#FOB split smile

[lettingtimepass]

Fall Out Boy Smile Frown logo pattern for anyone who wants it 🙂

[hotchscoffeecup]

stuck

summary: stuck inside an elevator with your boss, aaron hotchner, isn’t what you had in mind when you left work late. perhaps, you can get your supervisor to relax just a little. SFW

tags: minor blood, stuck inside an elevator

pairing: hotch x reader

word count: 3k

a late birthday fic for muffin <3

“Alright, goodnight Hotch. I���ll see you tomorrow.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”

“Hotch, it’s late. I’m tired. It’s hotter than hell outside. Trust me, when I tell you that all I need is some late night takeout, a shower, and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.” You let out a short laugh. “I’ll be fine.”

He nods in farewell; offering a tired, albeit, tight smile before parting ways and moving toward his SUV a few spots down from your sedan. It had been a long day, and an even longer evening. The rest of the team had gone home hours ago, but Hotch had volunteered to stay behind and help you on your case report. Your skin bristles at the thought of the last 72 hours and you feel the tension pulling each one of your muscles as you reach into your purse and feel for your keys. After a few seconds of rifling around, your brow knits together when you don’t come across the key fob.

Releasing an exasperated sigh, your shoulders slump. “Dammit.”

“Everything okay?” Hotch asks, pausing after opening his car door.

You incline your head and wave a hand through the air. “Yeah, I just left my keys on my desk.”

A car door slams and the sound of Hotch’s footsteps echo as he moves towards you. “I’ll walk with you.”

You blow out a breath and wave him off. “No, go home. It’s just going to be a few extra minutes. Go see Jack.”

“He’s with his aunt until tomorrow evening, then hopefully I’ll get to spend the entire weekend with him before duty calls.” He gestures towards the elevator. “It’s no trouble, really,” he insists.

You can’t help but feel like a nuisance, but you don’t argue any further. A humid breeze blows through the parking garage and thunder rumbles off in the distance. Hotch presses the button to summon the elevator and as the gears rumble to life both of your cells start pinging.

Hotch reaches into his pants pocket as you reach into your purse. You both check your cells where a severe thunderstorm warning flashes across the screen.

“Hotch, really, you can go.”

Hotch arches a brow, sparing you a look that says not-a-chance as the doors open. “Come on, if the weather kicks up before we get back down, I’ll drive you home.”

He stretches an arm out to hold the door and you reluctantly step inside, accepting that he’s not going to leave.

You push the button for the ninth floor and cross your arms over your chest. “My car can handle a little rain, Hotch.”

He blows out a breath and shakes his head. “With the weather they’re calling for, your car will become a boat.”

“Careful, Hotch. That was almost a joke.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t reply.

The elevator pings as you ascend higher and higher. By the time the elevator crawls past floor four the sound of rain pounding against the building echoes inside the elevator.

“Damn,” you curse quietly. “I can only imagine what 95 is going to look like with this going on.”

“I’m sure it’ll—” A loud clap of thunder explodes outside, cutting Aaron off.

You startle, gasping loudly and feeling yourself immediately flush red with embarrassment. Your eyes flicker over to Hotch and he looks calm and collected, unshaken by the burst of sound.

Suddenly, the lights go out and the elevator screeches to a halt, throwing you off balance. You stumble as the elevator rocks violently and in your heels, you’re unable to catch yourself before you fall forward and hit your head against the wall; dropping your purse and scattering its contents in the process.

Pain splits your brow and your hand flies to your forehead. Blood, sticky and wet, trickles into your eye and you wince. The emergency lights kick on as you and Hotch both collect yourselves and stand.

“Are you ok?” Hotch asks.

“I hit my head.”

“Here, let me take a look.”

His hand curls under your arm as he uses the other to tilt your chin up. His eyes are hard in the dim red light.

“I can’t tell how deep it is in this lighting.” He presses his lips together and reaches for his cell. “Dammit!”

“Let me guess,” you say. “No signal.”

He snaps his phone shut. “None, what about you?”

“My entire life is on the floor right now,” you quip, gesturing at the ground.

“Right, sorry.” His eyes scan the ground and quickly locate your phone. He scoops it up and after flipping it open, he shakes his head with an exasperated sigh.

“Well,” you reply. “Guess we better make ourselves comfortable until the generators kick in.”

You kneel down and begin sweeping your belongings toward you. Hotch crouches and helps you without asking.

“Let’s at least see what you might have that I can use to help clean it up and stop the bleeding.”

“Oh yeah, let me just reach into my Mary Poppins bag here and pull out an EMT’s jump bag.”

He aims a hard look at you that he usually reserves for whenever Penelope makes a comment that teeters the line with HR.

“I’m the one with my head split open, I think I’m allowed to be sarcastic right now.”

Hotch breathes out sharply. “Split open, that’s a tad dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Two zingers in a row, Hotch. I’m impressed.” He shakes his head but even in the dim lighting, you don’t miss the smile on his lips. He picks up a couple of items and hands them to you. “Here’s your,” he pauses to examine the items in his hand. “Lipstick and tampons.”

A furious heat races to your cheeks as you snatch them out of his hand and shove them in your purse.

“Wait, give me one of those. I can use it to stop the bleeding.”

“Hotch, I’m not giving you a tampon.”

He levels you with another hard stare and when he says your name, you can hear the amusement in his voice. “It’s either that or your sweater, and I know that was a gift from JJ on your birthday. Besides, I was married for a long time. I’m not embarrassed by tampons or pads. You know I keep a supply in my desk, right?”

Your brow pinches, but a smile plays about your face. “Ok, I’ll bite,” you say as you pass him one. “Why?”

He pauses before tearing open the packaging. “You wouldn’t happen to have any hand sanitizer in there, would you?”

It takes you seconds to find the mini Purell inside your handbag and pass it to him. He squeezes some into his hands and scrubs it over his skin. “One time, Penelope dropped a file off in my office. She was in a rush and not acting like herself. I could tell she was stressed.” He tears open the plastic and pushes the cotton portion of the tampon out of the applicator. “I asked her if she was okay and boy, was that the wrong question to ask.” Hotch turns his head, looking around. “Ah, thought I saw that.” He scoops your half finished water bottle off the ground and pours a small bit of water onto the cotton to break it up. After working it into a small square, he gently presses it against the split in your brow. You wince and he apologizes. “She burst into tears and told me that her cycle had snuck up out of nowhere and she was unprepared and needed to run to the drug store. I told her not to worry and that I’d go for her. I’d forgotten to ask what exactly she wanted me to get, so I bought a little of everything. She took what she needed and I told her that I’d keep the rest in the lower left drawer of my desk in case an emergency ever arose again.”

“Hotch, that’s actually really sweet.”

He feigns a pained look, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Your use of the word actually cuts pretty deep, you know?” He lifts the makeshift bandage and inspects the injury. “It’s still bleeding. I’m afraid you might need stitches.”

You blow out a breath. “Great, and what do I tell them? Hey, I fell face first into an elevator panel. Patch me up!”

Hotch chuckles and applies more pressure to the wound. You hiss and again, he apologizes.

“It’s okay,” you say and realize this is probably the closest you’ve ever been to your supervisor. In fact, from this angle you notice just how long and thick his dark lashes are; the way his coffee colored eyes glimmer in the low lighting.

Holy shit, what are you thinking? That’s your boss you’re ogling.

“It’s hot.”

You blink out of your momentary stupor. “I’m sorry, what?”

“In here,” Aaron answers.

“Well yeah, the AC is out with the power. What do you think is taking the generators so long to kick in?”

Hotch’s brow furrows as his eyes flick about the space. “I’m not sure. It’s highly unusual though.”

You shrug out of your sweater and take over holding the makeshift bandage against your forehead, your fingers brushing against his hand as you do so. Bunching your sweater into a ball, you place it behind you and lie back.

Hotch laughs awkwardly. “What are you doing?”

“It seems like we’re going to be stuck here awhile, might as well make myself comfortable.”

He pushes himself to his feet and presses the emergency call button. You’re not shocked when the only response is static. You watch as he paces, pushing the button every few minutes.

“This is where Reid would say something like ‘the definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.’”

Hotch tucks his hand against his belt and pushes his suit jacket back with his other fingers. It's a gesture you’re all too familiar with, the one he uses when he’s exasperated. He swipes at the perspiration beading on his forehead with his opposite sleeve.

“So, what, we just wait?”

A smirk pulls at your lips. This shouldn’t amuse you as much as it does, especially given the fact that you have a head injury and probably need to get checked out.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re so,” you hedge, searching for the word, “high strung.”

Hotch’s brow climbs toward his hairline. “Excuse me?”

Did you hit a nerve? It was a fairly bold statement to make. Situation be damned, he was still your boss. “I don’t know, Hotch.” You release a short laugh. “You can’t really be in control all the time, can you?”

“Doesn’t this team have an agreement to not profile each other?”

You roll your eyes and prop yourself up on an elbow, wincing as pain pulses behind your eye. Hotch’s lips part as he instinctively moves toward you and you wave him off. “It’s not about profiling, Hotch, look at you. Stop trying to solve everything all the time and just say ‘hey, this shit sucks!’”

He holds your eye for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“You’re right,” he says. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and drops onto the floor beside you. “This shit sucks.”

You smile and he returns one. It looks good on him. It’s something he doesn’t do often enough.

“Let me check your head.” He leans forward and you let him inspect the gash in your forehead. “I think the bleeding stopped.” Placing his palm against your jaw, he tilts your head toward the red emergency lights. “Everything looks,” his eyes glimmer and drop to linger on yours. “Fine.”

Your lips part, but you don’t find words. Has Hotch ever looked at you like this? Well, that implies he's looking at you a certain type of way. You clear your throat and Hotch drops his hand.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

The words are out of your mouth before you can think. “Are you?”

He says your name then, barely a whisper. He’s so close, close enough for you to smell his aftershave. You feel your heart rate begin to pick up, pulse pounding in your ears. Hotch’s chin dips and his lips are a hair's breadth away from yours. Before anything can happen, the elevator’s gears suddenly grind to life. The sudden jolt of movement causes your foreheads to bump together and you groan as pain splinters behind your eye.

Hotch immediately apologizes and holds your face in his hands, making sure the minor collision didn’t reopen the wound that had barely stopped bleeding as is.

Your hand reaches up to cup his against your cheek and you meet his concerned eyes. “I’m fine, Hotch.”

He holds your gaze for a moment before dipping his head. “Okay,” he says tightly. “Okay, let’s get you up. There’s a first aid kit in the break room.” He grabs hold of your forearm and loops an arm around your waist before helping you to your feet. You stumble as you rise to your full height, your blood not yet having the chance to properly circulate through your body.

Hotch’s grip tightens around your waist and you place a steadying head against his chest; fingers splayed against the muscular plane beneath the fabric of his dress shirt.

Only when the elevator dings, signaling your arrival at the 9th floor do you remember that it's your boss with his arm around you right now. You startle apart and laugh awkwardly.

“Here, let me—” His voice trails off as he drops to a crouching position and sweeps the remaining items of yours off the floor along with his jacket and your sweater.

You walk in semi-comfortable silence, letting Hotch lead the way to the break room. When you arrive, you let him pull out a chair for you and take a seat. He moves quickly, rummaging through cabinets until he locates the first aid kit. He sits opposite from you and opens the white box. After pulling on a pair of disposable gloves, he makes quick work of opening several gauze pads. He squeezes rubbing alcohol onto the gauze and apologizes in advance.

“It’s going to sting,” he cautions as he begins cleaning the area around the wound and the blood that had dripped down your cheek.

“I’m a big girl, Hotch. My dad cleaned my skinned knees when I was a kid.”

Hotch chuckles, and it rumbles low in his throat. “I certainly hope you don’t see me as your father.”

You nearly choke on your own spit and feel a furious heat blossom across your face. Hotch sees this and the smile stays plastered on his face. He presses the alcohol soaked cotton to the wound.

You hiss at the contact and dig your nails into your palms. “Fuck!” you curse, though it’s mixed with sharp laughter. “I don’t remember it stinging that much!”

Hotch laughs as he apologizes and works as quickly as he can to clean the affected area. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He finishes up and applies two butterfly bandages, which effectively close the gash. He discards the gloves and soiled gauze. After washing his hands, he uses a disinfectant wipe to sanitize the table and replaces the first aid kit in the cabinet.

“Efficient, as always.” You observe.

“I’ll have to fill out an incident report,” he says as he wipes his hands on his pants.

“Yeah, but that can wait until Monday.”

Hotch presses his lips together, not liking the sound of that.

“Oh, come on Aaron!”

His brow quirks. “Aaron? You never call me by my first name.”

You smile and gesture toward your forehead. “Head injury, I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“It’s nice,” he says, a dimple in his cheek on show as he smiles. His expression shifts immediately towards worry. “Though, you might actually have a mild concussion. We should probably get you to a doctor.”

You wave him off. “A doctor is just going to tell me to rest, take ibuprofen, don’t sleep the first night, et cetera, et cetera…Frankly, I’d rather avoid the bill.”

“There's a protocol for this…paper work, workers comp.”

You slap your hands against your thighs. “Fine!” you relent. “Let’s go!”

Hotch smiles, relief evident on his face. “I’ll grab the paperwork.” You scoop your sweater and purse into your arms as he dashes out of the break room.

As you make your way back toward the elevator, Hotch joins you. “Forgetting something?”

Your eyes widen and you feel like you could smack yourself. “My keys!”

Hotch tucks the manila envelope under his arm and fishes around in his pocket, withdrawing your key ring with a cheeky grin on his face. You quickly grab them out of his hand and shove them into your purse. “The whole reason I’m in this mess,” you grumble.

You slap the button to summon the elevator just as thunder crashes outside once more. You and Hotch exchange a look. “On second thought, why don’t we just take the stairs?”

“Good idea,” Hotch agrees.

As you descend the nine flights of stairs, you can’t help but think of the long night you’re about to be in for. When you reach the parking garage, you can smell the rain in the air. You press the button to unlock your car.

“What are you doing?” Hotch asks. “No way, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“Hotch, I’m going to be there all night.”

“Okay, so I’ll buy you breakfast in the morning.”

You freeze and Hotch does too. For a minute you just stand there holding each other’s gaze and in that moment, you both know something has fundamentally changed between the two of you. What that change is, neither of you can tell; but something in your gut tells you it’s a change for the better and you can’t wait to find out more.

[messenger-of-babel]

Blue is a Christmas Colour

Summary: You attend a Christmas party held by the titans and spend the evening trying to avoid your crush. (Dick Grayson x reader)

Word Count: 2.1K

Notes: Def pushing everything back by a day, I got sick (curse the Aussie summer heat) so I'm taking it easy. Not many warning for this one, except maybe a slightly OOC Dick? Idk I've never had to write them not in pain before.

~RiRi <33

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You had exactly one hour before the Christmas party, yet you were faced with the classic Hallmark crisis of having nothing to wear.

Sure, you had been confident in your outfit a day before the party. You were sure it was going to look nice a few hours ago, and you were convinced you were ready to leave the house and arrive early as you were getting dressed. However now that you were looking at yourself in the mirror, you just couldn't feel comfortable in the outfit. Despite being something you wore no problem last year, it somehow didn’t look right on you, the material was puckering in the wrong places and for the life of you, you couldn't get the fabric to fold down flat.

So now it was thrown across the bedspread alongside half of your wardrobe, a steadily rising pile of red, green and white. You ran your fingers through your hair in frustration. You weren't sure why you were so concerned about looking your best for a simple Christmas party. You had been invited to an end of year get together by the Titans, despite only joining their ranks earlier in August. You told yourself that it was because of being new and wanting to make a good impression, that you could let your hair down and have fun. That you weren't always the hard ass, follow the protocol type that you were at work. You told yourself that it was because you liked Christmas and wanted to just celebrate the holidays in style. Or maybe it was the fact that you were technically in the public eye at all times since you didn't wear a mask, and what if you got caught off guard on your way there? There were a million excuses that you made in about the span of a minute, just to ignore the real reason.

To try and block out the memory of how your stomach fluttered when the team leader, Dick Grayson asked if you'd like to attend. Forget the way that your cheeks burned with heat catching sight of his smile, or the thudding of your pulse against your neck when he shielded you during a mission. You refused to have a one-sided crush, so with a groan you rubbed your hands over your face.

Thirty minutes to go and you were now staring at yourself, happy yet mortified with your outfit choice.

Who said blue couldn't be a Christmas colour? you had split it up with white, but you still chewed your lip. Maybe I could say it's like a snowflake, you thought to yourself. Or like a Jack Frost theme. Still kicking yourself over your outfit choice, you had no time to dally. You were locked into this now. You threw on some accessories on your way to the door, making sure you had your keys and phone in your purse before locking your apartment and hurrying down the stairs. The lift was broken, so by the time you finally got to the lobby you were out of breath from your clipped jog, scanning your FOB to get to the garage.

Settling in behind the wheel you buckled in and checked your phone to make sure there wasn't anything you needed before arriving. The group chat was pinging with people's ETA’s, and you typed in your own "On my way, be there about ten." before locking your phone and putting it back in your purse. Your stomach rolled uncomfortably, making you tap your fingers on the wheel anxiously as you started up the car. Hopefully your subconscious wasn't too obvert, and people didn't have a laugh at you for the left field Christmas outfit. Hopefully HE wouldn’t laugh.

Yet if you had stayed in the group chat for just a moment more, you would have seen the blue heart react that popped up on your message almost immediately, before the other colours started adding to it.

You parked your car nearby the team headquarters, somewhere that you could slip away to easily at the end of the night without being worried about a stupid camera flash. The elevator ride up you couldn't help but fiddle with your fingers, rocking on your heels. You got this, no one's going to notice-

The doors slide open and you almost bump into someone, and you can feel their eyes scan across your figure like it's a hot brand.

"Hey, nice-"

"It's a snowflake." you blurt out, making Donna's eyes widen. She holds a moment before laughing, eyes crinkling as her head tips back.

"I was just trying to say I was glad you could make it." she grins, the confusion in her eyes overwritten by the laughter on her face. "And that blue is a good colour on you."

Your cheeks fill with heat, and you place your palms over them in embarrassment. "Oh."

"OH, is correct." she hums, shaking her head. "Come on, nearly everyone else is here."

Donna links her arm with yours, pulling you further down the hallway until you can hear the faint sound of Christmas music and chatter from behind a door. She pushes it open confidently, half dragging you into the room with her.

The room is decorated lavishly, tinsel and wreaths hanging off every roof and column edge. The few standing tables are filled with ornament table arrangements, and there's an icy sheen projected onto the dance floor. You wave at Raven and Kory lightly, who are standing on the other side of the room at one of the tables. Theres a small Santa hat clipped to Raven, most likely the work of the happy, red-headed alien next to her sporting two mini hats of her own.

You're still new, so you feel awkward talking so casually to some of the other members by yourself, so you stick as close to Donna as possible. She had helped you out a few times on missions, and her internal resolve int the face of conflict had helped you mitigate your own panic more than you could count. It was the same confidence you saw on the battlefield that she used now, except instead of a warzone it was a somewhat active Christmas party.

Some days you wondered how you even got into the hero business in the first place.

The first time you had caught Dick's eye was when you were going to grab a drink from the crystal punch bowls on the side, weaving your way through the small crowd. He came up beside you, giving you that stellar smile that made your head rush.

"Hey."

"Hey." you replied curtly, unable to make anything else come out of your throat.

"You look nice."

"Thank you. It's a snowflake." you blurted, fingers tightening on your glass as you filled it.

"I can see that."

"Yes."

You had proceeded to scuttle away, leaving him slightly stunned. The entire way back to Donna's side you kicked yourself, nails digging into your palm out of frustration. You needed to put some distance between you two. You couldn't get attached. You needed to shake him like the flu, push down those jitters in your hands and round up those stomach butterflies with a net.

Dick Grayson on the other hand, appeared to be much more a trouble than you had begun to imagine. It was almost like he was tracking you down the whole night, appearing when you talked to Kory, sliding into the conversation when you struck one up with Gar. He happened to be around every corner fixing his shoe or making sure that the decorations were just right.

"Had to make sure everywhere was decorated." he'd shrug before striking up some awkward small talk. Teammates had begun to giggle, and so you finally left the main room when you could take it no more, hurrying into the hallway to take a break.

You sighed deeply, putting a hand on your forehead.

Now you were alone, now you could gather your thoughts-

"Do you not like me?"

Your eyes fly open at the sound of his voice. You should have known that if anyone was going to notice your disappearance, it was going to be him first. Dick stands a few paces away from you, suit crisp and holly pinned to his lapel. He tilts his head, studying your startled expression, while hurt is written on him like a book. "I understand that not everyone gets along, but I thought we got along fine before." he frowns. "Did I do something wrong? Could you tell me what I did?" he asks you softly, and you have to stop him there.

"You did nothing wrong. “You rush out, taking a step forward. "You're fine, it's nothing."

"Then why are you avoiding me?" the hue of his eyes flicker with a clear flame of hurt, and his hands hang limply by his side.

You sigh, fingers wringing together. "Dick it isn't you, it's just I-"

"You what?" he presses, stepping forward again.

"I just-"

"Just?"

"I like you, okay? And I don't know how to handle it!" You snap, the pressure welling up in your chest like a dam. He looks stunned at your outburst, and immediately you cover your face. You blew it, and you blew it big time.

"God, just forget I said anything actually. It's just the stress, it's all been getting to me, and the missions lately-"

"I like you too."

"It's all just been building up, you know? So sometimes I say things I don't really mean...what?"

Dick begins to laugh, running a hand through the black mess of hair. "I said I like you."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." he grins, coming to stand in front of you. "Why didn't you just say something sooner?"

"Because not everyone is a charming flirt." you shake your head. "And I wanted to keep things professional between us."

"I think you're very charming." he grins, eyes glinting in the low light like a cat. "Very charming and very professional. It's cute."

Your cheeks heat up, stealing the words from your chest.

"You know, I liked you since you had my six on the rooftop stakeout." He says quietly, eyes shimmering with a boyish look. A lovesick look. You raise your eyebrows in return. "The one where you almost got jumped by a henchman?"

"That's the one."

"I would have thought that was embarrassing for you."

"You stopped him, didn't you?"

"Yeah, by throwing a brick."

"See? you had it handled."

"It was the closest thing to me, and I panicked."

"Just take a compliment, will you?" He laughs, and the sound makes the tension melt from your shoulders as well. You laugh alongside him, not realising how close you had gotten. He was so close that you could fix the shift in his red tie and push the black strands of hair from his sparkling blue eyes.

"Merry Christmas." he says softly, eyes flicking around the hallway. "Say, are you much for traditions?"

You tilt your head at the sudden change of topic but follow his eyes up to see a white berried bunch of mistletoe hanging from the archway. "Did you plan this?" you accuse jokingly.

Dick puts his hands up in mock defence. "Hey, I did say the whole building got decorated." He teases, eyes flicking from the mistletoe back down to your lips. "Do you...may I?" he asks softly, eyes searching yours for permission.

You swallow and nod, blood rushing to your head as he smiles and draws closer. H his hand that comes to rest on your hip feels like a thousand degrees, and when you close your eyes and his lips slot over yours you feel like you're on fire. It only lasts for a few fleeting moments, his actions gentle and soothing before he pulls away. You find yourself wanting to lean forward and chase the taste of mint and candy cane on his lips, hazy as the giddiness sets in that you just kissed Dick Grayson.

"Wanna rejoin the party?" he asks, grinning as he sees the faint shock the kiss left you in. He offers you his hand and this time you take it with no hesitation. You offer him up a smile, seeing your own excitement reflected in the flickering of his irises.

"Sure." you hum. Maybe this wasn't the worst way to end a year.

"Oh, and no one is buying that snowflake story."

[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two 

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. 

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, sexual tension, TW bullying (in case), TW recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing. disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument

𓆩❤︎𓆪

The Coral Apartments, California, November 1990

Eddie Munson looks good on TV. You try to convince yourself that it's the blurry imagery, the three-toned LED's, but you know it's because he's plain good-looking. Rockstar suits him. Glam suits him; eyeliner, ripped shirts, ever-bruised knuckles and cut up fingertips that speak of a wrought dedication to the music he plays. 

You look away from the TV and push the sheets down with your feet, naked legs flat to the mattress and covered in your own cuts and bruises. It's not entirely Morgan's fault, but every time you see the shiny scar on your ankle you get mad at her again. She'd been sloppy on stage, pulled her mic tight and sent you reeling over it like a tripwire. You'd cut up your legs, sprained your wrist, and split your chin. On national TV. In front of thousands of people. 

Your ego is pretty bruised too. 

Worse was the bouquet of flowers you'd been sent the day after, huge and bursting with colour from a certain dark-haired thorn in your side. 

Saw you ate shit. Stop day-dreaming about me during sets and you'll be fine. EM 

You'd trashed the card but hadn't had the heart to fob the flowers. The last survivors of the bunch wilt slowly on the nightstand beside you, a much too pretty reminder of somebody you're trying to forget. Or rather, erase. You won't admit to yourself what happened at Monsters of Rock, because admitting it means he's winning. 

Morgan pushes your door open with her hip. If she's perturbed to find you in your underwear she doesn't say a word, making a beeline for your bag. She takes out your Newports and taps the carton against her chest. 

"What's up?" she asks, sliding a cigarette from the box and propping it between her shiny lips. "You still feeling sorry for yourself?"

"Morgan." 

She lights her cigarette, laughing through an exhale of smoke. "How many times do I have to say sorry?" 

"Once would be nice." 

"Babe." Morgan sits at the end of your bed, in a good mood for once but still herself. "I'm sorry you fell over my mic." 

She likely doesn't even see what's wrong with her apology. You accept it for what it is and hold your arm out for the pack and lighter. Knees pulled up, you settle against the headboard and light a cigarette yourself, but snuff it out after a shallow inhale. Nothing feels worth indulging in when the knot of anxiety in your chest keeps on tightening. 

"Where's Ananya?" you ask. 

"You're watching this again?" 

You glance at the TV where Corroded Coffin play through their Monsters of Rock set. 

"M'just waiting for us," you lie mildly.

"Sure… You know, you shouldn't feel bad about your spill last week. Look at Munson. Biggest crowd of his life and he's tripping over an E major." 

She snorts, the two of you watching as the Eddie on screen looks to the left of the stage and misses his mark. 

"How do you flub that?" She rolls her eyes. "Boys." 

How did he flub it? You'd been standing on the side stage cleaned up and smiling like you were half in love with him. The recording is proof — whatever power it is that he has over you, you have something similar over him. 

"Anya's in the lobby waiting for us." 

You sit up. 

"Why?" 

Morgan points at the alarm clock on your nightstand with the smouldering tip of her cigarette. "It's Friday." 

"It's Thursday." 

She smiles at you. If you didn't know her, the look of pity on her face might almost feel genuine. As it stands, she's a magnanimous bitch when she wants to be. She's lucky that it suits her. 

"It's Friday, babe. And we're," —she tilts her head to one side, the bemusement in her eyes unmissable— "ten minutes late." 

"Shit. Shit." You stand up on wobbly legs. "Fuck." 

"Don't worry! I got you something." 

With Morgan, you aren't sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. But you don't really have a choice. 

—

Eddie won't admit to anybody why he finds himself in California. The band isn't touring, award season is mostly over. He should go home and see Wayne because fuck he's a bad nephew, a bad son, and Wayne deserves a whole lot better than one phone call a week when Eddie's too hungover to actually listen to what his uncle is saying. He should head back to Hawkins and make sure Wayne's actually cashing in the cheque's Eddie's been sending. 

He shouldn't be hanging around parties hosted by people he only knows from TV looking for you, that's for sure. 

The good thing about being semi famous is that introductions don't matter. Either somebody already knows you or they don't, and everybody assumes you already know them. Eddie can't count how many times somebody's pulled him in for a one-armed hug and said "Good to see you again," when they've never met before. 

It could be the coke. It's probably the ego. 

Eddie isn't extremely introspective or anything, but he hopes to fuck that he isn't an asshole. He knows he is in superficial ways. He's said some hurtful shit to people — to you — he wishes every now and then that he could take back. In the moment it had felt right to tease you, to belittle you as he thought you'd belittled him. He'd wanted to put his hand out and ask how high you can jump. But then he remembers how your bandmates had spoken to you, or your glitzy smile. He remembers the twisting pain in his chest when you'd fallen over on stage a week ago (though if anybody asks, he heard about it from somebody else). You'd smashed into the floor with a cruel force, arms twisted trying to protect your guitar, not a second spared to save yourself. You'd got back on your feet with blood dripping down your chin and played the rest of the song without complaint. Not one person had stepped in to clean you up. 

It drives Eddie insane. He can't help it. He hates you and he wants to linger on the sidelines and watch you play. He can't stand the despondent look in your eyes when you look at him, when you look at the floor. He needs you to know that you're better than they tell you, but he can't make himself say the words. 

So he'd sent you flowers and made a lame joke, hoping for hot and coming off desperate no doubt. He'd regretted it as soon as he'd hung up the phone, but he hadn't cancelled the order. Something colourful, he'd said. What flowers cheer people up? 

The florist had laughed at his awkward tone and said that all flowers do the trick. 

God, he hopes so. 

Which isn't to say Eddie likes you. He can't stand you, actually, come to think of it, standing in the sticky pit of some actress' kitchen as he pioneers the radio and flicks through to Roller FM. Resentment burns like fire as the dial clicks beneath his fingers, turning the volume up enough to hear the radio host introduce your band. 

"And tonight, a month before their new studio album hits the charts, Godless are letting us be the first to hear the second single. The outpour of hype after their first, Down and Out, was no small feat, and we have the lovely ladies here tonight to walk us through that fresh sound. But first, let's spin that new single. Ladies and gents, this is Silver Ringed…" 

Godless are about as cohesive as Corroded Coffin. They have a unique sound as most chart toppers tend to have, and as much as he thinks your front woman is a total hack, she can sing. Her voice moves from sultry and quiet to aggressive and rasping. She isn't afraid to scream when she needs to, and you and Ananya obviously won't let yourselves be outdone. Your music is visceral. It's good. Not Corroded Coffin good, you don't have the clean cut sound they do, but Eddie knows that isn't the point. It's supposed to be a little dirty, and since they let you on the writing floor it's getting worse. Better. Whatever. 

Eddie rubs his face with both hands. 

When the song ends, the radio host asks some questions about the new album, inspirations, touring, promotional album covers, the works, and Eddie hates himself for waiting to hear your voice. He grows irritated at the sound of Morgan's raspy nonchalance. 

"I mean, you guys are really stepping into a new genre here." It's true. Godless and bands like yours are more energetic, more aggressive than what Eddie plays. It's a divisive subject. Eddie likes it, but he knows a ton of metalheads who think it's immature. It's certainly not traditional. "Your first album was a whole lot different. And it was good, Godless broke into the scene! But this is new. You guys are more original and more popular than ever. Why the change?" The host laughs. "Well, she's sitting right here." 

Eddie thinks he can hear you inhale, but it's Morgan who speaks. 

"I wanted more for us, you know? Our first record, we just wanted to prove we could do it. This time we want to prove no one else can." 

Jamison scoffs. Eddie looks up from the radio and finds his bandmate with a beer in hand. He tries to steal it and gets an elbow to the chest for the effort. 

"Dick," he says. 

"Get your own." Jamison tilts his head toward the radio in a show of tuning in. "Can't tear yourself away, huh? How's your girlfriend?" 

"Christ," Eddie hisses. 

"You need him. Aw, she sounds so sweet." 

Eddie startles back to the radio, and sure enough you've finally been allowed to talk. Your voice is soft with nerves. 

"It's a lot to adjust to, I think I'm slow to- uh, get with the program. But I'm so happy to get to make music and to be a part of something this sick. Uh, this amazing, I mean." 

Poor girl, he thinks. By the end of your answer you sound like you want the ground to swallow you up. Thankfully the host is a professional, and laughs warmly. 

"It's a big lifestyle change! We talked a little about influence, is there a track I can play you guys out with? What's your favourite?" he asks. 

"Me?" you ask. 

"Yeah, you." 

"Oh, uh…" You laugh, sounding frazzled and sweet at once. "It has to be Black Sabbath, right? Do you guys have, um, The Mob Rules? Mob Rules is my favourite." 

Eddie needs to get very drunk, he decides, and he does. He drinks until he can't taste the difference between the shitty craft beer and seven hundred dollar cognac. Until he forgets why he was drinking in the first place, to erase the sound of your voice and your Sabbath recommendation — who the fuck picks Mob Rules over Heaven and Hell? He's tipsy and he won't remember, but he wants to fuck you stupid just for that (affectionately).

He loves Mob Rules. 

They move from one party to another, sloshed in the back of a car he still can't afford with his rockstar paycheck, more than drunk in the bathroom of a Studio City mansion kissing powder off of his fingers. Whatever he's been given doesn't last very long (though it hits hard), and he comes back to reality on a huge fancy couch surrounded by people, some he knows and most he doesn't. 

"I need a drink," he says. 

And he gets the shock of his life.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," you say gently. 

Eddie swings his head to yours, finding you in a nice dress, the gem of a necklace fallen down the valley of your chest. The lights are high and blaring and he can see the fine hairs of your face, the shine of your lipgloss like a siren call. 

"Why are you here?" he asks. 

You shrug. He watches your shoulders. 

"I need a drink," he says again. 

"Like, a beer? I don't judge but I think you’ll get alcohol poisoning if you drink anything else." 

"Like a beer." 

You look like you might stand up and get him one, for a second. He's ultimately glad that you don't. You twist around, elbow over the back of the couch, and your face beams like a star as you call, "Hey, Dornie? Could you toss me a beer, please?" 

Eddie worries he'd wanted to see you so badly you've appeared as a hallucination, and he hates himself and it's all old news anyways, but you turn back with a cold as ice beer in hand and press it into his arm until he whines.

"I'm sobering you up," you tease, again so gently. He does not like how you're looking at him, like you feel sorry for him. 

He takes the beer though the second sip makes him feel sick to his stomach, and tries not to look at you. 

"What, you don't want to be my friend anymore?" you ask. 

What has he said? 

"Sweetheart," he says, focusing very hard on sounding solid, "a friend is the last thing I want from you." 

"Could've fooled me… Hey, you wanna know a secret?" 

"What?" 

You lean in close, smelling of perfume, your face undeniably touchable. "I heard from somebody who heard from somebody else that they're kicking Tony Martin to the curb." 

He blinks. "Sabbath?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"Why the fuck would they do that?" 

"Think on it, baby." 

If he couldn't smell the flowery punch of your perfume, or see the individual lashes that shield your waterline, he'd definitely think you were a dream. You're here, and you're talking to him like you like him, looking at him like you did, you cruel, awful thing, that day at Monsters of Rock when he'd pressed you up against a wall and kissed you until his lips burned. You'd kissed back. You'd responded, your lips pressing against his with more enthusiasm than made any sense. 

Now you're calling him baby and telling him secrets, your knees tucked together and the outside of your thigh warming a stripe under his jeans. It feels surreal. Your body heat is sinking into his skin. 

Somebody across the coffee table entices you into conversation. Eddie listens to you talk. Maybe high Eddie is a nicer guy than sober Eddie (unlikely), because you don't seem repulsed by his company. Considering how you left things, your little corner shop spat and his bruising kiss, he hadn't been expecting a warm welcome. 

"Did you–" he starts, insecure and hiding it as best as he can, fingers itching for a cigarette, for something to do, "did you like the flowers?" 

"You already asked me that." You peek down at his beer. "Could I have that?" 

He hands it over numbly. 

"It's not a good idea, you know? Drugs and drink, mixing them together. It messes with your heart," you tell him. 

"Don't act all innocent," he says. 

"No, I know, I'm not trying to lecture you 'cause I do shit I shouldn't do, but– you looked one bump from a heart attack. Seriously." 

"Why do you care?" 

You laugh. Your nose wrinkles. "I don't know." 

It's not the answer he wanted, but it's the one he deserves. 

He's spent weeks talking to himself, imagining conversations between you both. He's memorised defences, shamefully readied a few insults in case you'd prepared your own, but nothing comes to mind now. He's speechless. 

You drink his beer and he thinks about how his lips had been at the mouth of it not ten minutes ago. It shouldn't matter. You've already kissed him. It shouldn't. 

"I don't think I took what I meant to," he admits. 

"Me neither. Morgan said they've been cutting with procaine around the hills. Did you get super numb?" 

He can't remember. He doesn't want to talk about any of this with you. "I heard you on the radio." 

"You did?" 

"You were scared." 

"No." You tear the tab off of the beer and put it in his hand. "I like high Eddie, he’s honest." 

"I'm not, really…" 

"Should see your pupils." 

Maybe he is, then. That could explain why he keeps saying what he's thinking without pausing to check if it sounds cool. He has his defences up to the ceiling usually, wouldn't ever let you or anybody else in, not here. 

He's staring at you. 

You brush the side of his arm with your fingernails. 

"Why are you being so nice to me?" he asks. 

Your small smile flattens into a line. "I don't know, Eddie. Who are you gonna tell? Who'd believe you? As far as the tabloids and- and our friends are aware, we hate each other." 

"It didn't feel like you hated me." 

"I didn't."

"But you do now?" 

You stand up. Eddie gets caught in your smile, charming with something worse lurking beneath. You brush the hair out of his face and station your hands at the base of his neck, dropping your head toward his ear. 

"Not telling," you whisper.

He thinks for a moment you're gonna kiss him, his ear or his neck, but you scratch his scalp lightly and leave as he's getting to grips with the feeling of your breath against his skin. 

—

Dolly Floor, California, December 1990 

Dolly Floor is a club in West Hollywood frequented by movie stars. You're pretty sure you only get in because of Morgan's snow trail incident months ago, and you almost wish they'd sent you packing when you see how densely hedged it is inside. The temperature hikes up with every step you take inside, and soon Morgan's dropping your wrist in favour of one of her friends across the way, leaving you totally alone. 

You're dressed in too much clothing for the occasion, a dress with sleeves and a leather jacket that isn't yours, big boots to protect your feet from crushing crowds. Morgan had thrown a pair of kitten heels at you in frustration. For once you'd told her no. She's been oddly friendly lately, letting you do as you please with nothing more than an irritated huff, and so you've got tights and socks alike stuffed into your shoes — you're sick of aches and pains. 

If anybody steps on your toes tonight, you're going home. 

The air is thick with humidity, exhaled breath, the scent of alcohol explaining the stickiness under your footsteps. You don't know many people, but you know Dornie and, irritatingly, half of Corroded Coffin, so you beeline for the band where they're holed up at the back and hope one of them will give you a drink. 

There's gotta be thirty different people hanging out. How they can hear each other talk is a mystery. Dornie puts his arm out when he sees you and you slide into his side, reaching up on tiptoes to kiss his pale cheek. 

"Careful," he says, "you'll make someone jealous." 

You're affectionate with Dornie 'cause he's nice. Just plain nice, which is hard to find in Hollywood. He's the very first friend you've made that's yet to break your heart, and better, he hasn't tried to sleep with you.

Not that you think you're some unresistable notch. 

"Who'd be jealous of me?" you ask. 

"Of me." He rubs your shoulder through leather. "It's good to see you, doll. Your chin's healing up nice, yeah? Or is it make-up?" 

He taps your chin. 

It unlocks a reluctant memory, the shadow of a different hand, heavy with intoxication but painstakingly gentle. 

"It's a bit of make-up," you admit, lifting your chin so he can see it. 

"Still, it's getting better. How are your knees?" 

Hiding behind your tights. "They're gnarly. Doesn't hurt to walk much now though." 

Dornie grins. He has a pretty smile with white wonky teeth and three lip rings on one side. His hair is shorn short, unlike most of the guys here rocking hair to the ears or even longer. His eyes are a light brown, emphasising the bruising bags under his eyes. He looks tired. 

"Don't look, but I'm getting some serious glarage from your favourite guitarist." 

"You're my favourite guitarist," you say, and you mean it. His arm is a comforting weight. It feels so good to have a friend. 

"Your second favourite." 

You step completely into Dornie's view and look up at him. "How's he look now?" 

"Chilling. Want me to guide you over to the bar like we're lovers?" 

"Don't say it like that." 

Dornie pulls you across the floor back to the bar, where blessed cool air seeps down from the air-conditioning and the drinks leave pools of condensation the second they're put down. Dornie buys you a mystery cocktail that tastes more like water than juice. You sip at it happily, using your more neutral vantage point to get a good look at Eddie. 

He's sprawled against a booth wall with one arm behind his head, a cigarette sending smoke up to the wall. He looks better than the last time you'd seen him. There's colour in his cheeks, though that might be the lighting. Dolly Floor is a strange venue, like a strip club without the workers, or a restaurant without food. It doesn't feel like a club, but there's a small stage around the corner from the bar where good music plays live, and it doesn't take much convincing for Dornie to come and watch the show with you for a bit. Some of his friends join you, a woman called Natalie, a man named Matfield, and they're both as nice as he is. 

"We heard the new record!" Matfield says across the high table, the golden watch on his wrist a beacon under the reflections of the harsh stage lights. 

"Hated it?" you ask. 

He chuckles. "All the screaming isn't for me, baby, but that shit doesn't matter. It was good. How's it doing?" 

"I honestly haven't looked," you say, opening your box of Newports and offering them out like candy. Everybody takes one. 

"Better not to know tonight," Natalie says agreeably, her perfect black hair curled toward her face like a seraphim shifting as she leans in for a light. "All you have to do is celebrate." 

You'd wanted, foolishly, to celebrate with the girls. Ananya had dipped as soon as she could and you get it, she has her own friends, but Morgan knocking the door of your room had been a great relief. If at least one of them wants to spend time with you, that's enough. Only, Morgan had made it clear as she was sifting through your clothes that she was going to try and find, "like, someone who's actually interesting." You'd taken it about half as personally as you would've a few months ago. 

Hence Dornie. You'd called him on the landlines and he'd said, "Yeah, babe, I'll meet you there." 

Thank whatever's watching for Dornie. 

He buys you another drink and then another, says your money's no good and tonight's about you. His friends are great, including you in all their jokes and smiles, and when the lights go down and the music gets louder you head out onto the glowing tiles and dance with them. 

Eddie finds you not long after. Slinking up from your peripherals, hand in his pocket. 

"What Eddie am I seeing tonight? The nice one?" 

Eddie doesn't flinch at your sudden question. "You look good." 

He'd approached from the left. You'd felt it rather than heard him, and you'd guessed right. He steps further into view, not smiling, not not smiling. He looks good too. 

"I heard the album." 

You hate how much you care. "Yeah?" 

"It was good. It wasn't metal, but it was good." 

You're laughing before he's even finished, turning away from him in a feigned sense of superiority. I don't care what you think. 

Eddie doesn't grab you. You wouldn't care if he did. He follows by your elbow and says, "Come on, you know it isn't." 

"Just 'cause it doesn't sound rooted in the 70s," you say with a smile. 

"That's the whole point. It's baseless, there's nothing traditional in it. It isn't metal, but it's rock, and it's good, and–" 

"Slow down, Munson. A girl'd think you liked her." 

"I'm objective." 

"You're not."

"I'm not, but my opinions are right. Everybody says that, but when I do it's true, so…"

You look at him properly. He looks present in a way he hasn’t before in front of you. There’s a total clarity behind his eyes that you yourself don’t have tonight. He looks sober. Not that you thought he was an addict, not that you didn’t. There’s a certain blasé attitude to substance abuse when you get a kick of fame. Everybody has something in their pocket and you’ll admit to buying into it, taking stuff you shouldn’t in unfamiliar places. You know, of course, that drugs are fucking dangerous. But you hadn’t been freaked out by them until the other night, when you bumped into Eddie outside of the bathroom in Dornie’s friend’s house and he hadn’t recognised you for a solid ten seconds. 

He’s chewing on nothing. 

“I didn’t do it to hold over you,” you say.

“What?”

“Look after you. It wasn’t… I mean, I wasn’t making fun of you. And I’m not gonna tell anybody.”

“Generous.” His eyes narrow subtly. 

“So if that’s what you’re doing.” You look down to his neck where a silver chain rests, thin, new and hidden under his shirt. “Checking to make sure, I’m not.”

“You think I’m here to make sure you don’t tattle?”

You’re too tipsy to feel embarrassed. “You’re here to buy me a drink, then. I want a cherry margarita with extra shiny cherries and all the salt on the rim, please. Please,” you add, because the second one hadn’t felt polite enough. 

Eddie nods and half turns. “Shiny cherry?” he asks. You almost miss it, his soft tone nearly lost in the noise.

“Maraschino… they’re pink.”

“You’re not gonna come with me?”

“Get lost often?” 

Eddie holds his hand out. You’re supposed to think of how his hand looks, his callouses, his rings, the cut across his thumb, the size and length of his fingers. You think about them enough when he isn’t around, but now, right now, your heart thuds against your chest. Your thoughts are a mess until they aren’t — hold his hand. You put your fingers against his palm and he squeezes them together like he’s collected them, tugging you out of the crowd and across the room to the slick black bar. 

You’re still angry with him. You’re wounded, knife to the gut and all the red blood because he’d been right, you’re a dog, you do what people tell you to, you’re doing it right now, but then he squeezes your hand with a light enough pressure that you’re sure you’ve imagined it until he does it again, leaning up against the bar as he gives your order. “Extra cherries,” he says to the barkeep with a smile, letting your hand go in favour of his own drink. 

The crowd surges with a new song and people brush your calves as they walk around you. You and Eddie stay at the bar. He sips on a bottle of water. You wait for your margarita. 

“Your cut’s healing up,” he says. 

You try not to notice your touching arms. “It was bad, right? It must’ve been. You felt so sorry for me,” —the words burn— “you sent me the biggest bouquet I’ve ever gotten in my life.”

“I didn’t feel sorry for you, sweetheart, can you read?”

“Between the lines, yes,” you say, nodding your head once, emphatic as you accept your margarita. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t feel sorry for you. Felt bad for you-“ He holds up a pale palm. “My fault an’ all, I’ll try to be less daydream worthy.”

“I wasn’t thinking about you. Did you see it? She tripped me up with her mic doing a shitty Stevie Nicks impression.”

“Wrong genre.”

You laugh at him. “Exactly! That’s the point.”

“Yeah, I saw it.” 

You raise your eyebrows. Eddie’s head tips forward and his hair hides his cheeks, the subtlest impression of his cheekbones lost to a curtain of curls. He twists one of his rings around his finger.

“She- You should be more careful,” he says. 

Everything’s raw with him, criticism most of all, but you’re feeling generous. You fish one of your shiny cherries from the margarita glass, surprised to find its stalk intact, and break the delicate skin between your teeth. You mull over what he’s saying as the sweet flavour aches in your jaw. You could’ve been more cautious. You’d been having fun, and you’d thought you could trust the people you work with to have your back. It was a little silly to assume; neither Morgan nor Ananya have ever shown you much second thought.

“Yeah, I think I should be,” you say finally, putting the cherry stalk in your mouth.

“What are you doing?”

You ignore him and try to tie a cherry stem knot. You keep trying until you think you’ve got it. You pull the stem from your tongue. 

“Shit,” you curse, glaring at the curved stem. “Thought I had it.”

Eddie grins and leans into your space, fingers quick to pinch a cherry from your margarita. 

He brings it to your mouth. You keep your lips pressed closed and search his face for a trick. Nothing peaks out, not a hint of cruelty to his pinked lips or flush of soft lashes. You try not to breathe as you open your mouth, and Eddie pushes the round of the cherry over your bottom lip slowly. 

You bite down. 

Eddie takes your stalk and places it on his own tongue. He closes his mouth, and within five seconds he’s taking out a knitted stem with a prideful buzz about him. Any smugness he’d held dissipates. He looks adorable. 

“Beat you,” he says. 

“Arrogant doesn’t suit you.”

“Arrogant absolutely suits me,” he argues, the corners of his lips twitching up, up, up. He’s smiling so much. He reminds you of somebody. “Sore loser doesn’t suit you.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“What’s that mean?”

“What’s that mean?” you repeat. “I smile at you across a stage set and you push me up against a wall.”

“Smile? That’s what you’d call that?”

You’re facing each other now. Eddie inches closer as he speaks, each word said with a precision that can’t be unpracticed. “I’m playing in front of near enough a hundred thousand people, kind of crowd I fucking dreamed of as a kid, in front of actual real life rockstars, and you stroll up to side stage dressed like–”

He cuts himself off. An olive branch. A stopper. A dam. His inhale infuriates you. 

“No, go on. Dressed like what, superstar?”

“Like a fucking groupie.” 

You know he’s only said it to try and get a rise out of you. He knows that you know. He looks like he wants to take it back. 

You want him to push it further. 

“And you liked it,” you say, angry. Quiet. “You liked it and you couldn’t get a handle on it.”

“No,” he says, knowing what you’re implying, voice hot and fast, “I kissed you because I knew you wanted me to. I knew what it would do to you.”

“I wanted you to?” you ask. 

“Didn’t you?”

“I wanted to mess with your head ‘cause you fucking harsssed me–”

He cuts you off, “You wanted to mess with me because you hated that I was right about you. Not everything, but enough. Those girls treat you like shit. And you let them, or you’ll be the next Millyana, sitting at home watching the rest of us on TV wondering why you couldn’t make it out.” Something in his expression flickers like a rubber band has struck his skin. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time, you mean it. You worked hard to get here, had people treat you a whole heap worse than Eddie’s hot and cold, than Ananya's indifference and Morgan’s narcissism. Hours in buses with your neck craned against a short ceiling scribbling music and days toeing the line with a guitar falling apart in your hands. You scrimped and saved and starved for this. 

Eddie smiles at you. For the second time that night, he looks like somebody else. 

“I know,” he says. “I think we’re finally on the same page.”

—

Eddie buys you another drink. Your tipsiness had felt so far away when things got heated, but now your bubbly smile is back, and you’re actually talking to him. About music, sure, but the movies, the weather, the fancy apartments the record company put you up in. 

“Finally got my own room so Ananya can stop complaining about the noise,” you say with a wink. 

He chokes on his water. “The noise?”

“I’m a very dedicated player.”

You let a small silence pervade before bursting into giggles, hand patting his upper arm. “I’m kidding! She gets mad ‘cos I’m trying to learn YYZ but it is so, so hard.”

“Shit is hard,” he says. “Do you even have time for that? You start touring again in a month, maybe you should, you know, slack off?”

“No, because if I’m doing nothing I’m nothing.”

Eddie — fuck fuck fuck — shouldn’t pry. 

“You’re not nothing.”

You wrinkle your nose at him and he loves when you do it. It’s not cute, really, but everything you do is cute in a way he refuses to unpack. “No, I’m not, I don’t know why I said that.”

“I get it, though. You feel like… maybe it's all gonna stop one day. Wake up with a bad case of the yips and no matter how good you were…”

“Yeah.” You take a very noisy slurp of margarita. “I’m so afraid that I’m gonna be nothing that I can’t stop.”

Eddie throws his gaze around the room. It’s no coincidence that your friend Dornie keeps looking his way; the night is winding down and there’s barely anybody dancing. It’s home time. 

“You won’t be nothing,” he says, easing the margarita out of your hands. He might’ve bought you one too many. “I’m sorry for, uh, getting you drunk.”

“I got myself at least three parts there. Out of five.”

“At least three parts,” he agrees.

He wants, very badly, to touch your face. Hold your cheek in his palm. “Hey,” he says lightly. “Uh, you got something. On your cheek.”

You brush your dewy skin with an embarrassed look about you, shoulder risen and eyes all droopy with booze. “Here?”

“Higher.”

He watches you scrub at nothing. He’s tricking you. He feels awful. 

“Still haven’t got it?”

“‘Fraid not, baby.”

“You get it.” You brandish your cheek.

Eddie keeps a good distance. He knows what he’s doing is weird, he just wants to touch you for a second. He rubs the pad of his thumb down your face, tracing the path of a tear you haven’t shed. Eye to chin. 

“You’re good,” he says, dropping his hand. 

“Thank you.”

You’re slurring. He thinks you’re more tired than you are tipsy (though you are, undeniably, inebriated), and he wonders where all the time went, how it’s suddenly been an hour with you and your conversation. There’d been a moment where he thought he’d fucked it and your eyes had shone with hurt, but you’re smiling, he’s smiling, and Dornie looks aggrieved. All good things.

“I think you better get going,” he murmurs. 

“Sick of me?” you ask, not teasing. 

“No. Your friend’s waiting for you.” 

You look over your shoulder and your smile glows. You start babbling about how that’s your friend Dornie (he knows, you’ve only told him five times) and how Dornie is sooooo nice. You deserve somebody being nice to you right from the start. Eddie’s trying to make it right but he’s said some shit he can’t take back. He wants you to have someone who’s a hundred percent sweet on you, he just doesn’t wanna have to hear the adoration in your voice when you talk about it. 

Eddie’s a dick. Self-admitted. 

You go home with an arm looped around Dornie’s waist. (Dornie said high-pitched, wide-eyed.) Eddie pulls a handful of bills from his wallet to pay for the drinks he’d bought, stuffing the change in a tip jar on the way back to the dregs of the coffin crew. Jamison’s long gone and Jeff didn’t wanna come, but Gareth’s smoking a cigarette with another guy’s hand mysteriously lapward. 

He clears his throat. “I’m going home and taking the car.”

“Wait for me?”

Eddie cringes. “Sure.”

Eddie sits in the car. One hand on the wheel, the other in his pocket. He thinks about tonight, your hair, your smile, the way your arm had brushed up against his. He wonders if this is the right move. Eddie’s not mad at you anymore for forgetting who he was, for your teasing at the Prover Theatre or your rookie comments. And Monsters of Rock, that had been half spite and half bravado. Spur of the moment bravery. Idiocy. Yeah he’d kissed you to piss you off, but he’d also done it because he wanted to. 

He sighs and takes your discarded pull tab out of his pocket. He thumbs the rounded edge, thinking harder than one guy should ever think about anything that isn’t metal. Shit, he thinks. I gotta go home.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

note: they are not done hating each other I am just warming up! thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed <3

[frvnkcastles]

WAITING FOR THE LIGHT ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: After a tense argument, you get triggered and Frank is there to pick up the pieces.

Warnings: Past abuse (Frank does not hurt the reader), implied PTSD, feminine nicknames, cursing, hurt/comfort

Word count: 1.5k

Author’s note: This was also a request — I promise I’m gonna try my best to start replying to asks with the corresponding fics! I'm still very much figuring this whole thing out. Stay safe lovelies <3 (Also by now you may have figured out I’m out here naming after FOB lyrics, hehe.)

He would never hurt you. He wouldn’t. Ever. You knew that — and yet, all reason and logic flew out the window just like that as soon as he raised his hand in retaliation.

You couldn’t even remember what you were arguing about, your mind only locked in on that one moment that made your heart hammer in your chest and any words drain from your throat. He had been heading out the front door of your apartment and you reached for his arm, only for him to pull it away and lift his hand, in the process. That was all. Just... moving away from you.

And you still flinched. As soon as he turned to you with his hand up in the air, you flinched. He saw it, saw the panic flash by your eyes, saw the way your throat closed up on you and saw how you took a step back in blind fear. Within seconds, whatever had been building the frustration in his chest evaporated and the heavy bag carrying his guns fell onto the floor with a thud that only startled you further.

”Baby...”, he breathed out, tilting his head to the side while reaching for you with both hands, only for you to react by stepping back and forcing a quick smile onto your lips.

”It’s okay”, you uttered out, running your fingers through your hair and nodding to confirm your own words as you trailed away from him. ”I’ll—I just—I’m gonna... the—the bathroom”, you stammered before turning your eyes away from him, unwilling to face the stare aimed at you as you headed down the hall to hide in your bathroom.

As you disappeared behind the door that was firmly sealed and then locked, Frank couldn’t help but take in a heavy breath and bury his face in his hands. The urge to kick something was almost irresistible, but aware that it would only scare you further, he settled for pacing back and forth and grumbling into his palm.

Whoever had caused you to react like that, was going to fucking suffer. You had always been the one person to look at Frank without fear, and here you were now, hiding from him behind locked doors. He could hear your suffocated cries, too, and it broke his heart in two — how could he do that to you? How could anyone have done that to you?

He struggled to suppress his anger at himself and anyone else who had made you cry, but eventually, he exhaled and stepped over to the bathroom with a gentle knock. ”Sweetheart”, he began, only to realize he had no clue what the fuck to say. There was no excuse or defense, after all. ”Hey, I get if you don’t wanna see me. But tell me you’re alright, yeah?” he pleaded, the despair evident even in his rough voice as he leaned his forehead against the door and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt sick to his stomach.

He heard your sob through the door, and when you unlocked it, he didn’t hesitate to carefully open it and peer in, only to find you lurched over the sink with your head in your hands. You were shaking and your breaths were far too shallow to his liking, and for a split second, right before his instincts kicked in, he felt awfully helpless and unsure what to do.

”Sweetheart…”, he frowned, ”hey, can I touch you? That okay?” His hands reached for you gently, and with a desperate nod, you swiveled towards him and fell against his chest. He cradled you in a tender embrace, one that you wanted badly to wash away all the raw memories of unwanted, hurtful touches. Frank… he would never hurt you.

”It’s okay, baby. Take your time, aight?” he whispered, his gravelly voice grounding you as he rubbed soothing circles on your back. He didn’t waver, not once, the thought of this being too much never crossing his mind. He was going to stand by you through everything — he had decided on that very early on, and his mind could not be changed.

You hiccuped, and damn-near hyperventilating, you clung onto Frank’s shirt like it was your lifeline. ”I’m—I just— I thought…”, you sobbed, and closing his eyes, Frank nodded.

”Shh, sh, shh, I know. I know, darlin’. C’mon, try and take some deep breaths for me, yeah?” he tried quietly and solemnly, and managing a frantic nod against his chest, you followed his example and drew in longer breaths, calming down your panicked state with each inhale.

”C’mere. Let’s get ya outta this hot bathroom. We’ll sit down on the couch, huh? That sound good, baby?” he suggested, talking you through everything, gentle and careful as he began guiding you into the living room. Still sniffling, you let him lead and wiped your eyes, a surge of embarrassment rearing its head in your chest as you sat down on the couch.

”I’m sorry”, was the first coherent thing you managed to speak, your shaky hands fiddling with the sleeves of your shirt as you avoided Frank’s gaze on you. ”I’m really… really sorry”, you added, lifting an ashamed hand to your face as you sighed.

Immediately, Frank was reacting with a mixture of a scoff and a snort — one that you had no time to overthink when he was speaking up.

”You got nothin’ to be sorry about, sweetheart. That wasn’t your fault. Ever. You got that?” he pressed with demanding words but his tone was genuinely soft and concerned for you. He didn’t want you to dwell in unfair guilt or worry, and he needed you to know that. ”I was an asshole”, he continued, before taking in a weak breath and looking down at his fingers. ”But I would never, ever touch you in any way you don’t want to me. I’d never hurt you. I know I’m—I’m a scary guy, yeah? But you never have to be scared of me”, he went on, desperate for you to trust him again.

Quietly, you nodded in understanding, not sure what to say. You believed him, of course, yet words failed you and, in doing so, left Frank fearing the worst.

”Are you?” he whispered weakly. ”Scared of me?”

At that, you looked up at him with widening eyes, your hand automatically leaping to his in a way that made a weight roll off of his chest. At least you still didn’t mind touching him. ”No”, you promised with a shake of your head. ”I was just... startled. But I know. I know you wouldn’t, I do”, you sighed, and with the need to console you somehow, Frank tenderly swiped his finger across the back of your hand to caress the smooth skin there.

”Has that, uh... has that happened before?” he asked lowly, his eyes trained on where your fingertips rested across his, unsure if he’d be able to handle your answer. You could hear it in his voice — the strain, the unwillingness to know mixed in with the insistency on hearing all about it.

Swallowing, you nodded. ”Yeah”, you whispered, not elaborating further but it was enough for Frank to pinch his nose and breathe out with anger.

”Jesus”, he muttered, his heart pounding in his chest and his trigger finger itching — and yet, he gulped it all down and gave you a careful glance. ”I appreciate you tellin’ me. As much as you want to talk about it... I won’t leave your side or judge you, ever”, he vowed, and wiping a tear from your eye at his kind, protective nature, you smiled at him.

”I wish I had met you earlier”, you laughed dryly, not really amused but certainly grateful for this man by your side. ”I’m really lucky to have you now”, you added with your eyes watering up, and with his stomach lurching at your fragile voice, he inched over to you on the couch to press a kiss onto your temple.

”And as long as you want me, I’mma be right here”, he swore.

It seemed almost funny, now — it had been a complete misunderstanding, and certainly, whatever you had been arguing about had been completely forgotten about by now.

”Is there anythin’ else I should know? I don’t ever wanna make you… y’know. That was pretty hard to watch”, Frank swallowed, clearly remorseful, and it made you feel guilty, too.

”I, uh, I don’t really react well if someone raises their voice at me”, you explained quietly, and listening attentively, Frank nodded. ”Arguments happen, I get that. It’s not me trying to get out of it. I just… hope we can have an adult conversation instead of screaming at each other”, you continued, and Frank reacted with his hand coming over yours.

”Hey, shit, that’s more than fair. You got it, darlin’. I’ll, uh, I’ll try my best to make sure we don’t fight, period. But if it comes to that, if I’m outta line, you tell me, okay?” he insisted, and with a weak smile, you squeezed his hand.

”Thank you for being so understanding”, you whispered, and with a sad chuckle, Frank scooted closer to kiss your temple.

”You deserve nothin’ less, sweet darlin’.”

[matchagator]

Clash | jjk (Mature) Ch. 3

Chapter 3 is finally here! I hope you guys enjoy it. I tried updating the tag list but if you are missing on it, just leave me a comment so I can add you next time. Enjoy some long awaited smut. 😈

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

{Main Pairings:} Jeon Jungkook x Female Reader

{Rating:} 18+

{Genre:} Slice of Life | Neighbors

{Summary:} You're a new resident in your very first apartment excited to enjoy the simple life of adulthood. Unfortunately for you, you continue to run into unruly neighbors no matter how much you try to keep to yourself.

{Warnings:} Mature Language, Enemies to Lovers, Hostility, Mild Angst, Sexual Tension, Banter, Smut, Mild Degradation, Sexual Content, Prank Wars, Unprotected Sex (This list will be updated as each part gets released)

{Tag List:} @erica2283 @i-never-post-but-i-am-here @koobunsblog @jkoma @jjkw-7 @gretesstuff @chimsworldsstuff @rms-expensive-girl @generouschildcolor @moonfaery @coralmusicblaze @roguesthetic @kissyfacekoo @jk97bam @tatamicc @oopscoop @namjoonscrabjuice @joonssidebitch @shaybtsforever @bangtans-momma @itslamia @minayas1998 @chimsworldsstuff @coralmusicblaze @aak22

A long sigh escapes your lips as the small tone of the building keypad grants you access to the main lobby of the complex. You fiddle with your fob as you maneuver your way inside, feeling uncomfortable as you tug down the fabric of your blouse that keeps riding up on your torso. You groan in frustration as the heavy door nicks the skin on your arm while you struggle to balance your work tote, your keys, and your phone. Could this day get any worse?

You gently adjust yourself before strolling down the corridor, reminiscing on all of the things that went wrong earlier that day. Work began as it usually does, running reports and catching up on emails until your clumsy self knocked over the coffee that sat on the edge of your desk. Thankfully, none of your electronics fell victim to the spilled caffeinated beverage, unlike the crisp white blouse you had on that quickly soaked through. It was the most inconvenient start to your day given you had a meeting with your boss not long after.

Lisa came through as your personal fairy godmother, switching your soiled blouse with hers to prevent you from appearing a complete mess in front of your superiors. Unfortunately, you and Lisa weren’t exactly the same size. While her blouse fit you, it was uncomfortably snug and hugged your curves more than you would typically care for. Luckily, it all seemed to work out until you were volunteered by your boss to help the marketing team at a rally downtown, leaving you a sweating mess from the afternoon heat and the crowded streets.

You let another drawn-out sigh seep through the barrier of your lips as your feet drag against the tile floor. Your feet throb in a dull ache from wearing your heels for much more activity than you’re used to compared to sitting in your office. You make the split decision to abandon the task of wearing them upstairs. You slide your feet from the footwear as the sole of your foot meets the chilly sensation of the tile. You moan happily as the pain in your toes relaxes from no longer being constricted within your heels, quickly slipping out of the adjacent shoe as you bend down to pick them up.

The cool feeling soothes the pain as you walk toward the elevators, pressing your elbow against the call button as you balance your heels on your fingertips. As the chime echoes through the lobby, the large luxurious doors open to reveal an empty lift. You smile softly, thankful to be going home after calling various clients and spending most of your afternoon in the sweltering heat. You feel content as you walk into the elevator, not giving a care in the world that you are currently barefoot in the lobby elevator. Typically, you never choose to walk barefoot in such a public area, however, you are nearly home and you don’t really care about anyone’s opinions of you right now.

As the large doors slide close, a hand shoots in between the two structures, causing the chimes of the lift to indicate something is blocking its path. To your horror, none other than Jungkook himself is waiting on the opposite side of the elevator doors, his usual smug smirk stretching across his lips as he fiddles with the piercing between his teeth.

“Well, if it isn’t little miss princess.” His tone is far too chipper, leaving you in an internal panic as you watch him invade the once-tranquil environment of the empty elevator. Of all days to run into your stupidly handsome yet annoying neighbor, of course, it had to be the day you physically look like shit. “You look terrible.” There is a subtle look of sympathy on his lips, his body moist in sweat from what you can only assume was his recent workout at the gym.

You prop your hip out as you cross your arms, still juggling your belongings as you desperately attempt to look calm and collected. “No one asked for your opinion, jackass.” You bite back, completely unamused that you now need to endure his cocky attitude the entire ride up to the seventh floor.

Jungkook simply chuckles mischievously, squeezing by to stand directly beside you as he leans in to whisper closer to your ear. “Just cause you had a shitty day doesn’t mean you have to be a bitch.” He hums contently, moving to stand straight as his large eyes shift over the control panel, making sure the number seven is illuminated.

“Please, what do you know about my day?” You scoff, rolling your eyes in exasperation as you offer him a glare.

Jungkook’s cheeks swell against his eyes as another chuckle escapes his lips, laughing off your comment as if you were telling him some absurd statement. His smile quickly fades as he steps closer toward you, the proximity suffocating you under his stature as the doors trap you inside the small space with the bane of your existence. “I knew the moment I walked into the elevator that you aren't wearing your own clothes, you’ve been out in the heat all day, and you’re not really that upset to see me.”

Your jaw drops open as he so perfectly identifies every flaw of your day, leaving you frozen and perplexed. “…and what makes you say that?” You offer in defense, narrowing your eyes as you refuse to crack under the pressure he’s applying, feeling your cheeks heat up from his obnoxious confidence.

His eyes bore into yours as he steps close, causing you to step back until you press against the wall of the elevator. Jungkook’s pupils shift down to your chest, observing how the buttons of your blouse are gently stretched apart just enough to expose the indiscretion in sizing as he notices the way the fabric hugs your chest, deliciously outlining whatever mounds were hidden beneath. “Your shirt’s too tight.” He speaks bluntly, causing you to gasp at the audacity. He did not say your shirt was too tight. Of course, you knew it was, but how dare he call that out.

You move your hands to cover your chest as he flicks his gaze up to your cheeks, noticing the rosy pigmentation of your skin. Before you can protest, he speaks again. “You have a sunburn on your cheeks.” He states plainly, watching you squirm beneath his stare as the elevator begins to ascend.

How is he able to notice all of these minuscule details about you? Clearly, he is far more invested in you than he cares to admit. You step forward bravely, knowing he couldn’t possibly know that part of you was secretly glad to see him. While you didn’t want to admit it, the man drew you in like a moth to a flame. “And what about me not being upset to see you?” You offer sarcastically, thinking he had nothing to offer for that explanation.

His eyes darken at your question, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek as the corner of his mouth pulls into a large smirk. He practically purrs at your inquiry, stepping back in victory as he turns to face the elevator doors once again. “That one was just a guess.” He admits, feeling accomplished that he was able to get you to subconsciously admit that you are indeed happy to see him.

You feel a cold wave wash over you, embarrassment crawling over your features as you smack your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “Shut up.”

Jungkook simply shrugs, “Not my fault you’re predictable.”

“You know what, smartass?” You hiss as you shove your belongings forward into his arms. Jungkook turns to face you in shock as his tattooed arm wraps around your bag and belongings, desperately trying to balance the attack of items being shoved his way. Your hands latch across the buttons of your blouse as you quickly tug at the fabric, watching as the buttons easily pull apart to reveal your bare torso. Beneath was nothing more than a nude-colored bralette covering your chest. “This shirt is too tight. Thanks for pointing that out.” You continue growling through your teeth, feeling overwhelmed in vexation as you pull the fabric off of your shoulders.

Jungkook’s eyes widen at the sight of your upper half practically on display for his enjoyment, feeling his mouth run dry at the fact that your bralette leaves him with little to the imagination. You feel a swell of pride as he gawks at you in silence, completely stunned that you just stripped out of your shirt in the apartment elevator.

You ball up the blouse before shoving it into his hands while you retrieve your bag and belongings. “Enjoy the view.” Jungkook stands with his large doe eyes like he was caught in headlights as he holds onto your blouse, still processing the fact that your torso is nearly naked in front of him. He takes in a sharp breath, feeling overwhelmed at the sight as heat rushes down to his groin. He always knew you were attractive, but this new scandalous view has him nearly foaming at the mouth.

You’re saved by the chime of the elevator as the doors open to reveal your apartment door just feet beyond the threshold. You barely glance back at him as you march out of the elevator, fiddling with your keys as you approach your door. You feel your heart thundering within your chest, your features flushing red at the reality that you just stripped in front of Jungkook without a care in the world. It was completely out of character for you, yet that man just drives you to the brink of insanity.

You hear footsteps stumbling forward out of the elevator behind you, quickly opening your door to run inside and hide away from your foolish choices. You walk in, slamming your door shut behind you as you quickly lock the mechanism to avoid any more conversations with Jungkook. What the hell was that? Why would you do something so stupid? You drop your bag on the ground as you drag your fingertips through your hair, tugging against the roots gently in frustration as you let out a groan. That’s it. If Jungkook was constantly going to one-up you, it’s time for you to get your revenge with more pranks of your own.

Outside your apartment door, Jungkook stands quietly in the hallway, processing the most recent events. He stares at your apartment door before looking down at the blouse in his hands. His mind races, feeling himself hardening at the thought of your body with even less clothing than the view you graced him with. He lets out a large sigh before moving toward his apartment, stopping to hang the blouse against your door handle before running his hand through his still-damp strands from his trip to the gym. “Damn, Y/N.” He whispers to himself, shaking his head to avoid any more immoral thoughts.

—

Another day closer to the weekend leaves you hopeful for any kind of plans with your friends to escape your apartment to socialize. While your job constantly has you answering phone calls and assisting guests, you crave an evening with your friends to catch up on the latest gossip without tending to anyone else’s needs.

You shuffle your feet across your apartment floor as you lazily make your way toward your balcony that overlooks the center courtyard of your complex. You’re holding a cup of coffee in one hand and your favorite book in the other, deciding some time outside might help you relax while soaking in some much-needed vitamin D.

Your hands gently pry open the blinds that run across the sliding glass door as you gently tug open the heavy door leading to your balcony. You have a small egg-shaped wicker chair tucked in the corner of the space with a small glass side table beside it. It’s the perfect little nook for you to relax and catch up on some reading before getting ready for your last day of work tomorrow before the long-awaited weekend. You maneuver yourself outside, shutting the door before making yourself comfortable against the cushions of the large chair.

It doesn’t take too long before your legs tuck to your chest, nestling yourself into the rounded chair as you take a sip of the hot caffeinated beverage. You place your mug onto the small table, opening your book to find the small bookmark tucked within the pages. You sigh happily as the warmth of the evening sun kisses your skin even with a calm cool breeze swirling around you to keep you comfortable.

You lean back as you brush your fingers along the crisp pages of your book, letting your eyes scan the words on the page. You grin as your mind flashes with vivid images of the story, your imagination painting the characters as you become engulfed in your reading. You occasionally break your eye contact with the page as you grab your mug, sipping away as your muscles begin to relax.

What you don’t notice is that just beyond the threshold of your balcony, Jungkook stood peering out of his apartment blinds to see you sitting innocently outside. He hasn’t seen you since your moment in the elevator, his mind recalling the luscious sight of your torso scandalously displayed for his indulgence. For the first time, you managed to get the best of him, leaving him speechless and aroused. Now that you were sitting casually outdoors enjoying your book, he figures it’s another perfect opportunity to get on your nerves.

You hear a small click noise as you peek up from the pages, glancing over to the right to see Jungkook’s balcony door suddenly slide open. You sigh with a small groan as he appears, his body decorated in an oversized black t-shirt and simple pair of shorts. Despite the excess fabric covering his frame, you can still see his muscular arms through the sleeves with his tattoos wonderfully displayed as he moves to take a seat on the small sofa he has on his balcony.

He sits down with a plop, by no means moving about the space quietly. You can’t help but roll your eyes at his unwelcomed company. His overgrown mullet is tied back into a man-bun which only draws attention to his defined jawline. You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth as you subconsciously check him out, completely dumbfounded by how handsome he truly was when he wasn’t being an annoying ass.

His large eyes shoot up in your direction as you quickly avert your gaze back onto the page, maintaining your composure as you fight the urge to glance back at him. For once he isn’t doing anything to annoy you or prank you as he sits still looking out over the courtyard. Below, there is a group of people utilizing the community barbecue grill by the pool, the mouthwatering aromas they’re cooking wafting up toward your apartments as it causes your stomach to grumble.

You pause for a moment, contemplating your dinner choices before peering back up to see Jungkook is messing with his phone, clearly avoiding you and engaging with the device. He hasn’t spoken a word to you since he sat down, stunning you at the mere fact that you were both co-existing without going at each other. You smile at the tranquility, hoping that for once, you would be able to enjoy your time around Jungkook without the growing desire to either smack the shit out of him or kiss him until he shuts up.

Just as your mind processes the abnormally peaceful interaction, you suddenly hear music being blasted loudly from Jungkook’s phone. Your smile disappears rapidly as you glance over the top edge of your book, noticing Jungkook leaning back with his arms outstretched behind his head. You wait a moment, realizing that his phone is placed on his thigh with clearly no intention of turning it off or lowering the music. You blink before using your finger to keep your page as you shut your book, offering your neighbor a look of exasperation.

“Do you mind?” Your tone is harsher than you intend, most likely caused by the rapidly fleeting patience you have remaining.

Jungkook is resting back with his eyes closed, his head sitting comfortably on his arms as he leans in the chair while his legs are spread out sinfully. He opens one eye, glancing at you unapologetically as he brings a hand to cup around his ear. “What? I can’t hear you.” He speaks simply, talking over the music as if he didn’t really know what you said.

You slam your book down against your upper thigh, resting it in your lap as you smack your lips in annoyance. “Turn it down.” You hiss, making sure he knew it was a demand, not a request.

Jungkook simply grins mischievously as he drops his arms from behind his head, resting his elbows against his knees. “Turn it up? You got it.” A smug smirk stretches across his lips as he presses the side button on his phone, listening as the music intensifies. “Great song, huh Princess?” He adds, amusement glimmering behind his pupils.

You feel the tension return to your limbs as you ignore Jungkook, opening your book once again before attempting to ignore him, refusing to show that he is successfully getting to you once again. At first, you find it easy to muffle out the loud music, narrowing your eyes to focus on the text printed on the pages until you hear Jungkook’s voice loudly start to sing along to the tune.

His voice is surprisingly good, his tone smooth and rich as he effortlessly sings along with the song. You find yourself momentarily entranced by the sound, even though Jungkook intends to annoy you versus impress you. You ignore him, focusing on your story as he continues attempting to get some sort of reaction out of you.

It isn’t until he changes the song to a more upbeat and musically complex beat that the rhythm begins distracting you, making it increasingly more challenging to tone him out. On top of it all, he starts singing along in a playful manner, dancing and moving around to the beat as if he was completely alone out here. You desperately try to bite back making another comment about turning the music down until you hear Jungkook begin to slam his hands down onto his table to drum along to the music.

You slam your book shut as you stand up, your patience officially snapping as Jungkook insists on getting louder and louder. You have half a mind to chew him out and yell at him for being such an ass, yet you decide to simply grab your mug and head back inside.

Just as you do, Jungkook looks at you with his arms stretched out, disappointed to see you retreat back inside. “What’s wrong, Y/N? Leaving already?” He teases, hoping you turn around and give him the reaction he was looking for. It takes every ounce of you to ignore him, simply pushing open your sliding glass door before quickly disappearing inside. You make quick work of locking your door and shutting your blinds, hearing the distant hum of his music as you move away from the balcony.

You sigh, feeling once again defeated by Jungkook. You had enough of his noisy self, officially coming to the decision that if he insists on being loud, you will file a complaint in hopes that will shut him up. You move to place your mug back into the kitchen sink, wondering what you could possibly do now to enjoy your night and relax before another day of work.

You decide on taking a much-needed shower, hoping that the warmth of the water will help soothe the tension that constantly seems to plague your body. As you strip down and turn on the showerhead, you stand beneath the running water, instantly soothed by the heat. You focus on lathering your body wash and cleaning off your body, not noticing that you unconsciously began to hum the song that Jungkook played outside, swaying your hips slightly as the melody whirls through your mind.

As you rinse your hair beneath the water, you catch yourself thinking about Jungkook’s voice singing along, groaning at the fact that you were still thinking about him even though you were trying to ignore him. You sigh, shaking yourself of the song as you try to focus on anything other than Jeon Jungkook.

—

The roar of Jungkook’s BMW echoes throughout the parking garage as he leans back in the driver's seat, ready to take on another evening shift at work. He glances down a few parking spots until his pupils settle on your Jeep, skillfully parked backward for an easy pullout. The sight of your SUV has his mind reeling, thoughts of your body and smile plaguing his mind as he turns his attention back onto his gearshift.

Since your arrival, Jungkook has only been able to admire your physique while dealing with your bratty tendencies. The nickname princess so easily fit someone who was quick to jump to conclusions and seemed to act like she was better than everyone else. Now, you both purposefully tried to get on each other's nerves, Jungkook taking immense pleasure in watching you scramble before him each time he successfully gets to you.

He shakes you from his thoughts as his large fingers twist the dial of his sound system, his playlist blasting through the speakers as he cautiously pulls out from his parking spot. He passes your car slowly, checking every detail of your Jeep as if expecting to see you tucked inside of it, grinning as he finally speeds off towards the exit of the multi-leveled parking unit.

His music serves as a great distraction from the moderately lengthy drive, sitting back as his tattooed arm is stretched out to grip his steering wheel. Jungkook begins to hum along to the music sounding from his speakers as the sound of a car horn blares in two short bursts. His large doe eyes quickly latch onto his rearview mirror, studying his surroundings. He notices the car behind him is at a reasonable distance from his bumper. There is no logical reason why someone would honk at him of all people.

As the song shifts to something more upbeat, he moves his hand to turn up the volume, focusing his eyes once again on the road ahead. It isn’t until he pulls onto the interstate that more drivers sound their horns, leaving Jungkook utterly confused. He returns his attention to his mirrors, seeing cars on either side of him cruising around the same speed as him. They shouldn’t be honking at him, especially given the fact that he was already going over the speed limit.

Jungkook drives over toward the rightmost lane, letting off on the acceleration of the BMW as he gently starts following the car in front of him. A few cars pass blaring their horns, causing his features to scrunch in confusion. “What the hell?” He grumbles under his breath, annoyed by their persistence. “Impatient asswipes.” He groans, moving back into the center lane as he continues on his drive.

The remainder of the journey to work has a couple more cars honking which only stirs Jungkook’s growing irritation. He sighs in relief as he pulls into his place of work, admiring the way the colorful rays of the sunset seem to paint the sky behind the large buildings.

The hum of his BMW stills as he pulls into the parking garage, quickly searching out the location of his designated parking spot. It doesn’t take him long to park and turn off his ignition, letting out a loud huff of frustration after the impatience he experienced while on his drive. “Is it a fucking full moon tonight?” He scoffs to himself as he pulls open his door.

What Jungkook doesn’t notice is that one of his coworkers is also pulling in, rolling his window down to greet him. “Sup, Jeon.” The man offers with a friendly smile on his face. Jungkook is quick to realize that it is his teammate, Han, who often shared the same hours as he did.

Jungkook nods in his direction to acknowledge him before seeing Han’s eyes widen at the sight of his car. Han slows down until his car is stopped directly behind Jungkook’s, unable to hold back his laughter. “Damn, Jeon.” Han hollers, chuckling in wild amusement as he observes the back of his BMW. “Someone did you dirty.”

Jungkook’s eyebrows instantly pinch together as he tosses his work bag over one shoulder. “What the hell are you talking about?” Jungkook takes a few steps toward Han’s car as he pushes the driver’s side door shut. Han gestures toward the back of Jungkook’s vehicle, pointing a finger down toward his rear bumper. Jungkook quickly makes his way around the car, his eyes noticing a white bumper sticker slapped across the back with the words, I have a small dick, honk for me displayed in bold print.

Jungkook’s face goes pale at the connection between all of the impatient drivers honking at him and the bumper sticker proudly displayed on the back of his car. Han continues to gasp between breaths as he keeps laughing, watching Jungkook’s features morph into pure vexation. “That fucking bitch.” He snarls, hissing between his teeth as Han waves him off to continue toward his parking spot. Jungkook quickly walks over to his car, peeling off the offending piece of vinyl before angrily crumpling it up between his fingertips.

His large eyes scan his surroundings, locating a trash bin tucked toward the stairwell of the parking garage. He takes powerful strides until he’s standing just beside it, throwing the sticker away as his body fumes with wrath and embarrassment. How long has that sticker been on his car? This is why all of those drivers honked at him on the way to work. Who knows how many people noticed it?

“Oh, you’re asking for it, Y/n.” He hisses as he turns back, pressing his key fob as the tail lights of his BMW flash to indicate they are now successfully locked. He rolls his eyes as his fingers claw around the strap of his bag, pressing the tip of his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he avoids the bubbling anger threatening to boil over.

—

Jungkook’s drive home from his overnight shift allowed the reminders of your recent prank to fester in his heart as he tightly grips his steering wheel. He knew he’d need to come up with something else to get you back, ready to move past the simple harmless pranks into something far more embarrassing for you. He let out a large sigh as his BMW pulls into the parking garage of your complex, his large doe eyes instantly finding your jeep parked right where you left it.

“I swear, Y/n. You better watch out.” He groans as a mischievous smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. He notices an empty spot beside you, utilizing the space to purposefully pull in.

Jungkook maneuvers the gear shift into park as he let his head fall back against his seat. His mind wanders between thoughts of you and his frustration, knowing a trip to the gym would most likely take off some of the edge. He shuts off the ignition, opening the door as he drags himself from the driver's seat, sighing as exhaustion sets in.

He tries to focus on anything other than thoughts of you, walking quickly to get inside and get a shower. He taps his fob against the sensor, entering the building as he heads for the mailroom with his work bag draped over his shoulder. He follows the lavish corridor until he reaches the mailroom, moving swiftly to retrieve the mail from his box. He finds the small silver key that is looped around his carabiner hook, turning it to unlock the metal box as he pulls out a few pieces of mail.

He quickly sifts through it, passing multiple pieces of advertisement before stumbling across a white envelope with the apartment complex’s logo printed on the top left corner. He pauses on the parcel, examining it closely before tucking the rest of his mail underneath his arm so that he can open the mysterious envelope. Why would he have a letter from the complex? He wasn’t up to renew anytime soon.

Jungkook wiggles his index finger into the corner of the envelope, pulling up as the frail paper tears at the seam to allow him access to the letter inside. He swiftly pulls out a folded piece of printer paper, unfolding it to see his name and address listed at the top along with a few paragraphs. His eyes narrow as he skims the text, his muscles becoming tense as he reads the words.

Noise complaint

Jungkook rereads the two words as he skims the remainder of the letter, stunned to find the written warning that came along with it. He instantly thinks of you, feeling his anger return as it continues to grow into an insatiable fury. He crumples the paper within his grasp, balling his fingers into a fist as he punches it across his mailbox. “That’s it!” His voice threatens to resonate as a yell as he slams the mailbox door shut, twisting his key to lock the compartment.

He practically storms out of the mailroom, deciding to take the stairs up to the seventh floor to blow off some steam. While he originally planned to go to the gym to work off some anger, he instead fully intends on giving you a piece of his mind.

—

The weekend has finally commenced as you sit back into the egg-shaped chair that decorates your balcony, sipping on a glass of wine as you casually scroll through your phone. You let out a content breath as you sink into the oddly shaped cushions beneath you, your eyes scanning every word on your phone’s display screen. It’s the first real opportunity you have this week to catch up on your social media posts, seeing all of the new occurrences in the lives of the people you know.

You bring your glass to your lips as you scroll through a post of memes, giggling softly to yourself as the sweet burn of your wine slides down your throat. You smile as your finger swipes up to the next post, seeing one of Roxanne’s pictures of her weekend rendezvous with the clubs downtown. You roll your eyes as you study her promiscuous attire and the man draped around her waist.

The tip of your tongue clicks against the roof of your mouth as you shake your head, a small part of you wishing you were out enjoying yourself while the other relishes the much needed relaxation.

You slowly bring the glass of wine back to your lips to indulge in another taste as you hear the sound of a sliding glass door being forcefully pushed open resonating from the neighboring balcony. The sound is abrupt as the glass panels rustle against the tracks, causing you to bring your phone down as you lean forward to peek over toward Jungkook’s balcony.

To your surprise, you find Jungkook stomping his way out onto his balcony with a clear look of irritation plastered across his features. His jaw is tight as he clenches his teeth together, his hand grips around a piece of crumpled paper as he waves it about passionately.

Jungkook’s long hair is damp with moisture, evidence of the fact that he must have recently come out of the shower. He has a plain white t-shirt concealing his muscular frame beneath the loose fabric and a pair of sweatpants hanging from his hips. While part of you capitalizes on the opportunity to check him out, you also realize just how outraged he appears, feeling a shiver course down your spine as he approaches the railings between his balcony and yours.

“Care to explain this shit?” Jungkook hisses, tossing the piece of paper from his hands as the wind carries it to your balcony. You blink in surprise, stretching your arm out to place your wine glass on the small table while you stand from your position. You quickly catch the parchment before it is blown from your terrace, tucking your phone into the back pocket of your jean shorts as you unfold it to study the text.

You quickly realize that the piece of paper is a warning from your apartment complex in regard to the noise complaint your filed about Jungkook’s consistent disregard for his neighbors. You peer up at him, surprised to see him so angry about something that was well warranted. “You’re loud as shit.” You bark back, crossing your arms as you challenge his stare. His hands are gripping the railing as he leaned into his stance, staring at you as if an animal stalking its prey. “Someone had to put you in your place.” You offer with a sarcastic smile.

The way Jungkook’s eyes flash with vexation causes your stance to falter, realizing that you have never seen this type of intensity from him since you moved here. This was the first time that you successfully pissed him off.

“I’ve lived here for three years without one mark on my record.” He continues, a clear growl present in his tone as he threateningly leans into the rail to get closer to you. “I didn’t realize you were such a sensitive little bitch, Karen.” Jungkook barks with clear mockery in his tone, sending you into your own blind rage. Who the hell did he think he is? Your jaw drops open from his accusation. He was the one that insisted on being a noisy neighbor. It wasn’t your fault that you finally stood up for yourself since he refused to listen to you the numerous times you complained about the noise. Now he was calling you a Karen? Absolutely not.

“I don’t have to listen to this.” You spit back, turning to pull open your patio door as you move to retrieve your wine glass from the table.

Jungkook’s eyebrows pinch together as he watches you deliberately choose to avoid his confrontation, determined to continue giving you a piece of his mind. “I’m not done.” He growls, pushing up on his hands as his legs bend up to place his foot on top of the rail. He smoothly pulls himself up so that he’s crawling over the gap between the two platforms, causing you to gasp in shock as he animalistically makes his way onto your rented property.

“Jungkook, what the hell?” You complain, watching as he successfully makes his way onto your balcony, forcing you to listen to him. You don’t give him an opportunity to speak as you rush inside, Jungkook holding out his arms to block you from shutting the glass panel door.

You let out a frustrated groan as you turn to start walking through your living room, tilting your head back as you down the remainder of your wine. The sting of the alcohol burns your throat as you accommodate the large intake, your face squinting together as you gulp it back. Jungkook takes your momentary defeat as his invitation to follow you inside, annoyed that yet again you’re walking away from him.

“Anyone could’ve filed that complaint.” You offer, hoping to de-escalate the situation as you continue to make your way toward your kitchen. “So stop being a baby and deal with it.”

Jungkook huffs in amusement as he stalks behind you, finding your words comical. “Oh please.” He laughs, his eyes following you with laser focus. “You can’t even handle pranks without whining like a spoiled brat.”

Once you’re in the archway leading from the living room hallway into the kitchen, you stop in your tracks, turning around to glare directly at Jungkook, completely unfazed that he continues to step closer until you’re practically hovering inches from each other’s faces.

“Shut up.” You argue back, feeling the tension between the pair of you grow. You blink from the close proximity, forgetting that your neighbor invited himself into your apartment just to continue degrading your character. You refuse to back down, knowing the minute you pull away from him, he would take it as a victory.

Jungkook simply looks you up and down as the corners of his mouth stretch into a malicious grin. He leans forward so that his breath ghosts against your cheek, towering over you to force you into submission. “Bet that’s why your ex dumped you huh, princess?” He teases, his venomous intension stings as your heart lurches with memories of your past relationship. You recall your friends mentioning your ex during what was supposed to be your girl’s night. Jungkook must have picked up on your reluctance to comment much about it, spurring on this sudden rude attack. “Too much of a prissy brat?”

“How dare you!” Your patience has worn out as you press your palms into his chest, pushing him back as you take out your frustration on his toned frame. “You don’t know anything about me.” You continue on, feeling your body tremble from the wrath coursing through your veins. “You’re nothing but a narcissistic deadbeat.”

Jungkook reaches his boiling point as your insult bruises his pride. You have no idea how much he does for others not only in his personal life, but at his job. He constantly puts others before himself and works long hours to do so. When he’s free from work, he spends his time at the gym and with his close friends keeping busy. You don’t know shit about him yet here you are, accusing him of false accusations just as he is with you.

The toxic exchange leaves you both glaring at each other as you become a pit of anger and sexual tension. You desperately hold your ground, refusing to budge an inch as Jungkook takes another threatening step toward you, his nostrils flaring from his irritation. “Shut your damn mouth before I put you in your place.”

You narrow your eyes as you watch his irises darken, feeling another chill shoot up your spine as you step closer, your chest pressing against him as you practically hiss in his face. “Make me.”

Before you can even wrap your mind around the situation, you feel a large hand spread across the span of your back as Jungkook pulls you into him, crashing his lips against yours. You gasp as your senses are overwhelmed with a hint of mint as Jungkook’s tongue bullies through the seam of your lips, invading your mouth as he greedily steals a taste of you. Your palms quickly press against his chest from his assault, your mind rapidly plummeting into oblivion as you relish in his warmth.

While his actions take you by surprise, you equally remember that this is Jeon Jungkook kissing you, your annoying neighbor. You push against his chest, twisting your head to the side as you try to escape his kiss. “What the fuck?” You hopelessly try to catch your breath as you turn to move into your kitchen, walking to the refrigerator to get yourself a bottle of water to help quench the building heat that’s simmering through your body.

You fight the part of you that didn’t want the moment to end, helplessly craving to let Jungkook ravage you and give into the sexual tension you felt since the moment you met him. Unfortunately, your anger is still spilling over, causing you to scoff at his actions. “You know what, you…” you try to retaliate as you pull open the refrigerator door, watching as Jungkook’s hand prevents you from opening it as he pushes against it.

“I said, shut your damn mouth, Y/N.” His guttural voice causes you to submit as his hands latch against your hips, twisting your frame around to trap you between himself and the appliance. You shut your eyes for a moment as he presses your back into the refrigerator, leaning in to steal another soul-sucking kiss.

The moment his lips meet yours once again, you feel your body submit to your desires, wrapping your arms around his neck as you return the same intensity, your bodies becoming a blur of tongue and cheek. Jungkook’s large hands travel up and down your sides as he continues pushing you back, your bodies clinging to each other as your limbs tussle the collection of refrigerator magnets you’ve acquired over the years, knocking a few off onto the ground.

Part of you longs to break apart from Jungkook to give him a piece of your mind, however, his kiss poisons you as you fall for the idea of letting him ravage you. You know you’re attracted to him, yet you never thought the sentiments were shared as you both claw and paw at each other’s clothes as your mind swirls into oblivion. The cold sensation of his lip piercing is a pleasant juxtaposition to the warmth of his lips.

You push back on his chest, breaking apart from your heated makeout as you gasp for air, feeling lightheaded. Jungkook equally pants for breath as he presses his forehead against yours, his eyes baring into you as if he’s hunting you down for the taking. Your body ignites with need, a dull pulsing between your legs exposes your arousal.

“Got any honks today?” Your voice is breathy as you attempt to throw in one more blow to his pride, watching his stare darken and intensify as the memory floods back. Jungkook scoffs, sliding a hand up from your waist until he’s gripping your chin between his strong fingers, moving your head up to stare directly into his pupils.

“It’s anything but small, princess.” He growls softly, leaning forward to grab ahold of your bottom lip between his teeth as he gently gnaws against your flesh. He presses his hips forward, the fabric of his sweatpants doing little to shield your thigh from the probing of his hard length.

You gasp, feeling your throat run dry as your body swelters in need. You gulp back your arousal, forcing your eyes shut as you try to avoid the handsome man manipulating you as if you are a marionette, pulling your strings as your body reacts for him instinctually. “I’m not impressed.” You lie, knowing your comment will only spur him on more as you persist in attempting to annoy him further.

Jungkook grinds his hips forward, causing you to shudder beneath his ministrations as the friction causes your imagination to sinfully picture what he’d feel like inside of you. He drops his hands to your ass, grabbing at the plump flesh as he lifts you up, guiding your legs to wrap around his hips. He takes a few steps toward the counter adjacent to the refrigerator, plopping you down on top with complete disregard for the small appliance being shoved back toward the backsplash.

“Stop being a brat and come here.” He hisses as he tugs your hips forward to tetter your bottom on the edge of the counter. His fingers dig beneath the waistband of your jeans as his fingers make quick work to unfasten the button and zipper, shimming the fabric down alongside your neutral-toned underwear. You willingly allow him access as your hands work to pull the oversized white t-shirt over his head, tossing the material to the side haphazardly as your fingers paw at his toned abdomen.

Jungkook slides his hands back up your torso before he pulls down his sweatpants and boxers to expose his strained dick, erect and angry for attention. Your eyes widen at the sight of it, realizing that you were completely false in your assumptions. It was far from small and your mind craved to feel him slide inside of you. It was a good thing that you were on birth control because the moment your surprise is exposed to Jungkook, he presses forward to wrap a hand behind your head, pulling your lips back to his as he savagely kisses you.

He pulls back just enough to stare at you once more as he aligns the tip of his cock to the center of your dripping vagina, his pride swelling at the manner in which your body is ready to accept him. “Now say sorry before I make you scream.” He threatens, your stubbornness causing you to bite your tongue in refusal.

“As if you could.” You bark back, completely stunned when Jungkook pulls your hips forward to impale you on his cock. You let out a small whine, tossing your head back against the cupboards as Jungkook thrusts his dick into your needy pussy. You fight back the moan that threatens to escape the barrier of your lips as you cling to his toned shoulders, your eyes drinking in the sight of his chiseled waist hammering forward as he pumps his dick in and out.

“Ah, fuck!” You finally moan, unable to keep quiet as each thrust sends a pleasurable shudder through your body as he fucks deeper into you, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix.

Jungkook’s eyes roll back at the sensation of your walls sliding against his member, leaving him huffing as your pussy strangles him for all his worth. “You’re so fucking tight.” He groans as he dips his head forward to feather kisses down the length of your jaw to your neck. He meticulously suckles at your skin, hoping to leave his love bite painted across your skin as his fingers grip your sides, threatening to leave bruises.

You can’t help but moan each time his length assaults your center as your legs tighten around his waist to help guide him deeper into you.

Your fingers claw at his back as the cabinet door rustles behind you from the impact of your body getting jolted into it, desperately reaching out toward the refrigerator to help steady you against the edge of the counter.

Jungkook swiftly moves his hands up your waist till he finds your breast, slipping his hands beneath the cups of your bra and squeezing the flesh within his hands. “Damn, Y/N.” He groans once more, feeling overwhelmed by the memory of you stripping in the elevator just to prove a point to him. Since that day, he’s imagined what your body looks like naked, and he fully intends on utilizing the opportunity.

He grips the fabric of your shirt, tugging at the seams as it splits down the center to reveal the bra you have perking up your breasts for ample viewing. You gasp at the tearing of your shirt, thankful to have worn something plain and unsentimental as Jungkook savagely rips through. He wastes no time finding the clasp of your bra, skillfully unfastening it with one hand while the other helps keep you steady on the counter.

As your bra falls away from your chest, you watch Jungkook’s eyes widen at the sight of your hardened nipples. He runs his tongue against his bottom lip before leaning his head forward to capture one of your nipples within his mouth. You sigh as the chilled texture of his lip piercing grazes the pert bud, your mouth hanging open as he swirls his tongue around it and continues fucking himself into you.

You feel your core tighten around his cock as he continues stimulating every sensitive part of your body, moving a hand up to your free nipple to pinch it gently between his thumb and pointer finger. As if you couldn’t handle any more stimulation, Jungkook’s free hand slides down to your sensitive clit, rubbing quick circles as he coaxes you to meet your undoing.

Your orgasm hits you like waves crashing against the shore, your body shuddering in ecstasy as you scream out his praise. Jungkook releases his grip on your nipple to hold your body from sliding off the counter. He pops his mouth off of your sweet bud, slowing the motions of his hips and fingers as he pries your legs off from around his waist.

Your legs fall limply to the ground as Jungkook’s strong grip rotates you to press your stomach into the counter, refusing to let this be the end of his treatment. “I can’t make you scream, my ass.” He groans as he pushes his dick back inside of you, your hands clawing at the counter space as you’re jostled forward.

The friction of him fucking back into you causes you to moan from the overstimulation, feeling completely full as he pounds against your cervix. You feel a sudden sharp sting across your backside causing you to yelp in surprise. Jungkook groans happily at the sight of your ass jiggling against his slap, causing him to quicken the pace of his hips. You arch your back as you toss your head back, stunned to find your body building itself back up.

Jungkook slides a hand up your spine before digging his fingers into your hair, grabbing a handful close to the root as he gently pulls back. You moan at his ministrations, feeling yourself come undone again as Jungkook has his way with you in the middle of your kitchen.

“Fuck, Y/n. I’m gonna cum.” He groans, feeling the pressure build at his tip as he shoots hot ropes of his cum into your welcoming pussy. Your vision goes white in rapture as you climax a second time, your body going limp against the counter as you feel his seed spill down your thigh. “Don’t move, princess.” Jungkook coos as he quickly retrieves some paper towels from the holder beside you, cleaning himself off before offering you one.

While you clean up, Jungkook pulls his clothing back on as your kitchen is filled with an awkward deafening silence. The animosity that once radiated from the pair of you simmers as you cope with the reality that you both just banged inside your apartment. You collect yourself as you get dressed, noticing that Jungkook is carefully watching you as if he’s still admiring your body before you conceal it beneath your clothing.

“I…I should get going.” He finally speaks, motioning toward the balcony as he starts to walk back down the hallway toward your living room.

You button your jeans as you follow behind him, “Yeah, good idea.” You respond weakly, tired, and blissed out from your two orgasms. Jungkook offers you a gentle look before he pulls open the balcony door, wasting no time to skillfully climb over the railings back to his apartment. You watch in amazement, your mind observing the way his muscles flex with each move, recalling how it felt when he was fucking you silly.

You both offer each other a final awkward stare before disappearing into your respective apartments. You pull your door shut, swiftly closing the blinds alongside it to hide from view as you let out the breath you must have been holding in. “Shit.” You sigh as you press your back into the section of the wall directly beside your patio door, wrapping your brain around the events that just unfolded.

[imperator-titus]

Be My Juice Box Ch. 8

Astarion would, quite literally, hang out with Rowan from morning until she was done with lunch. Dignity went out the window; clinging to her shoulders, lounging in her hood, or riding on her head, he did it all. 

She even cleaned out a drawer in her desk and lined it with a fuzzy blanket so, when she needed him to be elsewhere, he could be plopped into a cozy mini-coffin until she was ready to take him back. 

Being her little friend made her happy and he needed her to be happy.

But Astarion could see that even his most endearing squeaks were losing ground against whatever dark cloud was rolling in.

The day after their night at the club, Astarion came down for his breakfast to find Rowan… different.

“Have we graduated to staring now…?” she asked uncertainly, stirring her dinner.

Maybe a little more distressed than he was aware he was, Astarion answered her question with his own. “What happened to your hair?”

“I cut it.”

“Why?” Suddenly, Astarion became concerned. “Are you alright?”

“I like having short hair, I've just been… lazy,” Rowan answered flippantly, wishing this line of questioning to end.

“This has nothing to do with last night?”

“I mean, it gave me a kick in the pants.”

Astarion approached, trying to study her from different angles. Then he reached out a hand and asked, “May I?”

Rowan side-eyed him before saying, “Sure.”

Very lightly, Astarion touched the short hair at the back of her neck. It felt interesting, both sharp and soft at the same time. With just a little more pressure, he would be touching her scalp. His fingers traveled up to the longer parts around her crown and he brushed back some strands before leaving her alone.

“I don't hate it.”

“Oh, good,” she said sarcastically.

“I’m sure it’ll grow on me.”

“Yeah, it’ll grow on me too.”

“Hah!” Astarion barked, amused. “Good to see you didn't accidentally cut off your sense of humor as well.”

Astarion wanted to spend all day with her, but he couldn’t. Being in his bat form, taking little bat-naps, only provided so much rest. He needed to spend at least some time in his coffin to be in fighting shape. Besides, she insisted he let her be alone behind closed doors for a few hours.

One day, he managed to convince her to go out again. Somewhere nice enough to have good blood on hand but not so nice that Rowan felt out of her element. He enjoyed dressing her up again, something nice but simple.

When they met in the hallway, Astarion burst out laughing.

Of course, that was possibly the worst thing he could’ve done. Rowan turned to flee, but he caught her by the arm.

“Oh, darling, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just-”

Rowan was wearing what he told her to: her black suit with the red shirt. But her shirt was buttoned to her throat and she’d even put on a black tie, secured with a red rose clip.

On the other hand, Astarion was also wearing his black suit over a black shirt, but his shirt was open almost to the navel. 

“Here, let’s split the difference, shall we?” he suggested as he reached for her tie. She took a step back.

“What’s wrong with how I look?”

“Nothing. I suppose I should have expected it. You don’t strike me as the tits-out kind of gal.” From a pocket, Astarion produced an antique pocket watch. Slipping it into her vest pocket and fixing the fob, he said, “There. It’s not a pair of earrings, but it brightens the place up.”

Rowan looked at herself in the mirror that hung in the hallway while Astarion buttoned up his shirt. The opening was still deep, down to his sternum, but it was a little more modest. Sidling up behind her shoulder, he smiled at her reflection before picking at her hair. 

“You know, your hair wants to curl. It’s adorable,” he cooed, fascinated by how her hair wanted to lay despite the little bit of pomade she’d combed through it. While fixing her donor pin, which did give him a sense of pride to see her wearing, he noticed her expression in the mirror. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Rowan answered with a nod. Trying to sound more chipper, she added, “Let’s go! Don’t want to be late.”

Astarion was unconvinced, his own face becoming more concerned. He turned her towards him with a gentle touch on her shoulder. “We can cancel if-” 

“I want to go,” she reassured him, laying a hand on his. “I promise. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Her touch made his thoughts fuzzy. Pressed between her palm and shoulder, his hand was enveloped in comforting warmth.

“If you ever want to leave, just tell me, and we’ll go,” he finally managed to say before reluctantly pulling back his hand.

The night was cold and Astarion found himself regretting that she opted to be driven instead of walking. But he knew that it was a little far to go in the cold for someone who needed to stay warm. It just would have been nice to walk side-by-side, instead of sitting in silence with an empty seat between them. 

They were seated somewhere nice and secluded, with a view of the beautiful garden that was unfortunately closed at this time of year. Astarion had been here many times and seen many iterations of the garden throughout the seasons. While they waited for their drinks, he caught Rowan admiring it.

“I’ll have to bring you back. It looks lovely in the snow. And the tree is gorgeous in the spring when it blooms,” he told her with a slight smile, trying not to sound too forward.

“It’s nice that you can still enjoy beautiful things,” Rowan said almost dreamily, as if walking the garden in her mind. Astarion tilted his head. “Since you can’t go in the sun, see things the way we do.”

“If I had one thing I could see without fear of turning to cinders, what would you have me see?” he asked curiously. He watched as Rowan closed her eyes, picking through memories that she deemed worthy of this special honor.

“Mmm… A total solar eclipse? Or… the mountains, when the leaves change,” she answered shyly as their drinks arrived. After she placed her dinner order, she asked, “Did I make a good suggestion?”

“A total solar eclipse does sound perfectly anti-vampire,” Astarion relented with a smirk before sipping his drink. Best to drink it while still warm. She sipped hers as well and coughed. Both concerned and amused, he asked, “You didn't order that to impress me, did you?”

“No, I'm just not used to straight liquor anymore.” She chuckled. “I’ll get something I can drink more easily next time.”

Astarion’s face must have betrayed him, because it was her turn to lift an eyebrow. “You look like you got a frog in your mouth.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Rowan pursed her lips in response. Astarion was briefly annoyed, it wasn't a flattering expression, but she looked so happy doing it and that made him laugh. “I merely had some things on my mind.”

“Like what?”

“How Gale was browbeating me for not knowing more about you.”

Rowan’s eyes lit up. “Oh? Was he asking about me?”

Astarion scoffed, but in good nature. “Calm down.”

“You're right, he's way out of my league,” Rowan said dismissively, chuckling before taking a sip of her drink. Astarion opened his mouth, but her first course arrived.

“Don’t say things like that,” he insisted firmly once the waiter was out of ear-shot.

In the middle of her first bite, Rowan could only give him a questioning look.

“He would be lucky to have someone like you,” Astarion explained, although this time a little less convincingly.

In the direction of her food, she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

“Just because-”

“I said ‘okay,’ master, let’s not argue,” Rowan interrupted before putting more salad in her mouth.

Astarion sat in stunned silence, the word ‘master’ bouncing around in his head.

Her voice eventually cut through. “What did Gale think you should know about me?” 

“Nothing important. Family stuff.”

“Yeah. Not important.”

“I’m sorry, that wasn't-”

“My parents are dead, I have two brothers that stopped talking to me after my husband died, and my in-laws stopped after they got 90% of his ashes,” Rowan rattled off, even when the waiter came for her plate, pausing only to give him a new drink order. 

“We grew up in a place that only vaguely tolerates Torilians. My only friends were his friends, even though everyone said I was ‘kind’ and ‘interesting' and ‘personable.’ 

“We moved to New Babylon because I wanted to work on integrated magical systems and he studied interplanar physics.”

“A match made in heaven,” Astarion said with a vague smile he wasn't aware he was putting on. Then, uncertainly, he asked, “That's the phrase, right?”

“Yeah, for all the good it does us.”

“What about the other 10%?” He let her test her new drink. “Of his ashes, I mean.”

“Oh. Half went into a probe they launched at the… anomaly thing. The other half is in a lockbox in your basement.”

“How incredibly morbid,” Astarion said with a slowly widening smirk. Leaning in, he whispered conspiratorially, “Between you and me, I have my master’s ashes as well.”

Rowan leaned in too. “Do you shake him around and pretend he’s in a blender?”

Astarion laughed. He would’ve outright cackled, but this wasn’t that kind of place. It was his turn to have a sparkle in his eyes. “You're a wicked little thing, aren't you? I'm disappointed I didn't learn that sooner.”

“That's pretty much all there is to know about me. Not very interesting.”

Astarion fought the urge to say ‘just the opposite.’

As Rowan ate, which made it difficult to converse, Astarion talked. Almost incessantly. Rowan didn’t seem to mind, giving him no indication that she was tuning him out or wishing to be anywhere but in this quiet little corner with him. 

He told her things he’d never bothered to tell anyone else. How he met and befriended Gale after being released from Cazador’s clutches. The hand he played in interplanar law, using his old magistrate skills for good. His favorite places around the city or on his travels.

“Do you ever feel like going back?” Rowan asked as she waited for her dessert.

“I do miss Faerûn… But I would have the same problem Cazador did. Honestly, this place is a lot more hospitable for my kind.” A sadness crossed over Rowan’s face as she tucked into her dessert. “You know, if you ever want to go, I’m sure Gale can take you on one of his little excursions.”

That wasn’t what Rowan was sad about.

It was talking over dinner with no fears of coming off as ‘weird’ or ‘off-putting.’ The timbre of his voice, how it changed as he spoke. The way she was able to pick out words they said differently, even the way they picked up their glasses.

The food was good and the atmosphere comforting. His eyes never strayed far, except maybe when they were talking about something in the room, but she never felt observed. They would finish and it would be late and she’d be tired, but she wouldn’t want to go home.

Rowan was having fun, feeling wanted and understood, so why did she want to fall to her knees and cry?

“Maybe I’ll try traveling in this plane first before letting myself be whisked away,” she answered him with a wry chuckle before taking the last bite of her dessert.

Astarion tucked that little suggestion away in his head for later. 

As he, ever the gentleman, helped her into her coat, Rowan asked meekly, “Could we walk?”

“Are you sure?”

“Just for a bit?”

“If that is your desire.”

Despite the fact that this part of the city was mostly Torilians, the streets were still decorated with lights, ribbons, and garlands. Perhaps both peoples understood the need for a little cheer during the long, cold nights of winter.

As they walked in silence, it started to snow. Not enough to worry about getting home early, but just enough to merit a little wonder. 

They stopped at the big roundabout in the center of the neighborhood where an old fir tree stood. It was dressed up for the season with a multitude of decorations, including gleaming bobbles, big velvety bows, and glittery tinsel. 

Rowan held out her arm, hoping to catch some snowflakes on her black coat, but it was too warm. As soon as she brought them closer to inspect, they melted away.

Astarion held out his hand, showing her the flakes that collected on his leather gloves. With no heat of his own, the leather stayed cold, and the flakes lingered longer than if they’d fallen to the ground.

Cradling his hand in hers, Rowan marveled at the delicate patterns of the snowflakes and watched as new ones fell.

For the first time in a very long time, Astarion took the opportunity to stare at them as well.

“I know you don't celebrate Christmas…” Rowan started shyly, still holding his hand, “but I was wondering if… you wouldn't mind if I invited Gale over? And I’d want you there too, of course.”

Astarion stared at his hand as he processed this request. “I didn't realize you were-”

“I’m not. This is more just… cultural.” She laughed at herself. He could tell now when she did that, act as if she was being stupid before he could say it himself. Not that he was going to say it. “Just an excuse to… eat and stress each other out with gifts and making sure everything is perfect and fun.”

“Sounds awful.”

Rowan lowered her face to hide her disappointment, but tried to sound like she agreed. “Yeah…”

A playful smirk lighting up his face, Astarion answered, “Oh, why not?”

“It’s okay if-”

“Darling,” Astarion said sweetly, but pointedly, his hand squeezing hers, demanding she look up into his ruby eyes, “I want you to have whatever will make you happy.”

Once more, Rowan turned her face down and sniffled.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concerned that he said something wrong.

“Yeah, I’m just… getting cold.”

“Of course. Silly me and my cold blood.” Not thinking at all, he rubbed her arm, perhaps to create some heat or just to comfort her before he pulled out his phone to call their car.

Fully aware of what she was doing and thoroughly embarrassed by it, Rowan stepped forward into him, so that her face was hidden from the cold and he couldn’t see the tears rolling down her cheeks.

Maybe he didn’t generate heat, but still, Astarion wrapped an arm around her shoulders, shielding her from the slight breeze that was creating swirls of snowflakes in the streets.

----

The unfortunate truth was that Rowan could see what was happening, but could do nothing about it.

It was as if someone else was flipping the switches in her head, making her feel one way or the other, no matter how many times she flipped them back or tried to glue them in place.

No amount of exercise, meditation, controlled breathing, or tea could tamper the building pressure of deep, unquenchable sadness in her chest.

Grief. There was no other word for it. As much as she liked to think, it never went away. Sure, most days were easier now. Sometimes, she could go most of a day without thinking about it.

This damn time of year. Like it was happening all over again. Reminders everywhere of what she’d lost, of what she missed.

There was one beacon of hope. 

Her new friends.

When she was rational, she knew they were friends. Her irrational self didn’t always trust it, looking for reasons to disprove that belief.

Rowan fought with herself, but the irrational part won from time to time.

It was winning more often.

Sometimes, she would stop what she was doing and just… sit. Stare. The bat clinging to her would eventually peep in confusion, snapping her back into reality. Once, she was angry at nothing and handled him too roughly. His screeches broke her heart and she peppered him with kisses and sweet words of apology. She even let him bite her finger and lap up the blood until he felt sufficiently placated.

The final straw was when she started crying at her desk.

Oh, how Astarion cried too, trying to understand what had upset her. Was it him? Did he do something? Or was it what he didn’t do?

He was just deciding to change back into a form that could actually communicate with her when Rowan clasped him firmly in her hands and put him in the hall before closing the door with a slam behind her.

Assuming that he had been the thing to upset her, Astarion let her be. Sulking, he went up to his room earlier than he’d gotten used to with this new routine, and crawled into his coffin.

The next day there were no snuggles, apologies, or explanations. Hanging from the bannister as he always did, Astarion fell asleep in his bat form. Waking up past sunset, it was clear that Rowan had never picked him up. It was possible that she never left her rooms, but Astarion comforted himself with the idea that maybe she snuck past him.

But it happened again the next day. His messages went unanswered. If it weren’t for read receipts, he would’ve picked the lock on her door, propriety and privacy be damned.

Still as a statue, he stood at her bedroom door, one hand pressed against the cold wood. Straining his already acute hearing, he listened for anything that could tell him what was going on inside. A few times he could hear her ragged, deliberate breaths. Sometimes, he could hear something like a cry of pain.

It hadn’t escaped Astarion’s attention that most of the blood in the cooler was a mix of sentient donations and animal blood from the Black Cross. A quick check showed that Rowan was paying for the extra herself instead of billing it to his account. Blasted woman…

Astarion was fine with it. It was perfectly okay for her to take a break, to value her health or engage in activities that affected her blood temporarily.

He just wanted to know why. He wanted to hear her say “I’m okay” and believe her.

When he found her on the kitchen floor, sobbing, Astarion knew that time wouldn’t come soon.

“I’m sorry,” Rowan managed to garble out, her throat raw, her sinuses full of snot, the muscles in her stomach spasming. She repeated it a few more times.

The light on the blood-draw machine was red. Trailing from it was a long ribbon of paper, evidence of several attempts to get a favorable result.

“It’s okay, it’s not that important,” Astarion told her gently, crouching down to her level. Wiping away her tears with his thumbs, his hands feeling like ice against her hot cheeks, he pleaded, “Darling, tell me what’s wrong.”

“It hurts,” Rowan drawled out, her eyes shut tight. 

Her scent wasn’t the normal mix of lingering human sweetness, neutral laundry detergent, and soaps. It was too much sweat, stale and fresh at the same time, clinging to her clothes. Her hair was oily and disheveled, stuck in haphazard cowlicks. There was just the slightest hint of iron from where the machine tested her blood.

“What does?”

“Eh-eh-everything,” she sobbed, trying to hang her head in shame. Cradling her face between his hands, Astarion didn’t let her. “I’m i-i-either numb or f-f-f-f-feel everything and I’m s-s-so tired and I c-c-can’t stop.”

Shushing her softly, Astarion pressed a kiss to her forehead. Despite the fact that both her and her clothes desperately needed a wash, he scooped her up into his arms.

Normally, this would be like something out of a dark romance novel. The beautiful mysterious vampire taking his mortal lover to bed, to be ravished and subsequently eaten.

Instead, Astarion laid her down in her messy bed in what was probably a comfortable position. Bidding her to stay put and rest, he went back down to the kitchen.

Gale always made tea when he wasn’t feeling good, so Astarion started with that. He’d watched the wizard make it often enough that it was an easy task.

The other part of this selfless act was a little harder for him.

“Why are you calling me?” Gale’s voice came from the phone speaker. It was more concerned than its words would imply. Astarion almost never opted to call instead of sending a message unless it was important.

“What do humans eat to feel better?” Astarion asked plainly, going through the kitchen cabinets.

“That would depend on why they need to feel better.”

Astarion explained the situation in a rather cold fashion, as if this whole thing was an inconvenience. Having known the man for centuries, Gale knew the truth. 

Astarion was scared.

“Well, a good start is a warm soup,” Gale answered, biting back the urge to ask Astarion if he was alright. It would just start an argument. Helpfully, with the use of the camera, he pointed out something in the cupboard. “There is an easy one to make.”

Plucking the lightweight foodstuff off the shelf, Astarion was unconvinced, but Gale wouldn’t steer him wrong. It looked like what she enjoyed getting from the noodle stand across the park. Maybe when he had more time, he would get her that instead.

Gale guided him through the process of making the soup and offered some advice while they waited.

“This time of year can be hard for people who have lost someone close. Also around the time the person died,” he offered helpfully. “I wouldn’t take it personally. That is a lot of pain to carry around.”

Astarion promised to keep him updated before he ended the call.

Taking the tea and soup up to her room, Astarion found Rowan curled up in her bed, clutching her pillow to her chest.

“Here. This’ll make you feel a little better.” She didn’t need it, but he still helped her sit up and put the soup in her hands. “Please eat.”

While she ate and sipped her tea, Astarion flitted around her rooms. Possessed by some spirit that demanded everything be right, he picked up clothes and straightened up messes. She’d apparently started taking her decorations down and, while he didn’t know why she would do such a thing, he put them back up.

After stuffing all of her laundry into the chute, at the bottom of which the collected items would be properly cleaned by the magic in the basement, Astarion came back to her bedside.

Staring at her half-drunk tea, her finished soup already carried off by a magic hand trying to tidy what Astarion missed, Rowan said meekly, “I’m sorry.”

This whole thing did annoy him. This type of behavior was far out of his norm. He just wanted to be adored and pampered and his hunger quelled. He wanted the delicious bliss of her blood coursing through him.

But while she was in this state, that wasn’t possible.

Sure, he could beg her to let him sink his fangs into her, bypass the strict rules of her contract. Astarion often fantasized about how much better it would taste straight from the source, enhanced by the flavor of her neck like the salt on the rim of a drink.

“Don’t be,” he told her, trying to straighten-out her hair with his fingers. “After you’re done, why don’t you take a nice shower, hm?”

Rowan showered as Astarion stripped the bed so it could be remade with fresh sheets. If it wasn’t so cold, he’d open the windows and let in some fresh air.

Waiting, Astarion laid down on the bed, arms draped over his abdomen in gentle repose.

Looking much like a corpse.

Which, technically, he was.

His mind must have drifted so far that he didn’t notice Rowan standing over him, her face marked by distress, until he opened his eyes.

“Good gods, woman!” he shouted, startled. That didn’t last long when he realized she was weeping. Much more softly, he soothed, “Oh, my sweet, there’s no need for that. Come here.”

Astarion got to his feet and wrapped her up in an embrace. Pressing her warm face to his shoulder, he stroked her still-damp hair. Ever so slightly, they swayed in place.

“Thank you,” Rowan told him in her watery voice.

Astarion held onto her tighter, because she needed it.

Because maybe it wasn’t enough to cling onto her in a form so far removed from his own. It was him, but not him.

This form, with its cold skin and tired eyes, that only recently felt like it belonged to him, needed it too.

Eventually, after a little more food and warm tea, Rowan fell into a peaceful sleep. Not wanting to leave her alone, Astarion stayed in. 

It wasn’t that he feared something would happen, but that he didn’t want her to wake up in the middle of the night only to find herself alone.

Lighting the fire in her room and turning down the lights, Astarion sat up in her bed with one of her cozy blankets over his legs and a book in his lap. 

Technically, the blanket did nothing. If anything, it was hindering the warming potential of the fire. But it brought him some small amount of comfort to feel its weight and occasionally inspect the soft yarn, feeling the knots and twists between his fingertips. 

If asked, he wouldn’t know if it was knitted or crocheted, and he’d refuse to answer on the basis that he was bound to get it wrong.

He’d seen her working on other things and assumed this was handmade as well. Occasionally his mind would wander, considering how long it took, or who taught her how. Sometimes it took up all of her focus and other times she did it without looking.

Astarion updated Gale on what had happened before it got too late, just in case their mutual friend was sitting up waiting. Someone like Gale could foresee a hundred scenarios in which something would go wrong and Astarion would be out of his depth.

Before he knew it, the sun was rising, and Rowan’s alarm sounded. Having silenced it, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes with a grumble and covered her eyes with the crook of her arm.

“You been here the whole time?” she asked, not an accusation.

“I can take a break too, you know,” Astarion answered smugly as he closed his book.

A few moments of silence passed with neither saying anything or moving.

Then Rowan rolled over. Towards him. And nestled her head against his thigh like a pet wanting only to be in contact with its owner.

Astarion lifted his arm and somehow, she knew to scooch forward to rest her head on his lap. Very softly, he combed his finger through her once-more disheveled hair. 

“Everything will be fine,” she told him in a calm, relaxed voice.

He chuckled. “I think I'm supposed to say that.”

“Yeah, well… maybe you need to hear it more than me.”

And she was right. Because things were changing and Astarion was freaking out.

“Just ten more minutes,” Rowan mumbled, making herself more comfortable.

A small smile graced Astarion’s lips.

“I couldn't agree more.”

[random-thot-generator]

Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 2

(Tenderness AU)

TWO: The Myth of a Rainy Night

Simon Ghost Riley x Frenemy Fem Reader

Summary: Simon returns home after another deployment and stops by the pub after hours to see you, but an off-hand comment has your reunion taking an unexpected turn.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Angst, Yearning, Simon is conflicted, So are you, no use of Y/N

(Notes: This one got away from me, so I had to split the chapter. I’ll post chapter 3 as soon as I give it a re-write. The village I mention, Banfield, is from my own addled brain. As far as I know, no such place actually exists. I just wanted Simon to finally find himself a place of peace and quiet, so reunited him with his old captain/father figure Ollie Turnbull (also made up) and lovingly planted them in a rural country village.

This chapter was heavily influenced by Jack Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’ and is used as a plot piece within the story.

There’s a bit of a time jump, but nothing major. Simon and Reader are still in the process of working out this tentative new relationship, neither sure of where this is going. Simon is feeling conflicted, so exhibits typical ‘Ghost’-like behavior to cope with it. There will be some angst, but no need for tissues. It’s not that bad.)

Word Count: 2395

CHAPTER: 2

🖤💀🖤

“It was a rainy night. It was the myth of a rainy night.” ― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

It was close to midnight by the time Simon made it back to Banfield.

The village was dead, not a soul in sight, only the streetlamps standing sentinel in the pouring rain. He drove through the heart of the village, past the closed shops and the empty expanse of the green, eyes trained on the pub across the way. There were no cars parked at the curb or people smoking beneath the front awning, the outdoor lights doused. The neon ‘Open’ sign in the window was off as well, which meant the pub was well and truly closed; there would be no one inside but you. He circled round the green and parked in front of the building, hand reaching out to snag the book lying on the passenger seat.

Tucking it inside his coat, he exited his truck, hitting the lock button with his key fob as he hurried beneath the awning in three big strides. He could feel the cold rain patter his balaclava, soaking into the material, creating chilly points of dampness against his face and ears. He gave a light shiver at the sensation before raising his hand to knock three times, waiting a beat, then knocked once more.

"Coming!" you called from the other side, voice muffled by the door and the pouring rain. A few moments later there was the rattle of locks turning and the door was pushed open, Simon stepping to the side to get out of the way. You peered up at him, a crooked smile on your lips. "Well, look what the rain washed up. Didn't expect to see you tonight."

"'Ello, doll. Ya miss me?"

You scoffed but grinned. "Like a thorn in my side,” you quipped, then motioned for him to come inside. You turned away from the door, calling over your shoulder, "Don't forget to lock it.”

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, stepping inside and closing the door, an amused little smirk forming beneath his mask.

After showing up late one night and being met at the door by you with one of Ollie’s old cricket bats, he had suggested using a special knock, so you would know that it was him. The memory of that night came back to him every time he used the knock now.

He locked the deadbolt as he glanced up to see what you were doing. "Slow night?" he queried as he shrugged out of his coat.

"You know it," you replied, wheeling the mop bucket down the narrow hall toward the loos. He heard the thump and bang of you propping open one of the doors with a waste bin. "Rain kept everyone home, I suppose. Ned didn't even stick around tonight. He was gone before last orders." He heard the squeak of a stall door, then a disgusted scoff. "I swear, you blokes can't hit the broad side of a bloody barn after you've had a few. Should bloody well sit if ya got no better aim than this."

Simon huffed a laugh at your fussing as he pulled out his usual seat at the bar and hung his coat over the back. He tossed your book on the bar, a copy of Jack Kerouac's 'On the Road'.  "Brought yer shite book back," he called out, making his way ‘round the bar to fix himself a drink. "Ramblin' bit o' nonsense, that was."

You cackled, the sound echoing in the tiled room. "Not your cup of tea?" He could hear the sarcasm oozing from your words.

"No bloody point to it," he answered, distracted. He couldn't find the bottle of Dewar's. "Where's my scotch?"

He heard the slop of a mop hitting the floor. "Check the other end. Trainin' a new girl to help on the weekends. She probably left it down there."

Simon grumbled as he went down to the other end of the bar, and sure enough, the Dewar's was wedged in between two bottles of gin. He plucked it out and took it back to his waiting tumbler. He tried to pour it like you did, but couldn't get it quite right, spilling a few drops when he attempted to do the little twist you gave the bottle at the end of the pour. He mopped up the small mess with a towel, shaking his head. He'd have to watch the way you did it again to see where he was going wrong.

Taking his seat, he took a sip of his drink before picking up the book to thumb through its pages. It was an old copy, well-loved and worn. He wondered how many times you had read it. There were certain pages that bore smudged thumbprints and underscored passages in light pencil. They were like clues he would find, a trail of meandering breadcrumbs scattered throughout the pages. He couldn't count the number of times he had re-read these special blocks of text you deemed worthy to note. He flipped to one of his favorites and read it again.

'Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgandy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.'

He hummed low as he read it, picturing the scene in his mind so easily. On those bleak, cold nights in the safe house when it seemed like dawn would never come, he would read this passage and close his eyes, imagining he could feel the warmth of a setting sun on his face, hear the swish of tall grass swaying in the breeze around him. It was his own secret respite, a private moment of reprieve.

There were other passages you favored that he had ruminated over, words that held some deep meaning for you that he tried to fathom, that he tried to read with your eyes, your thoughts. He wanted to perceive it the way you did, but often felt like he failed in that regard. Still, he tried, wanting that extra bit of insight into what made you tick.

You were like an enigma to him, deeper than you let on, deeper than an ocean and just as vast. It sometimes brought him up short, a feeling akin to intimidation welling up to fill his throat. Reading this book, pondering your favored quotes, made him feel small at times, like a lone soul adrift in a sea of words and profound thoughts, but you swam in these waters, so he wanted to as well, even if he floundered every now and then.

You finished cleaning the bathrooms and came back to the bar blowing out a tired breath. You cast a critical eye over him, looking him up and down in that way that made him feel naked and exposed. It always made him want to squirm in discomfort, but he liked it, too, that feeling of really being seen by another person. He was just a soldier named Riley to you, with no rank or reputation to taint that image.

"You look like you've lost a stone since I saw you last. Doesn't the army feed you? What do they do? Just dump you out to forage in the wild?"

Simon grunted in amusement and tossed the book back down on the bar. "Nah. It was yer shite book. It ruined my appetite."

You rolled your eyes and snorted a soft laugh, a little smirk tilting up a corner of your mouth. "Aw. Does a man expressing his thoughts and feelings make your tummy ache, Riley?" You laughed when he sneered at you and flipped you off.

It had been four months since you'd loaned him that first book, and although he'd been deployed for half that time, the two of you had managed to settle into a comfortable rapport. Social niceties and good manners fell by the wayside as the two of you discussed the books you loaned him. Your coaxing, gentle prodding and snarky banter drew him out of his hard shell despite his set-in-stone intentions to keep you at a distance. Now he willfully sought you out, eager to see how you'd challenge him next while relishing the warmth he found in your presence.

He watched you pull a bottle of white grape juice from the mini fridge beneath the bar and take a long drink, wiping at your top lip with the back of your hand before you replaced the lid. Setting it aside, you sauntered over to where he sat and leaned on your elbow to peer into his eyes. It always unnerved him when you did that, but he held your gaze with a hooded, stoic expression, giving nothing away.

"You look like a zombie, Riley. When's the last time you slept?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. Caught a few winks on the plane."

Your backhanded concern was something else that made him want to squirm in discomfort. He wasn’t used to it, someone seeing past his mask to the man behind it. You were a perceptive bird, though, quick to notice and point out subtle changes while calling him out on his bullshit with equal aplomb. A straight shooter, Ollie had called you, a keen observation from his old captain.

“Her kind o' honesty keeps a man humble," he'd said with a chagrined chuckle, and no truer words had ever been spoken. That’s exactly how he felt around you most of the time: humbled.

It irked the hell out of him.

He picked up his drink and drained it, clunking it back on the bar with a solid thunk. “How’s Ollie been?” he asked, changing the subject.

You sighed, allowing him to shift the conversation away from himself. “Same ol’ Ollie. Think he’s been feeling a bit down, though. He just found out his daughter Hillary’s pregnant. His first grandchild.” 

Simon huffed a dry chuckle. “Feelin’ his age, is he?” He leaned closer, tilting his head. “Tha’ bird Miriam still chattin’ him up?”

A mischievous grin split your face. “She was in here last weekend just mooning over him. He acts like he doesn’t like it, but he does. She seems nice enough. I think he should go for it.”

He scoffed. “Don’t tell me yer goin’ to start meddlin’ in his love life, like the rest o’ the ol’ birds in the village.”

“It’s not meddling. I’m just stating my opinion, which I’ve kept to myself, thank you very much.”

He gave a derisive grunt and shook his head. “Yeah. Right.”

You took his empty glass and placed it in the dishwasher, closing it back with a snap. “Keep it up and I’ll start meddling in yours,” you teased. a devilish glint in your eye.

“Huh. Good luck with that, doll. Can’t meddle in somethin’ tha’ don’t exist. I don’t bother with tha’ mess. Got no time ‘r patience for it. Never ends well, anyway.”

You blinked, a small frown furrowing your brows. You pressed your lips into a firm line, some inner debate playing out on your face. You were silent as you mulled over his words, long enough that he began to feel uncomfortable in the tense quiet. There was an odd expression on your face when you finally looked at him again. “At least you’re honest about it, I suppose. Most blokes aren’t.” 

With that, you stepped away to finish loading the dishwasher, running the water to fill the vacuum of awkward silence he had just created with his thoughtless comment.

Simon studied your subdued demeanor, not sure how to fix this or even if he should try. He knew he was beginning to get attached to you already, and he didn’t want to encourage that, didn’t want to encourage you. He knew he couldn’t give you what you deserved, but he had ignored that fact in favor of indulging in your attention. Now, he found himself in too deep, emotions long-buried disturbing the stony soil of his heart. He could no longer lie to himself that it was just physical attraction that had him sitting at your bar every night, because now... 

Now, he caught himself thinking about you on missions. As he searched through the pages of your books for signs of your presence, he wondered what you were reading. He wondered what book you would pick out for him next. He wondered who you talked to when he wasn’t there. He wondered if you missed his company when you cleaned up at night. He wondered if you thought of him when you were lying in the dark, alone in your bed. He wondered if you ever wondered if he thought about you, too.

Because he did. More than he should.

Bloody hell...

He shouldn’t be thinking about you at all. He should never have let it get to this point. You were just some chatty bird who tended bar at his local pub and owned a lot of books. You were never meant to be more than a pretty distraction, just someone to occupy his time while he had a few drinks. Perhaps it was best to cut ties now. Let you go and fade into the background. That’s where blokes like him belonged, in the rearview mirror. This could never have gone anywhere, anyway. It was doomed from the start.

Climbing to his feet, he tossed a few quid on the bar for his drink and slipped his coat back on, aware that you were watching him, but unable to look your way. He adjusted his mask, making sure it was firmly in place, falling back on Ghost to get him through this as his eyes went cold and flat. He didn’t bother saying goodbye, instead smacking his hand on the bar twice, before turning away. Still avoiding your gaze, he strode to the door and stepped out into the night without a backwards glance.

You stared after him, letting his rejection sink in, and listened to the rain.

-

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@stillinracooncity

@cumikering

@cutiecusp

@deadbranch

@glitterypirateduck​

[floralegia]

(you can say no to any of my requests btw LOL) #21, poly fob with pete in the middle 😈

"Patrick," Joe groans, "do something about him."

Patrick snorts from across the little living area as their bus rattles down the highway. "Why me?"

"He listens to you!"

"Sometimes. He listens to me sometimes. Don't you think if he was listening to me right now, I would have done something already?"

Pete scowls at the both of them, arms crossed, slouching down into the couch. They're a couple of assholes, is what they are. He's bored, okay? It's not his fault there's nothing to fucking do right now. He doesn't have cell signal out here in buttfuck nowhere, he's already read every book he brought on tour and watched every DVD on this bus at least twice, and trying to write earlier was an exercise in futility.

He turns a pleading look at Andy, the last bastion of hope that maybe one of these dudes who like to claim they love him will show him a little bit of sympathy, but alas, Andy just quirks an eyebrow at him, not giving an inch. "You're kind of being a little shit," he says, not budging even when Pete pouts, just flipping through his issue of Modern Drummer.

"I am not!"

"Pete, you literally haven't shut up since the last time we stopped for fuel. Which was three hours ago." Joe does not sound especially impressed as he says this. If nothing else, Pete would have hoped he'd respect the dedication, but apparently no dice.

Pete groans, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "You guys aren't normally this boring."

"Well," Andy says mildly, not even looking up from his magazine, "if you keep this up for much longer, we're gonna have to find a way to put your mouth to better use."

Everything freezes for a split second; even the road noise and the constant rush of air outside the bus windows seems to fall away. As the quiet drags on, Pete feels a slow smile creep across his face, widening into a shit eating grin. He'd known Andy would be at least a little sympathetic to his case. His guys always do pull through for him in the end.

"Works for me," he chirps happily, and without further ado, he scampers across the living area to throw himself to his knees at Andy's feet. Somewhere behind him, Joe's spluttering and Patrick's scoffing at the sudden change in atmosphere, something about how Andy shouldn't give in or negotiate with terrorists or whatever, but Pete literally couldn't care less anymore. Andy's rolling his eyes a little, but smiling down at him, and he even sets his magazine aside as he starts to wriggle out of his basketball shorts, so as far as Pete's concerned, things are really looking up.

For all their bitching, Pete's barely had Andy in his mouth for a minute--still soft, though hardening with every heartbeat--when he feels hands in his hair and looks up to see Joe and Patrick settling in above him on the couch, one on either side. He winks at them and gets an eyeroll back in stereo, but the fingers combing through his hair and petting at his face don't go anywhere, and he lets his eyes fall blissfully shut. He's practically purring, especially when Patrick's grip in his hair tightens to tug him further onto Andy's dick, or when Joe leans down to tweak his nipple, or when Andy says, "Good boy, Pete, doing so good."

And Pete just smiles (as best he can with a mouth full of dick, anyway) and leans into it, feeling his brain settle like he's been desperately hoping for all afternoon. This, this is perfect--not necessarily what he was angling for, per se, but honestly better than any boredom-buster he could have dreamed up. Trust his guys to come up with a perfect solution for him. Well, okay, mostly Andy, but he'll give Joe and Patrick participation points, at least. He's feeling awfully giving all of a sudden.

Giving, and so not bored anymore. Never let it be said that being a bit of a little shit sometimes doesn't work out for him, in the end.

[the-original-b]

The Omen of St. Tepes

Format: Prose / Fiction

Word Count: 4,577

Synopsis: College seniors Johnny, Shirley, Claire, Ian, and Luke blow off some steam between exams, but are stalked by an ancient evil.

Luke walked out of the convenience store, a beaming smile on his face as he carried the 24 pack of Keystone Light and pair of four-pound bags of ice from the exit to the back of Johnny’s old Pathfinder. "Open up, Johnny boy!" he extolled. "I've got the goods!"

"Alright, alright," Johnny said, fumbling with the key fob to unlock the lift gate. “Flex your legal purchasing privileges some other time.”

"All in due time, my son." He placed the beer and ice on the floor to open up the trunk and retrieve a cooler which Claire, borrowed, from her parents. "You too may one day be blessed with the gift of being able to buy the cheapest beer on earth." He began filling the cooler with ice and the beer cans.

“It’s all of our money that paid for the beer,” Claire added, “So the beer belongs to all of us. Plus it’s my cooler, so…”

“So, nothing,” Ian added, helping Luke load the packed cooler back into the Pathfinder. “It was my idea.”

“And its my car,” Johnny added, triumphant. “So can we all agree that we can split the credit five ways?”

Shirley shrugged her shoulders, leaning against the passenger seat. “I don’t know, I think you deserve a little more of the credit here.”

Ian considered the point, then nodded. “You know, she’s right…! Cute girl takes your side, you win.”

Shirley began to blush, breaking eye contact and looking off up the road.

Johnny stared daggers at Ian. “Just get in the car, wiseass. You know where we’re heading?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just follow the road for like twenty minutes, it’ll be impossible to miss.”  

The five of them—suite mates Johnny, Luke, and Ian as well as Luke’s girlfriend Claire and the shy girl in Johnny’s classes Shirley—piled into the Pathfinder to head for Ravenwood Memorial Park, where they intended to drink, joke, and share stories around a bonfire on Halloween night. Probably their last before the Innsmouth University Class of 2012 would accept their diplomas and go their separate ways to join the work force, start families, and live their lives.

Johnny hopped in the driver’s seat and fired up the Pathfinder. He plugged his iPod Touch into the aux cable which fed into a cassette adapter to play his passengers’ suggestions through the sound system. Then he put the SUV in drive and pulled out of the parking lot to a dimly lit intersection.

As the car idled at the red light. A shadowy figure spilled out of the tree line and onto the road a few dozen yards from them. A large, dark colored four-legged thing. It briefly stopped in the middle of the road to turn and raise its head to look at the car. Despite the darkness they could see its silhouette resembled a canine, and its eyes seemed to glow an intense, fiery yellow that cut through the black. And there it stayed for a full five seconds before turning back to continue along its path, back into the woods on the other side of the road.

“Did you guys see that?” Johnny finally asked.

“How could we not?” Ian retorted. “It walked right in front of us.”

“Yeah, duh… but what the hell was that? It was way too big to be anything we get out here.”

“How do you even know how big it was, you can barely see anything with those headlights,” Luke teased him from the back seat.

Insincere as he was, Luke had a point: his old jalopy was in dire need of some TLC. Johnny looked over to Shirley in the passenger seat next to him, who stared ahead blankly as the traffic light turned green in front of them. He shrugged, dismissing what he saw, took his foot off the brake pedal, and proceeded up the road.

~~~

As promised, they arrived at the park some twenty minutes later, and after unloading the Pathfinder Ian led them down a cobble stone path, past a few gargoyles, sculptures, and an old shack tucked beside a titanic tree that must have been centuries old. While intriguing in their own rights, that wasn’t what they came here for. After a brief walk, they arrived at their destination: a courtyard clearing with a fire pit and bench seating. They set up shop in the courtyard, Luke opening the cooler and handing cold beer cans out as Ian gathered the materials to start the fire. And there they sat, enjoying each other’s company for hours as they swapped classroom tales, drama, and jokes for hours.

“Anybody got a good Halloween story?” Johnny asked from over the top of his beer can.

“Well, there was that one in Haddonfield,” Ian said with a smirk. “A guy in a Bill Shatner mask knifed a bunch of babysitters.”

“Har har.”

“Let’s see you come up with a better one, then..!” Luke challenged.

“I’ve got one,” Claire offered, putting her beer can down as she straightened up. “You ever hear about the Omen of St. Tepes?”

“The what?”

Claire took a breath to find the best storyteller voice she could muster, and began. “It’s a tale as old as time,” she said. “About lust, jealousy, a promise, and a beast from Hell.”

Ian, Johnny, Luke, and Shirley looked over to her, meeting her eyes past the fire.

“The year was 1692, in the quiet town of St. Tepes, Massachusetts,” she continued. “In this town lived a perfect family. A father, mother, their grown daughter, and teenage son. Everything is going well, as you’d expect, until one fateful morning the archdeacon of the church knocks on their door. The father answers, and receives a warning from the archdeacon about a coven of supposed witches down in Salem. He warns they could be spreading north, and advises him to keep his family safe.” She paused to pick her beer up and slosh it around in the can. “The archdeacon visits again and again, bringing gifts of good will and good spirits to the house—to protect the family, of course. But that’s not why he kept visiting—”

“What,” Luke interposed. “He wanted to get in the son’s pants?”

Johnny chuckled to himself, but stopped when he glanced over to Shirley who remained quiet as she listened to Claire’s story.

“Close,” Claire said, taking from her beer. “It was the daughter.”

“Scandalous...!”

“Some weeks go by,” Claire continued. “Eventually, the archdeacon asks the father for an audience with the daughter. Says it would do her good to speak with him about guarding her spirit. The father—knowing what’s happening in Salem and what could happen to them if he denied his request, grants him the audience.”

Johnny leaned forward, taking genuine interest now.

“It goes about as you’d expect: daughter spurns his affections. Of course. So, the archdeacon accuses her of witchcraft, imprisons her and the whole family.” She took from her can. “…of course.”

“Not really feeling like a Halloween story, more like a historical one.”

“Patience,” Ian said. “Story’s not over.”

“Far from it,” Claire added. She continued while she absentmindedly sloshed her beer around in the can, ignoring the stark cold of the perspiring metal in her fingers. “The night before their trial, and—let’s be honest—their execution, the daughter gets a visitor to her cell. An old man in dark church-looking robes. With dulcet tones and a honey voice he says he can protect her and set her family free. All she needs to do is accept his offer…and she does. As a dutiful daughter who loves her family.”

“She’s got to know there’s some kind of catch here.” Johnny said.

“Maybe,” Claire retorted. “But put yourself in her position—wouldn’t you do anything to save your family from a hanging?” She put her beer can down again. “So anyway, she says ‘yes,’ right? Church-looking visitor thanks her, bids her good evening, then leaves. The following morning,” she continued, as her breath started to form thin cloudy wisps in front of her face, “a few villagers of St. Tepes begin crying wolf. Literally, they say there’s a huge black dog watching them from the top of the hill.”

Luke rolled his eyes and looked away as he finished his beer. He knew where her yarn was going.

“Over the afternoon, more and more villagers bring the matter of this shadowy hound to the archdeacon’s attention. Say that a huge black shape with fiery eyes boring into their very souls is watching them. The archdeacon dismisses them at first, but eventually can’t as every single one of the villagers makes a point to tell him they saw it three distinct times over the course of the day. That night he calls for an emergency mass to address the sightings. The entire village of St. Tepes is in attending.”

“Except the daughter and her family,” Ian suggested.

“Exactly,” Claire confirmed. “So as the villagers are piling into the church, a terrible storm starts brewing, like they’ve never seen. The archdeacon ushers them inside fast and makes his way to the altar to begin the service. And then, just has he begins, the altar bursts into flames, and out from the fire emerges the hound.” She picked her beer back up. “The villagers are hysterical—‘it’s a demon’ they shriek. ‘come up from hell to punish us.’ As they scream, the wolf howls and disappears in another fireball, and the panicking villagers burn to death, trapped in the church as the fire spread and swallowed them all.” She took a sip and put her drink back down. “The fire spread across the entire town and beyond. reaching the farms and even the cells where the daughter and her family were being held.” She blinked and looked up towards the sky. “Of course the daughter and her family were spared the fire, but were wracked with guilt over surviving their entire town burning down. The father and son cut their wrists, the mother poisoned herself, and the daughter lived the rest of her life alone.”

“Right,” Ian said. “The old man said they’d be set free. In death. Pretty effed up story, Claire. More depressing than scary.”

“I might have embellished some things for dramatic effect,” she confessed. “Different versions of the story are floating around, with different endings.”

“So, what,” Johnny said, “the guy who came to the daughter in the church was the Devil or something?”

“Possibly. Probably. But all the variants of that story call what burned the city down a hellhound. An omen that supposedly kills anyone who spots it—”

“What, like the thing we saw on the road?” Luke interjected. “So are we marked for death?” He raised his hands up to head level, imitating a campy television host after telling a cheesy supposed scary story. “Oooooo...!”

“We should be fine, unless we look at it two more times tonight,” she added, tongue-in-cheek. “Anyone who looks into its eyes three times will supposedly die that night. Which tracks, if you think about it. If each  of the townspeople looked at it over the course of the day, the Omen must probably figured it’s be easier to wipe them all out at once.…”

She looked back at her friends when she realized she was trailing off in a tangent, and saw their eyes following something over her shoulder. She turned around to spot it as well—a pair of searing yellow dots a few yards away. In the dark she could see a faint silhouette around it as it moved to their left. She could see it was an animal—a canine moving with its head lowered as it circled them.

Johnny pitched his beer can at the shape, getting up from his seat and yelling at it as he strode toward it. The shadow turned its head from them and trotted away, disappearing out of sight behind a large tree.

He slowed as he approached the tree, then stopped completely before calling his friends over. “Was there a group here before us?”

“Not that I saw, so,” Ian said as he, Claire, Shirley, and Luke walked up to join him.

“Check this out,” he said, gesturing to the side of the tree away from their fire.

Claire’s eyes widened. “It’s smoldering,” she said. “Like a fire was put out…”

Johnny slowly looked back at the others, raising an eyebrow.

Luke shook his head. “No way. No frigging way—you’re really gonna sit there with a straight face and tell me that just happens to be the thing from Claire’s story?”

“We should probably go,” Ian suggested.

“What, you’re scared shitless of a dog? And of a story she just put together on the spot?”

“Look, best-case scenario—it’s a stray dog following us. Worst-case, it’s the devil’s mutt. Either way, it wouldn’t make a ton of sense to stay out here much longer.”

“Guys,” Claire got their attention. “Where’s Shirley?”

Johnny looked around, not spotting her among them. “Aah, shit…” He peered off into the distance, following the trail back up the hill toward the old shack. There’s only direction she could have gone, he figured. “Stay here,” he said before taking off in the direction, “I’ll get her...!”

~~~~

Johnny followed the cobblestone trail, calling out to Shirley as he traced what would certainly have been the path she took away from the rest of the group as their discussion about the ghostly black dog they encountered grew more heated. He pressed on, up the hill and past the old shack and ancient-looking tree they passed on the way to the fire pit. Past where he was sure they’d gotten onto the path in the first place, and beyond.

“Shirley,” he called again, his breath forming thin clouds in front of his mouth. The designer zip-up hoodie he wore did little in chill night. “Shirley...!”

He kept a light jog as he followed the trail deeper into the park, passing sculptures overtaken by nature and more foliage that must have been centuries old. His growing unease pulled him gently in the direction of the group, but his guilt for inviting her out in the first place drove him onward. He pressed onward for what must have felt like ten minutes.

“Shirley!” Eventually he found her curled up on a bench with her knees in her chest, her arms wrapped around her shins and head tucked behind them. Slowly he approached her, tenderness in his voice. “Shirley…”

“We shouldn’t be here,” she said, not looking up at him. “It was a mistake coming out tonight.”

Gingerly, Johnny took a seat on the bench next to her. He reached out toward her, then paused before stretching out his arm fully to wrap her in an embrace and share a little bit of his warmth with her. She leaned into him as he started to talk her down. “Shirley,” he reassured her, “it’s fine. We’re taking some time to relax and blow off some steam before getting back to the grind. One night out isn’t going to kill us,” he added with a smirk. “We’re fine.”

“No..!” she insisted, looking up to look him in the eye. “We’re not…” She turned in her seat to face him fully as Johnny gave her his undivided attention. “You don’t seem to understand how un-fine we are,” she continued, her voice receding to a terrified whisper.

Johnny leaned closer to her, matching her tone. “The wolf?”

Shirley shook her head, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “It’s not a wolf,” she confided.

Johnny recoiled, incredulous. “You don’t actually believe that Hell-hound garbage—”

“Yes!” she insisted. “And you should too!” She took a breath to compose herself before continuing.

Her unyielding stare told Johnny she was serious.

“A mortal soul who would thrice meet its eyes, is marked by fate to perish by sunrise.”

Johnny blinked slowly. He wasn’t scared until she recited the line from Claire’s story, almost poetically. They all looked right at it as it crossed the road in front of the car, and a second time in the courtyard. If the legend was true, looking at it a third time would mean their peril. “So, you know what this thing is?”

“Intimately,” Shirley said. Then she exhaled, shut her eyes, and tilted her head back to look up at the night sky when she opened them again. “She didn’t want for them to die,” she confessed.

“What?”

“The daughter in Claire’s story.” She looked back at him. “And she was visited a second time, after the prison burned down on top of her family.”

Johnny blinked. “How do you know all this, Shirley?”

She quickly scanned the horizon, then stood up. “If we make it back to campus tonight,” she offered. “I’ll tell you everything.”

~~

They re-traced their way back toward the courtyard in total silence, Johnny wrapping his arms around himself and working to keep up with her brisk pace. As he did, the questions continued to bubble up in his mind—how did she know so much about Claire’s story? What else was there that she didn’t tell? How was she not cold? What was that cardigan made of?

Suddenly he became aware of his breath, and the clouds that formed in front of his face and Shirley’s. She slowed down just a little, but enough. Even looking at the back of her head, her ebony hair, he could imagine what her expression must have looked like while she kept her eyes straight ahead. She reached back behind herself with her left hand, fumbling in the air for a bit before it finally found his right and held on tight. Then she picked the pace back up, leading him, and he found it a lot harder to breathe now for some reason. Like the air was denser.

“When I say so,” she said, barely louder than a whisper. “You run. Run as fast as you can and don’t look back.”

As he processed her words and made sense of them, his heartbeat started to accelerate. He acutely felt the adrenaline spread to his every limb as he started to turn his head to look over his left shoulder.

“Don’t look,” she said. “Keep your eyes forward.” Her voice started to shake. “Whatever you do, don’t look at it.”

At first, he thought it was his brain playing tricks on him, but he could swear he heard a light scratching noise on the floor a few yards behind them. The sound grew louder in his mind as he realized how similar it sounded to a dog’s claws on stone. As if the thing from Claire’s story was following them.

“Run…” Shirley said, not daring to look behind at him. “Run, now…!”

“Shirley—”

“RUN!!”

Without a second thought, they took off. He ran as fast as he could muster, just like she told him to. As fast as his legs could carry him, he sprinted away from the terrible thing he couldn’t see.

And then he heard it—a blood-chilling howl unlike any he could have imagined. It was a loud, shrill, terrifying call that shattered the night air and echoed with what sounded like the souls of thousands crying out in anguish.

He realized he’d out-paced her. That thing would get to her first.

“Keep running, Johnny!” She called after him. “Don’t look back!”

His mind betrayed his instinct to keep running, to survive. He fought the urge to look back and make sure she was still alive, and as he kept his eyes forward, toward life, he imagined the worst. He anticipated hearing her screams as the thing tore into her. He anticipated feeling the vice grip and searing pain pierce into his flesh as it tore at him from behind. He couldn’t take it anymore; he made the decision to—

His foot caught the edge of a stone. He stumbled forward before falling onto his side, his ankle throbbing.

“Johnny!” In mere moments she caught up to him, throwing herself down on top of him and wrapping her arms tight around his body. She tucked her head beside his neck and shut her eyes tight.

And then it was upon them. The huge, ghostly black hellish hound that had pursued them all night. It circled its prey, snarling madly.

“Don’t look at it, Johnny!” Shirley cried. “Whatever you hear, don’t open your eyes!”

It was so close to them she could feel the heat coming off its body, like a torch held by some tormentor shrouded by the darkness of their closed eyes. Its claws scratched at the cobble stone road around them. A crematorium door opened and shut with its every breath and bark.

And there they lay, anticipating an attack that never came. Despair and terror overwhelmed them.

Then the animal stopped moving. The heat remained inches from Shirley’s shoulder for only a moment. Neither she nor Johnny dared to move when it was so close either one of them could have reached out and touched it.

And then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it fled. And in the same instant the heat left them they were instantly aware of the world around them again—the cobble stone path below them, the cold night air…

And their friends’ voices.

“Shirley!” Ian called. His voice grew louder as he got closer. “Johnny!”

“Ian!?” Shirley sat straight, still squeezing her eyes shut and reaching out in front of her. “Claire!?”

“We’re right here,” Claire’s voice just feet from her now. Then she’d felt the familiar warmth of Claire’s hands on her arms, cupping her elbow and helping her back onto her feet.

Finally, Shirley opened her eyes to see the faces of her friends. And she knew she could breathe easily again. “Johnny hurt his ankle,” she said to them. “Help him up.”

Luke and Ian helped Johnny up off the ground. Immediately they noticed his pain.

“My ankle,” he said through clenched teeth. “Twisted it back there…”

Luke looked around for anything he could find to start treating it. “We can probably find something in there,” he said, motioning the old shack next to the giant tree about thirty yards from them.

“That’s perfect,” Claire noted. “Let’s get him inside.”

Ian and Luke each put one of their arms under one of Johnny’s to help him stand and followed Claire to the shack beside the old tree. Shirley trailed behind, but her attention was pulled by a flash of lightning off in the distance which the others didn’t seem to notice. It gave her pause as she recalled a detail from Claire’s story, but eventually she dismissed her thoughts and joined her friends in the shack.

~~

Shirley sat down on a bench beside Johnny as he raised his injured leg. Claire brought over a box for him to rest his ankle on while Luke activated a flashlight app on his smartphone as he checked the corners of the space for anything he could use as a splint. He apologized to them all when he came back with nothing to show for his idea.

“Look, I’m just glad you showed up when you did,” Johnny said. “How’d you find us, anyway.”

“All the noise,” Ian said. “We heard a howl and knew what it was immediately. We came running.” His words were accented by the rolling of distant thunder.

“Perfect timing too,” Luke added. “You two would have been puppy chow if we hadn’t shown up… Fido knew it too. Looked right at us and bolted as soon as it saw the odds were stacked against it.”

Shirley froze. Then, slowly, she stood up and backed away from them all. The others turned to look at her.

“Shirley, you okay?” Ian asked.

The distant thunder grew louder—closer. Panic choked her as the color drained from her face. “What did you just say?” she asked.

Before any of them could answer, they were deafened by the crack of lightning landing just outside the shack’s wall. When her hearing returned, Shirley heard a pattering on the roof of the shack above them. Too hard to be rain or an animal, she thought.

Then she remembered the tree. The giant, ancient tree right beside the shack which stretched high into the sky. The path of least resistance.

The lightning had struck the tree. It was debris she was hearing, and it was growing louder.

By the time the others realized what had happened, the ceiling had already started to collapse.

~~~

Shirley snapped her eyes open with a gasp. Her cheek on the rain-drenched floor. She took inventory of her senses; she felt the cold night air around her again, and the rain falling on her head, neck, and shoulders let her know the shack had been split open around her. Still, she didn’t feel anything missing. And she’d felt her breathing and steady heartbeat—she’d survived the falling tree.

But did he?

“Johnny,” she whispered, slowly scanning her surroundings to look for him in the wreckage and finding only death around her. Out from under a pile of rubble protruded a pair of legs in blood-soaked jeans wearing Ian’s shoes. Luke’s stomach and legs disappeared somewhere under huge tree limbs, along with the rest of Claire’s body below the left shoulder. The falling rain spread the pools of blood forming under the wood, eventually joining them. “Johnny?” She whipped her head back in the other direction to find him on the other side of the space, under a smaller tree branch but whole.

“Johnny…!” She scrambled to her hands and knees and made her way to him, trying to lift the timber from him but failing. She realized all too late that poor Johnny was firmly pinned to the floor, impaled in several places by the branch that fell on him.

Disheartened, she sat back on her calves as her shoulders slumped with a defeated sigh. She looked at his lifeless eyes, frozen in the terror of his final moments. “You looked, didn’t you?”

She didn’t cry for him, she’d cried out all her tears after she’d lost her family in that catastrophic, hellish blaze. She didn’t mourn her lost friends, or any of the countless souls she’d shepherded to their doom over the centuries. Now, as so many times before, she felt hollow. A cold emptiness that accompanied the reminder that she’d forfeited any chance of living a normal life when she accepted the offer that figure made her in the cell.

She felt its presence before she turned to look at it, the hellish hound to which she was bound forever. It looked back at her from past what was left of the shack’s outer wall, sitting on its haunches as it licked its lips and yawned, its eyes smoldering in defiance of the rain falling around her.

Slowly, she stood up and walked away from where Johnny lay, away from the remains of Ian, Claire, and Luke, and out into the open. And Shirley—the alleged witch who struck a deal to save herself and her family only to lose them both—disappeared into the dark night, the Omen of St. Tepes following close behind.

[adzeisval]

Left for Dead

Ed is left behind. Also on AO3.

Izzy was enjoying himself on the Horizon. It was a small sloop, a decent crew, and Ed was coming into his own as a Captain. 

Hornigold’s assigned first mate, Locke, was mostly hands off, a spy more than anything and Izzy didn’t like him one bit and ended up doing most First Mate duties himself. The only thing Locke seemed to do was watch them all and deliver news from Hornigold. He was only under Ed’s orders in name, he came and went as he pleased and Izzy did not like it one bit. 

Thus far they had been ordered to patrol and watch the waters off of Dead Man’s Cove. There was apparently ten new ships, Spanish Navy, being sent out to take care of the pirate problem, along with the usual English Navy and Dutch Mercenaries they had to deal with. 

Hornigold’s rum running business was likely going to come under fire first and Izzy figured they’d eventually be guards for them. It sounded like the sort of thing a new Captain would do. 

“Morning Captain,” Izzy said entering the Cabin and plopping down across from where Ed was seated. 

“Hey Iz, I’ve got an idea.” 

“Oh no…” 

Ed chuckled, “There’s a merchant sloop limping not far from here, I think we need a little fun.” 

“Right, I’ll get the ship ready,” Izzy said. 

The raid went well and they got some fine foods and some fabric that would be easy to fob off for a good price and then crew were happy with it. Izzy couldn’t tell what Locke thought about it all. 

Izzy kept an eye on the man and informed Ed when he left. 

“God, some day,” Ed said. 

“I could kill him for you,” Izzy said, only half kidding. 

“Not yet,” Ed said. 

“Just say the word Eddie,” Izzy said. 

“I’ll deal with him eventually, but I am a new Captain at only twenty two and Hornigold has standards,” Ed said. 

Locke was back the next morning with a letter from Hornigold. Izzy watched Ed split the letter open and read it with a sigh then he handed it to Izzy.

“Well, I’m not surprised, but we’ll manage,” Izzy said. Bait. They were going to be bait to draw a few nearby Spanish ships to a trap, “We’ll have back up so what’s bothering you.” 

“Who says I’m bothered?” 

“The scowl on your face, you twat,” Izzy said. 

“Just thought I’d have a lot more control over things,” Ed said. 

“We’ll get there Eddie,” Izzy said. 

Izzy was less than enthusiastic when he saw that they would be drawing three of the largest ships he had ever seen into Dead Man’s Cove. The amount of cannons on the ship could and quite possibly would rip them to shreds. 

“Winds in our favor, and I won’t get too close,” Ed said. 

“I know, I trust you Eddie, you’re a good Captain.” 

Ed snorted, “Haven’t been Captain long.” 

“Long enough,” Izzy said and Ed smiled. 

It was very, very easy to get the ships to follow them, they were flying Hornigold’s colors and were such a small ship. Izzy imagined they looked like a very, very easy target and he hoped, oddly enough, that the pursuing ships would want to take them alive.  At least then they wouldn’t get blown out of the water. 

Izzy yelled out orders and kept an eye on the ships as best he could. Ed was steering like a madman trying to catch every little breeze that might make them go faster, and the crazier part was that the tactic was working. The schooner was going faster than Izzy thought possible and it gave him a little hope.

They rounded the island with a decent enough lead and sailed toward Hornigold’s ships. Ed swung the schooner around just as the battle begun. They hung back from the main action; their ship was really too small to take part in the main fighting. 

That didn’t mean they were safe though.

Ed tried to keep them out of the way to avoid cannon fire, yet close enough to help if they were really needed but cannon fire was hard to predict. 

The ball ripped through the mast of the Horizon sending it crashing down. Just around the same time Izzy noticed Hornigold’s ships were starting to retreat with the single remaining Spanish ship going after them. 

There was a code the pirates followed, for the most part, rules that made sense in their world and to each other. Izzy knew the code well. They weren’t supposed to be left behind, not when Hornigold could have spared a ship to pick them up, but it was fast becoming clear that that was exactly what was happening. 

“Fuck! Captain!” 

“I fucking see it,” Ed said making his way toward Izzy.

“We’re under attack!” Locke called out and Izzy saw a dozen or so Spanish climbing aboard the Horizon. 

“Fuck!” 

Izzy didn’t have time to think about their broken mast and likely sinking ship, he had to fight. And fight he did. He made his pistol shot count and tried to grab any unused pistols and he fought. Ed was fighting beside him at one point but then raced off to help another. 

Izzy felt someone at his back, an enemy and turned to…

Izzy cried out in pain as the enemy cutlass pierced his right shoulder. He was able to dislodge the sword and strike down his foe. He put his left hand up to cover the bleeding wound and his sword arm was still working for the moment so he struck down the next foe. 

He slipped in the blood on the deck and came down hard on his wounded shoulder. He cried out and everything started to go black and distant. He curled in on himself and tried to keep pressure on his badly bleeding shoulder. 

Someone knelt next to him and he could focus just enough to see that it was Ed, scared and calling out to him. 

“Izzy, we have to abandon ship, please get up, please…” Ed helped him to stand  and Izzy fought back dizziness and followed Ed to the dinghy. There were only four of them, of the original ten crew and they swiftly made for the safety of the island, where they could hide for a bit.

Izzy felt more than a little shaky as Ed sat him down in the shade of a palm tree. Izzy knew what needed to be done and he wasn’t looking forward to it. 

“Let me help you Iz,” Ed said. There hadn’t been time to grab anything so all Ed could do was wrap the wound as tightly as he could. Izzy cried in pain and the whole thing left him shakier than before. He closed his eyes for a moment and took some deep breaths to steady himself. 

“Iz?”

“I’ll be alright Eddie,” Izzy said. He was fairly certain he would be alright. The bleeding had slowed and it didn’t feel like he was getting worse. If he stayed calm and rested he’d be alright. 

Ed sat by his side looking tense with a dark look in his eyes. 

At first light the Minnow and the Piper, both Hornigold’s ships, came to see if they could salvage anything from the wrecked Spanish vessels and Ed was able to get them on board the Piper. 

“Hornigold went to the Republic.” 

“Take us there,” Ed said, in a voice that no one would dare refuse.

[crusheswhimsandfancies]

Patrick dream

I couldn’t believe it but I’d met Patrick and we were building up to having sex. He looked kind of 2005/pre-hiatus, I don’t have a strong sense of how he looked, just that he was shyly smirking and being pleased about the compliments I was giving him. We were in a small room, possibly even a single bed and he was lying back and I was just in awe of him, kneeling by his legs telling him how much I liked his music and his voice, saying something like, “yes fall out boy is great but YOUR music - soul punk - oh god soul punk is just uhhhh”. I climbed up onto his lap and was still gushing about how much I loved him and he was just smiling slightly bemused but just taking it, motioning me closer. And I was like “can we listen to soul punk, is that weird?” He just nodded and said it was ok, whatever I wanted to do. I think some kissing ensued but that’s about all I can remember.

When I woke up I remembered it for a split second then forgot, and a bit later I had a sudden sense of having a dream about one of my boys but couldn’t remember who or what it was. But then someone mentioned fob and it all came flooding back! It was lovely, reminded me of how feral I was for him around 2014, then again around 2018. It’s just so much fun when you need someone that biblically.

[goofgoofdildo]

honestly give me all of them for the music ask game

Ily <3

1:A song you like with a color in the title

I feel like I’m cheating but Welcome to the Black Parade

2:A song you like with a number in the title

11:11 by the dinosaur pileup

3:A song that reminds you of summertime

Probs Grass by animal collective

4:A song that reminds you of someone you would rather forget about

I don’t want to forget anyone, even if remembering hurts sometimes.

5:A song that needs to be played LOUD

The Horror and the Wild by the amazing devil no question. I need it to reverberate in my skull

6:A song that makes you want to dance

Rasputin obv

7:A song to drive to

Hm really depends on the mood, Thnks fr th Mmrs by fob or Back of the car by Miike Snow

8:A song about drugs or alcohol

Little green bag? even though I think originally it was little green back, as in money

Oh or Hennessey by Tupac

9:A song that makes you happy

Ľudia nie sú zlí by I.M.T smile tbh or Dirty Imbecile by the happy fits

10:A song that makes you sad

Stumbleine by the smashing pumpkins and River Man by Nick Drake both put a hole in my chest

11:A song that you never get tired of

Love is a laserquest perhaps

12:A song from your preteen years

Cherish by kool and the gang

13:One of your favorite 80’s songs

In the army now by status quo

14:A song that you would love played at your wedding

Something that the guests would like lol. Otherwise maybe Without You sung by Harry Nilsson bc I adore him and his version of the song

15:A song that is a cover by another artist

Nothing compares to you covered by sinead o’ connor

16:One of your favorite classical songs

A Shropshire lad

17:A song that would sing a duet with on karaoke

I don’t know a lot of duets? I could sing Wild Blue Yonder by heart lol, maybe I’d do summer nights from grease at a karaoke?

18:A song from the year that you were born

Clint Eastwood by gorillaz!

19:A song that makes you think about life

10am, gare du nord by Keaton Henson? Idk, all ofthem

20:A song that has many meanings to you

I feel like there’s a correct answer here that I can’t think of so we’ll go with Disloyal order of water buffaloes

21:A favorite song with a person’s name in the title

Alexandra by Hamilton Leithouser!

22:A song that moves you forward

Suture Up Your Future by quotsa I guess

23:A song that you think everybody should listen to

Take this waltz by Leonard Cohen

24:A song by a band you wish were still together

Hm I used to wish Panic never split up as a tween so let’s say Lying is the most fun a girl can have without taking her clothes off

25:A song by an artist no longer living

Sinnerman by Nina Simone

26:A song that makes you want to fall in love

I always knew by the vaccines

27:A song that breaks your heart

Slzy tvý mámy by Olympic, fucking takes me out every time

28:A song by an artist with a voice that you love

Hm perhaps Pyramid by Jason Webley

29:A song that you remember from your childhood

Atlantída by Miro Žbirka my beloved

30:A song that reminds you of yourself

Calm like you by tlsp hah

[alpharedfield]

Ingrid wasn't the only one with her blood pumping at the thought of him sans his clothing. He, too, reflected on their passionate exchange in the office and wondered what she looked and felt like beneath her work attire. Pretty soon her thighs would be cradling his hips and they'd be physically inseparable for the rest of the day. Who knew how long it would go on for... Shit, it'd been months since he had last gotten laid but the sex then wasn't all that good anyway. It was more like the fling had used him just to selfishly get herself off first before telling him he had to leave for some stupid reason or another. He'd been so frustrated afterward that he didn't even bother finishing on his own. Leon lost her number after that. At least it hadn't been in his bed on his sheets—he never took women home. That was his personal space. That wouldn't happen with Ingrid, Leon knew. She was welcome at his place regardless if they were sleeping together or not. They were friends, after all. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, posture relaxed and back resting against the wall, as they rode the elevator. He was the paradigm of calm and collected despite being aroused less than ten minutes ago and didn't move like he was in a rush. The tension between them was nearly palpable, however, and he couldn't deny it. He let her do what she needed with the wheelchair then reached out to take it from her before she could attempt to load it herself once he popped open the back of the SUV but stopped upon noticing that she was staring. Making those unmistakable hungry eyes at him that actually made his loins stir. He wondered what she was thinking. Had no clue she had considered car sex for a split-second there. "I got it," he told her in a hushed voice before lifting the chair and carefully loading it in the back after folding the seats down. The SUV beeped upon being unlocked at the press of a button on his key fob. He opened the passenger side and gave her a soft, close-lipped smile while gesturing with a hand. "... After you."

Ingrid smirked at him and grabbed her bag, leaving a majority of her work there at the office. Part of her wanted to take it with her to give her something to do, but she had a sneaking suspicion she’d have her hands full. She snickered at her own little joke as she waited for him to shut the door to her office so they could head to the elevators together. She led the way. She used that time to consider who’s car they should take. She supposed they could both take their cars, but she understood parking space could be limited. Her car wasn’t exactly comfortable. It was an old, beat up SUV with more issues than she could name. The AC didn’t work unless you gunned the engine, and even then it blew only hot air. 

“We can take yours,” she offered as she backed her chair into the elevator. “The chair folds up, so it can fit in the trunk if you need to.” Once the doors closed and started taking them down to the parking area, the air seemed different. Not quite awkward, but tense. Tense was a good word for it. Ingrid’s heart was still giddily racing in her chest at the thought of finally being able to drag Leon’s clothes off. Her stomach was doing flips in her abdomen at the memory of his plush lips against hers and where else he could put them.

She cleared her throat as the doors opened, mostly to disguise the loud shuddering swallow. Her throat suddenly felt very dry. Once she wheeled herself out of the elevator and got to Leon’s car, she locked the wheels and stood. She leaned her hip against the side of the car as she collapsed the wheelchair so it would better fit. When she leaned up again, Leon was there in front of her. Her eyes immediately shot to his mouth, and she worried her lips between her teeth. She was contemplating dragging him close and just dragging him into the back of the car. Probably not the best idea, but she wasn’t thinking long term here. "Uh, here, see," she offered, shifting her eyes and picking up the wheelchair. As long as she didn't look at him, she could keep herself together.

[stevethehairington]

✨ Mack's Fic List ✨

✨ Most Recent Work:

from your point of view | 4.3k | 911 | buddie

“Hey, Buck,” Eddie not-quite-slurs. It’s a close thing, though. The glass in his hand is his fourth— no, fifth, and wine always hits him so much harder.

He’s bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked and loose-limbed on the couch, pressed so close to Buck he’s half in his lap.

Buck’s got a steadying arm around his waist— couldn’t avoid the draw to touch even if he wanted to.

“Hm?” Buck asks, feeling a little buzzy himself.

“Buck,” Eddie repeats. “You’re bicyc—bisect— bisexual.”

Buck laughs at Eddie’s stumble. Smiles bright, proud, and nods. “I am,” he agrees.

“Have you ever—” Eddie’s winestained mouth purses; his brow furrows thoughtfully, “— have you ever thought about me?” He sways forward, widens his eyes purposefully, whispers, “Like, y’know.”

✨

some sunny day | (in progress) | 911 | buddie, gen

A collection of 118-word drabbles, written for the 118dailydrabbles season 8 hiatus challenge on Tumblr!

(Each chapter is it's own; more specific tags and warnings will be listed in the notes at the beginning of each one!)

Updates daily!

✨ 911 Works

who you share it with | 2.2k | 911 | buddie

“Oh, hey, green this time,” Buck’s voice filters in as he swings around the corner of the railing. “What flavor is that? Watermelon or green apple?” He doesn’t pause to let Eddie answer though. “Or maybe strawberry? Although, I think Haribo are the only ones that do that. S’weird though, don’t you think? Strawberry isn’t green, it should be red.”

Eddie, who hasn’t looked up from his book — he’s mastered the art of splitting his attention, by now — snorts and curls his hand into a fist. The ring pop is lodged halfway down his middle finger, a little tight around the knuckle but secure. He stretches his arm out towards Buck, a silent offering.

Buck brightens and veers towards Eddie’s side of the couch. His fingers wind around Eddie’s wrist to steady it and he draws Eddie’s hand up, ducking down halfway to meet it.

He hums delightedly, as he gets his answer.

✨

in your own sweet time | 1.5k | 911 | buddie

“How’d it go?” Buck asks as they reach the Jeep. He jams his thumb into the button on the fob — has to really dig his nail in to get it to work, it’s so worn down— and the locks click open.

“Good,” Eddie answers, sliding into the passenger seat. He runs his tongue over his left molars. Practices his bite. Bares his teeth at Buck in the kind of smile a seven year old Christopher used to flash all the time. “Easy. It was just a filling.”

“No pain then?” Buck asks and the engine purrs to life. He switches the gear to reverse.

“Nope, they numbed me up good. Still feels weird, though,” Eddie says, touching his fingertips to the left side of his upper lip. He prods at it carefully, barely feels it. “Kind of heavy. Like it’s on a lag or something.” He chuckles even though it kind of sucks. “Don’t know how I’m supposed to kiss anyone with only half a working mouth.”

Buck laughs. Puts the car into drive and pulls towards the main road. “Who’re you supposed to be kissing anyway?”

Without thinking, Eddie replies, “You, I hope.” Then freezes.

✨

let love take hold of us | 2.7k | 911 | buddie + christopher

“Hey,” Eddie calls, twisting his shoulder as he stuffs his arm into his jacket sleeve, “take a coat, bud. It’s cold today.”

Christopher, already halfway to the door, pauses to scowl at Eddie. “It’s sunny,” he says.

“It’s supposed to be windy,” Buck supplies, doing up the last button on his coat.

“And it’s December,” Eddie adds.

Christopher rolls his eyes. “In California,” he counters, unimpressed.

Eddie sighs. “It gets cold in California.”

“No,” Christopher says, impatient, “it doesn’t.” Then he’s out the door. Coatless.

“Stubborn,” Buck comments, bumping his shoulder into Eddie’s. “Reminds me of someone.”

Eddie huffs a laugh.

Or, Christopher Diaz and the Consequential Coat Conundrum; featuring christmas tree farms, hot chocolate, and the kind of stubbornness only a thirteen year old can possess.

✨

forever and ever and always | 1.7k | 911 | buddie

“Y’know,” Buck says, drawing the tips of his fingers over Eddie’s knuckles, where they’re slotted with Buck’s other hand in the space between them, “if I took your last name, we’d have the same initials.”

Eddie blinks, suddenly much more awake than he was five seconds ago. “What?”

“Yeah,” Buck continues, oblivious. “You’re E.D., Edmundo Diaz, and I’d be E.D. too. Evan Diaz.”

Eddie’s stomach swoops at the sound of that, and he fixes his eyes on Buck’s face. Stares hard at him until he catches onto it.

“Is that— is that something you’ve thought about before?” Eddie asks.

✨ Stranger Things Works (below the cut):

for all the pretty mouths and pretty words | 5.4k | st | steddie

Eddie snags both drinks with a thanks to the bartender and turns to head back towards Steve. Things have been going well, things have been going really well — not even that rocky start could put a wrench into things, and the note they left off on before Eddie slipped away was promising. Eddie is eager to see where the rest of the night will take them. He has high hopes.

But, as Eddie is intimately familiar with, highs are not meant to last, and hopes are easy to lose.

Things, meet wrench.

He makes it three steps when his stride stutters because — oh. That’s. That’s Steve, with a girl. A pretty girl. With short, sandy brown hair and freckles. It’s the same pretty girl Eddie had seen with him earlier. The one he’d thought, for a second, might be Steve’s girlfriend. He’d let himself hope she wasn’t, when he first approached, and let himself start to actually believe it when he’d tried his hand at flirting and Steve had flirted back.

But now...

Now Eddie’s not so sure.

Or, the one where Steve puts his foot in his pretty mouth and Eddie pays the price. Featuring: cherry stems, half smoked cigarettes, and the world's biggest misunderstanding.

✨

the privilege of being yours | 3.1k | st | steddie

“What do you think?” Eddie asks, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” Steve laughs, already reaching for Eddie’s ankle. He curls his fingers around it and gives it a tug, beckoning Eddie closer. “They’re perfect, you’re perfect. I love them,” he adds, as Eddie scooches into his space.

Steve cups both of his hands to Eddie’s face and kisses him right on the center of his mouth. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he says.

The kiss turns into something else as Eddie’s lips split against Steve’s, and he murmurs back against them, “I can’t wait to marry you.”

When they break apart, Steve taps Eddie’s knee. “Okay, where’s the rest of your sense of tradition? I showed you mine, you show me yours now.”

“Oh, I’ll show you tradition alright,” Eddie responds, and he reaches for his left sleeve.

Or, the one where Steve and Eddie share a rooftop, beloved traditions, and so much love.

✨

hold your breath and just dive right in | 4.5k | st | steddie

“Come on, man, what are you waiting for?” Steve calls, several feet out from the shore where he’s treading water with a perfect, practiced ease. Fucking show off. “An invitation?”

“Ha ha,” Eddie shouts back, deadpan. He makes no movement towards the water, though. Just digs his toes into the sand and wiggles them, watching the tiny grains spill into the spaces between and swallow his feet.

He glances up to stare out at the lake, and his stomach roils uneasily at its vastness. The other end is visible from where he stands, but it still seems so far away. They’re nowhere near the middle either, and even Steve isn’t that far out. It still makes Eddie nervous.

The funny thing is, it isn’t even his recent experiences with Lover’s Lake that’s putting this horrible feeling in his gut. Well, okay, maybe it is a little bit. But mostly, it’s because Eddie already didn’t like the water before that. He’s never been a fan.

Because Eddie Munson does not know how to swim.

Or, the one where Eddie Munson does not know how to swim, and Steve Harrington is nothing if not the perfect teacher.

✨

keep me on a rope | 6.6k | st | steddie, unrequited stommy

Tommy wipes his palms against the side of his jeans and squeezes through the crowd, never once taking his eyes off of Steve as he makes a beeline right for him.

He’s a couple feet away, gearing up to call out his greeting when someone else beats him to it and sidles up to Steve. They touch Steve, putting their palm low on his waist, half tucked up under his blazer. It’s an intimate touch, an almost possessive one in a very casual sort of way.

Tommy freezes in his tracks.

Steve perks up in the presence of his new company, back straightening and body turning into theirs — receptive, familiar.

He tilts his head, just enough that Tommy can see the smile gracing his lips, the softness in his eyes, and the other person dips their own chin, leaning in to whisper something into Steve’s ear. Their curtain of hair sways forward, brushing against Steve’s collar, and Steve reaches up to tuck it behind their ear, giving Tommy a clear view of—

Of Eddie Munson.

Or, Tommy Hagan attends his ten year high school reunion hoping for one thing, and leaves with something else entirely.

✨

trippin stumbling flippin fumbling | 5k | st | steddie

“Don’t be such a coward,” Eddie tells himself. “Fucking— go.”

His body doesn’t move. Not even an inch. His ass stays glued to his seat, his feet firmly planted on the floor. His hands don’t leave ten and two.

“God dammit,” Eddie groans, dropping his forehead down to the wheel.

Except — he underestimates the distance, and rather than pressing into the top of the wheel between his hands, his forehead smacks squarely into the center of the horn.

He jerks back so fast he gives himself whiplash, but the damage is done. There is no taking back the short, sharp, loud honk that emits from the bowels of his traitorous van.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, fuck, shit,” Eddie hisses, eyes going wider than the moon hanging in the sky tonight.

He immediately slouches in his seat, sinking down as low as he can go. But it’s too late. He’s caught Steve and Robin’s attention now, and despite parking off to the side and a little further back, his set of wheels is unmistakable.

They’ve seen him. He can’t leave now. He has no choice but to go inside.

✨

when i turn out the lights | 1.8k | st| stommy

Steve tells everyone who asks him that his first kiss was Sheila Anderson when he was fifteen years old.

But, really, that's not true.

It was Tommy Hagan. When he was fourteen.

Or, the one that tells the real story of Steve Harrington's first kiss.

✨

love grows (where my rosemary goes) | 3.2k | st| steddie

“Do you know you have, like, a trillion freckles on your face?” Steve asks right back, leaning in. His left hand winds itself around the strap of Eddie’s overalls, pulling him in too, and the right one catches Eddie’s jaw. It’s cold from his own lemonade glass, abandoned somewhere by his feet, and his thumb sweeps over the bridge of Eddie’s nose, the apples of his cheeks. Doubles back to tap the single freckle that sits right on the tip.

It’s true — Eddie does have freckles. Maybe not a trillion, but when the sun peeks out from behind the clouds like today and becomes a more permanent resident in the sky, those pesky little polka dots like to make their appearance, painting his face in faint faint dusting. They’re not obvious or anything; nobody really notices them unless they’re looking for them.

But that’s the thing about Steve. He’s always looking. Always seeing.

It’s why Eddie loves him so much.

It’s why — oh. He loves him.

✨

the strength to let it show | 3.2k | st | steddie

So, the thing is, Steve likes Eddie.

As in, he kind of wants to date him. And to kiss him. And to be his boyfriend.

But, he also doesn’t want to tell him that. Not in so many words, anyways. Those have never been Steve’s strong suit, words. He always messes them up. Never picks the right ones, always ends up sticking his foot in his mouth. The thought of sitting Eddie down and making some big… confession is mildly (extraordinarily) terrifying. Big speeches and grand declarations usually are — don’t let the romcoms and the chick flicks fool you. They’re never as easy as they look.

He doesn’t not want to tell Eddie, though, either. So it’s… well, it’s a tricky situation.

Until Robin, brilliant brainy genius Robin, suggests that instead of telling him, he should just show him instead. That way Steve can avoid the dramatic deliverances and still get his point across, just in a way that’s comfortable for him. On his own time. At his own pace. He can gradually show his hand, can drop hint after hint until Eddie gets it (and Robin is confident that he will in no time at all).

So Steve does.

✨

shake it loose together | 6.3k | st | steddie

Steve keeps his voice quiet enough as he sings now, not wanting to disturb the masses just one room over, but it’s still loud enough for him to get a little lost in it. He matches the strokes of his sponge with the tune he’s singing and even starts to wiggle his hips along. It’s hard not to want to dance to this one — Bennie and the Jets, because it came on the radio in the car while he was making his rounds to pick up the kids, and it’s been stuck in his head ever since.

Most of the dishes are clean now, so all that’s left is the silverware. The casserole dish was the last of the major pieces. Steve’s just finishing rinsing it, letting the excess water sluice off the sides before he sets it on the kitchen island with the other plates waiting to be dried.

In the process of turning, two things happen at once:

1. Steve squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back as he belts out the chorus, “She’s got electric boots, a mohair suit, you know I read it in a magazine, oh. B-b-b-bennie and the jets!”

2. His eyes fly back open to land right on Eddie. where he stands in the doorway — no, leans in the doorway, like he’s been there a while, like he’s gotten comfortable.

✨

to my heart i must be true | 14.4k | st | steddie

Robin starts to smile, this big, evil grin that unfurls slowly across her face, and oh. Oh no. That’s not good. That’s never good. That always means trouble.

Robin sticks her hands on her hips and juts her chin out at Steve. “I bet I can get a Valentine’s date before you can,” she says, all arrogance.

Dustin and Lucas oooh at her fighting words, then turn to Steve for his rebuttal.

“Robin, Robin, are you sure you want to do that?” He asks, standing to his full height. His shoulders roll back, and he feels the patented Harrington Charm flooding back through his body like a switch has been flipped.

“Absolutely certain,” Robin replies, not backing down. She holds out her hand.

Steve shakes his head at her, then lets an easy, confident smile curl his mouth. “You’re gonna regret that,” he says, then smacks his palm into hers, “but you’re on.”

In which a bet is made, Steve’s prowess shines until it doesn’t, and sometimes things don’t end up the way they’re planned.

Sometimes, they end up better.

✨

i was thinking maybe i could lay beside you | 3k | st | steddie

Their room is the last door on the right, just like Joyce told them.

Eddie pushes inside first, immediately flicking the lights on. He spots their bags in the corner and beelines straight for them.

Steve, on the other hand, freezes in the doorway.

Because, oh. Oh.

There’s only one bed.

Which — Steve doesn’t know why this surprises him. This isn’t a hotel. It’s a guest room at a friend’s house. Of course it’s not going to have two beds in one room. He doesn’t know why he was expecting that.

But it’s — it’s fine. This is cool. He can share a bed for the night. He’s shared lots of beds in his day. There’s nothing different about this time.

Except that there is because he doesn’t have to share with just anybody. He has to share with Eddie.

Eddie, who hasn’t even batted an eye at the bed situation. Eddie, who seems cool as a cucumber about it. Eddie, who—

Who’s already shucked his shirt off and has his thumbs hooked into his sweats, about to tug those off too, and jesus fucking christ, Steve can’t do this. He cannot do this.

✨

in all your blame, in all your pain | 2.4k | st | steddie

When Eddie had gotten dragged headfirst into this alternate hellscape dimension, DnD monsters-come-to-life nightmare shitshow, no one told him that by the end of it he’d be offering himself up as bat bait to do his part in putting an end to it all.

No one told him that he’d wind up mangled and shredded and torn apart, but still, somehow, alive.

No one told him that he’d be bedridden for months afterwards, as his body stitched itself back together. That some days would be painful at best, while others would be downright excruciating. That he’d barely be able to walk at first, or bathe himself, or even eat on his own.

No one told him that healing would be the most grueling part of it all.

But those were all things that Eddie could get over. Things that, with time, he could forgive. After all, it’s not like anyone had known that that’s how it was going to play out.

What Eddie could not forgive, however, was the fact that no one, not one single member of their rather large, rather extensive party had told him just how much Steve god damn Harrington loved to play Florence fucking Nightingale in the aftermath.

✨

come and rest your bones with me | 2.6k | st | steddie

“We’re making a fort.”

Steve is barely even halfway through the door when he is accosted with the declaration. His slick raincoat is still zipped up, his wet umbrella still wide open and dripping onto the porch behind him.

“What?” He asks, fumbling to close the umbrella and shake it out before a stack of blankets are being shoved into his arms.

“We are making a fort,” Eddie repeats, grinning at Steve. He’s got his own heap of blankets bundled against his chest, and when Steve glances past his shoulder he can see that the bones of said fort are already mostly established — Wayne’s armchair has already been moved from its cozy corner of the room to now sit directly across from the couch, and the coffee table has been pushed to the side so as to not be a nuisance to the building process.

And, well, it sounds like a lot of fun, actually.

“Yeah, sure, alright,” Steve replies with a huff of a laugh.

✨

hash brown, egg yolk (i will always love you) | 2.8k | st | steddie

Six months is a long time to be apart. A long time to go without seeing Eddie in the flesh. Without hearing his laugh, low and melodic, right against the shell of his ear. Without hugging Eddie around the middle and hooking his chin over Eddie’s shoulder while he stands at the stove and pushes something delicious around a pan. Without kissing Eddie.

But so is the way of being married to a hotshot musician with a band that has more than made it big.

Because that's what Eddie is. And, god, Steve couldn’t be more proud.

Even if it does mean that sometimes he and Eddie have to go long stretches of time without seeing each other.

But that doesn’t matter anymore. Because Eddie is home now, and he’s going to be home for a while. Corroded Coffin just wrapped up the European leg of their tour (“Fucking Europe, Stevie! Can you believe it!”) and they’ve been given a month before their North American leg is set to start. A whole entire month that Eddie already promised he will be spending at home with Steve.

Starting today.

✨

stuck to the gum that's stuck on your shoe | 2.1k | st | platonic stobin

“Talk to me, Steve,” Robin says, “please.”

And now she sounds upset, and that makes Steve feel even worse.

He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to make Robin feel bad. She’s been so excited ever since she got that letter in the mail, going on and on about the linguistics program she’d been accepted into, about the campus and how gorgeous it is, about the surrounding city and how much there is to do there.

Steve doesn’t want to rain on that parade more than he already has.

But he knows that she’s going to wheedle it out of him eventually. Might as well rip the bandaid off now.

He can barely bring himself to say it. It hurts too much to acknowledge. But he does, because he has to. Because he will have to.

“You— you got into college, Rob. You’re going to leave,” Steve finally tells her. Whispers, because if he says it too loud he thinks he might break again.

“Oh, Steve,” Robin breathes.

✨

i wish i knew how (your eyes are like starlight now) | 10.6k | st | steddie

“Mistletoe!” Robin cheers, and Steve’s heart stutters so hard in his chest that he thinks it might crack his ribcage and drop right out the bottom of his stomach.

His eyes fly up, and, sure enough, there hangs one of the many sprigs hung all around the apartment. Small and inconspicuous, but unmistakable. That ridiculous little plant has no idea that it’s just turned Steve’s entire world on its axis.

Across from him, Eddie’s eyes are trained up too, big and round and wide where they stick on the mistletoe. His lips are parted in surprise, and Steve can’t help but stare and think am I going to kiss those now?

When Eddie finally tears his gaze from the plant and lets it flicker down to Steve, a pretty pink dusting blooms across the bridge of his nose and spreads into the apples of his cheeks when he finds Steve already looking back.

Steve spares the mistletoe one last quick peek before he takes a deep breath and steels himself. This is it. He sticks his hands on his hips, aiming for casual, and asks, “What do you say, Munson?”

Or, Steve makes a promise, Robin likes to meddle, and the spirit of Christmas strikes (out) again. And again. And again.

(Until it doesn’t.)

✨

under my umbrella | 5.8k | st | steddie

Steve sidles up to the bench. Munson stands at the other end of it, arms crossed tightly over his chest, glaring out at the street as if that will make the bus show up any quicker. His bangs are flat against his forehead, the rest of his long hair lank and wet over his shoulders.

He looks like a drowned cat.

So Steve holds out his umbrella. Tilts his chin and raises his eyebrows at Munson as an invitation to step under and get out of the rain.

Munson looks at the umbrella for less than a second before he turns back towards the street with a scoff. “No thanks,” he says. “I’m good.”

“Dude,” Steve says, dumbfounded.

“Dude,” Munson parrots mockingly.

“You’re really going to turn down my umbrella?” Steve asks, still holding it out.

“I really am,” Munson replies, showing all of his teeth in a rancorous smile. “Now if you don’t mind,” he adds, taking a large step forward, closer to the curb and further from Steve.

Steve lets out an indignant huff and pulls his umbrella back to himself. Only just refrains from muttering an unsavory name under his breath because he’s a good person now.

Whatever. Let Munson get soaked. Let him freeze.

✨

temptations of trouble | 2.8k | st | steddie

Eddie ignores the flip flopping in his stomach as he meets Steve’s gaze and fits his palms to either side of Steve’s jaw. Cradles his face like he’s something special now. (Because he is.)

And then he leans in to kiss him. Right on those pretty pink lips of his.

It’s short and sweet like it always is, but when Eddie pulls back and opens his eyes, he’s met with Steve’s, wide as fucking saucers, goggling unblinkingly back at him. He can feel Robin’s stare boring into the side of his face, can feel the tiny pinpricks of Nancy’s and Jonathan’s and Argyle’s on his back too. The whole room is quiet enough to hear a god damn pin drop.

Eddie is about to open his mouth and ask what the hell that’s all about when it finally catches up with him.

He just fucking kissed Steve fucking Harrington. On the mouth.

✨

waving down the wind | 10.3k | st | steddie

Eddie furrows his brows, and he’s about to ask Steve what he did come over here for, when Steve starts to shrug out of his jacket. Rolls his shoulders back and lets it slide down his upper arms.

“I came over here,” Steve starts, and he gives his arm a shake when the sleeve gets caught around his elbow. Once it’s off, he bunches his fist into the fabric of the collar. “To give you this,” he finishes and holds out the coat.

Eddie blinks down at it. Then he looks back up at Steve. “What?”

Or, three times Eddie looks cold and Steve does something about it, and one time he’s toasty warm.

✨

the world will follow after | 2.6k | st | steddie

Another glance at the clock and Steve really has to leave now. He barely has time to shove the piece of toast Eddie, so graciously, made for him (crisp, but not too crunchy, and definitely not burnt, with just the right amount of butter spread thin across the top) into his mouth before he’s running towards the door.

He’s about two steps away from it, hand already reaching for the knob, when Eddie catches him. He gives Steve's shoulders a squeeze, then spins Steve around and reaches for his collar next, fussing with it until it’s straightened and flat. He pats Steve twice on the chest and gives him a smile.

“All set now,” he says. Then, “have a nice day at work.”

Steve, at the complete whim of his scrambled brain, smiles back, tells Eddie thanks, glances at his watch, curses under his breath, then leans in to kiss Eddie goodbye.

Then, just as quickly, he’s out the door and in his car and finally on his way to work.

It isn’t until he’s halfway there that it hits him what he’s just done.

He kissed Eddie Munson.

✨

from this moment on | 3.9k | st | steddie

Steve bought the ring a year after they started dating.

It was too soon, way too soon, even if everything they’d been through made it feel like they’d known each other, like they’d been in each other’s corners for forever. One year was entirely too early to be putting marriage on the table, especially when they were still so young. Not to mention, Steve knew that Eddie had a rocky relationship with the concept thanks to his parents, and, truth be told, so did Steve.

But none of that really mattered. Because Steve was that in love. He was that sure of them.

So he bought the ring. Without hesitation.

And he held onto it, for all this time. He’d had a gut feeling, back in 1988. And eight years later it’s still there. Still there and stronger than ever.

✨

can't hide the way you make us glow | 6.3k | st | steddie

“So,” Wayne finally says and looks between them. He gestures his can from Steve to Eddie and back. “Still just friends, huh?” He deadpans.

Steve chokes on his sip of beer, and a grin cracks across Eddie’s face.

“To the general public of Hawkins, sure,” Eddie responds smoothly, hand absentmindedly rubbing Steve’s back as he recovers.

Wayne narrows his eyes at him. “I ain’t the general public of Hawkins, now, am I?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, I suppose not.”

When he doesn’t elaborate any further, Wayne lifts his eyebrows expectantly. Out with it, boy they say. He barely refrains from waving his hand in a go on then motion.

“Steve and I… we’re, uh,” Eddie’s smile turns soft around the edges, and his hand goes to Steve’s beside him, drawing it into his lap and lacing their fingers together, “we’re going steady now.”

Or, Wayne finds out that Eddie and Steve are EddieandSteve.

✨

good for my boy | 7.4k | st | steddie

Wayne lets the front door swing shut behind him, rattling and smacking into the frame audibly.

“Jesus, Munson!” A voice rings out — the freezer fiend’s, and definitely not Eddie’s. “Took you god damn long enough!” The head finally pops out of the freezer. “I got tired of waiting and — oh.”

The stranger’s hand slips from the handle and the freezer door thumps shut. As does the stranger’s mouth when he looks right into the face of, not Eddie Munson as expected, but Wayne Munson.

Wayne briefly recognizes him as the Harrington boy.

or, the first time Wayne Munson meets Steve Harrington is a complete accident.

✨

if you have a minute | 10.6k | st | steddie

They pass the cigarette back and forth for a few quiet minutes. And there’s something about Eddie’s presence that’s helping just as much as the nicotine.

Eddie holds the cigarette back out for Steve, blows the smoke out in a smooth, steady stream, and tilts his head. “You working tomorrow?” He asks.

Steve shakes his head. “Not tomorrow. Why?”

Eddie pushes himself off of the wall. “Great,” he declares and grins. “We’re doing something then. You and me. I’m gonna take you somewhere.”

Steve’s face scrunches. “What? Where?”

Eddie tuts and wags his finger. “Nope, not telling you,” he says. “You’ll find out tomorrow. Meet at my place at nine. Don’t be late.”

He doesn’t give Steve a chance to argue or further question it. Just throws a little salute and turns on his heel, disappearing around the corner.

Or, the one where Steve’s anxiety doesn’t get the hint that they defeated the Upside Down, and Eddie knows just how to help.

✨

and stars, and stars, and stars | 1.5k | st | steddie

“What are you even painting?” Steve questions, unable to keep himself from asking. Eddie hadn’t told him his plan when he’d first laid Steve out and gathered his brushes — just instructed Steve to stay still and let him paint, he’d see soon enough. But Steve is curious, and it’s been almost an hour now.

Steve carefully tips his head to the side and presses his cheek against his folded arms, trying his best to catch a glimpse of Eddie where he sits atop the backs of Steve’s thighs, bent over his canvas in concentration. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth, like it always does when he’s focusing hard enough, and a piece of hair dangles against his cheek, escaping the bandana he’d tied it back with.

“I’m painting an essence,” Eddie answers cryptically, and he draws the brush in a broad stroke, low on Steve’s back.

“An essence?” Steve repeats. “An essence of what?”

“An essence of you,” Eddie says simply. The brush dots Steve’s upper back now, light little taps.

Steve doesn’t know what that means, but he’s looking forward to finding out.

✨

i want to hold your hand | 14k | st | steddie

The film isn’t even on Steve’s radar at this point. He couldn’t say what’s happening anymore, but he doesn’t even care. Forget Geena Davis, forget Jeff Goldblum, Steve can’t stop thinking about Eddie Munson, right there next to him, hand inches away from his own.

Steve’s pinky twitches out, like it’s got a mind of its own, towards Eddie’s hand. His heart is in his throat, breath caught behind it, as his pinky hovers, trembling. He could touch him. Wants to touch him. To hook his pinky over Eddie’s, curl them together, maybe even link the rest of their fingers too.

He’s never wanted to hold somebody’s hand so bad before.

✨

promise me nothing, live 'til we die | 2.9k | st | steddie

“You’ve seriously never had your first kiss, though?”

Eddie snorts. “Why do you sound so disbelieving? Come on, Harrington. I don’t exactly have a long line of suitors winding out my front door, vying for my hand or anything. Nobody wants to swap spit with the local freak. They might catch something.” He gives Steve a scrutinizing look. “I’m not like you, King Steve.”

“I’m not worried about catching anything from you,” Steve says.

Eddie tilts his head, perplexed. “Okay… thanks?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I mean, if no one else wants to, I will.”

“Will what? Line up outside my door?” Eddie scoffs.

“Kiss you,” Steve says and knocks all the air out of Eddie’s chest. “I’ll do it.”

Eddie’s eyes have got to be as big as dinner plates as he blinks at Steve. “What?”

✨

harlow gold | 4k | st | platonic steve & nancy

Nancy is pretty sure that she could talk to Jonathan about it. He knows a little something about being the black sheep, and Nancy doesn’t think he would judge her for it. But they’d only just broken up, and while it was a mutual decision and an amicable split, she doesn’t think it would be fair to turn to him so soon after for advice about the feelings she already has for someone else.

She doesn’t have any girlfriends to talk to either. Robin is kind of the first close female friend she’s had since Barb.

And despite this budding friendship between herself and Robin, Nancy can’t turn to Robin. She’s the type to ask a lot of questions, and she doesn’t give up easily. She’ll push until she gets the answers she’s looking for. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but Nancy isn’t so sure she’s ready for that kind of inquisition. Not about this.

Which only leaves one person that Nancy trusts enough with something as delicate as this, one person whom she is comfortable enough to confide in:

Steve Harrington.

✨

sloe gin fizzy, do it till you're dizzy | 6.7k | st | steddie

Eddie scoots down on the bed until he’s level with Steve and turns onto his side, shifting closer in the process.

The movement draws Steve, and his head lolls to the side to see what Eddie is up to.

It brings them nearly nose to nose, and Eddie goes a little bit cross-eyed focusing on Steve.

Steve doesn’t flinch away from the closeness. Just breathes and blinks. And then his eyes flicker down to Eddie’s lips and right back up, so quick that Eddie’s hazy brain would have missed it if he hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t been anticipating it.

Eddie takes it as the invitation it has to be, and slowly, slowly closes the distance. His nose does bump into Steve’s as he enters his space, but he pauses, hesitates with his mouth hovering a hair’s breadth away from Steve’s.

He waits for the rejection, for the brutal shove away, for the disgusted “what the fuck man?”.

But they don’t come.

What does come is Steve’s mouth, pushing forward to press against Eddie’s.

✨

it's my feeling we'll win in the end | 6.3k | st | steddie

Eddie thrusts his hand, fisted around the diploma, into the air like he’s god damn John Bender on the football field, and he lets out a triumphant whoop.

He hears his friends go crazy in their seats again, and when he finds them in the crowd once more he sees that Dustin has climbed up onto his chair, one hand gripping Steve’s shoulder for support while the other is pumping through the air. He’s shouting Eddie’s name, and so is Mike, who is clapping so hard his hands must hurt. Lucas and Max each are holding one corner of a sign spelling out “Eddie the Conqueror” across the center, with hand painted flames licking around the words. It makes Eddie laugh, bright and buoyant, and he shakes the diploma through the air some more.

Eddie’s chest feels tight in the best kind of way as a sudden tidal wave of emotions body slams him, clogging his throat and forcing him to take a sharp, deep breath through his nose. His nostrils flare with it, and a hysterical sort of laugh bubbles up. It’s just, he’s never been this happy before. Never been this proud. Never felt this good.

He’s smiling so big that his cheeks hurt. He feels like he’s walking on fucking air. He did it, he fucking did it.

✨

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fanart, podfics, translations, and any such creations based on my works are always welcome!! if you're not sure about something, just ask!

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[pedrito-friskito]

a place among the stars - chapter 5 - the bounty

summary: you and din settle into life together, and he finds a bounty tied to your past.

warnings: canon-typical violence, sexual content (nothing explicit but y’know)

a/n: tbh not TOTALLY sure how I feel about this chapter but here it is (I stared at it too long, time to just put it out there)

(series masterlist) (main masterlist) (ao3)

location: nevarro

Din leaves you curled up in the ship’s bunk when you land on Nevarro. You’re dead asleep, wearing one of his shirts and wrapped in the blanket. He’s reluctant as anything to leave the warmth of your side, even more so to put the helmet back on his head. It feels more like a lead weight these days, when he’s around you. That thought he’d had that night on Naboo — a repeat of the thought he’d had what feels like eons ago in the Crest’s cockpit — has made a home in the back of his mind.

It took a few days to leave Naboo, for you to tie up what few loose ends you had on the planet; you quit your job, much to the dismay of the tavern’s owner — who gave Din a stern you take care of her, you hear me, Mandalorian? — and packed up the few belongings you’d accumulated. Din felt slightly guilty when you said goodbye to the friends you’d made, but the beaming smile on your face when you returned to his side more than made up for it.

You’ve managed to settle into a routine of sorts, when it comes to sleeping. Din feels insatiable, covering your eyes with that strip of his cloak any chance he gets, letting his mouth roam every inch of you, tasting you everywhere. You let him, more than happy to submit to his attention. And then he waits, waits for you to fall asleep first so he can softly untie the fabric from your head. Then goes the helmet, settled close enough to be within reach. He always wakes before you, his body running on a different clock than yours, and the helmet returns while he waits for you to wake up.

Today is no different, but he’s anxious to get off of Nevarro, so he leaves before you even start to rouse, making sure the ship is securely locked as he makes his way into town.

Karga is happy to see him, taking the code cylinder Din had pulled off the Twi’lek — who is now buried somewhere in the swamp outside of Theed — and paying him handsomely for it. “Looks to me like Naboo wasn’t as bad as you thought,” Karga comments, a knowing glint in the older man’s eye. “Where is she?”

“Asleep on the ship,” Din answers, and hopes the smile under the helmet doesn’t bleed into his voice too badly. He does have a reputation to maintain, after all, even if you seem to have the innate ability to turn him into a puddle. “Got anything good?”

Karga just smiles. “No fobs on Shoan Baize, if that’s what you’re asking. The man is as slippery as a stifling. But I do have something that might be of interest. A known associate. Hired assassin, usually sent out for the dirtier kills Baize doesn’t want to get mixed up in. No name, but the face is unmistakeable.”

The puck lights up, the hologram of the assassin spinning above, and Karga is right. There’s no mistaking the angry expression, the thick red lines tattooed down either side of the human-looking face. It’s all angles, severe cheekbones and pure black eyes, a nose riddled with rings and a thick scar splitting both lips in half. But no name.

It’s definitely of interest, and Din snatches the puck up as soon as Karga slides it across the table. “Last known location?”

“She’s on the Forest Moon of Endor,” Karga says. “Holed up in an old Imperial base according to my sources.”

“Who put out the bounty?”

Karga waves a hand. “Some idiot with more credits than he knows what to do with, says she killed his family. As far as I can tell, she’s off Baize’s payroll now, and most of the scoundrels she had working for her have turned tail. She’s alone, and poorly defended.”

“Some assassin,” Din mumbles, and Karga barks a laugh.

“That’s what happens when you don’t know the meaning of loyalty, I suppose,” the old man says. “Luckily you and I don’t have that problem.”

“No,” Din answers, slipping the puck into his belt, “we don’t. Thank you, Karga, for this.��

The old man just nods, and Din nods back before turning around to leave.

+

You’re awake when he returns, padding barefoot around the hull of the ship, a steaming cup of tea in your hands. You greet him with a smile, your eyes still a little heavy with sleep. The sight alone makes Din’s heart leap into his throat, and he’s grateful for the helmet hiding his reddened cheeks. He’s still not used to it, in truth, not used to you yet, having your presence as a more permanent fixture on his ship. It’s different from when the kid was around — obviously — and you haven’t really talked about it, about how long you’ll stay, about where you’ll go, besides his pleading words back on Naboo and your quick reply.

Don’t ever let me leave you again.

Never.

They’re not vows of any sort, but the promise seems to follow him around, even now, lingering in the back of his mind as he moves through the ship to follow you. You’re humming a tune he doesn’t recognize, sipping your tea and padding into the galley, refilling your cup. “Are you hungry?” you ask over your shoulder, and Din comes to stand behind you. You’re still in his shirt, the one you’d slept in, and your bare legs are on display. He wastes no time stripping his gloves off, tossing them onto the countertop that stretches along the length of the galley and gripping your hips.

“Not for food,” he grumbles, tilting the helmet until the edge just grazes the back of your head.

You laugh. “You’re insatiable,” you whisper, but your head falls back to lean against his shoulder, your eyes slipping shut as he rubs circles into your hips. “Did you talk to Karga?”

“Mm,” he nods, one hand meandering across your lower stomach. “Lot of credits for that code cylinder.”

“Enough to rebuild the Crest?” you ask, and Din shakes his head. He’d told you about his plan; he’d asked Peli to keep an eye out for a replacement, or for the parts to make one. It would cost more credits than he’d had after the kid left with the Jedi, and he’d been saving. But it still wasn’t enough.

“Not yet,” he tells you, palm flat against your skin, fingers skimming the elastic of your underclothes. “Karga gave me another puck. Have you ever been to Endor?”

“Never. What’s the bounty?”

Din sucks in a breath, and reaches for the puck in his belt. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

The assassin’s face blurs into view above the puck, and Din feels you freeze in his grasp. Literally, he feels the shiver run through your body before you go completely still, goosebumps rising on your skin under his palm.

“She…” you start, but the words trail off, and Din slips his arms around you as you turn away from the puck, like it might hurt you, pushing yourself into his chest and pressing your face into his cowl. “Turn it off.”

He does as you ask, reaching over to click the puck off, and just holds you a moment, one hand holding the back of your head. Din’s not quite sure what to do; he wasn’t sure what your reaction would be in general, but this is foreign ground. No tears soak his cowl and he doesn’t hear your breath catch, but he just waits, holding you, until you pull your face from his neck and look up at the visor.

“Warm or cold?” is all you say, and Din tilts his head to the side.

“Dealer’s choice,” he tells you, nodding towards the puck. “You know who she is?”

Your face goes impassive for a moment, a blank slate that Din can’t find any emotion in. Your hands press flat against his pauldrons, eyes tracing over the helmet before you say: “Coria Koyne.” Something flickers in your face finally, a streak of wetness in your eyes, and Din tightens his grip on you. “She’s the one who killed my parents. Val put a blaster bolt in her before we escaped Corellia; I thought she was dead. How did you…?”

“Karga,” Din says simply. “I’ve been trying to get my hands on a puck for Shoane Baize ever since I left you on Naboo. He’s deep underground still, but I asked Karga to keep an ear out, and he had this.”

“She’s on Endor?” you ask, and Din nods. “I’m coming with you.”

Behind the visor, Din’s eyes go wide. He wanted to do this for you, to give you some sort of satisfaction, of revenge or closure to what happened, but the thought of bringing you out there with him, of having you in the line of fire beside him, it makes his stomach curl.

You seem to sense his hesitation. “I can shoot a blaster, Din; I’m not completely useless.”

Din tilts the helmet: prove it. “I never said you were useless. I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Please,” you say, your voice softer now, and Din groans, hands tightening further on your hips. “I have to do this.”

“Fine,” he relents after forcing his eyes from your pleading ones. “But I want to see you handle a gun before we do anything.”

The pleading look is replaced with a satisfied grin, and your hand snakes down his breastplate to his waist, down the front of his thigh. “Can I handle yours first?”

+

location: the forest moon of endor

Din finds a clearing to land the ship, and it’s far enough out that you know you’ll be hidden. Endor’ s been mostly cleared since the fall of the Empire, and you’re far enough away from the Ewok settlements not to draw any attention.

You weren’t lying when you told him you could shoot a blaster, and his surprise shows when you manage to nail every target he points to. He’d let you have your pick from his armoury, settling on a small, silver-handled blaster that seems to fit perfectly in your palm, and a larger rifle that Din helps you strap to your back, making sure the weapon is in place.

And you hit every single target, leaving smoking holes in the bark of the trees, a halfway feral grin on your face when Din just stares at you, hands loose at his sides, the shock obvious in his stance since you can’t see his face. “How did you…?”

“Corellia wasn’t exactly a safe planet to grow up on,” you tell him, sliding the blaster into the thigh holster he’d loaned you. You’d had to ignore the shiver that snaked through you when he’d strapped it onto you, expert fingers closing the buckles against your leg. “My father made sure I knew how to protect myself, Val too. He used to take us to shooting ranges when he’d come home from the plant. Val used to get so excited.”

Your voice has turned wistful, enough so that you stop yourself, clearing your throat and turning away. After a moment, Din reaches for your hand, leather glove warm and familiar as he curls his fingers around yours. “Let’s go, cyare.”

Din finds the Imperial base easily, the tracking fob leading you exactly where you need to go, beeping steadily as you make your way through the forests. He tells you to keep to the shadows and to follow behind him, his broad frame obscuring you from anything that might spot you. The base is dead silent, no light inside except the sun that filters in through broken places in the walls and ceiling. Electrical wires and shattered Stormtrooper armour litters the floor, and you both pick your way through it carefully.

The beeping grows wild and Din silences the device, holding up a hand to stop you at a turn in the hallway you’ve been walking down. “Wait here,” he whispers, and his palm cups your cheek for a second before he disappears around the corner.

Your heart leaps into your throat when you hear scuffling feet, the clang of metal, the unmistakable sound of Din grunting, and there’s the flash of blaster fire. Your feet move of their own accord, all but catapulting you around the bend.

In a moment, you have your blaster lifted and aimed at the back of Coria Koyne’s head. “Drop it,” you growl out, pressing the barrel into the back of her dark-haired head. Your finger is itching on the trigger. “I said, drop it now.”

Your eyes dip to the blaster in her hand, currently trained on Din, who is sprawled on the floor in front of her, propped on his elbows, beskar marked with streaks of blaster bolts that met only metal. He’s frozen, the visor turned towards you over Koyne’s shoulder. You drag your thumb back on the safety, jamming the barrel harder against her head.

“Now.”

“Fine,” she hisses, and the blaster drops to the ground, hitting the floor with a metallic thud. You slide your foot forward, kicking the gun towards Din, who scoops it up silently. “Thought you worked alone, Mandalorian.”

“Well,” you speak before Din can, finger still twitching on the trigger of the blaster, “it’s not everyday you get to hunt down the bitch that killed your parents. I couldn’t sit this one out.”

Slowly, Koyne turns her head to the side, her tattooed profile half shadowed. You follow the turn with the blaster, keeping it jammed against her skull as one black eye lands on you, studying your face. “Am I supposed to know who you are?”

The words land like a punch to the gut. The scene is clear as day in your mind. Koyne had slipped into your home, far from the rest of Baize’s men who had gone straight for the plant. Val had heard her break in — she wasn’t exactly quiet about it — and grabbed you, trying to pull you to safety, but you’d run for your parents room. Arriving too late, the room bursting to light with blaster bolts as you skidded through the door, your parents smoking bodies landing to the floor in a heap.

And Coria Koyne, perched on their window, ready to flee into the night.

She’d grinned at you and Val, and your brother had acted quicker than you could blink, his blaster drawn and fired at Koyne. It hit her square in the chest and she’d toppled from the window, out of sight. Val had all but dragged you from the room after that, you could barely see where you were going through the tears.

You should have checked the body, you realize now. Should have looked out the window and made sure she was dead on the streets below. Or put another bolt in her head, for good measure.

“You killed her parents,” Din grits out, and you can see the anger in his posture, still lain on the ground. “On Corellia.”

The black eye squints, and slowly, pushing into the barrel of your blaster, she turns completely, facing you, hands now raised, grinning like mad at you. “Sorry, pretty,” she purrs, almost giggling as the blaster comes to rest between her brows. “Not ringing any bells.”

Your vision goes red. She doesn’t remember. She took everything from you, killed the people that gave you life, that kept you alive on a planet that tried it’s hardest to make you the opposite, taught you how to make your way in the galaxy. She took your family from you, and she doesn’t even have the decency to remember it.

Koyne wiggles her fingers at you, swaying her hips, taunting you. “Would you at least tell me who put the puck out on me, Mandalorian?” she calls to Din, eyes still glued to you. “How big’s the bounty? Warm or cold?”

“Last part’s up to her,” is all Din says, and though you can’t take your eyes off of Koyne, you can feel him watching, the black T of his visor trained on you over Koyne’s shoulder.

“You took everything from me,” you whisper out. Your vision is still red, the series of events, of everything that’s happened to you since that night on Corellia playing through your mind like you’re watching a holofilm. “Just because Baize asked you to.”

“Baize?” she repeats, one brow raising. “I don’t work for that fucker anymore, he’s not worth—”

She doesn’t get another word out. You squeeze the trigger, rage bubbling up the back of your throat, and there’s a flash of white, the unmistakable scent of blaster-scorched flesh, and Coria Koyne’s body falls to a heap at your feet, her black eyes still staring.

“Cold it is.”

The blaster shakes so hard in your hand you can hear it clattering, and your knees give out, sending you tumbling backwards as you try and move as far away from her body as you can, scrambling against the metal floor until your back hits a wall. Your heart is ricocheting in your chest and you can’t breathe and everything is still red and you killed her and—

Din’s helmet enters your vision a moment later, silver beskar shining through your rage and fear, and a warm glove on your bent knee. “Shh,” he murmurs, and slowly reaches for your hands, pulling you up to your feet and letting you sink against him, resting your weight in his arms. “It’s okay; it’s over now.”

You can’t decide if you want to scream or cry or laugh, a strange noise worming it’s way out of your mouth, and you just stare past Din, at the body on the floor, at the blaster a few feet away on the ground. You clutch Din like a lifeline, nails digging in hard through his flight-suit, and you hear his sharp inhale, finally tearing your eyes away and screwing them shut when he pulls you to his chest, glove fingers petting your hair.

“Go back outside, cyar’ika,” he tells you, the edge of his visor glancing across the crown of your head in a makeshift metal kiss. “I’ll deal with this.”

The red is leeching away, normal colours and shapes returning to your vision, but it wavers slightly when Din presses his own blaster — not the weapon you’d just used to kill the assassin — into your hands.

“Go,” he says again, turning you and pushing you back towards the hallway you’d followed him down. “It’s okay.”

You nod, and your feet start to move, carrying you out of the room, down the hallway, back into the open air of Endor. The fresh oxygen invades your lungs, and as soon as you’re out of the old Imp base, you sprint for the bushes, emptying the contents of your stomach onto the leaves.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and then suddenly you’re scooped into Din’s arms. He holds you tightly, running back towards the ship. You watch over his shoulder, staring back at the Imperial base as what you can only assume to be Din’s thermal detonators are triggered and the base caves in on itself with a fiery explosion that makes your face heat even at a distance.

+

location: the “new” ship — somewhere in the outer rim

It’s been days now, since you returned to the ship.

Days, and you haven’t said a word. When you first got back, it was hours before you moved from the spot Din had deposited you in, still completely dressed, the rifle still strapped to your back and the holster still wrapped around your thigh. They’re still there. You were deathly still, and if Din couldn’t see the rise and fall of your chest and the twitch of your trigger finger, he would have thought you were dead.

He’s worried — a word that doesn’t even really cover how he’s feeling, truthfully. He shouldn’t have let you kill Koyne. He should have done it for you, should have stepped in once you pointed that blaster at her head. It’s just another name to add to his ledger, but you? There’s a kill on your conscience now, and Din knows he can do nothing to erase it. He still remembers his first, and Maker only knows he’s praying this is your last.

As soon as he could, he’d lifted the ship off-planet, and now you were floating somewhere in space, artificial gravity engaged and Din is making tea. He doesn’t know what else to do, and he’s watched you do it a few times since you started travelling with him. You usually make it at night, in hopes of calming your mind enough to get some sleep. He’s tried it too, and likes the warm buzz it creates in the back of his skull, always coupled with the warmth of you sprawled across him in the bunk.

The sound of shuffling fabric and the clang of metal catches his attention, and he turns to see you standing in the doorway of the galley, the rifle now on the ground beside you, along with your jacket. He watches you unbuckle the holster, watches your fingers, no longer shaking, undo the button on your pants, pull your shirt from where it’s tucked in.

“What are you doing, mesh’la?” he asks, turning towards you. “We need to…talk. About what happened back there.”

“We don’t need to talk about anything,” you reply, bracing a hand against the door while you unzip your boots. “I don’t want to talk.”

“What do you…” He trails off, feeling his mouth go dry. You’re completely naked now, a bit of dirt on your face and your hands, a few scars he remembers from when he’d saved you on Jakku, the mark on your cheek. Constellations of freckles and beauty marks litter your body, his own personal night sky, standing before him.

He’s in love with you. He knows that much to be true.

“Distract me, Din,” you whisper, and it’s like a blaster bolt of pleasure right to the very core of him. You step into the galley carefully, walking towards him until he starts to back up, the backs of his knees hitting the chair tucked into the corner. You start to work on his armour as he sinks down, pieces of beskar piled neatly on the countertop until you have access to his flight-suit, yanking the zipper down and letting your hand trail straight from his chest to his stomach, fingers hooking in his underclothes.

“Cyare, you’re in shock,” he says, voice muffled by the modulator, inhaling sharply at your hot touches, the way you’ve learned his body just as well as he’s learned yours. You know just where to touch, where to drag your nail along the ridge of him, what amount of pressure makes his breath hitch. It’s absolutely maddening. He reaches for your wrist. “Wait. Stop.”

You don’t, lifting your leg to plant a knee beside his hip, shuffling yourself into his lap. He doesn’t stop you there, both hands reaching for your waist. Your hands roam his body, your eyes heavy and downturned, refusing to look at the visor.

He says your name. His tone is warning, he knows. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” you say, leaning down to suck at his collarbone. “Just touch me.”

Your name falls from his lips once more and Din lifts his hands. He pushes you up with one hand, your head lifting from his collar, and with the other, lifts the helmet from his head. It clatters to the floor with an echoing bang.

Your eyes go wide, the lingering fear and tension seeping from them in an instant, replaced with something like awe. It’s the first time he’s seen your complete face without the helmet, he realizes, your eyes always covered when he’s removed it before. He doesn’t have a name, he thinks, for the actual colour of your eyes, has never seen the true glimmer in them while you stare back at him, your mouth falling open, one hand lifting and coming to rest on his cheek.

“Din,” you breathe out, and his eyes flutter at your touch on his bare face, the gentleness of your fingertips as they trace his outline. They catch on the scruff lining his jaw, move over his bottom lip and then the top one, your eyes wandering as you go, unable to stay in one spot for too long. “Why did you—”

“I’m in love with you,” he says, and the words come out in a rush. Even his own voice sounds strange to him, without the modulator, and your hands go still at the sound of it, cupping his cheeks. Silently, he’s marvelling at how soft your hands feel on his face, how beautiful you are now that he can look at you unobstructed. “And I’ve wanted you to see since the Crest, when you stitched up my back. But please, mesh’la. Say something. Talk to me.”

Your head finally drops, forehead dropping against his chest, and Din presses his mouth to the crown of your hair, hands skimming up and down your bare back, holding you close. “It’s not even that she’s dead, or that I killed her,” you say after a moment, hands twitching on his face. “It felt…”

“Good?” Din offers. He knows the feeling well. That strange mix of bloodlust and regret, adrenaline begging you to do it again, no matter how much your conscience cries for the opposite. It was only his first kill, that felt like that. The rest became…transactional, and there was no feeling in it, good or bad.

There was no feeling in his life, really, until he found the kid on Arvala-7. Until he found you on Jakku. And since then, all he does is feel. Not for the bounties, not really; that’s his job. But you? The kid? That changed everything.

You lift your head, tears in your eyes as you give a slow nod, and Din can’t stop himself from leaning in and kissing your mouth, feeling your body sigh into his as it happens.

“That was your first and last kill,” he tells you as he pulls away, leaning into your palm as your thumb swipes across his cheek. “I promise you.”

You nod in agreement. “Thank you, Din,” you whisper, and your gaze wanders his bare face again, drinking him in, like you’re committing him to memory. He knows the feeling. “What happens now?”

“You’ve seen my face,” he says simply. “That’s it. Nothing else changes. I didn’t want to do it this way,” he starts to say, but clamps his mouth shut. He can’t dive into that, not when you’re sitting naked on his lap, when he’s spent every moment since you returned to the ship worried about you. “I was just trying to get your attention.”

He forgets, however, as he says the words, that there is in fact no barrier separating his face from yours, no visor to hide his expression. And you see right through it, eyes glued to his face. Slowly, you shake your head. “Tell me the truth, Din.”

He can’t hide from you, not like this. And he doesn’t want to.

So he talks.

He talks, and he tells you how, after he left you on Naboo, after he let the kid go with the Jedi, after he was alone in the galaxy once again, his mind started to wander. He started dreaming, more than he ever had before, his mind wandering between bounties, the darksaber at his hip only spurring his imagination on.

The saber made him the rightful King of Mandalore, and while it wasn’t a responsibility he ever asked for, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was his path. His Way.

It was an afterthought, though, a backdrop to what he was really dreaming about, what he was really yearning for. What he worried he had been too quick to give up, letting the both of you go.

A family. His family, once settled in the belly of the Razor Crest, now scattered across the galaxy. He wanted to find you again, wanted to show you his face and ask you to be his wife, to give you children and maybe, just maybe, find a way to get Grogu back, to have his son nearby once more. Then he wanted to retire from the Guild, to hang up his blaster and rifle, and find somewhere beautiful, somewhere safe, to live out his life with you and raise your family together. That was his dream, no matter how far away it felt, that was what he wanted.

You’re speechless, and he can tell, your jaw slightly hinged open, hands resting on his chest now, eyes full of tears he hopes are happy ones. It’s you that leans in this time, kissing him softly, your skin so warm beneath his hands.

“I dreamt about you too,” you say finally, and the soft tone in your voice makes Din’s chest ache. “Back on Naboo, I begged the stars every night that I would see you again, that we would have another chance. I…I’m in love with you too, Din, and I’m in. No matter what. King of Mandalore or bounty hunter, whatever it is. Whatever you are, wherever you are, I’m in.”