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fvsm4x · 9 months ago

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S1 E8 — ☆ S(CREAM)

pairing. Toji fushiguro x reader

Toji Fushiguro has taken on the Ghostface persona, and he's got his next target in sight. They receive unsettling phone calls, teasing them about their every move.

cw. ghostface! toji f. x female reader, phonesex, dirty talk, stalking, masturbation, fingering, 18+, mdni, kinda nasty idk, nsfw, i forgot how to write smut, wc. 5k

tagging. @sadmonke @collectionofdolls @1t4d0r1 @glazedtear @madamechrissy

kinktober — jjk mlist

The soft click of your shoes against the pavement echoed down the quiet street as you made your way home from work, the cool night air brushing against your skin. You pull your jacket a little tighter around yourself, lost in your thoughts. It had been a long day at the office, one filled with endless emails, missed deadlines, and an obnoxiously long meeting that seemed like it would never end. Your feet ache, your shoulders feel stiff, and all you can think about is getting home, slipping into something comfortable, and maybe having a quiet night to yourself.

The walk from work was something you usually enjoyed. It gave you time to unwind, the steady rhythm of your footsteps soothing after the chaos of the day. The streets are almost deserted now, the city winding down as the sky deepens into the navy of early night. You pass the same café on the corner, its lights dim, the usual crowd inside reduced to a couple sitting by the window. Your regular path was so familiar it had become second nature—left turn at the florist, then straight for three blocks before you reached your apartment building.

Your phone buzzes with a text, and you glance down briefly, half-expecting it to be a colleague asking about some report or project. But it’s not. Just a random notification. You sigh, slipping the phone back into your pocket.

Finally, you turn onto your street, the comforting sight of your apartment building just up ahead. The dim, yellow glow of the streetlights bathes the area in a soft haze, and you feel a small wave of relief wash over you. Home.

You reach the door to your building, your keys jingling as you pull them from your bag. The lock clicks open, and you step inside the familiar hallway, the faint scent of floor cleaner lingering in the air. The quiet hum of the elevator welcomes you as you hit the button for your floor, the gentle whirring sound filling the silence as you lean back against the wall, allowing yourself a moment to just breathe.

The doors slide open with a soft ding, and you step out, heading down the narrow hallway toward your apartment. The keys feel heavier in your hand as you unlock the door, pushing it open and stepping into the warmth of your living space. You let out a long sigh, kicking off your shoes near the entrance and tossing your jacket over the back of a chair.

It’s good to be home.

You flick on the kitchen light, casting the small space in a warm glow. The apartment is quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator. You move with the ease of routine, opening a cabinet to pull out a pot and setting it on the stove. A quick glance in the fridge tells you all you need to know: there’s nothing fancy to cook tonight, so pasta it is.

As you fill the pot with water and set it to boil, you slip out of your work clothes and into something more comfortable—an oversized shirt and soft shorts that make you feel instantly more relaxed. The stress of the day begins to melt away as the water heats up on the stove, and you hum softly to yourself, moving about the kitchen.

The pasta is quick, something simple to satisfy your hunger. You stir the pot absentmindedly, glancing at the time. The quiet ticking of the clock fills the room as you lean against the counter, checking your phone again—nothing new. Your coworkers have gone quiet for the night, and the world outside your apartment feels distant, almost peaceful.

Once the pasta is done, you drain it, mixing in a quick sauce. You settle down at the small table in your living room, twirling the fork absentmindedly in your hand as you scroll through your phone, skimming headlines and half-reading a few messages. It’s a simple, ordinary evening.

Halfway through your meal, the phone rings.

You pause, looking down at the device in your hand. It’s late. Who could be calling? The number flashing on the screen is unfamiliar, a long string of digits that makes you hesitate before answering. You swallow the bite of pasta, wiping your hands quickly before swiping to pick up the call.

You glance at the screen. Unknown number.

With a sigh, you answer. “Hello?”

There’s a brief, unsettling silence on the other end. You’re about to hang up when a voice finally speaks, low and smooth, with a hint of amusement. “Do you like scary movies?”

Your brow furrows, and you can’t help but let out a nervous laugh. A prank call? Really? “What?”

“Scary movies,” the voice repeats, slow and deliberate. “You got a favorite?”

You pause, feeling a flicker of unease. “Uh… I guess. Who is this?”

The voice chuckles softly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Let’s not worry about that. Just answer the question. Halloween, maybe? Or Scream? You strike me as someone who likes the classics.”

Your stomach knots, that unease building. “Look, if this is some kind of joke, I’m not—”

“I’m not joking,” the voice interrupts smoothly, an edge creeping into his tone. “Humor me. Do you have a favorite? Or do you get too scared to even watch?”

You swallow, standing up from the couch as your nerves start to catch up with you. “Yeah, sure. Halloween, I guess,” you mutter, glancing around the apartment. You move to the window, pulling the curtain closed, feeling strangely exposed.

“Mmm, a good choice,” the voice replies, almost approving. “Michael Myers… a man who knows how to hunt. He likes to watch his prey. Stalk them. Toy with them.”

A chill runs down your spine. You grip the phone tighter, the knot of anxiety in your stomach tightening. “Who the hell are you?” you demand, moving away from the window.

Another soft chuckle, darker this time. “That’s not the question you should be asking,” the voice says, lowering to a near-whisper. “What you should be asking is… where am I?”

Your blood runs cold, and you glance around the apartment again, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every doorway. “What do you want?” you snap, trying to sound braver than you feel.

“I want to play a game,” the voice answers, playful now. “I ask a question, you answer. If you get it right, nothing happens. But if you get it wrong… well, let’s just say, things will get interesting.”

“Are you kidding me?” you say, panic rising in your chest. “This isn’t funny. I’m calling the police.”

“Call them,” the voice purrs, unfazed. “But by the time they get there, you’ll already be mine. Let’s see how smart you are, hmm?” He pauses, the tension thickening before he continues. “Am I outside… or already inside?”

Your breath catches. You glance toward the door, the windows, your bedroom—any place someone could be hiding. The silence in your apartment feels suffocating, every shadow threatening to come alive.

“You’re… outside,” you say, voice trembling, praying it’s true.

The voice lets out a low, dark laugh. “Wrong.”

Your heart leaps into your throat as the line goes dead. You stand frozen, staring at the phone, your mind racing. Is he here? Is someone really inside your apartment?

Before you can react, you hear it—a faint knock, soft but unmistakable, coming from somewhere deeper inside the apartment. Your stomach drops, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your feet stay rooted to the floor.

Then, the phone rings again.

Your shaking hand hovers over it before you answer, dreading what comes next.

“Miss me already?” the voice teases, his tone darker now, more intimate. “I think it’s time we get to know each other finally. I’ve been watching you for so long, and I’ve got to say… you’ve been driving me wild.”

You swallow, the bile rising in your throat.

“Those cute little outfits you wear around the house, thinking you’re all alone,” he continues, his voice thick with perverted glee. “Do you even know how many times I’ve thought about what I’d do to you if I got my hands on you?”

Your breath hitches, and you grip the phone so hard your knuckles whiten.

“I bet you like it,” he whispers. “Knowing someone’s watching you, fantasizing about every inch of you. You wouldn’t be able to stop me if I came over right now, would you?”

Your pulse races, disgust and terror warring inside you.

“I can see it,” he goes on, voice lowering to a dangerous growl. “You want it. You’re scared, but it’s turning you on, isn’t it? You’d let me inside if I asked nicely.”

The line clicks dead again, leaving you trembling in the oppressive silence, every part of you screaming that you’re no longer alone.

You stand there, gripping the phone like it’s a lifeline, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest it drowns out everything else. The silence in the apartment is suffocating, every creak of the floorboards and rustle of fabric suddenly amplified in the stillness.

Before you can even begin to process what to do next, the phone rings again. The same unknown number.

Your hand trembles as you answer, and before you can speak, his voice cuts through the line, smooth and teasing.

“You know, you didn’t even check all the rooms yet. ”

A chill creeps up your spine, and your eyes dart to the hallway leading to your bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, just like before, and now every inch of your skin feels too tight, too vulnerable.

“Why are you doing this?” you manage to whisper, hating the way your voice trembles.

“Because you’re fun to play with,” he replies, his voice dark and indulgent. “The way you’re so tense, so nervous… I can practically hear your heart racing through the phone. You’re scared, aren’t you?”

You swallow hard, every instinct screaming at you to hang up, to run, but you’re frozen, unable to tear yourself away from the phone.

“I bet you’re wondering if I can see you right now,” he continues, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “I can, by the way. That shirt you’re wearing? A little loose, don’t you think? It slips down your shoulder just enough for me to imagine all sorts of things.”

You glance down at yourself, pulling your oversized shirt tighter around you, feeling exposed in ways you hadn’t before. The way he speaks feels so invasive, as if his eyes are crawling over you, violating you with nothing but his words.

“I’ve seen you like this before, you know,” he goes on, his tone turning almost playful, as if he’s enjoying your discomfort.

Your breath hitches, the tension unbearable as you feel like he’s lurking in every shadow, every dark corner of your home.

“I bet you’re wondering what I’d do if I were there right now,” he purrs, his voice dripping with perverse excitement. “I could just watch for a little longer, or I could tease you a bit more. Maybe whisper in your ear while you’re curled up in bed, thinking you’re all alone.”

The mental image sends a shiver down your spine, your body tensing as you imagine him closer than ever, hovering just out of sight, waiting for the right moment to strike.

“But I like this better,” he adds, his voice dipping into something darker, more seductive. “I like knowing you’re trembling on the other side of this call, knowing I’ve got you wrapped around my finger with just a few words. I don’t even need to touch you to get inside your head, do I?”

You choke on your breath, every inch of you bristling with fear and disgust. His words are like poison, seeping into your thoughts, making it harder to think straight.

“I could make you beg, you know,” he says, almost casually, like he’s stating a simple fact. “You’d fight it at first, try to act tough. But eventually, you’d give in. You’d want it—want me. It’s only a matter of time.”

Your grip tightens on the phone, your breathing uneven as you press your back against the wall, trying to put as much space between you and the dark corners of your apartment as possible. But no matter how far you move, it feels like he’s still there, watching, waiting.

“You’ll think about me tonight,” he whispers, the words slithering through the phone. “When you crawl into bed and turn off the lights, you’ll wonder if I’m watching you. If I’m already inside, just waiting for the right moment to make myself known.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry, and the silence on your end only seems to spur him on.

“And when you start to feel a little too warm, a little too tense, you’ll imagine what it’d be like if I were there. What my hands would feel like on you, what it would be like if I whispered in your ear, telling you all the filthy things I’d do.”

You shut your eyes tight, trying to block out the images his words conjure, but it’s impossible. His voice is too smooth, too confident, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You might even start to like it,” he teases, his tone growing more wicked. “The idea of being watched, being hunted. Of having someone who’s always just a step behind you, waiting to catch you when you least expect it. Maybe you’d even start to crave it.”

You stand there, gripping the phone tightly, heart racing. The silence in the apartment feels like a thick blanket, suffocating, as if you’re trapped in a nightmare you can’t escape. But he’s still there, his voice sliding back into your ear, smooth and taunting.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, a hint of mockery lacing his words. “You could just hang up, you know. But I don’t think you will. You’re too curious, aren’t you? Deep down, you want to know how this ends.”

You shake your head, trying to push the heat of fear away, even as it clings to you. “I don’t want anything to do with this!” you insist, though your voice wavers.

“Really?” he replies, the tone of amusement in his voice clear. “Because I can hear it in your voice. You’re scared, yes, but there’s something else too. A thrill, maybe? The way your heart races when I talk to you… it’s intoxicating, isn’t it?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words get caught in your throat. It’s infuriating how he can read you so easily, how he twists your emotions like a puppet on a string.

“I know you’re imagining it,” he continues, his voice low and seductive. “What it would be like to have me in your space, the way my presence would change everything. Just think about it… how vulnerable you’d be, how exciting it would feel.”

You bite your lip, trying to fight against the rush of sensations his words provoke. “You think you can intimidate me with your words? You don’t scare me,” you say, forcing bravado into your voice.

His laughter is low and mocking. “Oh, sweet girl, you’re adorable. But I think you know the truth. I can see right through your little act. It’s cute, really. You want to be brave, but your voice trembles just enough to betray you.”

Your skin prickles as you feel the heat rise in your cheeks. “Stop it,” you whisper, but it comes out almost pleading.

“Stop? Why would I do that when you’re so much fun to talk to?” he replies, voice silky smooth. “You’re just one big bundle of nerves, waiting for something to break. I can’t resist. I want to know how far I can push you. What’s going through that pretty little head of yours right now?”

You hesitate, caught off guard. The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. What do you say? That you’re terrified? That his words send shivers down your spine, igniting a fire in you that you didn’t know existed?

“I can imagine the way you’d squirm under my gaze, knowing I’m only a breath away. I’d take my time, tease you until you begged me for it.”

Your breath hitches at the imagery, and you clench your fists, trying to regain control over your body and your thoughts. “You’re sick,” you manage to say, but even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice.

“Am I?” he muses, feigning innocence. “Or am I simply more in touch with your desires than you are? You want to feel alive, don’t you? The thrill of danger mixed with something darker? It’s the ultimate rush.”

You feel the heat of embarrassment flooding your face, and you fight to hold on to your composure. “This isn’t a game,” you say, though it sounds weak even to your own ears.

“Of course, it is. It’s always a game,” he replies, the playful lilt in his voice sending shivers down your spine. “And I play to win. Right now, you’re just a player trying to hide your cards, but I see them all. The way you bite your lip, the way your breath quickens… I can practically taste your fear mixed with excitement.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying to sound fierce, but it only makes him laugh again, that low, rich sound that makes your stomach churn.

“Why would I do that? We’re having so much fun,” he teases. “But let’s talk about you. What do you really want? Do you want me to stop? Or do you want to know what I’d do if I had you right here? No escape, just you and me.”

Your heart races as his words wash over you, igniting something deep inside you that you can’t quite put a name to. You want to run, to hide, but at the same time, there’s a dark curiosity pulling you in, urging you to explore the depths of this twisted conversation.

“I… I don’t want anything from you,” you say weakly, even as you can feel the truth lying just beneath the surface.

“Liar,” he counters, the smirk evident in his voice. “You’re completely captivated. Just imagine the thrill of giving in, letting go of all your inhibitions. How good it would feel to surrender to the fear and the excitement, to let me take control. I know you want it, and I can show you just how fun it can be.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and charged with an energy that feels electric. You feel torn between fear and the undeniable allure of his temptation, caught in a web of your own making.

“Just think about it,” he murmurs, voice dripping with seduction. “What would you do if I was right behind you? Whispering all those nasty things in your ear while you lay there, completely at my mercy. Would you fight me, or would you let go? Would you beg for more?”

Your heart races at the thought, and you grip the phone tighter, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of control. You can’t let him see how much he’s getting to you, how easily he’s breaching your defenses.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you declare, though your voice is shaky.

“Of course, you are,” he replies, that teasing tone never leaving his voice. “And I’m going to enjoy every moment of breaking you down, layer by layer, until you’re begging for my touch. Until you’re mine.”

The words settle like a weight in the air between you, and you can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just a game anymore. There’s something darker at play, and as he continues to weave his words around you, you realize you’re not just scared—you’re hooked.

„You’re wondering what it would be like, aren’t you? What it would feel like if I touched you… right now.” he murmurs

Your breath catches, and you curse yourself silently for how quickly the idea takes root in your mind. He’s nowhere near you, you remind yourself, but the images flash through your thoughts anyway—what his hands would feel like on you, the way his voice would sound in your ear, soft and cruel at the same time.

“I can picture it,” he says, voice low, teasing, drawing you in. “You sitting there, trying to act tough, but you‘re already thinking about it. I know you are.”

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, the tension unbearable, and you find yourself shifting slightly, the fabric of your clothes brushing against your skin in a way that feels… wrong, yet strangely electric.

“Go on,” he whispers, his tone wrapping around you like a command. “No one’s watching but me. I want to hear you. I want to know what you do when you think no one’s paying attention. Let me guide you.”

You swallow hard, the heat rising in your cheeks, your pulse quickening. You shouldn’t. Every part of you knows this is wrong, twisted. But his voice is so convincing, so smooth, like a constant pull at the back of your mind.

“You’re already feeling it, aren’t you?” he continues, that mocking lilt in his voice never wavering. “That heat pooling in your stomach, spreading lower. It’d feel good to give in, wouldn’t it? To just… touch yourself. You’re already thinking about it. Why not go a little further?”

Your fingers twitch, the suggestion creeping in as your body betrays you. A part of you hates him for how easily he’s gotten under your skin, for how the thought alone has your body reacting without permission.

“I bet you’re so tense right now,” he says, and you can practically hear the smile in his voice. “Just aching for relief. You want to fight it, but I can hear the hesitation. Why fight it when you can feel good?”

You let out a shaky breath, your hand hovering at the hem of your shirt, indecision gnawing at you. The fear still grips you, but there’s something else there too—a twisted curiosity. You want to prove him wrong, to show him you’re stronger than this, but the tension is too thick, too overwhelming.

“I’m right here with you,” he whispers. “I’ll guide you. Slowly, now. Run your fingers over your skin. Feel how warm you are. Just start at your stomach.”

Your breath comes faster, and despite everything, your hand moves of its own accord, fingers lightly brushing over your stomach, feeling the heat radiating from your skin. The simple act, under his coaxing, feels like crossing a line you didn’t even know existed.

“Good girl,” he purrs, his voice thick with approval. “See? It’s not so hard, is it? Now go a little lower. Don’t rush it. Let yourself feel everything.”

The moment stretches long and heavy, thick with the weight of his voice and the growing heat in your body. Your fingers hesitate at the waistband of your pants, nerves battling with desire, but the way he speaks to you—so sure, so certain—leaves little room for doubt. You feel a pull, an urge to obey, even though every logical part of you screams to stop.

"That's it," he murmurs, a low, approving hum. "You're already giving in, aren't you? I can practically feel the way your body is reacting. You’re tense, aching for it."

Your breath comes faster, shallow and ragged. His voice is like a current dragging you under, luring you into dangerous waters where resistance feels impossible. Slowly, almost unwillingly, your fingers dip beneath the waistband of your pants, the fabric of your clothes shifting against your skin, making every nerve stand on end. The warmth of your hand feels like a shock as you brush lightly over the soft skin of your abdomen, your pulse quickening.

"Good girl," he purrs, and the words hit you with a force that sends a shiver down your spine. "You’re doing so well. Now, don’t rush it. Feel everything. I want you to take your time with this."

Your hand moves lower, grazing the skin just above your hips, and you can’t help the way your body tenses in response. The tension between what you know is wrong and the primal urge building inside of you twists painfully in your stomach. Yet the further your fingers drift, the more the sensations seem to take over, drowning out everything but the heat pooling inside you.

"Let yourself enjoy it," he continues, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Imagine it’s my hand instead of yours, teasing you, touching you just enough to drive you mad. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Having no control, just feeling everything I want you to feel."

Your breath catches, and without thinking, you press your legs together, trying to ease the tension building between your thighs. Your fingers brush against the edge of your underwear, and the touch sends a jolt of electricity through you. His voice is the only thing grounding you now, guiding your every move.

"Lower," he instructs softly, the authority in his tone undeniable. "Touch yourself where you need it most. You’ve been holding back, haven’t you? So pent up, so desperate for relief. You don’t have to hold back anymore. Just give in to me."

Your body reacts on instinct, your fingers sliding lower, grazing over the dampness that’s already formed between your legs. The sensation is almost too much, your back arching slightly as a low whimper escapes your lips. His laughter on the other end of the line is quiet but smug, as if he knew all along you’d break.

"That’s it," he whispers, voice like silk. "You’re already so wet for me, aren’t you? I knew you would be. I can hear it in the way you breathe, the way your body can’t help but react to me. Keep going."

Your fingers circle slowly, teasing yourself just as he instructed, and the slow build of pleasure makes it hard to think straight. You bite down on your lip, trying to stifle the sounds rising in your throat, but his voice makes it impossible to stay composed.

"Don’t be shy," he teases, and you can hear the wicked grin in his words. "I want to hear you. I want to know how good it feels. You can’t hide from me. I know exactly what you’re doing, how you’re touching yourself right now."

Your hand moves faster, instinctively seeking more, the heat inside you growing unbearable. Your breath comes out in soft, ragged gasps, each one betraying how close you are to the edge. The friction beneath your fingers is maddening, every touch sending waves of pleasure through your body that make you dizzy.

"Imagine it’s me," he says again, his voice lower, darker. "My fingers instead of yours. How gentle I’d be at first, just enough to drive you crazy. Then I’d go harder, make you beg for it. You’d love it. I know you would."

The image flashes in your mind unbidden, his hands on you instead, the weight of his presence pressing down on you. It sends a fresh wave of heat coursing through you, and without thinking, your hips roll against your hand, chasing the sensation, desperate for more.

"Tell me," he demands softly, his voice tightening with desire. "Tell me how good it feels. I want to hear you say it."

A soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and the sound of it seems to embolden him, his tone growing even more possessive, more commanding.

"That’s my girl," he purrs, and you can almost feel the satisfaction radiating from him. "I knew you couldn’t resist. I knew I’d break you down. Now don’t stop. Keep touching yourself. I want to hear you come for me."

Your body is on fire now, every touch, every movement bringing you closer to the edge. You can barely focus, your mind clouded with need, with the image of him watching you, controlling you with just his voice. Your hand moves faster, the tension inside you building with every second, and the sounds that escape you are louder now, harder to contain.

"That’s it," he murmurs, his voice smooth and inviting, wrapping around you like a warm blanket. "You’re so close now. I can hear it in your breaths, the way they’re coming faster, more frantic. You’re going to come for me, aren’t you? Just let go. I want to hear you scream."

You breathe out, the air catching in your throat, your mind hazy with desire. “w-whatchya name..?” you manage to stammer, your voice barely a whisper, thick with tension.

Silence stretches on the line, an agonizing pause that only heightens the anticipation building inside you. His absence of an answer sends a shiver down your spine, and the tension swells, igniting the heat pooling deep within you.

Then, suddenly, his voice cuts through the haze, low and teasing. "All you need to know is how to give in to me."

Your breath hitches, your body responding to his words in ways you can’t fully comprehend. Each syllable draws you closer, igniting a fire that threatens to consume you entirely. The pleasure has reached a fever pitch now, your heart racing in time with your gasping breaths, and you can feel the inevitable tide of release crashing closer, threatening to overwhelm you.

You try to hold on, to fight against the surge, but your body betrays you. With a final, desperate gasp, you let go. The waves of pleasure hit you like a freight train, crashing over you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. Your muscles tighten, the sensations rolling through you in rhythmic pulses that seem to blur the line between reality and fantasy. You gasp for air, your head spinning as each wave leaves you more vulnerable than the last.

Your hand slows, trembling against your skin, the aftershocks of ecstasy radiating through your body. Even as you come down from your high, his voice remains, soft and satisfied on the other end of the line, grounding you even as your mind is still swirling.

He lets out a quiet, almost playful laugh. "It’s Toji, sweetheart. The one that always leaves Coffee at your table."

#𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #toji x you #toji zenin #toji x reader #toji smut #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji fushigro x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen gojo #satoru gojo #gojou satoru x reader

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morganski-19 · 1 year ago

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Chills Right to the Marrow Part 11

part 1, prev part

As fast as Eddie opens his eyes, he shuts them again. Falling back into the slow, deep breaths and constant heartbeats.

Something changed.

Wayne calls the nurse. They check off things on their charts, try to ask Eddie some questions. Like if he can move his hand, try to open his eyes again. Nothing happens. They say something about checking back every few hours.

He’s convinced that they don’t believe him. That they think he fabricated it all out of some hope filled delusion. Not like he’s been waiting here for days. Praying for his boy to wake up. Wishing in some miracle that he’d be able to smile again. All for it to be answered and taken away from him in a blink of his eyes.

But the nurse assures him that they believe him. Explain how most coma patients start to wake up with opening their eyes, moving their hands. How if he shows more movement while Wayne’s here, they’d like to know about it. Will be checking up on him more frequently, and in longer increments to try and document them.

It all sounds too good to be true. Like the last string of hope holding on to dear life. The only thing holding Wayne together. Tying him down so he doesn’t fall down and break.

He needs to get out of here for a while. Take a night for himself.

He drives around, burning gas traveling to an unknown location. Mindlessly following the paths he knows well. Drives past the trailer park three times, almost turning in. Only stopped by the construction signs blocking his path. Ends at the bar he would frequent on his nights off. Would get a beer to cool off after work. Try to forget about life for a while.

Forgetting sounds nice. Loosening the stress that knots in his shoulders. Be able to sleep restfully for a night. Refresh enough to walk back into that hospital room with a full basket of hope. All for it to slowly drain again.

It can’t drain this time.

Instead, Wayne brings himself to a gas station and counts the stray dollars and quarters in his glove box. Has just enough to buy himself a case of beer. Giving himself a limit so he doesn’t spend, or drink more than he can afford.

Sees Harrington and his brown-haired friend walk out of the video store they work at. Closing it up and heading to the diner down the road. Perfectly fine.

No matter how hard Wayne tries, the anger still points in Steve’s direction. For reasons he doesn’t even know anymore. More because it’s easy. They went through the same attack. Steve knows enough about Eddie from that week to have the answer Wayne craved.

But no one tells him anything. Continuously keeps secrets from him without good explanations. Makes this so much harder than it should be. Makes him down beer after beer, wanting to just make any of this easier.

Wayne wakes up the next morning with empty beer cans pressed into his side and a crick in his neck that won’t quit. Cracks his back in a way that just makes it worse. Cleans himself up, tries to wipe away the bags under his eyes. Scrub off the hospital and beer in the shower. Change into slightly cleaner clothes. Cursing himself for using his quarters for beer instead of the laundromat.

He makes his way to the hospital. Eating a shitty stale toaster pastry and hoping it’ll be enough. Knowing his upcoming paycheck will be mostly eaten up by all the other things before him. Walks into the room a little after eleven. A nurse asking Eddie question after question.

Eddie responding to almost every one of them. Opens his eyes when asked, then closes them again. Squeezes the nurse’s hand gently. Turns his head just slightly toward the light.

The hope basket overfills this time.

Dustin comes in the room a little after three. Bookbag thrown over his shoulder, ruffling through to find the book. Shocked still when he sees Eddie opening his eyes.

“He’s awake,” he says in disbelief. Tears starting to form in his eyes.

“Not quite.” Wayne gently corrects. “He still has a long way to go before he can respond, or even register what’s happenin’ around him. His body and mind are racing to get back in sync with each other.”

That’s what the nurses told him earlier. How he’s slowly getting there but isn’t all the way awake again. He’s there, and awake, but not all the way yet. It just all takes time.

“Can he hear me?”

Wayne looks at his boy, watching as his head turns ever so gently toward the two of them. “I think he might, yeah.”

Dustin leans forward, placing his hand over Eddie’s. Watched as his hand tenses at the touch. “Eddie,” his voice breaks. “It’s Dustin. You know, Henderson. I just wanted to say that you’re doing a great job. I hope you get better really soon. I’ve really missed you. And I’m sorry. You should have never been apart of this, I should have never dragged you into it the way I did. I wouldn’t have if I knew you would end up here.”

Wayne wants to know what this all means. What Eddie was dragged into. How this poor kid knew about it enough to drag anyone into anything. How dangerous this all really was.

But it isn’t the right time for these questions. Not for this kid to answer right now. He just sits back and listens to the next chapter of the book. Watches as Eddie responds to it. Is almost brought to tears with each time he opens his eyes to a part he likes. As Dustin stops just to make sure it’s true.

He follows Dustin out when he goes to leave. Sees how he runs up to Steve in the waiting room. Eyes closed and head resting on the wall.

“Steve, Eddie’s starting to wake up,” Dustin shares excitedly.

Steve picks his head off the wall enough for the visible relieved breath to show. “That’s-that’s really good, Dustin.”

He takes a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and slides them on. His head thunks back on the wall. Almost like he’s hungover. Face lost some color, voice sounding breathless.

“Are you ok?” Dustin asks.

Steve shakes his head gently. “Call your mom, can’t drive home.”

“Shit ok.” Dustin runs off to the nearest payphone. Pulling a few quarters out of his bag and dialing a number.

The brown-haired girl that Wayne should really know the name of comes down the hallway. Immediately knowing that something’s wrong with Steve and rushing over with a bottle of water. Asking him something before scolding about how he’s going to put himself back into a hospital bed.

Wayne’s not so sure this is just a hangover.

“How bad’s the pain?” The girls asks, pouring some of the water onto a tissue and pressing it against Steve’s head.

“Eight,” Steve exhales. Fighting like he’s about to puke.

The girl must realize this too, as she slings one of his arms over her shoulders and basically drags him to the bathrooms.

Wayne’s starting to realize that there’s a lot he doesn’t know. Made harsh judgements that might have not been deserved. He’s starting to realize that he wants to know what happened. To all of them. About all of them. Why this group of people know each other and how it all connects to Eddie.

He just has to start asking the questions.

Next part

tag list, let me know if you want to be added or removed: @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

@devondepresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,

@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,

#chills right to the marrow fic #stranger things #stranger things au #wayne munson #wayne pov #steve harrington #dustin henderson #robin buckley #but wayne forgot her name #eddie munson #almost no longer in a coma #not quite though #everyone lives/nobody dies #light trigger warnings #tw drinking #cw drinking

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rip-quizilla · 1 year ago

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We Could Be Beautiful: Dead Girl Walking

Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader

🔹An AU in which you and Eddie are both actors in a community theater production of Heathers: The Musical🔹

Word count: 1.6K

A/N: Just an idea I’ve had rolling around in my head for a while. This will probably become a series of short blurbs within this AU, taking place between the auditions and the cast party following the final performance of the show.

Tags: mutual pining, unconfessed feelings, allusions to sex, passing mention of suicide (pertaining to the plot of Heathers), references to Heathers: the Musical, song lyrics

If you’d like a visual for the scene described from the original musical, click here

🔹divider made by @k1ssyoursister 🔹

You took your role as Veronica’s understudy seriously.

You’d copied down every stage direction, every line, every director’s note- you’d made sure you were prepared. Now, the ultimate test would determine just how prepared for this you really were.

Barb, the actress playing Veronica, had warned you that her sister might go into labor early, and that had been exactly what happened. That meant she would be in the delivery room on opening night, and every program in every audience member’s hand would have a little insert with your picture on it, alongside your name followed by “-will be playing the role of Veronica Sawyer.”

Already, you had managed to make it to the first quarter of the show. “Beautiful” had gone without a hitch, and you’d gotten through “Fight for Me” without your voice cracking. But next was “Dead Girl Walking,” and you were just about ready to fling yourself in front of a bus. Or drink some drain cleaner.

You hadn’t rehearsed this song with Eddie yet; you knew the words, knew the blocking, knew exactly which note you were expected to sing and every riff you had to hit. But standing behind that velvet curtain as you waited for your cue, you were practically on the verge of a panic attack. When you finally had to enter the stage, you channeled it all- the panic, the nerves, the terror of what comes after tonight.

I need it hard

I’m a dead girl walking

I’m in your yard

I’m a dead girl walking

You’d watched him sing this song with Barb so many times, and each time you’d wished it was you- now, you had your chance.

Sorry, but I really had to wake you

See, I’ve decided I must ride you ‘til I break you

Tonight I’m yours,

I’m your dead girl walking

Get on all fours,

Kiss this dead girl walking

You knew Eddie’s wide, wet eyes were those of an actor. The eyes of JD as he watches the girl of his dreams. Still, the heat and want you felt right now wasn’t Veronica’s- it was purely yours. So you let it feed Veronica’s words as you held his face in your tender hands and told JD the things you wished you could say to Eddie.

And you know, you know, you know

It’s ‘cause you’re beautiful

You say you’re numb inside

But I can’t agree

You were the one in the blue blazer now. Tonight, he was your JD, and you were scared shitless that when your lips hit his in a stage kiss that was supposed to have so much fire it set the stage ablaze, it might feel a little bit too real.

So the world’s unfair

Keep it locked out there

In here it’s beautiful

Let’s make this beautiful

Eddie- JD- gazed at you with all the wonder and adoration of a man on his knees for a generous god. His head shook gently, bewildered by his luck as he delivered the next line. “That works for me.”

Then your lips were on him, and for a second you let yourself pretend he was kissing you back and not Veronica. His mouth was warm, his hands hungry as they roamed over your clothes and subtly squeezed until you felt your blazer’s polyester pucker.

When you pulled away for your high note, you gazed into his eyes and saw nothing but truth looking back at you. That fire you’d been feeling all this time was reflected in his eyes tonight. Sure, maybe it’s the stage lights. Maybe he’s just a really good actor. Maybe you’re fucking obsessed with him- but whatever it was, you felt wanted in those eyes. So yeah, you let yourself believe it. You let the script burn you alive.

Full steam ahead,

Take this dead girl walking

Let’s break the bed,

Rock this dead girl walking

You were drunk on the awe in his gaze, the way he looked up at you like he wasn’t sure if you’d really just barged in through his window to ride him until he was a broken mess, or if you were a fantasy his mind had conjured to fuel his desire to belong to someone who would cherish all he had to give.

Again, Eddie was a talented actor. You knew that was his interpretation of how his character felt about your character. Still, you let yourself fall into the script as you straddled his tense, shirtless body, his abs crunching under the blue stage lights in a way that made you salivate. You wondered what your spit would look like on his skin.

You were far too horny to be professional. At least you weren’t so far gone that you couldn’t remember your blocking.

No sleep tonight for you,

Better chug that Mountain Dew

Your heart fell into your core upon hearing Eddie’s whimpered ‘okay, okay’ in character, needy and submissive beneath you.

Get your ass in gear,

Make this whole town disappear

His eyebrows pulled together, voice stronger and raspier as it ripped from his chest. ‘Okay, okay!’ His fingers snuck underneath your skirt, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of your ass. You wished it was real.

You eyed him like a predator eyes a kill, determined to stay in his head until he needed you for real. You ran your palm over your cheek, brought your other hand up to fist in your hair, and pretended both hands were his.

Slap me,

Pull my hair,

You grabbed his wrists forcefully, bringing them up one by one to grope each of your tits.

Touch me

There (left tit)

And there (right tit)

And there

To punctuate the final syllable, you couldn’t stop an involuntary writhe of your torso into Eddie’s hands as he grasped your white button down (which was actually a snap-up) at the chest and pulled hard, simultaneously pinching your nipples through your bright blue bra and ripping open your blouse to showcase the swell of your chest for the whole audience to see. You didn’t notice them, though- you noticed the way he looked at your chest like it was the second coming of Christ. You witnessed that fractional widening of his eyes, the way he was entranced by every move you made as you writhed in his lap.

And no more talking

Love this dead girl walking

Eddie’s voice was lightning in the wake of thunder, bright and jagged and beautifully raw with power as he crooned a harmony to your lead as the song drew to a close. This song wasn’t an easy one to sing; had you not been so distracted by how it felt to have Eddie’s hips between your thighs you might have been nervous that you’d flub your high notes- but you didn’t. In a moment of sheer improvisation you did what just felt right, and that meant grabbing Eddie by hair at the base of his neck and wrenching his head back as you rolled your hips into his.

You knew your blocking was to arch your back away from him, but instead you brought your face close enough to his that it’s possible his mic picked up your perfect, clear falsetto as you pleaded, ‘Love this dead girl walking’ with the cadence of a lover asking, begging their beloved ‘don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop’. Eddie’s eyes registered your improvisational choice, and maybe you imagined it but behind those big brown button eyes he seemed to come alive with you, sitting up even further and digging one hand into your soft, hot skin while the other flexed against the stage floor to keep him balanced. His little ‘whoa, whoa, hey, hey, yeah yeah’s were short and breathy, sounding more like moans and whimpers as he rolled the sturdy bones of his hips into you as you matched his rhythm.

If you closed your eyes, you could pretend. If you didn’t have blocking to follow, you might have kissed him again, might have bitten his lip, might have reached for his belt buckle with reckless abandon and let a summer’s worth of pining win over in your mind. Instead, you channeled that passion into the way your hips ground into him with the fervor of a woman with nothing to lose.

Together the two of you finished out the song with heavy breaths and belted lyrics. You writhed. He thrusted. ‘Love this dead girl,’ your voices intertwined in a desperate dance for release from the tension between you that, at some point, had grown thick as two oak trees planted near enough to forget where one ends and the other begins.

‘Yeah!’

Your hand on his chest splayed out over faded ink. Your hips swiveled against his groin.

‘Yeah!’

His hand fisted in the plaid fabric of your skirt. That wasn’t in the blocking- had they added that? Was this improv?

‘Yeah!’

Using the grip on your skirt, he tugged you further into him as his hips bucked up just enough to bounce you on his groin and shake your exposed cleavage. Without thinking, your hand flew into his hair, grasping the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck and tugging sharply back. You weren’t supposed to do that.

‘Ow!’

It wasn’t supposed to be a moan, but that was definitely what you would call the sound you pulled from Eddie’s mouth. A soft yet sharp, breathy moan that existed somewhere in the valley between pleasure and pain and definitely sounded more sexy and less funny, which is how it was supposed to sound. You saw Eddie’s eyes go wide as he too came to this realization.

No matter; if you played it off, no one in the audience would know the difference. You let go of his hair and flung your hand into the air above you, reaching for heaven and belting out your last ‘Yeah’ into the stage lights that lined the rafters above you. Your back arched, and you felt one final push of Eddie’s pelvis into yours, weaker this time as he too came down from the endorphins that ravaged every thought in both your mind and his.

Taglist (people I've been talking to about this since the idea spawned): @ghost-proofbaby, @the-unforgivenn, @munson-blurbs, @hellfire--cult

#eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #heathers the musical #veronica sawyer #jason dean #eddie munson #Spotify

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coastsideplumbing · 2 years ago

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Plumbers in Central Coast

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cleaningtipsbypollie · 25 days ago

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Pollie Drain Cleaner

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doomtrooper77 · 7 months ago

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The Responsibility of a Man's Boots

I had been at this off-the-beaten-trail truck stop for 10 hours. My last ride had let me out here since he was heading west, and I needed to head south. He wasn't a bad guy, but he was a bit timid for my liking. He gave me a ride, and I gave him a little something extra for the road. It was nothing like I was looking for, but it got me another 200 miles to my destination.

The day was overcast and starting to get cold. Some cold gray clouds moved in, and the wind picked up. I started thinking that I might not find a ride today when a big all-black 18-wheeler pulled in. It was black on black on black. It was one of those newer Peterbilt models but tricked out. Mat Black paint, with black-on-black flames that seem to shimmer in the light, black wheels, and black smokestacks. The custom trailer was the same.

The truck pulled into one of the parking lanes, the door opened, and the first thing I saw was this big boot step down out of the truck. It was followed by a massive shirtless man. FUCK, this guy was a monster. I watched as he closed the door and headed toward the truck stop store and restaurant. 6'5 built like a fucking Mac Truck! As he got closer I could see the Wrangler jeans fit him like they were painted on, he had no shirt on and was covered in tattoos. Big thick silver chain around his neck and a wide-brim black cowboy hat. The thing my eyes locked on was the big black cowboy boots. He had that power swagger in his walk that only those massive powerlifters had. Fuck, he was getting closer and closer. I need him to be my next ride. Even if it is going in the other direction!

When he approached, I was trying to figure out what to say. My mouth opened, and I said, "Sir." He stopped, and his eyes turned to me—clear grey like ice chips. They bore into mine. I wanted to ask what direction he was headed, to ask if I could hitch a ride. Hell, I wanted to know how big his bicep was. However, my mouth said, "Boot shine, Sir?"

His eyes stared at me for a few seconds, and then he looked me up and down. It was like he reviewed and cataloged me in those seconds. I was expecting him to tell me to fuck off, but instead, he said. "Go wait by my truck," and continued into the store. His tone was that of a man used to his words being followed. I got up on shaky legs; damn it, I was nervous and walked over to his truck. I actually had a nice shoeshine kit in my bag. When you've got a thing for boots and the men in them, you never know when you will need it.

Hilariously, I found myself standing by the side of his truck, back straight like I was in the army. Shaking my head, I tried to relax. This guy was just a ride. I lived on the road and met all kinds of people.

Ten minutes later, he came out of the store with a couple of big bags clasped in just one of his big hands. I watched as he power swaggered back to the truck. He didn't look at me and walked past and opened the door of his truck. My heart fell, thinking he would just get in and drive off. That he had been fucking with me. Suddenly, I was both angry and disappointed. I was about to say something when he closed the door and turned around to look at me. He was less than a couple feet away. My anger drained as his attention focused on me.

He gestured to the stairs leading up to his cab and said, "Sit." I found myself moving around him and sitting at his command. SHIT! There I sat, and he looked down at me. His massive frame blocked out a good chunk of the sky. We were both in shadow, and his eyes were even brighter. "Where's your kit?" he said. I just stared at him, and he repeated himself, his voice more forceful. "Where is your kit."

I can't believe it, but I actually said, "Huh?"

"Your shoe shine kit?" he asked. Blinking, I said, "Oh!" and grabbed my duffle. I found my kit. It was a good size. It was in a nice leather case with compartments. I had leather cleaners, saddle soaps, different kinds of polish, brushes, and polishing rags. I took out the items I needed and set them on the wide cab step next to me.

I then looked to see where he could place his boots for me to polish them. I was looking around when his boot kicked my knees apart, lifted his big booted foot, and planted it right in my crotch. The heel of his boot rested on the steel step, and that size 14 EEE boot pushed down on my cock, stomach, and the pointed tip of that big boot ended somewhere in the middle of my pecs.

I froze and was holding my breath. I wasn't expecting this, it was like some kind of perfect kinky dream. I was just staring at his boot and not moving. I felt him push down on my cock with the heel of the boot and the sole of it pressed down on my stomach and chest. I looked up at him, and he bent down to where the brim of his black cowboy hat was inches from my forehead.

He ran his tongue over his teeth and said, "I take my boots seriously, boy. I put on my boots when I wake up and take them off when I sleep. In that time between, I eat in 'em, work in 'em, fight in 'em, and fuck in 'em. " He said, his eyes hard as ice. He turned his head slightly and spit. He then turned back and, grinding his boots left and right, he continued, "These are one of my favorite pairs. They feel good and look good." They did look good. Black Snakeskin. The pattern was tight and even. "I've been on the road for 3 weeks now, and they do look like they could use a good shine. You were very observant to notice that and kind to offer to shine them for me." he paused for me. "But when you offer to shine a man's boot, you are responsible for doing a good job. I take that kind of responsibility very seriously. Do you understand what I am telling you, boy?"

His face was stern and grave. I nodded and said, "Yes, sir." Those eyes bore into mine for seconds and he finally nodded and said, "Then get to it, boy."

He stood back up, pulled a cigar case from his back pocket, took out a nice, big cigar, and lit it. I picked up my cleaning brush and started. I wasn't nervous about the job I was about to do. I knew how to service and respect a man's boots—this man's boots. He stood there with his massive arms crossed over his chest and watched me, not saying a word. Even as a couple of other truckers passed by and saw what was happening, they looked at me, then at him, and moved on.. This was not a man's whose business you fucked with. I was pretty sure one of the truckers looked at me with envy.

When I was finished with the first boot, and he took it off my crotch, my cock was so hard that the outline of it pushed my jeans up, and there was a wet spot from me leaking. It couldn't be missed. He didn't miss a beat; he lifted his other boot and roughly placed the heel on my hard cock, and rested his boot up my torso. A groan escaped my throat, and my body shivered. He heard it and saw me tremble in pleasure. He ground his boots left and right on my cock, and I could feel the precum leaking freely, and the wet spot grew. I repeated every step on his second boot. When I was done, they shined. Not that artificial shine, but one where the leather was nourished and treated as it should be.

I looked up at him and said, "Sir?"

He removed his boot from my crotch and set it back on the ground. The light reflected off the supple, polished leather. He looked down at his boot, turning them left and right. He turned and looked at me, cigar sticking in the corner of his mouth, a slow, thick stream of smoke wafted slow and thick from his lips.

"Pack your kit up, boy, and get in the cab," he said, moving toward the truck. I packed my kit and was in the truck. We were driving down the road before I knew it. He hadn't asked where I was going; he didn't care because he decided I was going with him. I didn't ask where we were going because I was going with him.

I smiled now, even as I sat on the floor of his leather closet, polishing my fourth set of his boots for the day. That was four years ago. I can still feel the sole of his boot on my crotch to my chest just thinking about it, and it never fails to make my jeans wet.

#ai muscle #midjourney #outlaw

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pipeanddraincleaners · 1 year ago

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hereyeswithoutaface · 5 months ago

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A couple of fruits (Part 3)

Bullet train prequel fanfiction! third chapter <3 the other two are on my profile!!!

notes: this one is PACKED with references to the film, including one of tan's iconic tattos, and y'all hopefully will get to know a lot more about Ashley in this chapter (my fave diva icl) this is one of the more fluff filled parts of the story, apart from the first bit of this part lmaooo, but i hope you all enjoy because i love this chapter!

TW: death + suicide mention, alcohol briefly spoken about, talk of addiction and abuse, strong language, smoking and i think thats all!

your constant character name switch reminder-

Tangerine- Michael

Lemon- Toby

Michael blinked a few times at the computer screen, Ashley had just admitted to him that she doesn't care that he killed his foster father, and he was even more so curious on how she even knew he did it in the first place, it only happened a few hours ago, but the boy couldn't dwell on that thought for too long, because even though he wanted to avoid the stress of dealing with a distraught foster mother, he was going to have to help Toby sooner or later; so, with a sigh, he got up and went into the kitchen, where a blubbering Mrs Davies sat, Toby beside her and patting her shoulder with a slightly awkward look on his face.

"Oh i just can't believe h- he would do that! He's always seemed so happy" She shook her head, her glasses on the table in front of her as she was crying so much that they would've become a bath if she had kept them on. "Michael- my sweet boy, come sit with us, Your dad's....d- died." She manages to croak out, beckoning him closer with her hand, and Toby giving him a 'fooking-sit-down' look.

Reluctantly, Michael puts on a horrified expression and sat down on the squeaky kitchen chair on the other side of his foster mother, placing his hand slowly onto her shoulder. He was beginning to realize he was not as slick at acting as he thought he was.

"Oh-that sounds, urm- bloody horrible. what- what happened?"

"He- he killed himself- drank beer and drain cleaner, oh it's so awful! The paramedics took his body, but they- they couldn't do anything about it, i'm, i'm so sorry boys-" Their mother sniffled as she spoke softly to them, and put her head down on the table, which revealed to Michael a very pissed off looking Toby staring right at him, mouthing the words 'you owe me', which was actually unfair, considering Michael had won the game in the first place.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next morning, the two woke up in their shared bedroom, and Toby looked around for his brother with pure confusion on why he wasn't in the twin bed on the opposite side of the room, "Mike?" He yawned out, before noticing his brother sat at their desk, using the computer, typing away at something. Toby was not stupid, he knew exactly what he was doing, and no- he wasn't watching videos of Angelina Jolie, he wasn't that much of a loser teen boy, he was messaging Ash- which was arguably worse.

@tolstoyluvr: 'how do you know that i killed him???'

@ashlediquehead: 'i live in the same apartment block, there's a big window in your front room. i walked past when it happened.'

@tolstoyluvr: 'right... how come i never knew you lived here?'

@ashlediquehead: 'why would you?'

@tolstoyluvr: 'fair point'

@ashlediquehead: 'meet me in 5 at the side stairs.'

@tolstoyluvr: 'the rusty one with the shoelace wrapped around it?

@ashlediquehead: 'yeah"

@tolstoyluvr: 'got it'

Before Toby could say anything to Michael, or ask him why he was still talking to Ashley even though he thought he didn't like her, Michael seemed to throw on a jacket and leave the apartment through their bedroom window.

He walked along the damp pavement walkway that went past all the bottom floor apartments, and reached the damp staircase where he saw Ashley, who looked a lot more simpler than she had done the last time he had seen her, her hair now down fully, and no makeup on her face, just smudged mascara, she was smoking a cigarette.

"D'ya want one?" She spoke up when she noticed him, holding out the packet. "They're my mum's, but she won't wake up for hours, or even notice they are gone."

"Gowan then." Michael nodded and held out his hand as he sat beside her on the metal steps, his back leaning against the brick wall of the apartment building. She was sat with her back to the railing, and her knees up to her chest, she passed him a cigarette and lit it when he held it to his lips, he took a drag, and breathed out.

"I'm sorry about your dad, even if you didn't like him."

"Don't apologize, he was a prick." Michael shook his head, "He was my foster dad, my own father was a boxer- and a bloody good one, but some bastard killed him in a rigged fight, and i had no mum, so straight to a foster care home- i met Toby there, we clicked instantly, and then we got shipped to the bloody Davies family, and my new dad, was a proper piece of work, abusive piece of shit." He wasn't sure why he was saying all of this, never did he tell people all these things so quickly, but around Ashley, he felt comfortable.

"Oh, that sounds shit." Ashley nodded and took a drag of hers, breathing out into the cold air, "Toby don't really talk about his past much, just assumed you two were proper brothers."

"Really?"

"Yeah, i mean- you two are always next to each other at school, never gave it much thought i guess." She shrugged and looked out at the dingy courtyard of the apartments, and then back at him, "I like your jacket."

His jacket was only simple, he'd found it at a charity shop, it was black and a zip up, and there was a small picture of a tangerine embroidered on the upper left side.

"I like tangerines." She continued, and smiled a little, laughing as she spoke. "They're...adaptable, y'know? Like- they are so good, in any situation- well maybe not if you got run over but- you get the point. I like lemons too, we put those in the drinks at the pub, but they don't bloody bleed."

Michael was listening to her as she spoke, taking yet another drag, and raised his eyebrow at the words 'they don't bloody bleed'. "How could a fruit bleed in the first place?"

"When you cut it, that's the problem, it don't cut on the first try, either i've got a shitty knife, or these lemons are difficult to cut into pieces for the drinks."

Michael laughed at that, he thought back to the previous afternoon, and her slightly atrocious lemon cutting skills for their cokes, that must've been the reason, after a moment, he began to talk again. "What do you wanna do with your life, Ash, i mean, surely you don't wanna be stuck here forever?"

Ashley stubbed out her cigarette on the floor, extinguishing it fully by stamping on it, and her eyes didn't meet his, "I want to break my family's cycle, i guess. I want to make it out of here, out of this dump, and prove to everyone that i won't end up being some alcoholic screw up like everyone else. I want to be an artist, i want to show people the way i see the world."

There was silence for a moment after that, the girl didn't look at the boy, but he looked at her, he honestly thought she was so beautiful, so different to the girls in their school and city, she was odd and had a weird sense of style, with colourful tights and mismatched army boots, and she was slightly off putting and with slight hesitation, but she was so pretty and unique. Slowly, he moved his hand, and was just about to place it over hers when a voice spoke up-

"I wanna be a interviewer, for the police- you have to be good at reading people for that, and i am mint at it." Unbeknownst to them, Toby had left the apartment and joined them, sitting on the step below them and munching on a packet of corner store pick n' mix, staring ahead, he wasn't even looking at his brother trying to flirt with a girl, and most likely didn't even know that was happening at all.

Ashley and Michael's heads whipped round, and he quickly pulled his hand away from hovering over hers, stubbing out his cigarette and rolling his eyes internally. "The prodigal son has risen, thought you were asleep- ya tosser."

Toby turned around, offering them both a sweet, to which, Michael declined and shook his head, but Ashley whispered a small thank-you and took a marshmallow, putting it in her mouth.

"Well, Mikey, if you were an observant person, like myself- you would've realized i was very much awake, and saw you climb through the window like- i don't know, but obviously, being intuitive as i am, i decided to follow and investigate, like Henry in Thomas and friends-"

"Jesus-" Michael sighed and looked over at Ash, giving her an awkward smile, "Sorry about him-"

"Why are you saying sorry? Me and Toby are like uh- give me a Thomas analogy"

"Donald and Douglas, a pair of tender engines fro-"

"Donald and Douglas" Ash repeated and cut Toby off from another rant about steam trains, and rain her hand through her hair. "I pierced his ears and i got a fiver, that's basically friendship."

Michael raised an eyebrow, he was pretty sure that was not how friendship worked, but he knew how much of a loner Ash was, and decided to leave it. "Right, sure then...does that make me your friend? And no, you aren't piercing my ears, yet."

She perked up when he said this, and it took Ash a couple of moments before she could respond, the only time people wanted to be her friends were:

a) the chavs taking the piss out of her.

b) people wanting free drinks.

So the whole idea of him wanting to be her friend was a little unusual, but she nodded after a moment of thought, these two teens were harmless- apart from the fact that just yesterday the two had killed their foster father and she had seen it clear as day, but that didn't matter, and she whispered.

"I- yeah, you're both my friends."

Toby gave Michael a look, which meant 'you-wanna-be-more-than-her-friend' but luckily Ash didn't see it, and Michael nudged Toby, almost sending him flying down the stairs, but he kept his grounding.

This trio did not know what the hell was coming for them yet.

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