the small moments — your hand brushing hers, the way you say her name, how you always seem to know when she needs someone to just stay.

she realizes she’s in love late one night when you're both sitting on the floor, eating takeout straight from the containers. you say something kind without thinking, something that hits a little too deep, and she just stops. looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time, like she can’t believe you exist in the same world as her.

loving you scares her because it feels too good, too safe, and safe hasn’t always been something she trusted. but you never rush her. never demand more than she can give. she loves how you talk about your passions, how your eyes light up when you care. she listens so carefully, so fully, like she’s collecting every version of you in her mind and holding them all close.

you make her laugh in a way that feels like sunlight after too many cloudy days. she catches herself smiling at texts from you, rereading them when the world feels too heavy. she starts leaving little things at your place. a book she thinks you’d like. her scarf draped over a chair. she never means to — it just happens, like her heart choosing to stay before she even realizes it.

she brings you coffee just the way you like it and always pretends it was “on the way” even if she went out of her way to get it. she’s not good at grand gestures but she’s incredible at the small things — remembering your schedule, checking in on hard days, knowing exactly what to say when the world feels like too much.

she always wants to share things with you. a bite of her food, a song she found, a line from a book that made her pause. she’s constantly turning to you with soft eyes like, can i give this piece of my world to you? will you hold it with me?

there’s always a softness to her when she’s around you, like she can finally exhale. she leans into you on the couch with her head on your shoulder, listens to you ramble about your day, fingers absentmindedly drawing shapes on your arm.

when she finally tells you, it’s not dramatic. no music swelling in the background. just her, a little nervous, looking at you like she’s been waiting her whole life to find someone she could trust with her whole heart.

⏜︵ ELEKTRA. 𐂯

it hits her like a knife to the gut. deeper. she doesn’t realize she’s in love until she catches herself watching you sleep, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, and she feels scared. not because she doesn’t want it, but because she does. because you make her feel soft in ways she swore she buried.

she falls in love the same way she fights — intense, precise. but she stays in love in quiet, careful ways. brushing your hair out of your eyes, leaving notes where only you’ll find them, guarding your safety with devotion.

she remembers the exact moment she knew. it wasn’t dramatic. it was a bad day. she came home bleeding, aching, angry — and you just held her. no questions, no judgment, just steady arms and a warm voice. and she realized she could collapse into you and still survive.

she loves how you look at her like you see her. not the weapon, not the chaos. just her. the girl who once dreamed of softer things, the woman still learning how to want them again. she’s not always good with words, but her actions scream i love you. she keeps your favourite snacks in her apartment, buys you things and pretends they’re “for fun” even though they’re always exactly what you needed. she’d burn the world for you, but she also sharpens her knives a little more carefully if she knows you’ll be waiting at home.

she brings you with her to the edge of her world. into the dark corners, the chaos, the shadows she never lets anyone else see. not because she wants to scare you, but because she trusts you to love her anyway. she tells you stories late at night, low, words carefully chosen. not all of them are beautiful. some are ugly, violent, sad. but she tells you because you’re the only one she thinks might understand. or at least try to.

she calls you darling when she’s teasing, but your name — your real name — always leaves her lips like something holy.

you ground her. not by caging her—never that. but by letting her fly and knowing she has somewhere to land. someone who won’t flinch when the world turns sharp.

loving you doesn’t make her weaker. it makes her braver. she finally has something worth surviving for, something worth coming back to.

you make her laugh in a way no one else can. real, unguarded laughter, head thrown back, hand gripping your thigh like she doesn’t want to fall. like you’re her gravity. she sleeps best with her hand wrapped around your wrist, your chest rising beneath her ear. no one touches her like you do, like she’s something worth holding, not just something sharp and dangerous.

when she kisses you it’s deliberate. she pulls you in like she’s starving, like you're a secret she’s been dying to keep. sometimes soft, sometimes rough, always real.

she’s still learning how to stay. but with you, it’s getting easier. loving you doesn’t feel like losing control, it feels like finding it. like maybe this, you, were the only thing she ever really wanted to protect.

⏜︵ BEN POINDEXTER. 𐂯

he loves you like a loaded gun loves a steady hand. like you’re the only thing keeping him from spinning out. there’s worship in his gaze when he looks at you, like you hung the stars just for him, like you're the one true thing in a world that never made sense.

he knows he’s in love when you touch his face for the first time. gentle. unafraid. he holds so much violence in his bones, but your fingers? your fingers make him feel human, like maybe he’s more than what he’s done.

he doesn’t know how to be casual about you. everything is everything with dex. he memorizes the way you speak, the things you love, the clothes you wear. he keeps mementos without even realizing it — your receipts, your notes, the smallest scrap of your existence. not in a creepy way (mostly). his version of domestic love is quiet but obsessive. he notices what soap you use and buys it in bulk. he learns your schedule so he can cook your favourite dinner on the nights you always come home tired.

knows your schedule by heart. not because you told him but because he watched. memorized the way your day flows, where you go, the train you take, how long it takes you to get home. he needs to feel close, even when you're far.

he goes still when you’re not around. like the world presses pause until he hears your key in the door, your voice calling his name. he’s not himself without you. it’s like you carry the part of him that makes him human. when you're in the room, no one else exists. his eyes never leave you. even if you’re across the bar, even if he’s mid-conversation, his body always tilts toward you, like instinct, like a weapon waiting for your call.

gets needy when you’re distant. emotionally, physically, even just distracted. he’ll try to play it cool but ends up pressed against you like a shadow, murmuring things like you still like me, right? and i'm good for you, aren’t i? like he needs you to say it over and over just to keep breathing.

he remembers everything. the first thing you ever wore around him. the way you said his name that one time with your voice half-broken from laughing. the exact moment he realized he'd burn the world if it meant keeping you safe.

stalks your socials when you’re apart for too long, even if you’ve only been gone a few hours. he zooms in on blurry selfies like they hold clues to how you're feeling. he rereads old texts.

he has trouble saying i love you. not because he doesn’t feel it, but because he feels it too much. like the words might break open something inside him. when he does say it, it’s always a whisper, like a secret — murmured into your hair, your collarbone, your heartbeat.

he doesn't like people getting too close to you. even friends, especially strangers. he doesn’t cause scenes, but the way he stands too close, stares too long, it’s a warning. he’s jealous in ways he tries to hide. you laugh too hard at someone else’s joke, and his eyes flash before he looks away, jaw clenched. he never blames you. he just doesn’t know how to share. he’s never had anything worth keeping before.

he adores your voice. your laugh. the way you say his name like it means safety and not danger. he starts to crave it — like a lifeline, a tether. you ground him. you save him. over and over again. he’s terrified you’ll see the worst in him; the cracks, the blood, the past. the first time you tell him, i’m not afraid of you, he breaks. not loudly — just this soft, shaky exhale, like you just handed him forgiveness.

if you ever tried to leave him he’d break. and then he’d follow. quietly, obsessively. not to hurt you, because he can’t let go. not of you. not of the only person who’s ever made him feel like he’s not a monster.

ben doesn’t fall in love gently. he falls like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. it kind of is.

⏜︵ BILLY RUSSO. 𐂯

billy falls for you in a way that feels wrong to him. he’s not used to needing anyone, not used to wanting someone in a way that makes him feel like he’s losing control. he tells himself you’re just another distraction, that this is a temporary thing, but every second with you proves him wrong.

he’s clingy in the most subtle way. not in the overt, obvious way. no, he keeps it under wraps at first. doesn’t want to seem too needy, but he texts you way more than you think he would, checks in at the weirdest hours, and always notices when you're upset. tries to act like it's no big deal but his heart races when you don’t reply immediately.

deep down he knows how much he wants your approval. your affection, your attention. but admitting that to himself would feel like weakness, and weakness is something billy russo has never allowed himself. so he hides it, but the truth slips out in small, desperate ways— like when he pulls you a little too close, hands gripping you a little too tight.

he gets so caught up in wanting to be perfect for you that he ignores the fact that his attachment to you is slowly consuming him. if you don’t love him back the way he needs, if you don’t give him what he craves, validation, it’s like his whole world starts to fall apart. he needs to be the one who matters to you, needs to know you see him. he craves the moment you make him feel like he’s worthy. but then, the other side of him: the side that’s broken, that knows attachments make you weak, that tries to distance himself because he doesn’t want you to see how much you’ve broken through his walls. when things get too close, too vulnerable, he pulls back. cold. distant.

he loves you with precision. he makes it look effortless, but it’s calculated. strategic. flowers when you’re stressed, your favourite wine waiting at home, gifts that are too perfect to be casual. he studies you, and you don’t even realize it until later — how much of you he’s already claimed.

he keeps tabs on you. not in a sweet checking in kind of way, more like he needs to know where you are at all times. your location's on, your building's watched. not in an invasion sort of way, just in the im making sure no one breaks in while i’m not there way.

there’s this constant struggle in his head. one part of him wants to be the perfect version of himself for you, the kind of man you can depend on, who can take care of you in ways he never thought possible. the other part of him knows that needing you like this, being dependent on you for his sense of self-worth, is his undoing.

his place starts looking like yours fast. your clothes in his closet, your skincare in the bathroom, your playlist on repeat. you don’t even remember when you started leaving things there, he just started keeping them.

he doesn't say i love you like it’s fragile. he says it like it’s a warning. like, you don’t get it. i’d kill for you. i’d ruin myself for you. i’d go back to every violent part of myself if it meant keeping you safe.

and god help anyone who tries to come between you. he’ll be smiling, charming, polite. and then he’ll be gone. and so will they.

⏜︵ DINAH MADANI. 𐂯

when she first realizes she’s in love with you, it’s all business at first. you were someone she could rely on, someone who made sense in the chaos of her life. at first, she thinks it’s just an attachment. something comfortable, someone to trust in a world of lies. but then, one night, she catches herself staring at you a little too long, her chest tightening for reasons she can’t explain. this is more than just trust. this is something else.

she doesn’t do relationships the traditional way. she never has. she’s used to keeping a distance, staying professional, protecting her heart from everyone who might use it against her. but with you, there’s something different. you slip through her walls without even trying. she hates how easily you do it. and she loves you more for it.

she’s tough on you, not because she doesn’t love you, but because she does. she believes in pushing you past your comfort zone, in making you face your weaknesses. it’s her way of showing you that she cares. by holding you accountable, by expecting you to rise to the occasion. when you slack off, when you let things slide, she’ll be the first one to call you out. her voice is firm, but it’s never cruel — just a no-nonsense tone that says, you’re better than this.

dinah’s version of love isn’t always soft. when you mess up, when you get lost in your own head, she doesn’t sugarcoat it. she doesn’t tiptoe around your feelings — she’ll challenge you. "what’s going on with you?" she’ll ask, not out of judgment, but because she knows you can do better. she doesn’t want to hear excuses, just results.

she’s not afraid to push your buttons. when you want to give up, when things get too hard, she won’t let you back down. she’ll make you face the tough stuff, sometimes in a way that feels like a blow to the chest. but it’s her way of making sure you don’t settle for less than you’re capable of. when you rise to the challenge, meet her expectations, she’ll be there, quietly proud, like she knew you could do it all along. she has high expectations, not just for herself, but for you too. if you ever doubt your own abilities, she’s the first to remind you what you’re capable of if you put in the work. she’ll test your limits, make you prove yourself, because she wants you to be the best version of yourself. sometimes you’ll resent it. sometimes it’ll feel like she’s being hard on you for no reason. but deep down you know she’s pushing you because she cares.

dinah’s love is protective, intense, and unyielding. she won’t show it in sweet, gentle ways. she’s not going to buy you flowers or write you poems, but when you need her, she’ll drop everything, no questions asked. she’ll shield you from harm with the same precision she takes down threats, and in those moments, you see how much you truly mean to her.

she’s not good at vulnerability — not with anyone, but especially not with you. it’s hard for her to let you see how much she needs you. she shows you she loves you through actions: a firm grip on your hand when she’s scared; a quiet, almost invisible smile when you’re together; pulling you close when things get rough, even if she doesn’t admit why. the words are harder for her.

when she’s in love, she’s all in, but with the weight of fear in her chest. she’s terrified of losing you. that would break her in a way she doesn’t think she could recover from. so she clings to you in ways you might not even notice, always checking on you, always making sure you’re safe, making sure nothing could hurt you.

she’s a fighter, and she loves the way you stand by her, not just through the victories, but through the losses. you’re the person who makes her feel like she’s doing something right, even when everything else is wrong. when she’s at her most vulnerable, when she’s exhausted, when the walls come down just enough for you to see the cracks, she’ll let you hold her. she’ll let you be the one who takes care of her.

⏜︵ MUSE. 𐂯

it’s more like a discovery than a realization. muse doesn’t exactly fall in love the way most people do; his emotions are tangled with his delusions and obsessions. he sees you and suddenly you’re the canvas for all his thoughts, his desires, and his fixations. it’s almost as though he becomes consumed with the idea of you, idealizing you in a way that is all-encompassing. for muse, love is about capturing someone, about making you the center of his world.

his love is possessive and suffocating. he doesn’t see you as a person with your own autonomy; he sees you as something to be owned. when you’re with him, he’ll be obsessively attentive, needing to know where you are, what you’re doing, and who you’re with.

you’ll start to notice that he manipulates every situation to keep you close to him. muse is intelligent, charming, and deeply persuasive when he wants to be. he knows how to make you feel special, how to convince you that you’re the only one who truly understands him; because, after all, you’re his masterpiece. he might start doing little things to charm you or draw you in, but as soon as you’re hooked, he’ll tighten the grip.

when he’s affectionate it’s intense. he doesn’t understand boundaries — he’ll be all over you, physically and mentally. he’ll touch you obsessively, but in ways that are still strange and uncomfortable, because he sees every part of you as something to be explored. his kisses are deep, hungry, as if he’s trying to possess you, and when he’s not physically with you, his thoughts will haunt you. expect him to watch you, follow you, and find ways to be where you are, no matter what it takes.

if you try to break free, if you even hint at being done with him, his obsession will turn dangerous. he doesn’t understand rejection in a healthy way. To him, it’s an affront to his creativity, his passion — you are his masterpiece, and no one walks away from a piece of art. he’ll find ways to draw you back in, perhaps through threats or manipulation. he’ll never let go willingly.

he won’t give up on you easily. if you ever try to move on or set boundaries he will find ways to blur the lines. can turn into a creeper — lurking in the shadows, watching your every move. his love feels suffocating, and he believes that the only way to truly love someone is by completely enveloping them, controlling every aspect of their life. he might not understand why you’d want space or independence, and to him, that only reinforces his belief that he’s the only one who can give you what you truly need.

he’s incredibly manipulative. if you ever show any resistance, muse will use guilt, charm, and emotional manipulation to make you feel like you’re the problem. he might try to gaslight you into believing that you’re the one who’s making things difficult, that he’s just trying to love you in his own way. he’s dangerous when he feels threatened. If someone else gets too close to you, or if he feels like he’s losing control over you, he’ll react with violence or threats. he’s not afraid to hurt people (or you) to maintain his control over you. this could mean anything from threatening your friends or family to going to extreme lengths to make sure no one takes you away from him.

he’ll be highly critical — almost like he’s sculpting you into something that fits his vision of what you should be. it’s not malicious in his mind; it’s about improving you, making you into someone who can be worthy of his love.

he loves your vulnerability, and he’ll try to uncover every layer of you to feel like he knows you, better than anyone else. this might manifest in seemingly innocent questions or constant probing of your past and emotions, but for him, it’s a way to build a deeper connection — an almost predatory sense of closeness that makes him feel like he has a claim on you. the more he knows, the more he can control, and that gives him a sense of artistic satisfaction.

his love might feel like being in a gilded cage; beautiful, but suffocating.

★ a / n : p.s. im glad you love it. <3

started 4.25.2025. finished 4.26.2025.

( masterlist. )

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howdyjourney · 9 days ago

Text

Sing Your Body Electric

- chapter 13 -

who: William H. Bonney x Original Female Character

genre: western romance longfic (multiple chapters)

this chapter: dirty talk • mentions of s. work (not main characters)

previous chapter | next chapter

Chapter thirteen

The sun had climbed just high enough to burn the night-chill off the prairie grass, turning every blade a glinting green-gold. Down in the south paddock, five half-broke broncs snorted and crow-hopped at the end of long leads while Jesse’s boys—Riley, Shanks, and Tobe—took turns trying to gentle them with soft words and firm hands.

Billy lounged against the split-rail fence, one boot jack-knifed up on the lower rung, hat tipped back so dawn could tan the bridge of his nose. A length of rawhide lariat hung loose in his fist, the tail brushing dust. Beside him stood Eva, hair braided tight beneath a borrowed shade hat, sleeves rolled to elbows. Her new canvas work skirt was already smudged brown at the hem from earlier chores, but her eyes shone eager as a colt at first turnout.

“Alright, little dove,” Billy drawled, giving the rope a lazy twirl so the loop hissed round in the air. “Whole trick’s keepin’ your wrist loose and your elbow easy—let the rope do the dancin’. Watch.”

He tossed. The loop sailed out, settled neat around a fence post ten feet off, and tightened with a jerk of his wrist.

Eva whistled soft. “Looks simple when you do it.”

“Most sins do,” he chuckled, re-coiling the line and handing it to her. “Your turn.”

She took the rope, lips pursed in concentration. Tried to mimic his grip—thumb and forefinger pinching the honda knot, tail gathered in her left hand. She gave the first spin, loop wobbling like a drunk on Saturday night.

“Wrist too stiff,” Billy coached. “Less hammer, more paintbrush.”

“Paintbrush,” she murmured. She loosened her joints, tried again. This time the loop stayed round, circling her head with a soft whup-whup-whup.

“There you go! Now pick a target.”

She aimed for the same post and let fly. The lariat arced—beautiful—and missed by a yard, dropping in a dusty coil. Riley barked a laugh from the paddock. Tobe smirked around the toothpick in his mouth.

“Better’n my first throw,” Billy assured her, retrieving the rope. “But keep your elbow up, and step into it, like you’re courtin’.”

“Courtin’?” Eva shot him a sidelong smile. “That something you’re good at, Mr. Bonney?”

“Notorious,” he said with solemn mischief. “Ask every county jail from here to Santa Fe.”

Shanks, wrestling a red dun that wanted none of his stories, shouted over, “Careful, Kid—teach her too fine and she’ll rope you next.”

“That the plan,” Billy shot back, handing Eva the lariat again.

On the third try she stepped, moved her wrist just so, and the loop sailed—straight at Billy’s feet. The rawhide cinched his right boot at the ankle, jerking tight. He hopped, windmilling arms to keep balance.

“Whoa—ho!” he yelped, nearly toppling backward into the rail. The bronc trainers whooped like schoolboys. Eva’s eyes went saucer-wide, horror and hilarity duking it out on her cheeks.

“Mercy!” she gasped, scrambling to slack the rope. “Didn’t mean—”

Billy caught himself against the fence, laughing despite the burn of his pride. “Reckon that elbow’s perfect now.”

Shanks tipped an imaginary hat. “Fine shootin’, miss! Hog-tied the Kid with one round.”

Riley clapped dusty gloves together. “She’s hired.”

Tobe just grunted, impressed despite himself.

Eva freed Billy’s boot, cheeks aflame. “Sorry, truly.”

“Hell,” Billy said, straightening his hat, “I’ve been hit worse by friends. Try again—only, aim out yonder, not at my good leg.”

She drew a steadying breath, loop spinning overhead once more. This time the rope hissed over the rail, dropped around the post, and tightened clean. A chorus of whistles rose from the paddock.

Billy beamed. “There it is! First catch.”

Eva’s face lit like sunrise. She tugged the post for show, then untangled the loop loose with a quick twist. “Feels… satisfying,” she admitted, coiling the rope as he’d taught her.

“Dangerously so,” Billy agreed, stepping closer. He lowered his voice. “Don’t let Jesse see you rope that sweet—he’ll draft you to wrangle broncs before breakfast.”

“He can try,” she teased, proud and playful.

Just then, Jesse himself strode up, dust plume trailing long strides. He took in Billy’s dusty boot, the triumphant grin on Eva, the cackling crew still razzing from the paddock.

“What’d I miss?” Jesse asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Kid got hog-tied by love,” Shanks hollered.

Eva lifted the lariat, giving it a twirl. “Just a lazy lesson.”

Jesse studied the tidy noose, then Billy’s scuffed boot. A grin split his face. “Looks like the lesson’s stickin’. Keep it up, Miss Eva—couple more days, we’ll have you stealin’ cattle like a professional.”

Billy draped an arm over the rail behind her shoulder, grin easy, gaze proud. “She’s already stolen worse—my damned composure.”

The boys groaned at the line; Jesse tossed a pebble at Billy’s hat brim. Eva laughed, looped the rope around her waist bandolier-style, and tipped an imaginary Stetson to the paddock hands.

Morning carried on—colts bucked, men cursed good-natured, and every now and then Billy caught Eva’s eye across the dust, sharing that private spark that said we’re a team now, you and me.

And the crew—seeing rope burns on the Kid’s boot but none on his pride—quietly decided she fit just fine within their ragged little outfit.

The cook-shack squatted behind the main house like a cast-iron toad, its cedar-shake roof forever wreathed in woodsmoke and the drifting perfume of bacon grease. Inside, heat from the big belly stove fogged the grimy windows and glazed every surface with a buttery sheen. Cookie Lomas—broad as a smokehouse door, moustache salted with flour—worked one end of the plank table, punching dough into submission for the noon biscuits. At the other end, Eva rolled piecrust on a scarred board, curls of dough clinging to her knuckles.

“Shortenin’ first, then water,” she advised, voice low but certain. “Keeps the fat from meltin’ in your hands.”

Cookie grunted approval. “Figured a society gal’d use silver tongs for the task,” he rumbled, passing her a crock of lard. “Pleasant surprise watchin’ you muck in like a field hand.”

Eva smiled, dusting her wrists with flour. “Spent the war years stretchin’ rations back home. A girl learns thrift quick or goes hungry.”

Across the cramped room loitered Pearl—sleek in a crimson blouse that flashed too bright against the soot-black walls. She leaned a hip against the dish shelf, file-point nails tapping a bored rhythm on the enamel. Her gaze tracked Eva’s every motion the way a lynx watches a songbird.

“Look at them dainty wrists go,” Pearl drawled. “Didn’t know debutantes kneaded outlaw dough. Hope you washed the lily fragrance off first.”

Cookie snorted but kept kneading. Eva lifted her chin. “Flour covers a multitude of sins—and perfumes,” she said, calm as creek water.

Pearl’s smile thinned.

A footstep scuffed at the threshold. Billy ducked through the low door, Stetson in hand, seeking the coffee pot like a moth seeks flame. Sweat darkened the collar of his chambray shirt; dust from the paddock silvered the stubble on his jaw. He poured a tin cup, took one swallow—and caught sight of Eva standing there sleeves-rolled, waist dusted white, cheeks pink from stove heat.

Whatever he’d meant to say died on his tongue. The room tightened around him to a single pulse.

“Crust lookin’ good, darlin’,” he murmured, stepping to her side. Flour smudged the bridge of her nose; he thumbed it away, fingers lingering just a hair too long. Then, without more warning than a possessive gleam in his blue eyes, he leaned in and kissed her.

It was no quick brush. His free hand curved behind her nape, guiding her mouth to his. Warm, lingering—just shy of indecent but more than enough to stake a claim. Dough-flecked fingers curled into his shirtfront, and for a heartbeat the sizzling stove was outdone by the heat between them.

When he eased back, Eva’s lashes fluttered, breath folding soft against his chest. Billy cleared his throat, suddenly aware of spectators. Cookie grinned around his chew. Pearl’s eyes had gone hard as hammered glass.

“Coffee worth comin’ in for,” Billy said, voice rough. He kept a palm at Eva’s backside while taking another sip.

Pearl clicked her tongue. “Some men need more than caffeine to stay awake, seems.”

Billy didn’t bite. He lifted the cup in salute, gaze never leaving Eva’s soft, flour-ringed smile. “Sweetens the morning, anyhow.” Then to Eva, low enough only she could hear: “Can’t walk past you without wantin’ a taste.”

Color blossomed on her cheeks—half embarrassment, half pleasure. She nudged him toward the spice shelf. “Fetch me the nutmeg, gunslinger, before Cookie’s biscuits burn.”

Billy obeyed, grin crooked, shoulders loose, every line of him telegraphing contentment.

Behind them, Pearl pushed off the shelf, jealousy simmering like a struck match. “Careful with that sugar, Kid,” she cooed. “Too much’ll rot your teeth.”

“Worth the risk,” he shot back, handing the tiny tin of spice to Eva. “I got a gal knows home remedies.”

Cookie barked a laugh. Pearl’s mouth flattened; she wiped soot off her sleeve and sauntered out, heels clicking sharp as spite on the porch boards.

The door banged shut. Eva released a breath she hadn’t noticed holding.

“Don’t mind her,” Billy said, sliding an arm round her waist for a heartbeat before stepping clear. “Pearl sees somethin’ shiny, she wants to pocket it.”

Cookie Lomas chuckled, thumping biscuit dough onto a pan. “Ain’t the first time that one’s prowled the cook-shack fishin’ for scraps.”

Eva rolled her crust, shoulders squaring. “She can prowl all she likes. This pie’s for folk who mind their manners.”

Billy leaned, stole one more soft kiss at her temple, and retrieved his coffee. “You keep bakin’, sweetheart. I’ll fend off the scavengers.”

As he sauntered out, Cookie winked. “Gal, you just mixed hotter spice than any nutmeg.”

Eva smiled to herself, crimped the crust edge neat, and thought that sometimes territory got marked with kisses instead of six-guns—but it was a claim all the same, and one nobody in that shack could miss.

The bunk-house wash-room was little more than a lean-to tacked onto the east wall—three tin wash-basins, a cracked mirror, and a length of frayed curtain that offered the idea of privacy without the fact. Eva slipped inside after supper, grateful for the lull of dusk: most of Jesse’s men had drifted to the corrals to swap tobacco and tall tales. She unpinned her braid, shook the day’s dust from the dark rope of hair, and untied her dress, letting it puddle over her boots. In the lamplight her plain chemise clung soft after the damp cloth she used to sponge road grime from her throat.

She’d just braced one hip against the basin, eyes half-closed while cool water soothed sun-burned skin, when the door scraped. Pearl sauntered in, silhouette sharp against the twilight bleeding through the open frame.

“Well, ain’t you a picture,” she purred, shutting the door with an elbow. Lamplight caught the high sheen of her satin bodice, the too-bright grin that never reached her eyes. She let her gaze rake down—past Eva’s loose hair, over the linen clinging to her breasts, lingering on the curve of her backside where the chemise hem rode high.

Eva straightened, gripping the basin’s rim. “Need the room?”

Pearl’s laugh tinkled like glass about to break. “Relax, kitten—I only came for a dab o’ rose water.” She plucked the corked bottle off the shelf, sniffed theatrically, then set it back, never taking her gaze off Eva. “You know, I wondered what the Kid saw in that stray-cat face of yours. Half a day’s ride from pretty, if you want the truth.”

Eva felt the sting—ignored it. She reached for a towel. “A man’s taste ain’t your ledger to balance.”

“Mmm, maybe.” Pearl drifted closer, each step measured. “But the boys do gossip. And men like Billy?” She flashed a smile, white and mean. “They keep toys till the shine dulls. Now”— her chin tipped, eyes narrowing appreciatively at Eva’s hips— “I figure that peach you tote buys you extra time. Soft flesh for a hard winter, that sort o’ thing. But even the sweetest rump wrinkles after enough sittin’.”

Eva folded the towel, kept her voice even. “Folks who sit watchin’ other people’s asses usually miss their own goin’ sour.”

Pearl’s smile faltered; she recovered with a shrug, lazy as a cat. “Call it friendly warnin’. Don’t hand your heart to an outlaw. He’ll wear it out same as his boot soles.” She stepped so close Eva caught lilac-tinged breath. “Come spring, he’ll ride for greener country—men like him always do—and you’ll be yesterday’s saddle blanket.”

Eva met the woman’s gaze, steady as levee stone. “Maybe. Then again, maybe I’m the saddle he’s been lookin’ to keep.”

Pearl’s brow lifted. Eva’s tone hadn’t raised a decibel, yet something steely hummed beneath it—strong enough that the older woman shifted back half a pace.

Eva dabbed her collarbone dry, added, almost conversational, “Takes grit to ride five months with Billy and still stand upright come dawn. If I’m toy, I’m tougher than most iron.”

For an instant Pearl’s mouth puckered, unsure whether to laugh or slap. In the pause, boots thudded on the porch beyond; men’s voices drifted past—Billy’s among them. Pearl angled her head toward the sound, eyes sharpening.

“You know,” she drawled, letting the words curl slow like smoke, “I oughta ask if you need mercury.”

Eva blinked. “Mercury?”

Pearl smiled like a cat stretching before the kill. “For the pox, sweetheart. Venereal rot. Crotch roses. You start feelin’ itchy or spotty down there, you come knockin’ and I’ll point you toward the apothecary.”

Eva stared, stunned. “Why in God’s name would I need—?”

Pearl lifted a brow, all wide-eyed innocence. “Oh, honey. That boy’s pecker’s been wet in more whorehouses than whiskey glasses. And not just the paid kind—regular houses, too. Billy’s always had a taste for what ain’t his—married ladies, widows, ranch wives with nothin’ but a ring and a bored husband standin’ between ‘em. Man like that don’t stop just ‘cause he’s got somethin’ sweet at home. I’d have figured a fancy girl like you—private schools and piano lessons and whatever-all—might think twice before lettin’ a dick like that in your front door.”

She gave a sly, knowing smile. “Then again, if he’s as generous as some girls whisper, I can’t blame you for losin’ your manners. Heard tell from my saloon friends he’s hung like a prize bull and twice as restless—likes to leave a woman with her knees knockin’ and her spine rattled. Had one girl say she walked crooked for two days. Another said he made her come before he even undid his belt.”

Pearl leaned in, grin sharpening. “What’s that feel like, good girl? Bein’ cock-crazy over an outlaw with a reputation as long as his dick? Little Miss Molly up in Santa Fe claimed he once spent a full hour with nothin’ but his mouth between her thighs. Makes you wonder how many names he’s got gaspin’ in his memory—how many he’s thought instead of yours?”

Eva’s mouth opened, then shut.

Her heart kicked once, hard—but she reined it in.

And then she smiled.

It wasn’t sweet.

“Good to know you keep such close tabs on his comings and goings,” Eva said lightly. “Or maybe just his comings.”

Pearl’s eyes narrowed.

Eva continued, folding her towel with care. “Funny, though. You talk like you’ve had him—and like you didn’t. Which is it?”

Pearl scoffed, too quick. “He don’t need to pay for what’s already been offered.”

“Offered, sure. But accepted?” Eva raised a brow. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. Like a man steppin’ over manure in borrowed boots.”

Pearl’s nostrils flared, but Eva didn’t stop.

“You think you’re warning me? About where he’s been?” She shook her head faintly. “I know the man’s past. He told me with his own mouth—same one that kissed me before breakfast and begged me to ride him after supper.”

Pearl flushed.

“And I ain’t afraid of where he’s been,” Eva finished, voice cool and flat, “because I know where he sleeps now.”

Pearl's mouth opened, then twisted in something between a sneer and a smile. “So proud to be the next hole in the line.”

Eva stepped forward once, just enough to make the other woman flinch.

“I’d rather be his home,” she said, soft and steady, “than your history.”

Pearl stiffened, all glitter gone sharp. “You won’t last.”

Eva tilted her head. “Maybe. But if I don’t, it won’t be because I’m weak. Or scared. Or spendin’ my nights countin’ whores like tally marks. It'll be because I chose to walk away, not because he did.”

“Enjoy the honeymoon,” Pearl murmured, slipping past toward the door. “When the tune changes, I’ll be the one dancin’.” She left on a swirl of satin and resentment.

The door shut. Evening cicadas filled the quiet. Eva exhaled, slow. Her pulse beat hot in wrists and throat, but her hands stayed steady as she pulled on her night skirt and braided her hair for sleep.

Outside, laughter spiked—Billy cackling at some joke of Jesse’s. Eva smiled faintly, touched the place on her neck where his lips had lingered that morning, and decided Pearl’s forecast could wait till the first frost. Tonight, she had a man who kissed her like claim-staking, fucked her stupid nearly each night, and asked nothing in return but truth—and that, she figured, was shine enough for any saddle.

The barn at high noon was a cathedral of dust-lit beams and hoof-echoed clatter. Sun speared through knotholes in bright shafts, turning every drifting mote to gold. Eva had come seeking an extra currycomb—Pearl had “misplaced” the good one again—but the moment she stepped into the breezeway, voices halted her between the stalls.

Jesse Evans’s easy baritone carried first, edged with something harder than his usual drawl. “Kid, you hearin’ me? A woman ain’t the same as a rifle you can tuck behind the seat when you’re done shootin’. Get her a ring or get her gone.”

Hooves struck the floorboards—Billy must have been holding a forefoot while the blacksmith rasped. His answer rumbled lower, half lost beneath the gelding’s nervous snort. “Ain’t that simple, Jess.”

Eva froze beside the feed bin, hidden by a half-open stall door. The gelding inside nudged her sleeve; she laid a calming palm on its neck but kept still, breath shallow.

Jesse clicked his tongue. “Simple’s what a good woman deserves. Kid, that girl looks at you like sunrise after a cellar night. Whole ranch can see it. You keep her danglin’ much longer, she’ll snap.”

Billy’s grunt sounded strained. “I’m weighin’ what’s best for her.”

“What’s best,” Jesse shot back, “is clarity. You plan to ride the outlaw wind forever, fine—do it solo. But if you aim to keep that sweet thing, you square it honest. Ring her hand or set her free.”

Iron rang as the shoe was seated. Billy exhaled. “I’m ridin’ south soon. Scoutin’ quiet towns—places she could start fresh.”

A pause thick as mud followed. Jesse’s reply arrived softer, almost pitying. “Without you?”

Billy didn’t answer right away. The rasp sang again, metal on hoof. Finally he muttered, “She deserves choices I can’t give on the run. Paper name, clean roof, neighbors that ain’t readin’ bounty sheets with coffee.”

“And you reckon she’ll thank you when she wakes alone?”

Another silence—short, sharp. Then Billy: “Reckon she’ll hate me less than if lead finds me and leaves her buryin’ bones.”

Jesse sighed, leather creaking as he straightened. “Kid, you been dodgin’ bullets since fourteen. You think distance’ll dull her grief if one finally hits?”

Footsteps scuffed straw. “I ain’t askin’ blessing, Jess. Just a day or two head start to scout. After that… we’ll see.”

The gelding stamped. Tools clanked back into a box. Jesse’s voice drifted away toward the tack room. “You’re a damn fool, Billy Bonney. Either marry the girl or quit lovin’ her. Halfway’s how hearts bleed out.”

Their boots faded down opposite aisles, leaving only the rustle of settling dust.

Behind the stall door, Eva stood motionless, palm still on the gelding’s warm neck. The animal huffed, sensing her sudden tremor. Ring or run. Quiet towns. Start fresh—without him?

The words lodged like burrs under her ribs. For months she’d ridden with storms at her back, certain only of Billy’s presence beside her. Now each breath felt thin, brittle. She pressed knuckles to her lips to keep them from quivering, staring at the sun-flecked aisle where he’d stood moments before.

Outside, a meadowlark trilled. Inside, doubt took root—swift and cold—and would not stop growing.

The creek behind Jesse’s spread wasn’t much—just a ribbon of melt-water racing over rounded quartz and shale—but late-afternoon sun glazed its surface amber, and the cottonwoods along the bank tossed their leaves like coins in a gambler’s hand. Billy and Eva had wandered there after the midday chores, drawn by the promise of quiet and a thin breeze that smelled of snowmelt and sage.

Billy dropped to a squat at the water’s edge and sifted through the stones. “Gotta find somethin’ flat as flapjack,” he said, holding up a disc-smooth pebble for inspection. “Weight’s got to sit just right. Otherwise it’ll plunk like a drunk into a saloon spittoon.”

Eva knelt beside him, skirts bunched above her boots. “Never skipped a stone in my life.”

“Then today’s your education, peach.” He flashed that sideways grin that still unraveled her knees, even after months of seeing it close. “Here.” He pressed the pebble into her palm, curling her fingers around it. “Thumb on top, pointer along the rim—good. Now cock your wrist. Throw level to the water, give it a little spin.”

She tried. The pebble sailed an earnest arc and cannonballed after a single pathetic jump. Water bloomed up, soaking the hem of her skirt. She snorted a laugh. “That skip was more of a stumble.”

Billy whooped, clapping once. “Seen worse first tries. Come on, again.”

They scoured the gravel bar for candidates. Each failure sparked a fresh attempt; each attempt brought his hands over hers, adjusting grip, nudging elbow. At the third pass, her stone kissed the creek twice before surrendering to the current. She let out a whoop that startled a kingfisher from an overhanging branch.

“Look at you,” Billy crowed. “Two skips! Reckon by sundown you’ll rival ol’ Beckwith, tallest tale-spinner on the Pecos.”

“You sweet-talkin’ me or challengin’ me?” Her smile came easy… but it frayed at the edges, tugged by memory of overheard words: quiet towns, start fresh. A ring or freedom.

Billy was scanning the gravel again, intent on scoring a champion rock. Sunlight outlined the towhead strands that escaped his hatband; the set of his shoulders looked looser than she’d seen since they’d arrived, as if the mountains at their backs kept trouble penned.

Seize the ease, she told herself, yet questions pricked like nettles. She found a flat stone and tested its weight.

“Billy?”

“Hmm?” He straightened, brushing grit from his palms.

“Do you—” She forced a playful lilt she didn’t feel. “Do you reckon Jesse might let us stay through spring? Calves’ll drop soon enough; they’ll need hands.”

He moved his thumb along his lower lip, all casual. “Maybe. Ranch ain’t mine to answer for, but Jess likes havin’ another gun around and a woman who can out-pie his cook.” He tipped his head, considering her. “Why? Growing roots in this cactus patch?”

She traced a notch in the stone’s edge. “Just… seems peaceful here. After all that running, peace has its charm.”

Billy’s gaze softened, but something wary slid behind the blue. “Ain’t nothin’ chasin’ us today, dove. That’s what matters.”

Today, she noted. Not tomorrow. Not next month. The stone felt heavier in her hand.

He noticed her silence, stepped closer, thumb brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Hey.” The word came low, coaxing. “I see that frown.”

She mustered a lighter expression. “Sun’s in my eyes,” she lied.

“You need shade, then.” He leaned in and kissed her—slow and easy, tasting of woodsmoke and creek-cool air. His palms bracketed her waist, thumbs settling in the hollow just above her hips. For a humming moment the world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the soft rush of water, the peppery scent of crushed cottonwood buds underfoot.

She kissed back, but worry spun like a spool beneath the sweetness. If he planned to leave her, how long before this creek, these hands, became memory?

Billy eased away, forehead resting against hers. “Better?”

“Mmm.” She nodded, letting the hum linger.

Behind them, a cloud bank bruised the western hills—late-season thunderheads that piled high but often blew past in an hour. Billy followed her glance. “Sky’s bluffing,” he said. “We’ll make it back dry.”

“You always that sure of the weather?”

His grin flashed. “When it suits my plans.” He reclaimed her hand, pressing a final stone into it. “Try once more—put your back into it.”

She obeyed, this time whipping her wrist with determination. The pebble danced three, four, five skips before disappearing. Billy whooped; she allowed herself a laugh, brief but genuine.

“Look at that,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders as they turned toward the ranch buildings framed by late light. “Takes most folks half a childhood to hit five skips.”

Takes most folks half a lifetime to trust, she thought, glancing sideways at him. And some never do.

They walked in companionable quiet, boots crunching along the dusty path. Overhead, the clouds massed darker, swallowing the sun’s edge; wind whisked through gallery aspens, rattling leaves like distant applause.

Billy squeezed her shoulder. “Whatever’s stewin’ behind those eyes, save it for tomorrow. Tonight we got beans warming, a fiddle ready, and no bullets whinin’ our direction.” He winked. “Far as Kid luck runs, that’s a holy miracle.”

Eva tipped her head against him, forcing another smile. “Miracle indeed.”

But while Billy talked of supper, she watched the storm build on the horizon—gray walls swallowing blue—and wondered which would break first: the clouds above them or the secret plan coiling beneath his careless grin.

Lantern light spilled through the false-front windows of every clapboard on Main, tinting the dust a coppery rose as Billy reined the gelding alongside Jesse’s string. The whistle-stop hamlet—Pie Town on the freight-maps, Pop. 61 if the sign could be trusted—was awake and restless tonight: wagons creaked in from onion flats, mules brayed at the water trough, and a two-note stage whistle wailed somewhere past the stock pens like a lonesome clarinet.

Eva tugged her shawl tighter as she dismounted. Evening wind carried twin scents—molasses from the bakery and coal smoke from the engine-shed. Behind her, Nettie hopped down from the back of Shanks’s bay with a calculated bounce, skirts swishing richer velvet than the girl had owned last week. She dusted imaginary road grit from her bodice, eyes darting to Billy with a smile too sweet by half.

“Smell that?” Jesse chuckled, swinging down. “Pie Town earns the name. Lemon chess, apple brown-butter, pecan if you ask twice.”

“Your liver’s prayin’ for supper,” Riley Coe muttered, hitching his horse. “Mine’s prayin’ for whiskey.”

“I’ll tend both.” Jesse clapped Riley’s shoulder, then glanced over to Eva. “Kid, mind your girl. Town this small, gossip outruns bullets.”

Billy gave a lazy salute. “She’s safer than any of us.” Still, he set a light hand at the small of Eva’s back—half courtesy, half stake-claim—and steered her toward the boardwalk. Oak planks thunked under their boots, drums announcing strangers.

Shanks was already gone in a puff of storyteller’s swagger, angling for the saloon doors like a hound to a cook-fire. Tobe lingered to test a knothole in his boot heel with the tip of his knife, then followed Jesse toward the mercantile.

That left Nettie pacing Eva two steps behind, voice honey-laced. “Ain’t this precious. How’s the Kid’s knee, Miss Nurse?”

Eva kept her eyes forward. “Mending fine, thank you. How’s your card luck?”

“Better than yesterday, worse than tomorrow.” Nettie flashed dimples, then sighed as though burdened by generosity. “Town that small, pretty thing like you oughta pick up hair ribbons at the milliner’s. Unless the Kid won’t part with his purse.”

Eva halted, looked Nettie over—velvet, lace, perfume strong enough to stun a moth. “Got all the ribbons I require. And if I had none, Billy’d still want me.” She started on. Billy’s mouth twitched, pride and amusement in equal share.

Across the street, two lanterns framed the wide doors of the Pie Town Emporium—dry goods, hardware, and, judging by the apple aroma leaking through its seams, a bakery counter at the back. Billy opened the door; a bell tinked. Eva stepped into a warmth that smelled of cedar shavings and cinnamon.

Shelves stood tall with burlap flour sacks, twist-neck bottles of patent cure-alls, bolts of calico. Old Mr. Penshaw—the proprietor—looked up from his ledger, spectacles perched on the cliff of his nose. “Evenin’, folks. What brings the Evans crew to my porch?”

“Beans, cartridges, and pie,” Billy answered. “Not in that order.”

Penshaw barked a laugh and pointed to a lattice-crusted parade cooling on the window shelf. “Take your pick. Lemon’s two bits if you ain’t choosy ‘bout tartness.”

Eva drifted toward the fabrics, fingertips brushing a bolt of pale cornflower cloth. Nettie sidled beside her, low hiss in her voice. “That color’d wash you out, honey. Show every freckle you own.”

“Freckles aren’t shameful,” Eva said, mild as teatime. “Billy calls ’em stardust.”

Nettie’s smile cracked just a hair.

Meanwhile, Billy and Penshaw haggled over .44 shells, the price per box rising a penny every time Nettie’s laugh pealed too sharp across the room. Billy’s patience thinned; Eva caught the movement of his jaw muscle and intervened.

She chose a single lemon pie from the sill—gold as prairie sunset—and carried it to the counter. “We’ll take this, Mr. Penshaw. And two skeins of cotton thread—white.” The storekeeper sniffed, scribbled figures.

While Penshaw wrapped the pie in brown paper, Eva leaned toward Billy, voice just for him. “Need anything from the smith? I saw you oil that hammer light.”

He blinked, then softened. “Just extra springs. You think of everything, don’t you?”

“Habit,” she said, though her pulse jumped at the warmth in his words.

Coins rung into Penshaw’s till. Billy tucked the pie under his arm and offered Eva the crook of his elbow. “Whiskey next?”

“Please,” she said—surprising herself. Whiskey meant the saloon, card smoke, Nettie’s territory. But a spark in her chest rebelled: she would not scurry like a church mouse from saloon girls or doubts whispering in barns.

Outside the sky bruised to indigo; a stagecoach rattled past, driver whooping at fresh horses. Up ahead the saloon’s red lantern swayed above twin batwings. Piano chords stumbled inside—someone testing drunk chords of “Oh! Susanna.”

Jesse lounged against a hitch rail, already nursing a tin cup. “You get your fix, Kid?”

“Got pie.” Billy hefted the parcel; Jesse grinned approval. “And powder.”

“Shanks is gut-deep in poker. Tobe prowlin’ the hardware shelves. Coe’s wooing Doris behind the livery,” Jesse reported, as though announcing weather. His sharp gaze skipped to Nettie hovering near the porch step. “Some folks got other designs.”

Nettie fluttered lashes. “Oh, hush, Jess. Just keepin’ company.”

Eva offered the younger woman a lemon-slice smile. “Drink with us then.”

Nettie’s brows twitched—accepting meant sharing space she hoped to dominate. But backpedaling would read like surrender. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Billy caught the byplay, amusement glinting. “Let’s wet our whistles, then. Sun’ll set before we’re through.”

Pie Town’s lanterns shined on, dotting the street like low stars as the crew merged into the saloon glow—sass, hunger, and unseen undercurrents all jostling for room beneath the sagging roof beams. The night’s real game, Eva sensed, had little to do with cards and everything to do with stakes laid on hearts, pride, and pie still warm in its paper wrap.

Lanterns had begun their slow sway along Main, chains creaking in the soft wind. Eva stepped out of the Emporium first, brown-paper bolt of cornflower calico hugged to her ribs. Billy followed with the pie under one arm and a box of .44 shells in the other, boots thudding down the warped porch planks.

At the rail, an angular man fussed with a bulky tripod camera—the wet-plate kind that smelled of collodion. He was mid-pose with a gimpy Confederate veteran when he half-turned, catching the movement from the store. Wire-rim spectacles glinted; curiosity pinned his gaze to Eva like an insect.

“Hold that posture, Sergeant,” he murmured to his subject, then strode three lank steps toward the couple, dust-duster flapping behind narrow hips. A press pass—THE KANSAS CITY JOURNAL—showed grimy at his lapel.

“Evenin’, ma’am,” he said, tipping a felt bowler that had seen every county road west of St. Louis. “Name’s Fairfax. Nathaniel Fairfax. Forgive me, but… would you oblige a question?” His voice held a city cadence, polite but prying.

Eva stiffened a fraction, the calico tightening against her chest. “I’m no curiosity, sir.”

“Beggin’ pardon, I meant no offense.” Fairfax thumbed open a leather satchel. Ink-stained fingers flipped past notebooks, envelopes, a string-bound wad of newspaper clippings. “Just—thought I recognized—”

He fished out a dog-eared scrap, unfolded it with the delicacy of scripture. Gas-lamp glow hit the yellowed page: a black-and-white etching of a colonnaded house, beneath it the headline:

DEBUT OF MISS EVALINE WARREN FAIRCHILD – ROSEMEAD PLANTATION SOIRÉE

Beneath the title, a small portrait—charcoal-wash likeness of a girl in satin, eyes a touch too close, freckles rendered as polite stipples. Fairfax held the clipping beside Eva’s face, his own expression half wonder, half triumph.

“Couldn’t be…” He traced the faint lash-scar at the angle of her shoulder with a journalist’s air-sketch. “Freckle constellation matches. Scar—yes—left scapula. Miss Fairchild?”

Eva’s blood drained to her ankles. Words shriveled behind her teeth.

Billy stepped forward, placing the pie on the rail so his gun hand was free if needed. “Friend, that picture’s four years old and two thousand miles polite of where you’re standin’.” His drawl had cooled to gunmetal. “Let the lady pass.”

Fairfax blinked behind spectacles. “No harm meant. Human-interest, that’s all. An heiress gone west—makes copy.”

Billy pinched the clipping from Fairfax’s grip, folded it once, twice, shoved it into his own vest as if stuffing down a hornet. From his pocket he produced two silver half-dollars, pressed them into the reporter’s palm hard enough to grind bone.

“For your copy.” He snagged the blank notebook page next, tore it free, crumpled it. “And for forgettin’ you saw her.”

Eva managed a breath, but her eyes were still wide-ringed, fixed on the satchel that surely held more scraps of her past.

Fairfax swallowed, glanced to the coins, then to Billy’s stance—casual, yes, but inner arm loose near the Colt. Calculated risk spread across his face; ink and ambition lost to self-preservation. He lifted his free hand in a placating gesture, stepped back.

“No offense taken. Press never lingers where it’s unwelcome.” Yet as he backed toward his tripod he produced a stub of pencil, scribbling along the cuff of his notebook even before he’d stowed the silver: Fairchild heiress? West? The graphite glinted under lamplight like a snake’s scale.

Billy caught the movement but let it pass—for now. He reclaimed the pie, nudged Eva off the porch boards and into the dusk. Her fingers clutched the calico so tight the paper crackled.

They crossed the street in silence, lantern halos sliding over them. Only when they reached the hitch rail did Billy murmur, voice low enough for her alone: “He got nothin’ that matters. You hear me?”

She nodded, but the knot in her throat said otherwise. Behind them Fairfax’s camera shutter snapped on the war veteran, yet every click felt aimed at their spines.

Billy boosted Eva to the saddle, swung up behind. As the gelding turned toward the saloon lamplight, the clipping burned against his vest like a live brand, and Fairfax’s scrawled note fluttered in the journalist’s pad—seed of trouble, already taking root in the warm Pie Town dust.

The Buckhorn’s rear chamber breathed kerosene and cheap cigar smoke, curtains drawn tight so the street marshal couldn’t nose in uninvited. Low lamplight bronzed the haze; tin reflectors above the table flared yellow rings on every whiskey glass and sweating brow. Cards slapped, chips clicked, and lies fluttered like moths against the buzzing.

Billy slid through the red-lash curtain, boots silent over warped boards. The public bar behind him crowded with freight handlers and muleteers, but out here the air thinned to five men, one deck, and wagers too steep for daylight.

Shanks lounged dealer-side, sleeves gartered, grin razor-thin. “Well lookit the convalescent,” he drawled, riffling pasteboards. “Thought you were home spoon-fed by the little dove.”

“Doctor said light exercise,” Billy answered, voice even. He dragged a rickety chair back with his heel, sat astride it, arms over the splat. From here he could still glimpse main-room lamplight—could picture Eva at the front table with Riley and Nettie, polite laughter floating over the piano’s stumble. He fixed that image in his mind like tacking a horseshoe above a door: good luck, fragile.

The other players—Tobe, a traveling whiskey drummer, and a Mexican vaquero with silver spurs—nodded curt hellos. None offered seat; Billy produced a thin roll of notes, tossed it on the felt. “Buy-in enough?”

Shanks whistled. “Hell, Kid, you could buy the Buckhorn’s roof.” He dealt.

She’s Fairchild. Heiress. Lied through every mile, every campfire hymn. Why? To outrun her kin? To outrun shame? Billy collected his cards—three hearts, two junk. Folded. Doesn’t change who she is when she smiles at dawn, flour dust on her cheek. But it changes who’s huntin’.

He watched the pot swell, chips clacking like distant spurs. Shanks spun anecdotes—some nonsense about robbing a paymaster with a shovel and a possum—but Billy drifted, eyes on smoke spiraling toward the rafters.

Newspaperman’ll file that note. Somebody prints it. Fairchild kin read. Maybe Pinkertons. Maybe Rosemead’s overseer with blood still on his whip. They’ll ride hard and straight.

Billy swallowed the bitter taste of that thought, signaled for whiskey. The bar-back brought a finger of brown; Billy downed half, felt it burn a straight line to his ribs.

Cards came again. Queen high flush this time. He pushed chips methodically, face unreadable. The drummer raised, Tobe glared from under his hat brim, Shanks feigned boredom. Billy called every bet without blinking, let tension wind like a lariat. River card hit—ace hearts. He owned the table.

“Show,” Shanks said.

Billy fanned his hand. “Heaven’s paint.” Pot slid his way in a satisfying clatter. He raked the silver dollars and paper, stacking neat. Not greed—calculation. Coach fare to anywhere, forged deed money, clean dresses, doctor’s bribe if needed. His brain counted silently: sixty-one… eight-three… one-ten.

Shanks’s eyes narrowed, amused. “Plannin’ a dowry?”

“Plannin’ a road,” Billy answered. He cut a grin but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Road costs.”

The next deal, he folded early, leaned back, let conversation wash. Vaquero bragged on a new Winchester, drummer cursed the railroad wages. Billy’s thoughts prowled ahead:

Head south? Tucson too rough. North? Trinidad—she loves that mission bell, but too many rails, too many newsmen. West into the red mesa country—quiet hamlets, Spanish land grants where a preacher’ll ink papers no questions.

He pictured her there: hair loose in canyon breeze, safe as any soul could be in a world made of dust and lead. A home with four walls, a respectable husband, maybe a milk cow. No gunfire at dawn, no bounty posters tacking up beside church bulletins.

The whiskey drummer pushed back from a losing hand, muttered curses in Iowa slang and quit the table. Shanks reeled him with teasing, but Billy saw only the empty chair and the door beyond—Eva’s silhouette nowhere in view now, hidden by the main-room throng.

His pulse kicked. Distance grows even when I’m sittin’ still. He cashed out, chips bundled in both fists, notes folded tight.

Shanks raised a brow. “Quittin’ while you’re ahead?”

“Got what I came for.” Billy stood, tossed a coin to the lamp-boy, and met Tobe’s curious stare with a thin smile. “Light exercise is done.”

He paused at the curtain, smoke curling round his hat brim, and let a last calculation settle hard behind his eyes:

Forge a name, stage north Friday dawn. Ticket tucked where she’ll find it? Or just ride out and leave her safe while she thinks I’m buyin’ supplies?

The thought of her face when she woke to emptiness punched his gut. But the thought of a whip cracking across that peach-flesh if he misjudged safety punched harder.

Decision set like a trigger pulled halfway: He would haul her somewhere no one looked. Even if it meant she hated him for the leaving.

Billy pushed through the curtain, back into piano clatter and lantern glare, hunting his girl among the tables, pockets heavy with travel money and heart heavier still with the lie he’d begun to spin.

The moon rode high—bright as a silver peso dropped on black velvet—casting long twin shadows of horse and riders across the bleached ruts. Sage ghosts stirred in the cool wind, brushing the mare’s fetlocks with hushed applause. Every other sound had bled from the world but the drummer-beat of hooves and the soft creak of leather.

Eva sat pillion, arms wrapped around Billy’s middle, cheek pillowed between his shoulder blades. He felt each slow exhale through his shirt, warm as a hearth coal against chill night. Her braid had unravelled by inches; loose strands fluttered past his sleeve like corn-silk ribbon. When the mare shifted pace, Eva murmured half-awake, then settled again, sighing into him.

Billy shifted the reins to one hand, drew the blanket higher around her shoulders with the other. “Easy, little dove,” he whispered over his shoulder. “Road’s straight from here.”

She hummed drowsy assent, neither words nor tune—just the sound of trust. The weight of it ached sweet against him.

Yet his eyes never rested. Ridge-lines loomed charcoal on either flank; every brush clump, every glint of quartz in the track felt like a rifle barrel waiting to slide from the dark. He catalogued distances the way a gambler tallies chips: fifteen yards to that boulder, twenty-five to the gully cut; four heartbeats to kick the mare into a dead run if ambush stirred.

She lied by omission, yes, his mind rasped, but so have I, planning her escape without her say-so. Each breath tasted of dry sage and self-reproach.

The mare snorted, ears flicking. A night crow flapped up from a piñon, ragged wings startling the silence. Billy’s free hand hovered near the holster on his thigh until the bird’s shadow banked away over the arroyo.

Behind him, Eva shifted again, tightening her grip. “Cold,” she mumbled.

He eased the reins, slowed to a rocking walk, then unwound his duster’s tail and draped it across her lap like a quilt. “Hold that snug,” he said, voice low enough the coyotes couldn’t steal it. “Couple more miles, warm fire waitin’.”

She pressed a kiss through cotton to the center of his spine—a small, grateful brand that seared straight through the flannel, straight through the lies collecting in his saddlebags. Guilt prickled sharper than the night air.

Tomorrow I’ll talk to Jesse—borrow the buckboard, pack her trunk… Plans whirred, relentless. She’ll hate me for the trick, but she’ll live.

The mare topped the last rise. Far off, two lanterns burned outside Jesse’s bunkhouse, tiny amber eyes in the dark—home-base for thieves and tall tales. Billy reined in a moment, letting the sight settle.

Eva roused enough to lift her head. “Almost?” she asked, voice fogged with sleep but edged by some private worry.

“Almost,” he promised, staring at the lights, willing them to stand for safety instead of farewell. “Nothin’ chasin’ us tonight.”

She laid her cheek back down, trusting the words. Billy clicked to the mare, guiding her down the slope. Each hoofbeat thudded like a countdown in his chest.

Soon, he swore silently to the barren hills, I get her free of bounty posters, newspapermen, and my cursed name—even if it breaks her heart and mine alongside.

Sage parted before them, then closed in their wake, swallowing hoof-prints under the moon. And the outlaw rode east toward the lamplight, with the woman he loved dozing warm against his back and a secret tightening round his ribs like a cinch-strap ready to break.

Gray moon-slivers slipped between warped roof planks, striping the loft in quiet bars of light. From below drifted the soft chorus of sleeping men—an occasional snore, the rustle of a blanket, the muted clink of a spur hung on a bunk peg. Up here, dust motes floated lazy as snow.

Billy moved in a crouch, boots off, socks ghost-soft over rough boards. The nightshirt he wore was split at the seam from shoulder to elbow, but it muffled less than canvas. He’d practiced every step in his head before climbing the ladder.

First: the corner trunk. He raised the lid—squeak just shy of audible—and drew out a saddlebag he’d stashed earlier. From inside he laid items in a neat, obsessive row:

A half-box of .44 cartridges wrapped in oilcloth

Two revolver speed-loaders, polished quiet

A skin-thin roll of banknotes Jesse had paid for that last poker pot—sixty-four dollars, three silver halves

A single folded broadside of the Santa Fe line—town names circled in pencil where a man might lose old bloodhounds

He checked each like a preacher fingering rosary beads. Then he dragged a kneeling cushion—retired from the chapel wagon—beneath the narrow east window and knelt on it, easing a flat knothole board free with a jackknife tip. Beneath lay a shallow cavity black as a well. His breath fogged in the cool predawn air while he lowered the saddlebag inside.

Wood on wood made the faintest thunk.

A sigh floated up from the shadowed floor below. Billy froze, head cocked. Only a horse snorting in the paddock; Eva slept on.

He replaced the plank, fitting tongue into groove, then rubbed a smear of dust over the seam so daylight wouldn’t betray fresh marks. Satisfied, he wiped palms on his trousers, rose, and padded to the loft’s edge.

Down in the open bay, lantern soot stained rafters like old gun smoke. One bedroll, spread beside the cast-iron stove, held Eva—face turned toward embers gone dull red, hair spilled across the pillow Jesse had scrounged her. Even with blankets tucked to her chin, Billy could tell her shoulders had curled inward, as though she already sensed a chill coming.

He braced forearms on the railing, watching the slow rise and fall of her breath. For a heartbeat he wished she’d stir, catch him in the act, demand explanation—save him from the lie by forcing truth into the open. But she only slept on, lashes motionless.

Quiet enough to fool himself, he whispered, “Keep you safe, dove, even if you damn me for it.” The words hovered, shivered, then were swallowed by timber and gloom.

The mare whinnied outside, a lonely sound.

Billy eased back from the rail, shoulders bowed under weight unseen. He’d slide into the bedroll next to hers in a minute—let her steal the heat off his ribs the way she liked. And when dawn cracked over the place, he’d cook trail coffee, kiss her forehead, joke about fence-mending chores—anything but the miles he meant to ride without her when the time came.

He blew a slow breath through pursed lips, as if extinguishing a candle no one else could see, and padded toward the ladder. Behind him, under a layer of sawdust and half-truths, the bundle rested—small as hope, heavy as betrayal—waiting for the hour it would splinter them both wide open.

folks, about five more chapters and we’re done with this story!!! thank you to everyone who liked it and messaged me about it. if you wanna share any feedback or reblog it I’d really appreciate it. 🥹 love u all x

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