#I hate the name The Blip

[bronzemettle]

Billy Batson and Carol Danvers both go by Captain Marvel at one point or another. Does Batson end up deferring to Danvers and going by Shazam instead, or does Danvers take up one of her dozens of old monikers? If Batson goes by Shazam, how does he introduce himself without getting zapped back into Billy form?

Billy's never gone by Shazam in the BronzeRealms. For real, how does that even work? DC does stupid shit sometimes and we all know it.

Okay, with that out of the way let's do a timeline of the name "Captain Marvel" across heroes.

In 1940, the Justice Society of America are fighting off an attempted Kree invasion when they meet and are assisted by a mysterious man who calls himself Captain Marvel, who disappears soon afterwards.

Seeing him in action also seeds thoughts of rebellious inspiration in the mind of a young Kree soldier, who takes on the callsign Mar-Vell when he's promoted to Captain after the failure of his superiors.

In 1967, Mar-Vell goes rogue from the Kree and decides to hide out on earth, seeking out the surviving Justice Society. With their help, she transitions and starts a new identity under the name Wendy Lawson, and debuts shortly later as the superhero Captain Marvel.

In 1977, Lawson retires as Captain Marvel when she accidentally attracts Kree attention to earth again. Carol Danvers takes up the mantle shortly later, after gaining powers herself. At first she isn't comfortably with the legacy and goes by Ms Marvel, but Wendy persists that Carol should be Captain Marvel, so that doesn't last long.

In 1982, Wendy Lawson dies of cancer. The funeral is attended by a majority of the active or retired superheroes at that time.

In 1989, Carol Danvers is forced to flee earth by the rising Augment regimes (Khan Noonien Singh being the most noteworthy) when one of them causes the ecological collapse of multiple Kree star systems and frames her for having caused it, which even she herself believes, as a distraction that will successfully keep her occupied in space for decades to come.

In 2003, Billy Batson is inspired by the comicbooks loosely based on the adventures of Lawson (the same comics also inspire Jean Grey and Kamala Khan) to take on the name Captain Marvel when he gets unrelated superpowers from the wizard Shazam. In following years his adoptive siblings will join him and become known as the Captain Marvel family of heroes in Fawcett City.

In 2006, Billy Batson travels back in time to World War 2 and teams up with the Justice Society of America. He doesn't recognize the pre-transition Mar-Vell as one of the soldiers he fights against. However, working alongside actual soldiers in the Justice Society and seeing what wartime superheroing was like makes him rethink the military moniker "Captain", and afterward he starts going by CM1 instead (taking after his brother going by CM3). The press, despite his protests, will continue to refer to him as Captain Marvel for years to come.

In 2009, Rick Jones briefly goes by Captain Marvel after bonding with Genis-Vell, an unstable clone of the pre-transition soldier Mar-Vell. He retires the same year and encourages Genis to transition as Lawson had. Genis becomes Phyla-Vell and briefly maintains heroics as Captain Marvel, but leaves earth within a few months to try to build a new life and find an identity distant from the homes and legacy of Lawson.

In 2015, Carol Danvers discovers she was framed for space crimes, and why, and returns to earth, only to find the Eugenics War already ended without her back in 1998, with the surviving Augments having fled into space. She joins the New Avengers (this being the aftermath of the Avengers Civil War still).

Monica Rambeau never went by Captain Marvel... at least not in the still-extant timestream. She and multiple other heroes have memories of her serving as Captain Marvel, during the 5 years and 8 months of the aborted timestream in which "The Snap" occured. These five years were "reset" and erased by the Avengers, including Monica herself, in order to bring back the half the universe that Thanos had killed, and Monica chose to not take up the mantle again.

[goldrushenthusiast]

I would bet money that Gale Hawthorne is homophobic and hates all lesbians

[s0fter-sin]

i hate the commercialisation of the avengers inside the mcu both bc i find it cringy and meta but also bc it narratively doesn’t make sense.

we spent ten years establishing that the avengers are a contentious presence, civil war was literally about people not trusting them bc of what/who they are and now it’s almost completely erased and everyone loves them now? and don’t even get me started on rogers the musical

the way clint reacts makes it seem like the writers are trying to say it’s in poor taste but it’s less bc it trivialises a literal alien invasion but bc clint misses natasha and it hurts him to see an interpretation of her. not bc people are singing and dancing about an event that got hundreds if not thousands of people killed. the closest american equivalent i can think of is 9/11. people can’t even joke about it without being torn apart and it happened over 20 years ago. the battle of new york happened 10 years ago in the current mcu, the snap happened maybe a year ago, you’re telling me everyone’s chill with a musical about one of the worst days of their lives?

“i can do this all day” being their tagline encapsulates everything i dislike about it. the only people steve said that to were nazis that were immediately killed, tony who would never talk about what happened in siberia and the 2012 version of steve says it to him. no one else would know that phrase and acting like it’s something he crowed from the rooftops is at best a plot hole and at worse, an indictment of how little care the writers are having for the new era of the mcu

[joelhoney]

#1 girl

pairing: dbf joel miller x afab/sorority sister reader

kenny here... tumblr Blipped me u guys. but i loved this too much to let it waste into nothingness. so here we go again take two using an ancient blog i never even used (from 2016 mind u...) enjoy!

You're too wrapped up in sorority duties to remember somebody's supposed to pick you up and drive you home tonight. One pissed-off Joel, curious conversation, and cowboy hat later, your evening takes an unexpected turn.

warnings: no outbreak au, dbf!joel, self gratuitous age gap (21/51), shy reader w/ some bursts of confidence, blowjob (m receiving), handjob (f receiving), dirty talk, praise, degradation too..., overuse of pet names... must b all

Of all the ways you imagined spending your fifth day of spring break, the last was in your dad’s best friend’s pickup truck with lame rock playing dryly through the console radio. In fact, last is generous—the idea itself had never even been conjured in your head.

The reason why is because you and your dad’s best friend—Mr. Miller—don’t typically interact beyond the confines of dinners, mandatory laughter, and the occasional one-on-one about something like boys in college, or classes in college, or the drive to college. Nothing much had changed when you moved the brief drive away to UT Austin, and between you everything’s remained the same, even now in your senior year.

For instance, a break—summer, spring, winter—would begin with your parents picking you up and shuttling off to the house, and end with an affair of the similar sort. Quickly into your first year, though, you learned to always insist you either leave school late or leave home early for spring break to take advantage of campus parties, especially because your senior year had cemented your shiny new position as President of Alpha Phi.

Any officer position in a sorority already came with a good deal of responsibility, let alone the presidency; and in addition to having recently turned twenty-one, the role required you to exhaust every drop of social battery, every ounce of skill you had at party hosting and alcohol obtaining without the use of a flimsy fake.

The eliminated nerves of using fakes made you much less nervous during parties, which often led to you letting more loose than usual. This party you’re in was thrown by some frat on campus, but this house is your last place of four; first two pregames, then a bar, then here. At some point at the bar your sisters had surprised you with a fun gift for the night, so you’re also wearing a pink sash, onto which rhinestones spelling out #1 Girl have been glued with precision.

Already you’re dizzy, wiping clammy fingers on the stiff cotton of your tight tank top, the curve of your tits spilling over the Alpha Phi logo. It’s small on you, the hem high above your navel and higher above the loose, low hem of your denim shorts. If they fell low enough on your hips, the high arch of your pink thong would’ve shown itself—maybe it did at some point, you’re too loopy to care.

“Oh, no,” you’re saying, but you can barely hear yourself over the rap song playing and everyone singing along, “no, I hate Jäger.” You’re shaking your head at your best friend and Vice President, Lia, who raises two handfuls of the opaque liquid. She shakes her head, sets them down on the table you’re leaning against.

“Lighten up, duuude. We’re taking them to celebrate your first and last spring break as President.”

“Aw, fine,” you muse loudly, giving in. “Only this once.” Out of obligation and genuine gratitude, you allow yourself to stomach your least favorite drink—then another, and another, a bit of each shot dribbling down the column of your throat and stickily onto your chest.

Lia snaps at the red bra strap that peeks out of your tank strap, laughing. “Settle down, Prez.” A partygoer, rowdy as they come, roughly deposits a sweaty cowboy hat onto your head and you yelp in surprise, steadying it. Whoever gave this, I’m keeping it! you holler, laughing as you feed yourself a shot of something your tongue enjoys more.

Absolut crowds the inside of your mouth when you take it back, interrupted only when a hand comes to shake at your shoulder. In your rush to turn, you nearly hit them with your hat.

It’s Cole, a good friend and member of the frat whose house you’re currently getting tipsy in. His eyes are rimmed and the whole air of him smells like weed. He offers one greeting: “Yo.” His eyes slide down to your chest, where your tugged-down tank has exposed a few inches of your red bra’s lacy cups.

“Hey,” you say, the syllable sounding sticky. “Up here, you ass. Jägerbomb?” You offer a smile.

“‘M a’ight. Listen, some…” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to place what he’s here to tell you. Then he nods, having remembered—“Right. Some old guy’s out front asking for you.”

“Asking for me? Old… guy?” Your eyebrows scrunch together, mind foggy. “My dad?” Shit. You’d completely forgotten they’d be picking you up today or tomorrow. Maybe they’d been waiting for hours—it’s one-thirty, the clock on the living room mantel reads. 

“Nah, man, not your dad, this guy’s… he’s got a red pickup truck, um, he’s, like, he’s old looking.” He raises a hand above his own head. “Tall.” His voice is drawly with the weed high, but as soon as he said red pickup, you knew exactly who he was talking about. One look at your phone confirms it—five missed calls and a message, 11PM, sent by your dad: Joel’s in the area for work. He’s going out with buddies but can swing by the house to pick you up. I’m giving him your #.

“Fuck.” You blink. “Fuck! I gotta go.” 

You never usually have to pack shit to go home, considering the drive isn’t too far. Briefly you consider making a detour to collect things from your sorority house, but you decide to sacrifice the laptop and the few important chargers. So, armed with only your phone, you wrench your way out of the crowd, a few goodbyes thrown in your direction and back.

The front door is open so the partygoers spill onto the front yard, intermittent conversation littering the area. Along the pavement, frat guys’ Civics and and Priuses are parked beside an old looking red pickup truck; leaned against it is—

“Mr. Miller,” you blurt out when you’re closer to him, voice steady (your mind is just as well, shocked back to lucidity from his presence). “I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d be picking me up today—tonight—” You heave a sigh, apologetic, refusing to meet his eyes. “Sorry.”

His arms are crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his button-up rolled up to his elbows. Even from a few feet away you can make out the shape, the lines of muscle on his forearms. He looks tired, moody—more than usual—and your heart pangs with guilt at the idea that you could be the reason behind it. But despite your best—really, your best—efforts, your stomach still swoops the same way it did when you were seventeen and naive, enough to find next-door-neighbor Mr. Miller extremely handsome. Hell, extremely hot.

It didn’t make sense. You’d suspected your little crush would be that—an adolescent, childish thing, evaporating more and more into thin air with every drive made to campus. But he never stopped being handsome, never stopped his corny jokes and the pet names that got you warm every time you visited over break. You had plenty of eye candy on campus, athletes and gamers alike, and yes you’d been picky, but had managed to sleep with a select few—despite all of it, only the remnants of your fantasies of Mr. Miller satiated you when your hand creeps into the apex of your thighs late at night, lust wrangling shame into silence for a few minutes.

You blink and the train of thought is over—the real thing is here, eyebrows set low, mouth frowning.

“Kiddo,” he starts, his voice thin with exhaustion, “look, I’ve done my share of… drinkin’, and that. I get it. But you gotta…” He clicks his tongue, eyes looking your outfit up and down. “You gotta let me know, let your parents know, where you are, and if you’re okay. ‘Cause I really did not want to spend tonight drivin’ from house to bar, to bar to house, feelin’ like I was lookin’ all over Austin for you.”

“I know,” you supply quickly, nodding. Your hands, fidgety, find purchase on the fibres of the silk sash strung along your figure. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Miller. I didn’t check my phone the entire evening, and—”

“It’s okay.” He says, nonchalant, lifting himself off the side of the car to walk to the drivers’ side. Gruffly, he adds, “Car.”

You’re quick to tug the door open, settling yourself on the passenger seat and breathing nervously. Your legs are littered with body glitter, your chest with the tack of Jäger. You spot him outside, his walk slow. He’s annoyed—rightfully so—stopping just shy of the door to pinch at the bridge of his nose, his lips miming a slow exhale. When he finally wrangles himself to sit, it’s quiet for a minute, then another.

“Y’have fun?” He starts the car, thrumming it to life. You nod, then offer a verbal answer—yeah. He nods, wiping a palm over his face. “What were you up to?” 

“I, um… I organized a pregame for my sorority.” You toy with the rogue strands of denim of your shorts. “We went to a bar, after… then another… then, well.” You gulp. “Here.” The last question escapes you in a shaky, breathy squeak. “And you?”

“Hah, sure, kid. Had some contractor thing, half an hour from here. Then drinks with a coupl’a buddies from work. Could’ve been home by eleven-thirty,” he says roughly, driving through the still-vibrant streets of campus, “but it’s nearin’ two and I’m on a college campus.” The urge to apologize bubbles at your lips, high in your stomach, but you remain quiet. After a few stretches of dry silence, he asks again. “That party must’ve been real fun for you to leave your old man—and me—on radio silence, wun’nit?”

“Sure,” you manage, stammering. “We were celebrating my sorority presidency.” The dark scenery of Austin blurs past. 

“Oh, sorority presidency,” he repeats, both teasing and genuinely curious. “I did hear your dad mention you were in Alpha Phi, s’that right?” You nod. “What’s that, then? Do presidents get cowboy hats?”

Your face grows hot, hands reaching up to clutch at the rim of the hat atop your head. “No, this—somebody put it—it was a joke, Mr. Miller.” A huffy laugh escapes you. “Sorry.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, and you wrench the reminder he’s 51 he’s 51 he’s 51 through your head while he pauses, “‘m drivin’ you around Austin late at night, and I’ve known you for your whole life. How ‘bout we drop the Mr. Miller act, alright?”

“Oh. Okay,” you say. His hands grip the steering wheel firmly, and your eyes wander to his arms, to how he’s basically stuffed into the shirt he’s wearing, big and broad and bulky. His eyes remain focused ahead, so you let yourself indulge a tad bit more—lower, to the material of his jeans. It’s dark in the truck, so you can’t see much, just the flex of his thighs. “Joel.”

“Attagirl.” You chew at the inside of your cheek, already feeling arousal simmering in you, low and dirty. You’re going to soak through this godforsaken thong. “Mind if I make a pit stop?” You shake your head profusely, watch as he pulls into a gas station parking lot. “Want anythin’, girl?”

“N—” your lips form, but you scrap your original answer. “Gum, if they have it.”

“Be damned if they don’t.” He slams the door shut and you watch him enter the store, watch him through the glass panels. He’s so broad. You’d nearly completely forgotten how stupidly you liked him, and now it’s coming, throttling back full-force, especially with the thrilling aspect of it possibly coming to fruition. You are, after all, an adult. And so is he, paying for his shit with a tight-lipped expression, arms crossed again, arms big and—Jesus.

You squeeze your thighs together, willing yourself to get your shit in place when he pulls the door open again, his eyes scanning your seated figure. He tosses you the packet of gum, and you respond with a sweet thank you, Mr. M—Joel, and you fiddle with the packaging as he starts the car again, driving until scenery grows more and more familiar, closer to home.

“By the way,” he says, voice husky with the unuse of not talking for a while. “Think it’s best you spend the night at my house tonight, kid. It’s late. Later than late.” 2:44, the console digital clock reads in blinky red text. “Your parents don't want the door rattlin’ open at this hour, so I’ll let you in the guest room.”

“Oh,” you say. “Sure.”

“D’you have a change of clothes?” He asks, even if he knows you climbed into the seat with nothing but your phone and a cowboy hat. You shake your head and he tsks. “You’re barely covered, sweetheart. Best be careful walkin’ around when the night’s this chilly.”

Barely covered. You think of every possible response, but what leaves your glossed lips is the riskiest: “What do you mean, barely covered?”

You figure if he starts saying shit like what are you insinuatin’, kiddo? You better sleep at yours tonight instead, it’s an easy out—you’re turning the corner onto your street now, and your stomach is boiling with nerves, sticky and anticipatory. “I jus’ mean… it shows a lotta skin.” 

“It’s sorority merch, Joel,” you reply, half-amused and half-defensive.

“No, I”—he sighs, like he wants to backtrack what he’s just said—“I know, but… always worth somethin’ to be careful. Might catch a cold with all that leg… all that—you—showin’.” He parks in front of his house, this sizey, homey thing, and your heart flips knowing how familiar this place has been to you your entire life.

“I’m not going to wear winter gear to a spring break frat party.” You’re bolder, suddenly, but even if the statement is, your voice is level, meek, even. Joel nods, as if admitting defeat, and gets out of the car first; you follow, sneakers crunching against the asphalt as you follow him into the house.

“I hope,” he starts when you’re stationed beside him at the door, “I didn’t… offend you. I was jus’ concerned, is all.” Then he’s stoic again, slipping inside, straight to the kitchen to pour you a glass of water. He flicks a yellow light on and you squint when you get there, rubbing at your eyes to prevent them from aching.

You’re still rubbing at them when his gaze drops from your fussed-up hair and askew hat down to the shiny surface of your chest. Your goddamn top leaves him nothing to the imagination, your tits spilling out of it scandalously. The low cut even lets your bra peek through, red and bright and hey, you show up from college wearing these large university shirts and sweatpants—not this, never this. And your shorts, the way they’re really just a fucking belt, starting low on your hips and cut off high above your thighs.

Alpha Phi, the pink text on your white top reads on the left chest area. Right where your tits curve into the top, the slogan is printed: Union hand in hand. God, sororities and their fucking… quotable bullshit. And don’t get him started on the sash, this cutesy, frilly thing he wants to loop around your wrists so he can fuck you over the counter. He knows he can’t—it’s so wrong, so wrong. He’s known your dad for ages. 

But you… you're so tempting, a little minx, chirping Mr. Miller all sweet and apologetic, chest out on full display. He blinks when he hears your voice filter through the fog in his head. “—off?”

“What was that, sweetheart?” His eyes meet yours again and he feels a twinge of embarrassment at the way your bashfulness has somewhat melted to give way to the clear amusement on your face. You must’ve spotted the way he ogled you; he wasn’t exactly trying his hardest to be subtle, unfortunately. 

“D’you have something I can use to wipe myself off?” You gesture to your sticky collarbone area. “I got Jäger all over myself. Can’t handle the stuff.” You grimace at the memory, and he goes to grab a wet wipe; while waiting, you hoist yourself up onto the counter, bare legs swinging.

Joel turns to toss you the packet of wipes, but his throat dries before he can even call your name out. Your back is to him, and clearly you’re waiting for his return—you’ve busied yourself by sitting on his counter and letting the hot pink lace of your thong rise above the waistline of your shorts. Lord have mercy, he thinks to himself, adjusting his jeans as he walks back over to you.

“Wipes,” he says roughly, not anything else.

You accept the packet and smile shyly. “Can you…” you pause, the implication hovering over both of you, heavy. “Wait for me?” He nods, inviting. Warm. And he watches, inviting but not very warm anymore, the way you wipe over the expanse of your chest, over the curve of your tits, every other part of you dusted in glitter.

“So,” you say again. “Since we’re on first name basis now, Joel, I, um—I hope it’s okay to ask questions.”

“Sounds reasonable. Go for it,” he accepts. 

“When’s the last time you went to a party?” Your smile is mischievous. 

He chuckles, a huff of air. “...Long, long ago, kid. Back in my day, partyin’ meant beer, maybe a little weed… not that I'm complaining there, you understand.” He nods resolutely. “These days, a quiet home-cooked meal with just the people I really care about… is a party.”

“Wow, what an old guy answer,” you giggle. “Back in youuuur day.” Your raspy, honeyed voice wraps around the your with a teasing lilt.

“Oh, I’m old now, am I?” His stoic demeanor chips away when he laughs. “That makes you what, sweetheart? You’re barely a pup.”

At his words—at the utterance of pup—you roll your eyes and try to shift your seating so your thong doesn’t stick to your folds. “Okay, fine, next.” You’re not even wiping anymore, the material wrung into your fingers, which lay in a fist by your side. “When’s the last time you got shitfaced?”

He gives a grimace of a smile. “Aw… boy, it's been a while.” He comes closer, going from leaning on the opposite drawers to right beside you on the counter. You’re sitting and he’s leaning but still he’s taller, just a bit level. “But there was that one time back in my more adventurous days, when I was younger. A bachelor party wh�� well, the details don't really bear talkin’ ‘bout in polite conversation.” He raises his eyebrows. “Why ya askin’ all this? What’s will all the last times?”

“I’m curious, is all.” You smile, leaning back; if his eyes drop just a bit, he’ll see right through your top, maybe even underneath the cup of your bra. “Okay, fine one last… last time.” You giggle, breathy. “When’s the last time you… had sex?”

The air shifts, and Joel clears his throat before chuckling. “S’none of your business, young lady. A gentleman is not raised to kiss and tell.”

“Oh, but he gets shitfaced n’ tells?” You test, pouting and leaning closer toward him so you can quiet your voice. “Come on. I won’t tell anyone I even asked.”

He sighs, contemplating. “Well… it’s been a while.” He gets his fair share of lays, when he goes out to bars with friends or the rare date, but nothing too drastic. It has been a few months. “But you didn’t hear that from me, understood? Now, let’s drop it.”

But you don’t drop it, you brat. “You’re like the born again 40-year-old virgin,” you tease smoothly.

“Try 51, honey,” he grunts out, depositing your dry wipes at the disposal across you. He turns back around, restrained. 

“And what, you don’t wanna change that?” No, he thinks—what he wants is to take you over the counter ’til you’re sobbing and sore.

“Hey now, don’t think I don’t think about it sometimes. But I jus’—I don't wanna get involved with no one, even though... Hell, if I met the right person, I might just change my mind. Ain’t that the way it goes?”

“That’s such an antiquated view of sex,” you quip boldly, pressing your arms to your sides. “What happened to just having one good fuck?”

His eyes flicker down then up. “Well, hey. Slow down with the cursin’, sweetheart. And what in the hell makes you think I don’t do that?” He crosses his arms, offering a raised eyebrow and an insufferably smug smile.

“You didn’t necessarily object when I called you a twice-over virgin.”

He chuckles. “There’s more than one way to let it all out, my girl. You don’t have to just go all in to hit the spot.” The thought of him using his own—or some girl’s, actually, hand, throat… to get off, gets you all hot. You want to be that girl. His girl.

“Like how?” You ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Old man like myself probably can’t offer tricks you’ll find… useful.” He grunts, prepares to go upstairs. He reaches over you for the packet of wipes and your proximity urges him to stop, savor the closeness before the rational part of him reminds him you’re his best mate’s daughter.

“Okay, fine,” you say sweetly, voice much quieter—reserved just for the space between you two. “One last, then.”

Mmm, he huffs affirmatively, greenlighting your request. Impatient.

“Since when did old men do that?” You ask, inquisitive, placing emphasis on his self-proclaimed old man title.

“What? Entertain l’il minxes like yourself?” He responds, intending to break your newly-built façade of smugness.

“No,” you respond coolly. “Pack nine inches.” Then you’re clambering off the counter and walking to the stairs. He inhales sharply at the sudden vulgarity of your words, watches every move, every little bounce of your pert ass under the tiny shorts, the wave of your hair, every flex of the ridden-up lace thong against your back.

You turn briefly. “Coming or what?” And then you slip upstairs.

He hears the pad of your footsteps grow quiet and shuts his eyes, letting his composure waver in your absence.

Had he known Harold’s little girl would turn out to be the world’s biggest fucking tease—Jesus Christ. “Lord,” he rasps under his breath, repeating a mantra, holding back the urge to palm himself through his jeans. “Lord, have mercy.” Then he follows you, already spotting something different—the open door at the end of the hall.

His open door. It’s the one that directly mirrors your parents’, a revelation they all had a good laugh at. Sometimes if a matter was so pressing, a well-aimed pebble to the glass window would get Joel’s attention well enough. The lights are flicked on, cool-warm, in his bedroom. You’re in his bedroom. 

Or you’re not. He walks in to find no trace of you, save for the scuffed white sneakers by the doorframe. He toes off his own boots and spots the walk-in closet light’s also been flicked on. 

“Christ, you’re quick. You’re s’posed to be in the guest room.” He gestures vaguely to the one on the left side of the hall, even if you can’t see him.

“I had to pee. And I needed something to sleep in,” you say politely from inside. He grunts softly to himself at the thought of you undressing in there, the thought of you pulling on something of his. 

“Get out of there,” he orders. “I’ll get you somethin’.” Under his breath he mutters, “S’my goddamn closet.”

You chirp okay but he adds anyway: “Hurry, out.”

So you do follow him, even follow the order to hurry, because you’re hasty in your exit, clutching the cowboy hat to your chest. “Sit.” He points to the bed, watches you set the hat next to yourself gingerly. And one last time he asks the Lord for mercy, quietly and in his head, before shutting off every other rational thought that had stopped him tonight. 

You follow suit, hat still clutched to your torso, and he slowly comes to stand just in front of you, your face level with the buckle of his leather belt. When you shift he catches sight of the side of your bra, the lace of it. Eyes cast to your bare thighs, you pipe up.

“By the way, Mr. Miller—Joel, I didn’t mean to say any of—I mean, I thought we could talk comfortably about it… that… stuff, but I took it too f—” 

“You’re damn fuckin’ right you took it too far.”

He spits it out roughly, harshly. Like he’s scolding you. A zip of shock goes through you—you hadn’t heard him swear so loud before. Maybe he is. “I give you a free ride home at half past one, give you water, give you a place to sleep for the night knowin’ damn well your momma n’ dad would both have killed ya if you stepped foot in that house wearin’ next to nothing. What do I get in return?” He looks down at you, two rough fingers jerking your chin to look up at him.

“I—” you squeak, your voice and confidence betraying you. You’ve soaked through your panties at his sudden switch in behavior. Like you’d broken a dam.

“I get a brat… whorin’ herself out to me like I’m not over twice her age.” He tuts, like he really is disappointed, and your heart almost drops. “I get all these damn questions about sex, like you think I’ll break and fuck you on my kitchen counter.” He was considering it. “All the teasin’, all the skirtin’ around in a thong and a fuckin’…” He shakes your chin. “S’there even anythin’ in that head of yours, honey?”

Your mouth’d been open. You shut it and lick over your lips. “Yeah,” you defend weakly. His hand lowers to stroke at the column of your throat, then to hook under the tight strap of your bra, peeking out under the white of your top. He sidles it back and forth.

“S’this why you asked me all those dumb questions downstairs, huh, sweetheart? ‘Cause you wanted me to pull your top open and fawn over this”—he yanks the hat away, revealing your torso underneath—“little show o’yours?” Your cleavage is sinful, downright—perfect, perky, inviting him to mouth at your tits. Your sash sits prettily above them and he can’t help but pull at it, too, jolting you toward him. 

“N—” you inhale sharply, letting him pull and push you around as he pleases. He observes the blinding glittery writing on the pink material and lets out a humorless, self-satisfied huff of laughter.

“Number… one… girl.” His rough thumb grazes over the divots of the rhinestones. “That’s jus’ about right, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” you reply, voice small. 

“I’m not sure I agree, baby girl,” he drawls. His touch is precise—he knows exactly where to go, what he’s doing—but rough, dirty, almost, and the huge size of his hands don’t help to support otherwise. He tugs down your tank top so it’s tucked underneath your bra, and you yelp, making a move to cover yourself. He laughs again—“Sure, go all shy on me like you haven’t been showin’ yourself off to me all night. Knees.”

You get off quick, so quick you’re dizzy when you steady yourself on two knees. Two lithe hands make their way to his belt but he steps backward, revels in your evident confusion, clumsiness, the flush high on your cheekbones. “Buckle down, sweetheart.”

“But—”

“No goddamn buts. Listen to me.” He ends up being the one to make work of his belt, and while he talks you have to bite your lip to keep from going slack-jawed at the sight of him. You’d been kidding about the nine inches thing, but Christ he’s huge, strained against the tight denim. He’s thick even under the layers of clothing, and all you want to do is choke on him. “You’re gonna let me use that mouth t’get off, first thing,” he grunts, like this is all some chore to him, “because I am not goin’ to put my cock in my best mate’s daughter.”

“How about,” you croak lightly, “your fingers, then?”

“Jesu—we’ll see.” He tugs his cock out then, and he’s fucking huge, he really is, his tip angry and flushed and being rubbed along your lips, sticking them up with his precum. He sighs contentedly, humming low, the vibration sent straight to your half-open mouth. You suck on the tip of him, watch a slow smile form on his face. “That sash oughta say somethin’ else.”

Your silence grants elaboration. “Number one slut, maybe.” You shift on your thighs, trying to hide how aroused you are at his mean behavior. But he can tell, he can watch the way your blinking slows, the way your eyes glazed over, glassy and teary from trying to take more of him. He doesn’t tell you to slow down, or go faster; he just watches, eyebrows knitted, focused. “Budge up.” 

A hand, big and calloused, threads through your hair and gives a tug, goading your mouth open so more of his cock slips past. Your jaw aches from the attempt alone, so you pull off before you start choking too much, tonguing at the parts of him you can’t reach—lower, until you’re laving at his balls. He grunts, pleasured, simmered down. Attagirl. Then you’re back, bobbing up and down, trying despite yourself to take all of him, until your eyes are watery and you’re spluttering, choked.

“Now this is…” He says, and it comes out in a contented little sigh, “a number one throat. Keep those pretty lips open, honey, ‘m gonna fuck them.”

You do, your achy jaw slacked as he begins bucking into your mouth, the sounds of your choking only spurring him on. He’s dominant, taking and taking, and you’re humiliated to find how wet you are, soaked through the lace of your thong and darkening the denim of your shorts.  The tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat only gets him to thrust even faster, watching tears fall from your eyes, streaky with mascara. His best friend’s daughter, taking dick like a fucking champ.

He thrusts harder, each sound emitting a nasty, incoherent noise out of you, choked little gasps that have him harder each time. Gonna fuck this throat raw, he mutters. Since that’s what you wan’ed, ain’t it? You reach up, light fingers massaging his balls, and then his hips stutter, and with barely any warning, you feel his hot seed shoot into your throat, little satisfied groans leaving the man above you.

You swallow what you can, limited by his dick still in your mouth. When he pulls out you lap at the cum left behind, circle your tongue around your lips, make a whole show of it. You speak again, your voice raspy and spent: “Please, my turn?”

He lifts you up and smirks at the way you yelp in surprise, tossing you onto the bed and pulling you back onto your knees, your back to his chest. He wrangles your shorts off, gives your ass a smack as he pulls them down, enough to expose what’s underneath. The stiff material gathers just above your bent knees, restraining you from moving much.

“D’you know what,” he says, still sounding angry—like he’s lecturing you, stern, “I could’ve been in bed, wakin’ up at six to work… instead I gotta teach this little brat a fuckin’ lesson. Your old man not teach y’enough manners?” He tugs your bra down, thumbs roughly at your pebbled nipples, wrenching a moan out of you. He’s hard again, dick poking into your ass, and fuck you want him in you.

“He didn’t,” you sniffle, pitiful. “Y’gotta teach me, Daddy.”

“Oh, she likes that, don’t she?” He grumbles, like the title is annoying, juvenile. The way his cock twitches tells you otherwise. “Shut up, baby honey. I got this.” He reaches up your thighs and the ticklish, pleasurable sensation gets you hot.

Joel, you whimper, seizing in on yourself. He grabs your other arm, pulls it back toward him so you remain open and pliant. Please, wait.

“No time for waitin’, not when you spend hours prancin’ around like a little whore, sweetheart.” Without preamble, he’s running his fingers up your thighs again, not stopping this time until his fingers are pressing into your clit, rubbing over the thin, soaked fabric of your panties. “And you’re so fucking wet for me. My number one girl, ain’t you?”

“Yea,” you babble dumbly. “Your number one girl.”

“Thaaat’s right. My girl needs her needy cunt filled up, don’t she? By Daddy’s fat fingers.” You nod along, drawn in by the vulgarity of his words, the way he spits them out. You’ve spent several nights fantasizing how his big, rough hands would feel on you—and you’ve been outproven. He’s so fast, so skilled with his fingers; they feel delicious in you. And you can’t stop thinking about all of those girls he implied he’s slept with, the way they probably got to this first. Lucky bitches.

He’s gotten you so wet the entire night, even moreso now, that your pussy is making obscene squelching noises with each pump of his fingers, these nastily loud noises that humiliate you, that turn you on even more, that make you drip all onto Joel’s linen sheets. Fuck, you whimper. He swats at your ass. No swearing, he’s saying.

“Look up for me, honey. Up at the window.” Outside, the sun’s beginning to crawl over Austin, just the faint blues and yellows of early morning. You realize you know this because his curtain’s been pulled open—by him, earlier, before any of this even started, you assume. And the only other thing you can see other than the sky and the sliver of the neighborhood is your parents’ window.

“No,” you plead, looking down. He doesn’t let you, tugs you back up to look by your hair. He knows your parents won’t be up ’til seven-thirty latest. But you don’t know that, and for now, you don’t have to.

“What then, huh, sweetheart? When they go to check on the weather n’ they see their best friend poundin’ their young daughter? What’d they think?” You jerk away, overcome with pleasure and embarrassment at the imaginary situation. You feel his fingers pump in and out of you, filling you up. They’re probably thick and hot, glistening each time they come out. You’re tightening up; you’ll cum soon, make a mess on his hand, which already drips with slick. “So you better hurry. Better make a mess on me soon.”

“I am, I’m—I’m gonna,” you moan. You’re wrapped up in the way his fingers play you just the right way. You’re so close to the surface, and you’ve been wanting this for way too long, so you nod, let yourself get carried away by his words, let yourself give in, spreading your legs as wide as they can go as he fingerfucks you, working out the tension that’s been building up for forever. 

“That’s my number one girl,” he grins into your neck, and you’re convulsing release onto his hand, wetting it even further. He wraps a hand around your waist, keeps you close to his figure, his erection at the small of your back. “That’s it, honey. Did so well for me.”

“I want it,” you say meekly. “Even if they see.”

He groans. “Sweetheart, you must think real low of me to believe I’d put my cock anywhere near Harold’s daughter’s pussy.”

You tug your panties fully down, just enough so they fall off on their own the rest of the way, and guide his slick hand behind yourself, pressing his finger first into your folds again, sensitive, and then up toward your tighter hole.

You feel his breath tighten behind you when you say: “How ‘bout there?”

[mysunshinetemptress]

Call Your Mom

Leah Williamson x reader

Warnings: talks of suicide please please know you are never alone

Tears streamed down your face, blurring the already distorted image in the mirror. It had been years since the suffocating darkness of suicidal thoughts had threatened to consume her. Back then, Leah had been your anchor, your lighthouse guiding you back to the shore. But lately, with the weight of the loan to Manchester City pressing down on you, a familiar coldness had begun to seep back in. The vibrant colours of your recent success with Man City seemed to have drained away, replaced by a suffocating grey.

you had convinced yourself it was just the stress of the new environment, a temporary blip. But tonight, the blip had morphed into a monstrous wave threatening to pull you under. The once vibrant colours of your apartment seemed muted, the silence deafening. The thought of reaching out to Leah, of tarnishing the happiness you'd built together, felt unbearable.

But as the racing thoughts spiraled, each one darker than the last, the fear became a raw, primal instinct.  Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:12 am. Shame burned in your gut. How could she be feeling this way again, after all, Leah had done to pull her back from the brink .

 Leah's voice, even thick with sleep, was a lifeline.

You fumbled for your phone, the familiar warmth of the screen offering a flicker of comfort. Leah's name on the contact list taunted you. Reaching out felt like a betrayal, a regression. Yet, the darkness whispered terrifying thoughts, a relentless chorus you couldn't seem to silence.

With a shaky hand, you hit call. One ring. Two. Three. Just as you considered hanging up, Leah's drowsy voice filled the silence, even thick with sleep,  it was a lifeline.

"Y/n? Everything alright?"

You sucked in a breath unable to answer.

"Baby? Hey, what's wrong?" Leah's concern, though muffled by distance, sliced through the fog of despair. Shame threatened to choke you, but the words tumbled out, ragged and desperate. Leah listened patiently, her voice a soothing balm even across the miles.

"Stay on the phone, babe. I'm on my way."

You choked out a protest. "No, Le, it's too late, you..."

"Don't argue," Leah interrupted gently. "Four hours. I'll be there."

There was a brief moment of silence on the other end of the phone that was deafening. You squeezed your eyes shut, tears leaking past your lashes. "Le? Are....Are you still there?" you croaked, your voice thick with despair.

"Always," came Leah's unwavering reply, even through the static of the phone call. "Don't you even think about hanging up."

You knew Leah could hear the tremor in your voice, the raw vulnerability that sliced through years of carefully constructed walls. The move to Manchester had felt like a fresh start, a chance to prove yourself on a bigger stage away from the stacked bench of Arsenal. But the pressure had become a suffocating weight, and the initial excitement had morphed into a suffocating loneliness.

"It's stupid," You mumbled beginning to pick at the skin around your fingernails, hating the pathetic sound of your own voice. "I thought I was past this. But it just…it hit me tonight."

The four-hour drive was an agonizing eternity for both of you. You paced the apartment restlessly, the phone pressed tight to your ear, the silence punctuated by Leah's gentle reassurances and the rhythmic hum of the engine in the background.

The guilt gnawed at You as you began to feel guilty for calling Leah so late. "Leah, you don't have to do this," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "It's just me being a mess.....I'll.....I'll get over it."

"No," Leah's voice came resolute through the speaker. "This isn't just you. You're not alone in this, i'm not letting you do this alone not tonight not ever."

The dam broke then. You confessed everything - the creeping despair, the fear of disappointing your Mom,  god your mom was the only one you had growing up and the only child to a single parent, she had sacrificed everything for you and now here you were wanting to end the life she had given you, the life she had sacrificed so so much for."Oh my god Le, My Mom I don't...I can't" Leah listened without judgment, her unwavering support a beacon in the storm.

"She'd be disappointed," You mumbled, "that I'm not... stronger."

You choked back a sob. the thought of dragging Leah into it was unbearable, of your Mom "I can't let Mom know," you whispered, your voice tight with fear. "She thinks I'm… I'm better now. She'd be so disappointed.....Le she...she gave up everything and I...oh god...I just want to through it all away." Leah didn't know what to do.

"Y/n," Leah said, her voice firm, "being strong doesn't mean bottling things up. It means reaching out for help when you need it. We'll face this together, okay?"

You shook your head unable to answer.

Leah sighed, the sound travelling through the phone line. "Your mom would want you to be happy and healthy, Y/n. She would understand you can't keep this bottled up it won't help. I'll call her, I'll explain everything and I already know she will be so proud you called me instead of struggling alone ok, so hold on and I'll call your mom ?"

The suggestion hung in the air. The thought of facing your mother's concern, of potentially shattering the fragile image of your recovery, terrified you. But the alternative - the terrifying chasm of despair that had threatened to engulf you - was even scarier.

Taking a shaky breath, You finally conceded. "Please," You whispered, the first flicker of hope igniting in your chest. "Please can you call her?"

Leah sighed in relief sipping in "Of course baby, as soon as I get to you I'll call her ok?" You let out a hum letting Leah know you heard her.

Through the night, Leah's voice became a lifeline. You talked for hours, about everything and nothing, about the weather in Manchester, Leah's upcoming game, and the silly things you both used to laugh about back in your younger days. With each passing minute, the frantic edge in your voice softened. The dawn broke just as you finished reminiscing about a particularly chaotic prank you'd pulled on a teammate in your youth.

Exhausted but with a fragile sense of calm settling over you, you looked at the phone screen. Leah's location showed she was somewhere near Birmingham now.

"Leah," You began, a nervous tremor in your voice, "you really don't have to come all this way."

"Nonsense," Leah interrupted, her voice full of determination. "I wouldn't be anywhere else. I told you we'll face this together, okay?"

By the time Leah arrived, the first rays of dawn were painting the sky a soft pink. Relief washed over you as you pulled Leah tightly into a hug, the familiar scent of your girlfriend a potent reminder of the love and support that still surrounded you.

"We'll get through this together," Leah whispered, her arms wrapped securely around You, slightly scared to let you go. "Come on let's get you to bed and then I'll call your mom," she added, her voice firm.

[shanastoryteller]

happy valentine Shana!!! I can't believe i made it finally jgfcjjcgjgx i would love to see some fma (Sacrifice is free/ed&ling betrothed/What They Expect) or more of Lord Arthur De Bois, or time travel Jiang Cheng/drarry, or Avengers' Three Faced Goddess! (can anyone tell I Cannot choose favourites? They're all so gooood) and if none of those sound appealing, dealer's choice! thank you!!

continuation of 1 2 3 4 5

It's sort of awkward, because Eden insists on thick tights and long sleeves and keeps her gloves on, but Catherine takes it in stride and doesn't react with anything more than a single raised eyebrow. Maybe she thinks she has some sort of terrible skin condition on her limbs, or something, because she's perfectly fine with plunging necklines and the lacy bras Catherine shoves at her.

She hasn't worn anything besides a sports bra since she's had breasts. They're not exactly comfortable, but compared to the constant, background ache of the automail it doesn't even make a blip on her radar.

Besides. They make her look like a girl, shoving her breasts up front and center, and their size had been an annoyance when passing for a boy and a comfort when she looked at herself naked in the mirror, searching for the girl she was rather than the boy everyone saw, but this is different.

"Wow," Catherine blinks, tilting her head to the side.

Eden flushes and wishes that at any point she'd learned how to talk to pretty girls outside of life or death situations. "I hadn't realized they - I'm not used to wearing, um, girly stuff."

"You look good in it," she says, touching Ed's back and shifting her to face the mirror.

She's in black tights and boots with a chunky heel, taller than the ones she normally wears and sleeker, stopping just below her knees. She's wearing a dark green dress with a deep neckline. She's used to be hard lines and sharp edges, but she looks soft here, her hips and breasts curving out from her waist and the dress somehow minimizing the breadth of her shoulders, or maybe it's just that with all the skin on display in the center, her shoulders just don't get as much attention. She'd had to build them up, to make the automail balanced, to make sure her body could support it, and she'd always hated how masculine it made her look. But looking at herself now, she wonders if that just wasn't in her head.

Green's never been a color she gravitated towards, but the dark color makes the gold of her hair shine, brings out the warmth of her eyes and the pink of her lips.

"You're really good at this," she tells Catherine, throat tight.

Catherine grins. "You are a beautiful canvas, Eden. It was not difficult." Ed's face burns. "Do you have plans for dinner? We could have it at my home. I am, honestly, dying to curl your hair."

Ed hesitates, because her shade of blonde is rather distinctive, then takes a second look at herself in the mirror. No one is going to think she's the Fullmetal Alchemist looking like this. "Okay, yeah. Sure. That'd be great."

~

Catherine knows that Eden is military at first glance, seeing her elder sister in the way Eden stands and moves. She looks young, but she can't be that young, not when she has the stance of someone who's been enlisted for years.

She figures that Eden is looking for clothes to wear outside of her uniform for the first time and something in her softens at how insistent Eden is on keeping certain parts of her body covered. Her siblings have scars too.

When they get to their home, Eden seems slightly surprised at the grandness of her home, but gets over it quickly, which Catherine almost expected. She hadn't looked at a single price tag as they'd been shopping and had paid for her bags of purchases with a nonchalance that spoke of a familiarity with money, although that leaves Catherine to wonder how she ended up in the military in the first place. She hadn't gotten a last name out of her, but Catherine is familiar with most military families, and she would have heard if any of their daughters had enlisted.

"Your bedroom is so pretty," Eden says, looking around at her pink, frilly room filled with flowers and clothes and gilded in gold with a soft wistfulness.

Catherine loves her. "Thank you. Here, sit at my vanity, let's play."

Eden laughs and pulls her hair out of the hasty ponytail she'd pulled it into, letting Catherine run her hands through it and carefully brush out every knot. It's gorgeous, thick and silky and the most wonderful shade that Catherine's never seen on anyone else.

People always act so oddly with her because of her family, even those similarly situated looking down at her for her choices, to be neither an officer nor married to one, but that's just not what she wants right now. It's nice to hang out with another girl that just treats her like a friend.

"MY BELOVED SISTER HAS RETURNED!" booms from what sounds like the first floor.

She sighs.

Eden goes rigid in her chair, eyes wide. "What - why-"

"It's just my brother," she says soothingly, concerned with how pale Eden has gotten. "He's harmless, really."

"Brother," Eden repeats. "Fuck. Fuck! I'm so stupid-"

"It's okay," she says in alarm, "Eden, what-"

She gets to her feet, grabbing her hands and looking at her a desperation that Catherine doesn't understand. "He can't know I'm here. Who I am. Do you understand? It's important."

She doesn't understand. "Eden-"

There's the sound of heavy footsteps heading their way and Eden wrenches herself away, bolting for the other side of the room. She claps her hands together, then presses them against the wall, and in flash of light she's disappeared.

Catherine stares. mouth agape.

She's familiar with alchemy. The skill has been passed down her family for generations.

Eden didn't use a circle.

"I HEAR YOU HAVE MADE A FRIEND, DEAR SISTER!" Alex shouts, flinging open her door and flexing in the doorway. "I WISH TO MEET YOUR NEW COMPANION!"

She picks up a pillow from her bed and lobs it at him, hitting him right in his stupid curl. "We're having girl time, go away!"

"Ah, girl time!" he says. "A storied tradition that has been passed down the Armstrong family for many generations!" He looks around, seeing her empty room, and his eyebrows dip together.

She grabs a makeup brush, holding it up threateningly. "You know what else has been passed down our family for generations? The art of knocking! Go bother Momma!"

"Where's," he starts.

Catherine throws the brush, pointy end towards his eyes.

He ducks, retreating to the safety of the hallway and closing the door just in time for the brush to hit it.

She takes a deep breath, calming her racing heart and smoothing her hands down her skirt. She crosses the room, knocking against the wall and whispering, "Eden? He's gone."

There's nothing for a moment and then there's light and heat and she's looking at the the inside of her house, pipes and insulation, and Eden standing there in the center of it, eyes blown wide and lips trembling.

Eden, who won't let her look at her limbs and doesn't know how to wear girly things and uses alchemy without circles and recognizes her brother from his voice alone.

"I'm sorry," Eden whispers, arms wrapped around herself, trying to make herself small. "I just wanted-"

Catherine interrupts her, reaching out to place her hand over the arm Eden had been careful not to let her touch and is unsurprised to feel hard, unyielding metal. "The art of secret keeping had been passed down the Armstrong family for generations."

Eden's eyes snap to hers and Catherine smiles, squeezing her arm and hopes that she can feel it. Slowly, wondrously, Eden returns it.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Black Widow Curse

Summary: The last thing Yelena expected was to see someone at her sister's grave and got them caught in her web.

Warning: MINIORS DO NOT INTERACT. 18+, mention of Natasha's death, fighting, mention of past abuse, injuries, dubious consent (Yelena is drunk), sex (not in a lot of detail), angst, unhappy ending, toxic relationship, everyone is hurt and no one is okay

Word Count: 3.5k

When Yelena stepped out of her truck, she wasn’t expecting to see someone at her sister’s headstone. She was positive that no one knew where it was. With her hand on her gun, she approached the mysterious figure. Maybe they weren’t a threat, but after the past few failed assignments, she wasn’t sure who was a friend or an enemy. Suddenly, a blur of white and brown fur ran to the stranger. Her dog traitor began to lick your face, and your laughter began filling the quiet area. “You know,” you said. “I believe dogs can sense someone with good intentions,” you turned around to face her, but your hand still ran through Fanny’s fur. “So I’d appreciate it if you took your hand off your gun.”

Yelena kept it there and took in your features. You were younger than her, but not by much. Your clothes were baggy, slipping off your frame. Yelena could see tattoos that covered your arms. They seemed random, black swirls that decorated your skin. “Who are you?”

“I think I should be asking you that,” you dropped your hand. Fanny whined but walked back to her owner. “Wait,” your eyes narrowed at her, and you stood up from Natasha’s grave. “Your Yelena, Nat’s sister.” Knowing her name did not help your case, in the Blonde’s opinion. She took a step back.

“Who are you? I won’t ask again.” It took you a moment to respond, stunned by her sudden appearance.

“I was an Avenger with your sister,” you said. “We were friends.” Yelena hated that word. Avenger. It held much power and acted as a shield to hide behind and not face the past. Once again, she was face to face with someone who had more time with her sister. “Look, I heard about what happened with Clint,” you took another step forward. This time, Yelena removed her gun and pointed it at you. “Are you going to shoot me?” Yelena shrugged. “Why?”

Yelena wasn’t sure if she could give you a good answer, but did she need one? She was trained to kill and accept orders without a second thought. “Feels right,” she undid the safety. “I have nothing better to do.” You dared to laugh. That pissed her off. It seemed every day, the only emotion she felt was anger.

“You can’t kill me,” you simply said.

“Is that a challenge?” You smiled.

“Merely stating a fact,” you turned to face Natasha’s grave, kissed your fingers, and placed it on the stone. “It was nice to meet you, Yelena. I hope we meet again as friends.”

It happened rather suddenly. Intense cold washed over her, and her vision darkened. It felt similar to when she was blipped. As quickly as it happened, her warmth returned, and her vision came back.

She was standing alone. Fanny ran over to the spot you were standing in. The Akita circled something on the ground before lying down next to it. Yelena put her gun away and walked over to it. On the ground was a ripped photo strip with a girl with blue hair and another one with Blonde hair.

*

You hated parties. Even when you were with the Avengers, you loathed everyone that Tony threw. Full of fake politicians who did not care about the people they represented. You hated the stuffy outfits. Now, you stood in a rented suit at another party, not as a guest. The guest of honor, Hunter Sykes, hired you as private security. It was easy money, and you had rent and groceries to pay for.

So when Mr. Sykes led a beautiful woman back to his hotel room, you followed through the shadows. It was how you saw Yelena first, dressed in a red cocktail dress. She watched what floor the elevator stopped at and took the stairs to the 5th floor. Before she could exit the staircase, you pushed her up against the wall and emerged from the shadows. “Well, we meet again,” Relaxation washed over the Blonde. Before you could ask what her plan was, she pushed you on the chest, and you stumbled backward. It startled you, blinked a few times, and chased after her. A deja vu moment washed over you. Instead of chasing Yelena down a hallway, you were running after Natasha in a warehouse. The elder Black Widow got the best of you. Yelena wasn’t, but you wanted to play fairly. You kept your powers at bay even when they danced on your fingers. With a burst of speed, you caught up with her and grabbed her wrist. You ducked at the punch, but she was able to kick at you. You jumped back. The space allowed her to grab a knife on her thigh.

You wished Natasha could see this, and you wondered who she thought would win. The two sisters shared similarities, which made sense given their similar training. However, there was a slight difference. Natasha found fluidity in how she fought, as if there wasn’t a weight on top of her. Yelena was stiff. She was fighting to win, and you felt it in the punch to the side of your head.

“You are good,” you said, shaking the stars out of your vision. The Blonde rolled her eyes. “What? Am I not getting a compliment?”

“You are annoying,” she deadpanned. You would take it. Even though she was Natasha’s sister, you had a job to do, and she wasn’t going near Mr. Sykes. The fighting continued. You managed to get the knife out of her hand and threw it in the wall. You landed a powerful kick to her chest, she stumbled backward and then hit the window behind her. The glass creaked. Yelena shook her head to regain her footing, but you refused to give her time to recover. You sprinted towards her and pushed on her chest. The impact sent you both out the weakened window. You grabbed the ledge and ignored Yelena’s shout as she fell.

The sudden commotion caused Mr. Sykes to exit his hotel room. You pulled yourself up, removed the glass from your hair, and approached him. You hoped Yelena was okay.

*

“Fucking hell,” you mumbled and pulled out a frozen bag of peas. You slumped down on the couch with your ice pack against your head. After you pushed Yelena out of the window, you got Mr. Sykes out of the hotel with his regular security detail. If Yelena tried to kill him again, it was out of your hands. He paid you. The job was done; now it was time to rest and recover. You were pretty sure Yelena could punch harder than Natasha. The memory of your friend still hurts even though it was coming on two years after her death.

Taking off the peas, you grabbed the only photo in your apartment. It was of you and Natasha a few months after she and Steve broke you out of the RAFT. You and the Black Widow were curled up on the couch in a random safe house in Europe while a James Bond movie was playing on the TV. That night, she told you all about Yelena and the mission in Ohio. Steve sent you the picture of your new burner phone when you left them.

You weren’t angry at Natasha. When half of the population was blipped away, you were part of it. You could have stopped her if you were there, but Clint was right. Natasha was stubborn. Once her mind was made up, no one would stop her. Still, it was unfair. The birds were still singing, and the leaves would change. You weren’t angry at her. She was the greatest thing you’ve lost.

“For an Avenger, it was very easy to break in here,” you laughed as Yelena climbed through your fire escape window and sat beside you. At least she had the decency to close the window behind her.

“Are you here to kill me?” She shook your head and took the frozen vegetable.

“I would have killed you before I entered the apartment,” Fair enough. She placed the peas on the back of her neck. “That fight was so long. Do you have food?” You chuckled and stood up, wincing at the slight pain in your joints.

“I was about to order Chinese. Do you want some?” Yelena nodded. You walked to your fridge and took the menu off the side. Before you walked back to her, you saw the Blonde pick up the photo frame. She looked it over and put it back down. “Figure out what you want,” you handed her the menu. “I’m going to shower.” She looked at you and blinked a few times.

“You are going to leave me alone in your home.” Home was a strong word to describe this place. It was a place to keep food, shower, and sleep. You shrugged.

“As you said, if you wanted to kill me, you would have,” Maybe it was a little stupid to put your blind trust in someone you just threw out a window. But she was Natasha’s little sister. She had to be hurting as much as you were.

*

When you returned to your living room, Yelena was still in the same spot, except for the pea bag you assumed was back in the freezer. “What do you want?” Your question went unanswered. You weren’t sure if she heard you. Picking up the menu, you gently tapped her with it. That snapped her out of whatever fog her mind had created. “What do you want?” You asked again as if nothing happened.

“Fried rice and orange chicken,” you nodded and walked to the kitchen to order the food. You knew better to ask a Black Widow if they were okay. They ended up lying. Once the food was ordered, you rejoined Yelena on the couch with a few beers.

“Food should be here in 15 minutes,” you noticed the Blonde looking at you this time. Your shorts and simple T-shirt did not hide your tattoos. But she took a bear and slumped back.

“Your taste of beet is shit,” you opened your bottle and took a sip. It was shit.

“It was cheap. As you can see, I’m not rolling in the cash,” you gestured toward your apartment.

“Is Mr. Sykes not paying you well?” She asked.

“I don’t work for him. He hired me for that event because I was in the area,” you watched her nod out of the corner of her eye. “Did you kill him?”

“I wasn’t there to kill him,” your eyebrows shut up to your hairline in surprise. The Blonde chuckled. “I was hired to get the DNA from the woman he wanted to fuck. Job completed minus being thrown out the widow. That was good form.”

“I was trained by the best,” her face darkened slightly, but she recovered.

“By my sister?” She questioned. You knew this conversation was coming up. Sighing, you crossed your legs.

“Natasha was good, but I was trained before we met,” you smiled softly. This part of the story wasn’t bad. “I tried to kill her. I got a few hits in, but she threw me on my ass,” you managed to catch Yelena’s smile and let out a chuckle. You counted that as a small victory.

“Who trained you?” She asked. The doorbell rang, interrupting your story. You stood up, paid the delivery boy, and grabbed extra plates before you returned to the couch. You took your food and handed the bag to Yelena.

“I called him the Doctor,” you took a bite of your food. “Not sure what the endgame was before the Avengers killed him.”

“Where you born with-?” She gestured to the tattoos on your arms.

“Yup,” you popped the ‘p’. “It started with one on my shoulder, then grew and grew. I hated them at first, but they made me very popular with the ladies,” you wiggled your eyebrows at her. Again, she chuckled and smiled. It was a little louder than before—another victory. “Yelena,” you looked at her. “Why are you here?” She sighed.

“I had nowhere else to go.”

*

You weren’t sure how to describe this newly founded partnership between you and Yelena. She would end up at your apartment when she had nowhere else to go. Even if you weren’t there to greet her, you could come back to new food in your fridge and a freshly stocked first aid kit. When you managed to catch the Black Widow sneaking through your window, you would order takeout and watch whatever movie was on. She would never tell you that caused the gunshot wounds or bruises that you helped clean. The same was true for you. Yelena would grab the first aid kit and sit you down to clean your wounds.

There was an intimacy about it. An unspoken trust between you and her. Her hands were soft and warm against your skin as she patched a cut on your rib. Sometimes, you felt her fingers wander and trace the nearby tattoos. Similarly, you found yourself tracing faded scars. Goosebumps would form on her skin, and you would hear the slight hitch of her breath. You both would never call each other out. That was it. Slight touches, longing looks, two people lonely and desperate for something good. Nothing was acted on it. You could feel the tension every time she was in the room, but you were too afraid to scare her away.

*

It was strange to see the Blonde by your apartment door. Sometimes, you wondered if she knew you had a front door. “Did you forget how to climb through my window?” you teased, but your small jab was met with silence. That should have been your first clue that something was wrong. Sometimes, Yelena was quiet, but she always joked around with you.

You opened the door and held it open for her. She was quick to walk in, and when you closed the door, she leaned against the wood. Maybe if you weren’t exhausted and your mind wasn’t desperately calling for sleep, maybe if you recognized the month, it would have explained her behavior, but you missed all of it.

This was the first time you saw Yelena in about a month. You were busy with contracted work. You even answered the call when Sam asked for help. Then Carol. Then Strange. October blended into November, and now it was December. Again, it should have been a clue when she suddenly grabbed you by your shirt, pushed you against the door, and kissed you. The sound of your bag hitting the ground did not pull you apart. But the logical part of your brain needed to know what was going on. You placed your hands on her hips and flipped positions. “What,” you cleared your throat. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” she said. “Do you not want me to?” God, you wanted her to keep going. For many nights, that thought of her lips on yours kept you up at night with an ache between your legs, but you needed her to say it.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” You asked. She nodded and moved her hands behind your neck.

“Please,” she pleaded. “I need you to make me feel good.” All of your life, you were strong. You survived this power that was given to you and lived through the abuse at the hands of your parents. Won over the Doctor and climbed through his ranks. Then joined the Avengers. But when it came to Black Widows, you were weak to them. You folded. You crumpled. You dropped to your knees and submitted to them. So you kissed her, ignoring the taste of alcohol on her lips and the bloodshot look in her green eyes. You ignored all of it to satisfy a loneliness deep inside you.

You moved your hands under her thighs and lifted her. Her ankles locked behind your back. Your lips stayed together as you moved to your bedroom and gently laid her down.

You made good on your promise. Each moan, gasp, and whine that left her lips filled a hunger deep inside you. You were on wire with your hand between her legs and lips on her skin, whispering praise after praise.

“So fucking beautiful,” you mumbled. Her nails dug into your skin, leaving half-moon indents that you would look at later to remind yourself that this happened. You were the one that brought her over to the edge over and over again. She was crying out your name. Your tongue was tasting how sweet she was. You were addicted to her body, memorizing every spot that made her tick.

You only stopped when Yelena pushed you away. Her green eyes were hidden behind her eyelids. A thin layer of sweat covered her body, and she was warm when she cuddled against you. You basked in the warmth because when you woke up in the morning, she was gone. The bed was cold.

A week passed when she appeared at your apartment again. Yelena pushed you down on the couch and got between your legs. She made you cum with your hand twisted in her blonde hair. This time, the Black Widow disappeared for five days. She climbed through your window, and you pushed her against the wall so hard you thought you had left an indent there. She stayed for two days, and you cursed every surface of your apartment.

As she lay on your chest, basking in the afterglow, you wanted more. You wanted more than sex. Sometimes, you thought about dates you would take her on. What would she wear to a dinner and a movie? Or maybe you could splurge on a Broadway show. Whenever you asked, she wouldn’t answer. Instead, she would kiss you deeply, climb onto your lap, and make you forget what you requested.

She wrapped you around her finger, pushing you away and then bringing you close. It was an emotional roller coaster. Inspired by Yelena, you disappeared. You bounced between jobs and couches for two months to put distance between you and the Blonde.

But you found yourself at Natasha’s grave. While you cleaned up the weeds and straightened up the gifts that people left, it felt unfair how this place was where you found peace. You found solace in the presence of another Black Widow while you escaped the other. “I miss you, Nat,” you sighed. “I wish you were here.”

You weren’t surprised that she found you. You heard Fanny run up behind you and wiggle her way onto your lap. Smiling, you ran your fingers through her fun. “You have not been home,” Yelena said. You smiled sadly at her as she sat down next to you.

“Hasn’t felt like home for a while,” you answered. It felt suffocating. Everything in your apartment reminded you of Yelena and her absence. It drove you mad.

“Because of me?” Your silence was enough of an answer for her. “I am sorry.”

That was the thing about Black Widows. For every aspect of their life, they were forced to be used, forced to kill, and forced to seduce. Black Widows were used to being used, so it made sense it was all they knew.

Natasha was the same way. From the moment you joined the team, she poured herself into you, every deep-seated trauma to the blood in her ledger. Every time she wanted to give up, you were there. You were the life persever when the waves forced her down and threatened to to drown her. But she was never there when you needed saving or someone to hold your head above the water. She closed the door on you. Then she would come back around, apologize, and swear it would never happen again. That if you needed her, she would be there. She never was. It was a cycle that you couldn’t escape from. Now, another Black Widow had you trapped.

“I am sorry,” she said again and grabbed her hand. “I will do better. Be better,” she promised. “Please. I miss you.”

Yelena was different from her sister. You never crossed that line with Natasha, giving her access to your mind, body, and soul. But you were weak, and you missed her too. You loved someone unable to return your feelings. “I missed you too,” you admitted. I’ll come home.” She smiled, and you fell in love with her more.

You wondered what you did in your past life to be trapped in the web of two different Black Widows. Yelena kissed your cheek, then softly kissed your lips. You missed the taste of her—her natural taste mixed with her strawberry lip balm. That was the alluring characteristic of Black Widows. They weaved their webs and waited until an unlucky intruder got trapped. Widows injected their victims with poison until they were unable to move. They feasted on the weak, and you were weak to them.

[little-annie]

It's in the kitchen of their shitty little 1.5 bedroom apartment that Eddie Munson continues to bemoan his roommates request for him to watch the 2024 Olympic Games with her this evening.

“Christine Henrietta Cunningham,” he starts with a sigh, wiping the reminentes of yet another YooHoo from his upper lip, leaning a narrow hip against the countertop's edge, “there is no way in hell you are getting me to watch the Olympics.”

Already wearing her team USA sweater, Chrissy tries to protest. Just as she did last night and the night before. For some reason thinking it's such a dire thing that Eddie watches the Olympics this year.

“First of all, not my middle name. Second-”

“You would literally have to glue my eyeballs open.”

“Second-” she tries again, voice stern, pointing a yellowed spoon in Eddie's direction as she dishes up a bowl of Kraft Dinner for them both.

“There is not now, nor will there ever be, any reason for me to watch juiced up jocks prance around and play any form of sportsball.”

There's so many reasons. Christ. Fuck. So many. But he's not telling Chrissy that. He'll watch the reruns when she's not home. He couldn't possibly be caught dead after last time.

“What about the swim-”

“Not even Gandalf himself,” Eddie interrupts, “-could convince me to waste my precious campaign planning time on such a thing.”

Following Chrissy to the living room, bowl of macaroni in hand, Eddie refuses to sit down next to her on the couch. He's not going to watch. Nope. Maybe sneak a peak in passing? Sure. But not watch. Are you kidding me?

“What a about To-”

The metal spoon that was once in Eddie's hand chatters to the floor as he mock gasps. Neon yellow noodles on the tile that the cat comes running over to clean up, Eddie stands in abject horror. She wouldn't dare.

“Don't you dare say what I think you're about to say, Christine. My 2020 not obsession with Tom Daley shan't be spoken of. It was merely a blip in the system. A glitch in the matrix.”

He still thinks Tom Daley can get it. But that's neither here nor there. And what is there, is simply between Eddie and the well used bottle of lotion next to his bed.

Chrissy rolls her eyes, now sitting with her legs crossed on their ugly ass thrifted couch, patting the cushion next to her as if Eddie's a dog. “Eddie you literally watched every one of his ra-”

Races?

“I did not.”

Okay maybe we wanted to. Who wouldn't? But it's not like he obsessively watched every one of the man's races.

“... I missed two.” He admits Inna whisper.

And what a sheer travesty that'd had been

“Oh yeah. You missed two. Oh Edward, how could I forget?” After patting the cushion mindlessly next to her again and eating a spoonful of macaroni she faux whines, “‘Oh Chrissy, would you record the race for me? I don't want to miss it.’”

He doesn't sound like that.

“I do not sound lik-”

All pathetic and whiney? Eddie Munson doesn't sound like that.

“As if I would believe you actually gave two shits about the races you giant homo.” Chrissy rolls her eyes so hard Eddie's surprised she doesn't hurt her neck, “You just liked seeing those boys in spandex.”

Well…. She's not wrong. Sports are dumb. People playing sports for money is dumb. What the Olympics does to those cities in the aftermath of the event is dumb.

But she's not wrong.

Spandex

“…. I hate you”

“No you don't.” She smiles, blowing Eddie a kiss.

“Um. Yes I do.”

As if he could ever hate Chrissy.

Avoiding making eye contact with her as she continues to pat the cushion next to her and turning heel towards the hall, Eddie decides maybe it's just best to eat his supper in his room. Away from jockey spandex and its temptations, “Anyways. As I was saying. Fuck you and your jocky hobbies Chrissy.” Eddie yells from the hall, “My time is far too valuable to be wasted mindlessly drooling over arrogant jocks and their-”

In a sing-songy voice Eddie hears Chrissy call from behind him, “You're gonna want to watch this!”

He groans, turning back around from the journey he'd just started in the direction of his room, “I would rather di-” only to be caught short when a familiar mole dotted, spandex covered ass makes its way across his TV screen.

He'd recognize that ass anywhere.

Went to every goddamn swim meet at the stupid community pool to see that beautiful ass in motion for years.

He fawned over it in the halls of Hawkins High.

Drooled over it on the odd days he actually attended gym class. Tried to solely avoid eye contact with it when he found it bare and within reach in the change rooms only an hour later.

Fuck.

Eddie's knees feel weak and before he knows it he's climbing over the back of the couch, bowl of macaroni in his lap and mirroring Chrissy's position. Legs crossed. Eyes glued to the TV. Mindlessly eating chemicals that some big corporation somehow manages to pass off as macaroni and cheese.

“Is that Steve Harrington?”

Oh look at those moles.

Beautiful.

Those pecs?

Fucking hell.

“Christine!?” Eddie screeches from his position on the couch when Chrissy doesn't answer, just simply shrugs and smirks at him. The little devil. “Did I just see Harrington?”

“Told you, you'd want to see this.”

[agatharkn3ss]

Lilia's premonitions theory (contains spoilers)

Well, my brain has been in overdrive and I love puzzles so... "buckle up!"

If it's too long for you - you can jump straight into the last section titled "How does it all fit"... I really think there could be something there.

OTHER THEORIES

There have been many theories about Lilia's powers and her moments of visions. Some think it's just some loose wiring on most part, some think it's past traumatic events catching up with her, some think they are predictions of the future, some even went as far as suggesting that Lilia (loosely) predicts the last words of the next person who's going to die (based on the fact she said "Get off me!" in ep.2 and we hear Sharon shout "Don't touch me!" in ep.3). But we keep seeing more and more of Lilia's blips in ep.4, they make less sense to any of the above theories, so personally I am not sold on any of them.

There is also a possibility that her premonitions could just be linked to the events that follow - but the words aren't accurate because Lilia can't quite see the "full picture". So her screaming in her shop could be linked to Teen's reaction when Salem Seven attacked in that same episode. Or when she says "Alice, don't", we see Agatha pleading "Don't" with Rio.

BUT then I saw people discussing that maybe these are actually "misplaced" moments in time - from the future AND the past. And that they will make sense if they were said in the correct moment, but somehow got lost and sent to a different time. For example - when Lilia talks about the vampire by the campfire "You know, we really kind of hated each other in the beginning, but now..." then zones out. We could assume she's still talking about the vampire, but this pause could actually be easily filled with "I love you guys!" from the "botox" scene in ep.3, because she was actually touched by their campfire stories. Or when she shouts "Get off me" in ep.2, it could be taken right out of the ep.4 scene where she's burning on the floor, shouting "Get it off me!".

WHAT WE KNOW

All those theories got me mighty intrigued, so of course I made a list of all of Lilia's apparent 'blips' and tried to make sense of it! I believe there are two types of Lilia's visions - one where she has "wrong messages" and one where she exclaims names of tarot cards.

The tarot cards she mentioned so far:

Three of Pentacles - right after she wrote the coven names down

High Priestess - when she meets Jen at Agatha's house

Three of Swords - as Jen is trying to heal Teen

The "blips" are:

shouting and flailing her hands - when Agatha and Teen ask her to join the coven in ep.2

writing the coven names (same scene as above) - this is the only premonition where we see burst of power - the electricity flicker around her, the water boils and it all seems really intense.

shouting "Get off me!" and looking like she was pushing someone away - just before the witches begin summoning the Road

"I love you guys" - when Jen questions Sharon about her poison symptoms in ep.3

"Try to save Agatha" - when she and Agatha are searching for potion ingredients

"Which is it, am I wispy or am i kooky?" - when talking to Alice about her mum during the trial in ep.4

"Alice! Alice don't" - shortly after the one above

Zones out - during the campfire scene when she talks about the vampire scar

We also know that her Air trial will be all about tarot (confirmed by Patti herself) and the promos show Lilia in some sort of princess dress and tiara, Agatha as the green Wicked Witch of the West and Jen looking like the Evil Queen from Snow White but in the old hag form. This makes me think in her trial she will have to confront all those stereotypes about witches that she always said she hated so much. She will likely have to do a tarot reading too. There is also a room with ceiling full of swords that could fall down on them. And finally, in that same room there is a brief shot with her and Salem Seven, flowing mid-air.

One promo also shows one of Salem Seven (Vertigo) opening her mouth to release a swarm of cicadas (her spirit animal).

We know the witches slowly regain their powers once they passed their trial.

There is also this thing about Alice (I will need to make a separate post to explain this) - where my prediction is that in ep.5 she will try to protect the coven by attacking Agatha while she's in her "possessed" form. Unfortunately, Agatha will (willingly or not) completely syphon her powers and Alice will die.

HOW DOES IT ALL FIT?

Well. I think we will potentially get some answers during or after Lilia's trial, once she starts regaining her powers. I think Lilia will try to send a message to the witches in the past, but she will still be struggling with getting the times right.

I could almost see a scene where she sits at her crystal ball or does a tarot reading and talks, not realising that EVERYTHING she says is "sent out" without any filter.

Something like...

.........

Lilia is in a room with other witches, it is a high pressure situation because the Salem Seven are chasing them. Her task is to send the names of the witches to her past self so that Agatha can form her coven - they realised that without the list, they would've never gotten there. Maybe their existence or memory depends on it.

So Lilia starts a tarot reading and begins "tuning in" to her memories, saying the names of the revealed cards out loud - "High Priestess" (she says it in a surprise voice as her vision suddenly flickers to the moment of meeting Jen), "Three of Swords" etc. Maybe one of other witches in the room starts antagonising her kookiness, so that she would just hurry up, because this is not working and Salem Seven are close. So Lilia responds in annoyance "Which is it, am I wispy or am I kooky?!" But then she realises she is standing in front of Alice from the fire trial (in spirit anyway, Lilia is still physically in the scary room). She exclaims in relief "Alice!" and realises this is also her chance to warn Alice so that she doesn't die. She begins saying "Alice, don't try to save Agatha!", but mid way through, her spirit gets transported to the first trial, searching for potion ingredients. So Alice only hears "Alice don't..." and Agatha hears "...try to save Agatha". At some point Lilia is transported to sitting in front of the campfire, reminiscing their stories. This is a fond memory so she starts saying "You know, we really kind of hated each other in the beginning, but now.." and before she can finish, she gets transported back to the "Huge tiny lies" house "...I love you guys".

Maybe at some point Salem Seven break their way into the tarot room and one of them attacks Lilia. She screams "Get off me!" and pushes them away (while her spirit is transported to the moment before they opened the Road). Vertigo releases her cicadas, flying around Lilia's head. She flails her hands and screams, while her spirit is inside her shop where Agatha and Teen just approach her. She realises she's close, focuses all her energy and channels her spirit to write the list of names herself. It takes enormous effort to stay focused on that one moment, hence the energy around her is bursting. She either doesn't have enough time to finish writing Rio's name or feels cheeky and draws a black heart instead. She finishes by revealing and naming the last tarot card: "Three of Pentacles". She completes the task, the End!

....

So..... What does everyone think?!!!!!!

[watchtowerindistress]

the empath and the eldritch horror (1/5) - ben hargreeves x empath!reader

Summary: Number 8 challenged him. Ben just needed to decide if he liked it or not. Nope, definitely hated it. There was no way in hell he actually liked the little Empath.

Word count: 3.1k

Series masterlist

Warnings: sparrow!ben is a warning in itself, language, violence, mental abuse (y'know Reginald's usual schtick)

Author’s note: I'm merely writing moments in the lives of these characters, since I don't know all the quotes. So the chapters are going to feel like snippets/best moments. I made this series shorter than I expected, but I'm cramming everything together as I wanted. (Set in S3)

I didn't feel like doing a lot of world-building, to be honest. I'm aware this isn't my best work, sorry, my depression makes me tired. I just realized when I wrote that dojo scene that I liked Sparrow!Ben so much because he reminded me of an older version of Damian Wayne. 😅 Please be gentle 🤗 I've never written for this fandom before. You want to be tagged or untagged, let me know. As always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated.

“Where the hell is my brother?”

Your determined voice carried to the departing backs of Ben and Fei. Even walking through those corridors in this strange timeline felt utterly surreal. Not to mention, profoundly strange seeing this older version of Ben. After remembering the pictures of when he was still alive.

So, you could only compare this version with the stories Klaus loved to tell. A funny mess. And most of the time a little shit.

Judging by the sarcastic look Ben threw over his shoulder before he fully turned his body, this version of Ben certainly was willing to stir some trouble.

Ben smirked. Fei copied his arrogant demeanor next to him, silently watching this exchange.

“Relax, we just want to have a little chat, and then we’re done with you two.”

Just hearing him talk so unceremoniously about your lives like that simmered something inside you. Like the two of you didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Like Luther and you were barely a blip on their radar.

Your face contorted with anger. To infuriate him just a tad, with the way he infuriated you with his callous words, your body barely leaned forward.

“We’re not things you can just dispose of once we served our purpose.”

Ben tilted his head. There was something fascinating about rendering someone like him speechless for a moment. You weren’t foolish enough to think you were getting to him. Your fingertips twirled behind your back to get a grasp on Ben’s emotions, only to sense something akin to a daze tingling under the surface. Not trusting your own empathetic powers what you detected was real.

Barely turning his head, Ben spoke to Fei with a certain voice. “I can handle this one.”

Fei smirked to herself before murmuring, “I’m sure you do,” and leaving Ben on his own.

He laced his fingers behind his back while playfully dancing on the back of his feet. Ben pursed his lips. “Something I can help you with?”

“How about being the responsible one by having a real conversation instead of using people for your benefit by literally abducting them, huh?”

Ben nodded repetitively, like he couldn’t care less about anyone’s feelings. “Right.” He narrowed his eyes in thought. “What’s the name of the big guy again?”

You conjured a patient smile. “Luther. You know, your brother from another timeline?”

Ben crossed his arms, revealing a crooked smile. “As everyone keeps telling me. I wouldn’t call it an abduction,” he exhaled tiredly, shrugging slightly.

“Are we allowed to leave?”

Ben pursed his lips. “I think he’s starting to like it here. And, you know, you seem seconds away from falling for our charms. We do have things to offer that your precious Umbrellas can only dream of.”

Mocking laughter erupted from your chest before Ben joined in. “Right. Wow, someone’s really sold on themselves.”

“I mean, calling it an abduction? Sounds kinda judgmental, don’t you think?”

You clenched your jaw. Remembering Luther’s emotions brought you back to the park, like they were your own. “I felt his desperation ahead of me,” you replied, deciding to remind him.

At the mention, Ben pointed at you, remembering. “So, you’re the emotional one, huh? What’s your number again?”

“I’m not just a number, Hargreeves.” You placed your hands on your hips. “Not surprised that you would deem something like empathy barely a power. I’d like to see you handle an anxiety attack when I’m done with you.”

Ben waved his arms at his sides. His aura was literally shimmering with excitement as he smirked widely. “Oh, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You rolled your eyes. It seemed like this version of Ben felt drawn to any sort of mischief, the more the better. “And I thought Klaus was the crazy one,” you muttered under your breath. With a normal voice, you inquired, “Where’s Luther?”

“Probably in the kitchen still miserably failing at charming the pants off Sloane.”

A sigh left you when you mutely walked away towards the direction of Fei’s departure. Truth be told, only to get away from Ben faster.

You had already walked away with brisk steps when Ben’s arrogant sing-song voice made you regret all your life choices. “Other way.”

You instantly turned, while grumbling under your breath, “Fucking smart-ass.” You didn’t need to spare him a glance to feel Ben’s arrogant joy coming off of him in waves when he leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms in delight.

“You know where to find me if you want to work on those powers of yours, … Number Eight.” Ben chuckled with mirth.

Self-loathing rippled through you just a tad for not letting your power detect Luther’s aura through the mansion to avoid this embarrassing situation altogether. And you blamed yourself for underestimating him. For thinking Ben wouldn’t have interrogated Luther about you.

“So, this is what you guys are doing in your free time, huh?”

Ben’s eyes remained closed when he performed his tai chi movements in the dojo, not letting himself appear to be ruffled by your presence.

“This tells me everything I need to know about your squadron of Umbrellas. How does it feel wasting your day away, not improving?”

You remained unfazed by his choice of insults. In the end, you were used to Reginald’s mental abuse. Your eyes followed his movements, content with watching his little ritual while leaning with your shoulder against the pillar.

“Depends. What’s it feel like when you’re not being a mascot for a Hargreeves empire?”

Ben scoffed in derision. “You think you can distract me?”

Grateful for his answer, you smiled in pure delight before sitting cross-legged on the middle of the training mat. “Oh, I know I am. Besides, I wanted to take you up on that offer which was made by a helpful Ben.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Don’t ever call me that. You’re delusional for thinking I want to help you.”

You dramatically pressed your hand to your chest. “‘Oh, Y/N, I just can’t live with myself if something happened to you. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if that means helping you advance your powers.’”

Forced laughter erupted from Ben’s chest. “Har har, and I thought Sundance was the hilarious one.”

“Klaus.” You reminded him diligently.

Ben rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Empath.”

You were strangely getting used to this Ben and felt truly like you were having a grand ol' time with him. Even if that meant ruffling his feathers. “You want to know what I think?”

“No,” Ben muttered with a gruff voice.

You continued as if you hadn’t heard him, “Someone’s really pretending that they don’t care about anyone or anything. Or, second theory-”

“I’m on the edge of my seat,” Ben interrupted you wryly.

“Maybe you don’t mind a distraction to take your mind off things.”

This time around, Ben turned to face you before he knelt down. Leaning over you until you could feel his warm breath on your skin. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

“I’m the emotional one, remember?” You whispered before you pursed your lips when a thought hit you. “Not to mention, I can feel your curiosity, with a smidge of you itching for a fight.”

Ben snorted. “You’re adorable for thinking you can take me in a fight-”

An angelic smile tugged at your mouth. Your fingers brushed against his bare chest which was revealed underneath the dark robe. Your fingertips tingled before you let your power come to the surface.

The golden shimmer enshrouded Ben’s chest, pulling him backwards. No matter how many times you had done it before, your hands cautiously studied his aura once you heard his heavy breathing.

You still whispered soothingly, “That’s the sensation you get for being close to fainting. That feeling of vertigo tormenting your body and like your head can’t get enough air.”

The caring side of you stroked Ben’s feverish forehead until the dizzying spell lessened and was finally relieved.

You swallowed once you met Ben’s darkened gaze. He stared at you with glittering eyes, like he was truly seeing you for the first time. Ben licked his lips. “I think … I might have some use for you after all.”

“You may not know this, but my power doesn’t work like a medium,” you said, nervously rubbing your thighs to stimulate your senses.

Ben sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. The Sparrow had changed back into a shirt after the impromptu training session. He leaned forward and warned through clenched teeth. “Do you want to be of help, or not? Get this done, and you and your brother can go back to whatever shithole you stay at.”

“Not with this type of energy in the room.” You widened your eyes at Ben’s glowering ones to make your point. Before long you sat down on Marcus’ bed, with a bored Fei leaning against the door jamb.

Ben’s sister twiddled her manicured fingernails. “Is this a waste of time?”

He clenched his jaw, facing her. “No, it’s not. I know what she can do.”

“Aww, Benny-boo, you believe in me. That’s so cute. Who knew you had a heart?”

Fei smirked, tilting her head. “Not me.”

“You guys are hilarious. Are we done with the ‘band together against Ben today’? I’m doing whatever it takes to locate Marcus here and you two are not helping with the situation.”

You pressed your lips together at Ben’s all too serious demeanor. “Just trying to lighten the mood since your tense atmosphere isn’t helping with the task at hand.”

Ben shared a close-lipped smile, caging your body in on the bed. Despite his threatening air, you remained steadfast and didn’t move an inch.

“Do you mind just doing the thing before I lose my mind and let my tentacles do the talking?”

You narrowed your eyes. Ben needed to work on his lacking social skills, if his only resort were threats. “Say please?”

You could breathe easier again when Ben straightened his body and crossed his arms. “Keep dreaming.”

You exhaled heavily. Half the time he was fun to talk to and other times, he wore you out. “Just give me something of his that holds emotional value,” you mentioned, patiently waiting. The awkward silence confused you to no end. Ben and Fei exchanged glances among each other.

“Why is nothing happening?”

Ben turned to Fei. “Get Sloane.”

His sister tilted her head, challenging him. “Oh, I can just summon my crows.”

The muscles on Ben’s arms tensed before his jaw clenched with his next words. “Fei, take a walk.”

Her shoulder shook with mirth when Fei left with relaxed steps.

Ben’s sarcastic voice pulled you back to him. “I’m guessing giving you one of his leather jackets wouldn’t count, right?”

Your elbows supported you when you settled back. “Wouldn’t get the desired effect. So, let me guess, you guys are just numbers and soldiers?”

Ben shrugged, leaning his hip against the cabinet. “Gets the job done.”

“And you’re content with that?”

“It’s the only thing that matters.”

You didn’t believe him for a second. Or at least, you couldn’t imagine someone being satisfied with being so shallow. “Right. Because being associated to a number is all that matters.”

Ben smirked crookedly. “Oh, there’s nothing better.”

“Right, Number Two,” you added, trying to get to him.

“You trying to flirt with me, Eight?”

You rolled your eyes, retorting, “You wish.”

Ben chuckled, pondering to himself. “Who’d have thought? Maybe I prefer calling you Empath more than Eight. It’s pretty close though.”

You shook your head, feeling your cheeks blush at being more intertwined with that status of Empath than a generic number. “You’re weird.”

The mood of his aura changed to something unfamiliar. At least to someone like Ben. He cleared his throat. “So,…”

“So…?” You teasingly copied him, putting the side of your head against your shoulder, watching his reaction.

Ben crossed his arms. “What was he like?”

“Our Ben? Why do you want to know?” To you, it seemed strange for someone like him to inquire about his alternate version.

He eyed something outside the window. “Just curious, I guess,” Ben said, still not looking at you.

“Why don’t you ask Klaus or the others? I only met Ben after he was dead.”

“Wait, what?” That finally got a reaction out of Ben when he rapidly turned his head to stare at you with a peculiar gaze.

You sighed, remembering the circumstances of you meeting your siblings for the first time. “Reginald called me ‘the replacement’.”

Maybe this was ultimately his plan to ostracize you from the others by using that term. At least, you had Diego and Luther at your side. Klaus soon joined that tight-knit little circle once you confided in feeling that sensation of an unfamiliar aura wandering the halls of the manor.

Sometimes it still hurt how everything progressed. Your siblings emanating their grief onto you didn’t bother you. It was their apathy, that they didn’t care about you.

“I was taken in after Ben’s death. I could only feel his aura around after he was dead. I can sense who someone is in a way. Feel what kind of a person they are. Ben was always…” You pondered deeply how to describe someone like him. How to condense someone’s life and traits into the essence of someone.

“Kind, intelligent, mostly mischievous.” You smiled fondly, whispering quietly, “I could never replace him even if I tried.”

You didn’t know what it was about your gaze that made the Sparrow avoid it again. With the shaking of your head, you dispelled your thoughts. The new aura close by tickling your fingertips was a fitting distraction.

You glanced towards the open door. “Hey, Sloane.”

Seconds later, said woman poked her head into the room, smiling with a delighted air. “Neat party trick.”

An expectant Ben raised his eyebrows, interrupting any further carefree moments. “Sloane, Marcus’ favorite stuff he liked to touch?”

You felt inclined to add something else before more inquiries could arise. “In other words, yes. Or something that mattered to him.”

“There should be a book in his nightstand.”

That was the only mention Ben needed before he opened the drawer. Ben shook his head with a scoff, inspecting the worn edition. He showed his sisters the found evidence. “Are you kidding me? The Velveteen Rabbit?”

Sloane waved her open palms soothingly. “Remember we just want Marcus back.”

“What a nerd,” he grumbled, carelessly giving you the book.

“Says you? It’s a timeless classic,” you admonished Ben lightly before reaching for the hardcover edition.

Ben smirked. “I rest my case.” He furrowed his brows when a second thought hit him. “And what did you just say to me?”

You chose to ignore Ben’s little angry outburst when Sloane sat next to you on the bed. “Will it be enough for you to build a psychic connection?”

You closed your eyes, trying to hone in on the source. With your fingertips brushing along the spine of the book, your search for the truth was soon answered with the first memory remnants hitting you. Shivers coursed through your body at the sensation of Marcus’ memories filling your mind like they were your own.

There was an abundance of wishful thinking contained into the book, the craving of a different reality when Marcus’ birth mother granted him this first and last gift.

“It should suffice,” you said assuredly. With a calming sigh, you leaned your head back against the pillows. The book was held tightly in your grip.

“Yeah, sure. Have a nap, why don’t you? Something else you need? Maybe some soothing music, a face mask?”

Your eyes remained closed when you murmured, “Ben Hargreeves.” To get the message across, you made a quiet coyote signal. Hoping it would calm his frayed nerves.

A ripple of Ben’s undignified frustration wafted through the air. His only answer was a harrumphing noise.

You stirred your head, biting your lip in confusion. “I can feel a strong enough remnant, but I should be able to sense his location.”

“What are you saying?” Ben inquired tightly.

You chose your next words carefully. “I’m saying, … I can’t feel Marcus.”

“What does this mean?” Fei’s strained voice shared Ben’s sentiment. “Are you saying he’s dead? Abducted?”

At last, you opened your eyes. The perplexity of this unsolved mystery still plaguing your mind even after. It was more than nerve-wracking. “I’m saying that I should be able to find him, but I can’t. It’s like he just … vanished.”

The air crackled with hostility. Anxiously, you swallowed, staring straightforward. You jumped back when Ben’s wrath reached you.

Holding you down with his tentacles, with one of them slinging around your throat. Tightly but menacingly enough to spell out his primal urges. Ben’s body draped over yours. Fury blazed in his darkened eyes. “Now, Umbrella, I’m done with your little mind games.”

Sloane stood behind Ben’s shoulder, raising her voice. “Ben, let go.”

“Not until I find out what her family has done to him.”

With a hoarse voice, you implored darkly, “Listen to your sister before your Cthulu tentacles get the memo about me too.” As a warning, you gripped the surprisingly smooth appendage around your throat.

You cursed your curious mind for even harboring the thought of wanting to know how the tentacle’s skin would feel like.

Ben’s smile grew tighter, the more his eldritch monster’s hold intensified. “Try me, Eight.”

Summoning empathetic energy from within to converse it as a kinetic shield, you blasted him against the cabinet and leaving small splinters of wood on the carpet.

With a grunting noise, Ben’s tentacles drew back into his body. “Alright,” he murmured reluctantly. Ben dragged his body upwards until he was leaning against the furniture for support. He offered a blood-stained smile in reverence before he wiped off the crimson evidence from his lips. “Little minx.”

A dull thud resounded when you dropped the book on the duvet. You stood up and with a quiet voice you told Ben in no uncertain terms, “Don’t ever threaten me again.”

Remembering the company of Ben’s sisters and the result of your outburst, you awkwardly glanced at them before your feet led you towards the open door.

Wordlessly, Fei turned her body to make room. Her gaze roamed over your body with fondness after your display of power. As soon as you left the room, her dry voice remarked, “I’d consider this a success.”

Tagging: @cherryinsalemverse @mellowstatesmanhandsempath @ravenmoore14 @blackmagicwoman @lelaamela

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 4

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

Even if the work is a lot and at times tedious, you’re grateful for the excuse to stay inside. As you hole yourself inside the house and tidy the messes, big and small, you can hear the conversations out the walls, wafting in through open windows. It’s as content as your mother’s been in the last few years. Steve is nice enough and he doesn’t have that same snooty lean as the other suburbanites.

As you mop, you think of how he mentioned the city. You wonder what it was like. Before your grandma passed, you and your mom lived in a walk-up in a small town. Everyone there knew your names too and reviled it just the same. You never mean any harm but wherever you go, you seem to inspire spite.

Dishes, floor, walls, dusting, errant cobwebs, clutter...

You work until your mother comes in, swinging the door violently as she drags herself inside. You go to help her and she swats you away. You retreat and she finds her way to the recliner. You shut the door and lock it.

“Wonderful man,” she groans as she lays her head back and tilts the chair, extending the footrest, “don’t make ‘em like that anymore. He’s the sort I shoulda picked.” She closes her eyes and gives a wry hum, “’specially over your dad.”

You don’t say a word. She only mentions your father to remind you of that half of you she hates. You gather up the clothes on the couch into a basket. The laundry will have you up late. Your own fault; you should’ve done this all a lot sooner.

“Should I start dinner?” You ask.

“I don’t know if I’m in the mood for burnt chicken,” she scoffs meanly.

“I could do mac and cheese,” you offer.

“I’m teasing ya. Jeez, you got no sense of humour,” she sighs dreamily, “not like Steve. Such a charming man.”

You pass through the kitchen and descend to the basement to fill the washer. You add soap and twist the knob. You leave the basket on the lid and head back up. You peruse the fridge as you ponder what to make. Mac and cheese would be easiest.

You get started and the TV blips on in the next room. The audio helps chase away the tension. You leave the water to boil and lean on the archway that looks into the front room.

“Um, mom, what should I make tomorrow? For uh, dinner? With... him?”

“Well, don’t sound so damn excited,” she sits up, “whatsa matter with you? The nice man wants to come see us, unlike the rest of these snobs. My own sister won’t come through that door.” She snorts and shakes her head, “you can go to the store tomorrow and grab something nice. I don’t want ya serving that man starchy potatoes. Down at the fancy store, they got those premade meals.”

“Those are expensive,” you remark.

“And? You get your stipend, you don’t gotta be leeching off of me,” she snips.

“Um, yes, I know, I wasn’t--”

“God, look at that,” her eyes flick up to the ceiling, goddamn dusty, it’s a wonder I can breathe.”

You look up and see what she means. There’s a layer of dusty on the ceiling fan as it turns lazily on its lowest setting.

“I’ll get it--”

“Better. You’re not gonna embarrass me tomorrow. I’d be better off if you stay in your room,” she tuts.

“If you want--”

“No, you come out and say hi. Don’t be rude. You know I did try to teach you manners. You just never spoke enough to use them.”

You frown and look down meekly. She’s not wrong. You turn and go to grab the duster. You don’t think tomorrow is going to be any different than any other.

🏠

The next morning, go out to the grocery store to grab the meal for that evening. As you return, you linger at the end of the street. You can see Steve on his lawn. You wait for him to go inside before you drive up and pull into the driveway.

You carry the bags inside with your sights set on the house and nothing else. Inside, you put down your haul on the counter and put each item away, one at a time. Your mother is in the bathroom, chirping out a song out of key.

“God dammit,” she snarls, “I can’t find my red lipstick,” she rattles through her bin of makeup. She doesn’t wear it very often. “Get in here.”

Before you can pass the open door, her demand pulls you back. You enter as she sits on a stool in front of the mirror. She shoves the bin away and grumbles.

“Here,” she holds out a pair of tweezers with a tremble, “damn brows are unruly.”

You nod and step closer. You press a hand gently to her forehead and pluck out the stray hairs, shaping them as best you can.

“Don’t forget my lip,” she huffs hot breath onto you. “Don’t think he’ll like the tickle.”

She chuckles to herself. You don’t get it. You finish and step back, holding up the hand mirror for her. She shrugs.

“Get me some of that moisturizer,” she points unsteadily to the shelf above the toilet. You do as she says. “Mm,” she grumbles as you face her again, “not wearing that, are ya?”

You look down. The loose tee shirt with butterflies on it and the faded jeans are a bit plain. You tug on the hem and raise your head.

“You got a dress somewhere in there,” she shakes her head as she flips the cap up on the bottle after three tries. “I bought you some nice ones and you never put them one.”

“Uh, okay, yeah, I’ll check,” you promise. “Need help?”

You reach for the bottle and she keeps it out of your reach. You back up and leave her. You can sense her agitation growing.

You cross the hall to your bedroom and go to the closet. You slide the door open and sift through the contents hung from the bar. There’s a dress. A pink polka dot dress she got you in high school. Nothing special; a bargain bin cotton a-line with thin straps.

You take it out and examine it. That was the only dance you went to. You got stood up by the boy who asked you. You realise now it was only ever a joke at your expense.

You undress by your bed and put the dress on. It’s tight. Maybe it’s shrunk or maybe you’ve gotten bigger. You didn’t think your chest had grown that much since high school but it’s bulging out and your thighs feel a bit too exposed. You go into the hall and back into the bathroom. You shift the door as you mother works as spreading the eye cream above her cheekbones.

You look at your reflection and cringe. You turn to your mom.

“It’s too small,” you say to her.

She peers over with a scowl. She looks you up and down and drops the tube of cream. She shakes her head.

“Put a sweater over it,” she sneers, “it’s fine.”

“Right, uh, okay,” you agree and swallow. Even with a sweater, you don’t know. The skirt won’t be any longer.

“Would ya stop crowding me?” She shoos you tersely.

You push the door back against the wall and slip out of the bathroom. You head back to your bedroom and pick out a grey cardigan. It has no buttons but it’s at least as long as the dress. It’s better than feeling so exposed.

You hardly think it will matter. You already feel like a third wheel. Steve didn’t exactly spend hours talking to you and your mother as much as said you are collateral. They’re both just putting up with you because you’re there.

You run your hands over your face and hair. Can't dress that up. You pout at your reflection. You wish you could iust hide on your room and draw.

You look over at your sketchbook and cross the room. You sit on your bed and slide the folding table close. You open the pages and pick up the pencil. You straighten the page you tore from the old home and garden magazine and copy the shape of the amaryllis petals.

You can forget a little longer until real life wakes you up.

[starryinkart]

[CLICK FOR BETTER QUALITY]

[Likes and Reblogs are appreciated!]

Hey guys!!! I said I would work on a Uzi human version to match with my N human version, so here it is!!! I decided to make her a mix of Japanese and Middle Eastern, since Nori means seaweed in Japanese and I’ve have a friend named Khan who was Middle Eastern irl!

Since you guys like the headcannons last time, have some about Uzi:

Uzi was born with blue eyes and black hair, like her parents had, though Khans eyes were a more icy blue. When Khan started to neglect Uzi, she decided to mimick the appearance of her mother instead, seeing her as a role model after everything cool she heard about her around the colony, dying her hair purple like her.

In this AU, Uzi knew her mother before she died for a short time as an infant. Of course, she doesn’t remember much, but she does remember the play dates she used to have with her cousin Doll anytime her aunt Yeva would come over.

Nori and Yeva were sisters, both genetically modified to have the solver inside of them, making Doll and Uzi cousins. Nori and Yeva knew the consequences of having offspring with the solver in their veins but were actively working on a cure before Noris demise.

Uzi, Doll, Lizzy and Thad used to be childhood friends, but after Nori died and Yeva began to pull Doll away from her cousin to protect her from any trace of the solver, Doll and Lizzy began to bully Uzi.

Uzi came out short, like her father Khan, whereas Nori was tall, partially due to the effects of the solver.

Uzi's favorite foods are Philadelphia Sushi Rolls, Shrimp Tempura Rolls, Shoyu Ramen, and Khan Plov (suprisingly)

Uzi's favorite dessert is Apple Cheesecake!

Khan and Uzi used to have a pretty wholesome father daughter bond, but when Nori passed, he distanced himself from his daughter around the time Doll and Lizzy started bullying her, due to fear the solver may have developed in his daughter. Unfortunately we all know what eventually happens in the series and how Khan picked the worst time in her life to try and rekindle a bond with her.

Uzi has a scar on her left shoulder from N stabbing her with his wing in the Pilot, but honestly she doesn't care if people see it, unlike N who's self concious about his scars, and she thinks it looks cool.

Once she begins to be taken over by the solver, her thirst for oil is uncontrollable, though she HATES the taste of it.

Uzi's favorite anime is Chainsaw Man, though N thinks it's to gorey.

N taught Uzi to fly with her wings, and it went...as well as you could expect the first few times, but eventually she learned.

Sometimes Uzi has moments where she doesn't remember certain events in the day like what she ate for breakfeast or what she did that day in school, and her mind sort of blips all over the place ever since her solver powers were activated. She doesn't know this, but whenever that happens the solver is slowly getting acustomed to her body, putting her conciousness to "rest" while it tries out her body.

N and Uzi's favorite activity is to watch the sun rise together from inside an abandoned building they have made their "treehouse" of sorts. V doesn't know about it, and it's filled to the brim with comfort items, furniture and decorations for whenever they decide to stay out too late and no make it back home to risk burning up.

Uzi's favorite animal is cows!

Uzi and N spoon each other often, even when they were just friends, because the warmth of their bodies makes them feel safe and loved.

Uzi's favorite subject is Science and anything to do with being hands on. She likes learning and school, but just "dislikes" likes and doesn't know how to speak to them without being bullied her peers with a passion.

Uzi can be very motherly and protective, and is actually very nuturing and kind underneath her edginess.

She'll NEVER tell V this to her face, but she's grown to love V as a big sister of sorts and cares about her as much as N.

Her favorite color purple. She thinks it makes her and N match look cool but you didnt hear that from her.

She likes alot of metal and hardstyle types of music, but acutally enjoy's N's upbeat and pop music from the late 1900's and early 2000's human era more than she lets on.

She doesn't like when N uses his deeper voice and whispers in her ear...it makes her feel...weird. But in a good way- wait what?

She loves to draw and totally doesn't have sketches of her, N and V as superhero anime characters, her and N building a neural network together in her sketchbook. EW. GROSS.

>> PS. This is part of my Murder Drones Skin and Bones AU!

I didn't know how to end this, but I will say Im totally doing the other characters! Next is V!

____________________________________________________________

ALSOOOOO…

THANKYOU ALL FOR 1,000 FOLLOWERS GUYS!!!

IM WORKING ON A BUNCH OF STUFF LIKE ANIMATIONS ON YOUTUBE, MORE AU THINGS, AND WORKING ON MY ABSOLUTELY FANFIC! I'm hoping to expand more on my comics on Tumblr like my @thedarknessyouhold and the Murder Drones universe as a whole, so stick around for some awesome stuff coming soon!

My commisions are also open! You can find them on my KO-FI HERE and HERE !

You can ALSO find updates and sneak peeks sometimes as well!

AND my LINKTREE HERE!

[thecynthh]

end game - M.S

synopsis - through matt and y/n’s life both of them never thought they would be hooking up, but what happens when everyone finds out about them and it blows up in their face.

2.6k words

notes - IM NOT HATING ON MADI I JUST NEEDED SOMEONE TO USE FOR STORY PURPOSES. (im her biggest fan dont cancel me)

(synopsis for a new series that i’m working on is featured)

this is for @annamcdonalds67 contest!! i saw the post and saw how many taylor swift songs were there and this was one of my favourite ones out there and i got insanely inspired. please share some love to anna as well bc she deserves it for organizing this !

warnings - smut->angst, small matt sub, riding, oral (fem receiving), childhood best friends to fwb to lovers, badboy!matt x goodgirl!reader

for lacysturniolo and her amazing work and dedication to her fans, i’ll look up to you, forever and always

-

matt barely made it through the door before his arms were strangling me in a death inducing kiss. in my whole 17, almost 18, years of life i never expected in my life did i think my childhood best friend would be the one crushing me with his lips. we’ve both dated around but through it all we ended up here.

“fuck, matt” the breathy name escapes from my mouth feeling him move down to my neck leaving stinging hickeys with his talented mouth. “god im glad your parents aren’t here, don’t think my good kid image would keep up if they heard you.”

“you’re so inappropriate matt” my eyes roll listening to him rub in how much my parents love matt. “come on, i don’t like the idea of you fucking me on any other surface than in my room especially in my parents house.”

“whatever you say princess,” the small smirk he’s always had since he was 12 still looms over me as i lead him towards the grand staircase. he followed very close behind me keeping his arms and mouth on my neck.

it doesn’t take long till he’s holding my arms above my head with his fingers intertwined with mine. “matt, fuck, please can you just fuck me now.”

“you don’t get to be impatient, you called.”

“and you came.”

“you are about to as well.” i wanted to wipe that smirk clean off his face if his body didn’t feel so right pressed up against mine.

we haven’t told anyone about us yet, not even nick or chris. we both knew it would only make things worse, and i was alright with keeping it a secret. i’ve spent enough of my closeted and innocent. I'm a teenager, teens are supposed to do this type of thing. teens may hook up but maybe not with their childhood best friends

his mouth trailed down from my neck, to my sternum, all the down to between my thighs before he yanked my legs down to come closer to the edge of the bed.

3RD PERSON POV

matt’s hands never seem to have left y/n's body, exploring every last inch of her body. her arms, legs and heart were his. matt spends no time wasted connecting his lips to her clothed heat, within seconds she’s shimming her pants and underwear off.

there was a small knock on the door with an awaiting friend, madi was there to meet up with y/n to pick up the homework she had missed that day. without an answer from the door, madi looks around the house through windows and cracks in the blinds.

only seeing a light shown through from the living room, she wanders off to the balcony and fire escape on the side of the house. it was only a flight of stairs and a half till madi was on par with the balcony, it was a short climb till she was onto the balcony. the only thing blocking madi and the couple was a transparent creme coloured cloth with embroidered rose accents.

y/n’s loud moans escaped flooding her bedroom, escaped through the window. the curtains sway giving madi an opening to see matt fully down on her friend and her enjoying it. madi’s mouth gapes open as ashe slides her phone out of her pocket.

the camera app opens quickly as she swipes to record.

the small blip of her phone pipes up as she capturns the full scene on camera, the summer sunset gave a yellow glow to the recording. matt rips off his shirt with one arm dipping right back to y/n’s core.

madi’s only thought was to share it to her best friend, nick. little did she know nick wasn’t the only one she sent it to, but her homework group. madi continued to record through the small slit of the window.

science 4 group

madi 🩷

* view one attachment *

HOLY SHIT LOOK MATT AT Y/N’S HOUSE!!!!

Y/N’S POV

“matt, matt, matt” the release came to me in an instant. “come on baby girl, you did so well. you ready?” the sound of his belt come undone only made me hotter. before another word could be exchanged i grab his shoulder pulling him down to the bed rolling on top of him.

“i’ll ride you till your dick is limp and your begging me to stop.” matt’s reaction only made me feel even more aroused. “anything for you baby,” matt said copying my tone of voice.

stationing my legs on either side of his i bend down to kiss him, pressing my pebbled nipples onto his bare skin, slowly grinding down onto his raging hard on.

his whines only intensify the burning seer of his skin touching mine. my hand follows in suit with my hips feeling every last vein of his dick through his boxers. “a-ah!” matt whines due to me pressing my finger into his slit.

pushing his boxers down his dick springs out slapping against his happy trail. “please please please y/n please.”

“please what, pretty boy?” i mock feeling the surge of power flow through me.

“please fuck me,” he whimpered out. for such a bad boy exterior, he sure doesn’t act like it now.

without waiting another second for him to say something else i sink down onto his throbbing dick feeling him fill me up so well. “mhhm, matty you feel so good.”

“ugh, only for you b-baby.” matt’s barely keeping it together, while i bounce up and down on his cock. speeding up every second. i begin to grind onto his pelvis as i slam down onto him with his body slightly grazing my clit in the best way possible.

“matty, im a-about to c-cum. do it with me.” his hands sneak onto my love handles as i lean up against him again, he attaches his mouth to my nipple that was dangling in front of him. his hips snap up and down, pushing insanely deep inside me. “m-matt!” a loud pornographic moan comes out of my mouth feeling the knot in my stomach break, feeling a huge relief. he follows soon after letting out a guttural grunt.

i roll down beside him, both of our deep breaths fill the room. “fuck, oh my god.” i breathed out, heaving my chest. i turn to face him, putting my hand against his chest and my head onto the arm that was stretched out near me. my curtains move and sway with the blow of my fan as i see a shadow fall off of my window, it must've just been an animal.

“i don’t think i can walk,” i confess feeling him look over to me. my hand travels to feel his scruff that he’s been growing out the past few weeks, it’s never gotten that long but it’s still very apparent. “hmm, lemme take care of you okay? we can even get mcdonald’s, im fine driving out to the further one if you're scared of people to see us.” he combs his hand through my hair, tugging a little relieving some heat and pressure my head has collected.

he pushes himself up and goes to the bathroom, turning on the shower and coming back to retrieve me.

-

this whole day it felt like people were staring at me left and right, i haven’t even been in the building for more than 20 minutes and i’ve had three people quickly lose eye contact with me when they were the one staring first.

i haven’t matt yet but i was really hoping we would be able to meet up at our usual spot, im snapped out of my trances feeling someone's hand on my shoulder squeezing it a little. i jump a little whipping my head towards the rest of the hands body, thank goodness it’s just nick. “babes, we gotta talk.” he said in a monotone voice, “why what’s up?”

“just give me a second, stop moving.” i listen to him and stop in my tracks seeing nothing wrong with today but the staring. “okay now what happened last night,” nick said now holding me down with both hands.

“well if you must know, my parents are out of town, like you knew and i stayed home studying before going out for mcdonald’s.” the lie slipped out from my mouth with ease hoping to keep matt and my secret a secret for a little longer.

“okay then maybe it isnt that serious…” nick trailed off, his shoulders were very visibly tense, not letting off since he caught up to me. “what are you talking about? but come on lemme at least go to my locker.” he reluctantly let’s go knowing i’m stronger than him.

“y/n wait– just know i have no clue if its true or if it's even you.” he says following in suit with me. “nick, still no clue what you are talking about.” my locker lock clicks a few times before i'm able to get it open.

a large barrage of papers fall out of my locker all having the same image pasted on them. my mouth drops open as i turn my head to nick. he picks one up from the top of my locker, unfolding it and making a sour face to it. “what? what is it?”

he slowly hands it to me, folding it back up before i get ahold of it.

my heart dropped.

it was a grainy picture of me riding matt last night, his hands on my hips and my face looking at him with pure lust. it was taken through my window and luckily you couldn’t see much of matt’s face and next to none of mine. but people knew, everyone knew it was me.

picking up a few other copies, some of them have the words slut and whore written on them in large words. if they printed a picture it must’ve been everywhere online, i cannot stand being here another minute.

stuffing a couple copies into my bag i storm out of the building feeling tears stinging my eyes, y/n how could you let this happen? what’s going to happen when harvard finds out about this? there goes your life, your friends, your boyfriend and your future. quadruple kill.

i sit in my car and just drive, drive to the only place that’ll bring me any kind of peace at this time. it was only a 3 minute drive from the school to the large forest that surrounded the school. i parked my car on the slightly wet gravel, hearing the crunch of the rocks beneath the tires.

i walked and walked till the trees seemed to clear a bit, the grass was wet and squished under my shoes. brunette hair peaks from behind a tree, it was like the picture was being painted in front of me this whole time. matt came here too, he came to where we met the first time.

he stumbled into the forest after getting chased by a couple of guys once he tried to start a fight.

something brushed by the bushes alerting me, a boy in an oversized hoodie over his stained red white tee. jeans scuffed and a little dirty as he flops down on the grass in front of me. i can hear him panting as his chest rose and fell with deep breaths.

he tilts his head to finally see me, i still sit there frozen with my book in hand slowly reaching for my keys being cautious incase he tries to go for me next. “i see, you know. im not gonna hurt you. i would never hit a girl.” his words are slow and very unconvincing. “do you talk? he asked, glancing at me again. he finally sat up and came closer to me, my hand clutches the house keys even harder as he steps plop in front of me.

his body collides with the tree as he sits next to me, his sweet and salty cologne fills my senses, feeling it cloud my thoughts. he takes the book from my hands and closes it looking around at it.

“everything has changed by cynthia atlan, we crave love so much we would trade anything for it, including ourselves. caleb and cam grew up together, had their first kiss together but still haven’t thought about getting together. when highschool life takes a horrible turn the two become separated and distant, caleb doesn’t wanna let cam go but life takes turns and loops. how are they able to navigate hormones, relationships and life? sounds like a hoot.” his sarcastic voice says otherwise.

“this caleb guy doesn’t sound like he really deserved her huh…” he flips through the pages quickly glancing at a couple words per page.

“well, i guess i should go, but i’ll see you around here i hope.” his smile beamed brightly as he pushed himself up and looked back at me.

“hm, maybe” it comes out almost as a whisper. his face lights up as he takes my words as an accomplishment. “yeah, i’ll see you around here, tomorrow.”

he never gave me my book back before he left and i didn’t even realise it. i guess that’s one way to make me come back

“matt?” i get out between choked sobs. i didn’t even need to see his red eyes and face to tell he’s also been crying.

he peered over to where i was looking up and down before attempting to wipe away his tears and sadness. i didn’t think twice before joining him.

his brown hair is tousled by him running his hand through it many times and his tear stained eyes tell more than what he wished.

“y/n i-i’m so s-sorry.” his tears spilt once more making any effort of wiping them away futile. he wrapped his arms around something and hugged it tight. it was my book he stole from me when we first met. “i’m so so so fucking sorry i’m such an idiot.”

“matt, please it wasn’t your fault. but i am terrified, i don’t want to ever go back to school.” my voice cracks while trying to get through that sentence. matt doesn’t even utter another word before he tugs me into him, straddling him as he wraps his arms around me in a tight hug.

“i’m so sorry y/n, i didn’t wanna face anyone after i left. when i walked in everyone was applauding and people shook my hand, i had no clue why until chris and nick texted me about it.”

his pure sincerity makes me suffocate him a little more not wanting anyone else around but him. he puts a hand around my cheek guiding it to him to kiss, i get a good look of his equally dishevelled face.

“we are so fucked.” i giggle a little thinking about how much a shit show this will be when we get back.

“is this what they mean in everything has changed that high school life would take a bad turn? because i’m happy to go through it if it means we get our happy ending. you’re my end, end game.”

“yes matt, this is everything. we are the happy ending. we are end game” my quivering lips connect with his.

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR FOUR

in which eddie munson and you absolutely hate each other's guts. what happens when your friends make a bet that you can't spend more than twenty four hours consecutively together?

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ pairings: modern!college!eddie x college!fem!reader

→ wc: 3.8+

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

4:00 ──ㅇ──────────────── 24:00

BIRDIE created a groupchat. 

BIRDIE added DINGUS, NANCE, JOHNNY, & ARGYLE 😎

DINGUS: why the fuck is my name dingus

BIRDIE: so… are we going to talk about how in love they look in that photo?

NANCE: Eddie looks like he’s going to commit a federal crime, Robin.

DINGUS: how do i change my name

ARGYLE 😎: a sign of true love my friends

BIRDIE: @NANCE SEE? he gets it. 

JOHNNY: Is this chat really necessary? 

DINGUS: guys seriously. how the fuck do i change my name?

—

HOUR FOUR - 7:00 PM

Let the record show that you don’t normally care about Lord of the Rings. You’d seen the movies out of obligation to your friends, nothing more, nothing less. You usually held complete indifference towards the trilogy. As a matter of fact, you’d nearly given Robin an aneurysm the day you’d informed them all you preferred the Hobbit trilogy over the original movies. 

Eddie, it seems, holds a similar sentiment to Robin. 

“I can’t believe you just said that to me,” he sighs dramatically, sinking into the couch and looking far more comfortable than he had previously. A bottle of cheap beer dangles carelessly in his hand. He’d decided to grab both of you one the moment this argument had begun, “You casually bring up Gandalf, and then you proceed to have the worst opinions on the greatest franchise of all time. A crime against humanity.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say sincerely through genuine laughter. 

You were laughing. You were sitting on Eddie Munson’s couch, in his apartment, laughing with him rather than at him. It was a fluke in the system, a blip in the Universe. You tell yourself it’s just the effects of the beer. 

“What’s next? You tell me you prefer Star Wars over Star Trek? Or, let me guess, you’ve never read the books?” 

He looks nice like this, at ease. This hour might be setting the track record for the longest the two of you had gone without insulting one another, and you begin to wonder why you’d never been able to hold such a civil conversation with him before tonight. The two of you might not be agreeing or seeing completely eye to eye, but there was enough agreement to keep the entire debate chugging along. 

He notices your silence as you take a sip of the beer you’ve nearly polished off, smirking around the rim of it, a bit of beer lingering at the corner of your mouth. “Oh my God. You’ve never read the books.” 

“I never said that!”

“You never said you did!”

Your mouth is open, fighting back at the curl of the corners, unable to defend yourself because he was right. “I- Who even reads anymore?” 

“Excuse me?” his voice pitches as he sits up straight suddenly, “Oh, no. There’s no way you just said that. There’s no way you don’t read.” 

You shrug, and his beer is quickly set to the side. 

“C’mon, everyone reads. You’ve got to have a guilty pleasure book.” 

“Nope,” you tuck your bottle between your thighs, and catch the way his eyes had followed the bottle before snapping back to yours, “I just prefer the movies, I guess.” 

“No one prefers the movies. You’re a goddamn liar,” he shakes his head and some of the frizzy curls fall against his collar bones rather than continuing to tickle his shoulders, “You have to read something. Romance novels, boring essays, the news. Hell, even magazines or that written porn shi-” he cuts off when you smile at the mention of magazines. “Why are you smiling like that? Stop it. It’s creepy. Do you read those porno books?”

“God, no,” you laugh. A lie - you’d certainly read excerpts from Fifty Shades of Grey he was referencing to understand what the hype was to no prevail, “Just ironic you bring up magazines. You probably consider yourself a real connoisseur, don’t you?” 

He flushes crimson. His cheeks that had tinged pink from the warmth of the beer are now flaming red. “I have no idea what you mean.”

He clearly did. 

“Right,” you drawl, “So which article in that Playboy caught your eye? The one about the psychological deep dive into what makes sex so great, or the interview with that one porn star? No, wait, I got it! It was totally the one that gave fifteen ways to drive a girl crazy-”

“It’s not a fucking Seventeen magazine,” he snaps, but the malice in his voice is dull, “There’s no lists on how to get the girl, it’s a porn ‘zine, Jesus H. Christ.” 

“I know that, do you?” you press, reveling in the brush crawling its way down the side of his neck. 

He runs a hand over his face, groaning, “I’m not even going to entertain you with an answer. Fuck off.” 

“Do you just ignore all the photos of the beautiful women?” you don’t hold back your teasing, subconsciously leaning his way as your voice lilts with sarcasm, “Ignoring all those bushes? Or maybe you just prefer the Brazilian cut?” 

“I liked it better when we were talking about your illiteracy,” he deadpans, staring straight ahead at his entertainment center. 

“I never said I couldn’t read, just that I choose not to most of the time,” you finally pull back a bit, scared to push it all too far. You pull your legs up beneath you on the couch and move the beer that has gone warm to the table on the opposite end as his, “Sue me for trying to make friendly conversation.” 

You await his expected response about how this was not friendly conversation. You start to do mental gymnastics of a way to bring up the specific model he had marked the pages of, of the eerie resemblance she bears to you and a way to push his buttons regarding it. This conversation was following your script, not his.

Or at least, it was. 

“Fine. I prefer the bush, I always find the lack of hair kind of weird,” he says, throwing you off your game effectively. He stares at you with now expecting eyes, “What about you?”

You’re grateful you’d stopped nursing the beer, or you surely would have choked, “What?” 

“What’s your preference?” he clarifies, not backing down, “On yourself, on partners. Whatever.” 

“I- I don’t- I never-” you stumble over your words, at a complete loss for an answer. It only makes him smirk as he’s now the one leaning in closer, close enough to catch the smell of his cologne concentrated on him. 

You hadn’t realized you’d adjusted the boyish smell of the apartment until this very moment. 

“See? Not so fun when you’re the one getting asked the personal questions.” 

He’s right – you shouldn’t dish out what you can’t handle him throwing back into your face. 

“Fine,” you mimic him, squaring your shoulders, “Bush.”

“On yourself or others?” 

“Myself,” there was no use in being shy now, “But also on, uh, partners. Kind of unfair to expect something from someone I wouldn’t give in return.” 

He nods in surprising consideration at the notion. His face twists as if he’s taking words you’d thrown out there so carelessly to heart, as if there’s some hidden message that even you hadn’t realized was laced in the notion. For a moment, you start to believe he’s committing the words to memory before he answers you. 

“That’s fair,” is all he says. 

A moment of intense thought for that?

“What? That’s all you’ve got to say?” you scoff, and busy yourself with the beer again out of nerves. It’s warm and bitter on your tongue, but it’s better than looking him in the eyes. Warm, honey eyes you’d never really cared to notice before.

“Yeah,” he lifts his shoulders into an offhand shrug, “I mean, what else is there to say? Like you said, you can’t expect something from someone you can’t return.” 

Another silence drags out, and this time, it’s stifling. You never thought you’d live to see the day where Eddie being quiet would bother you, but it does. The lack of words in the air is leaving too much room for thought from both of you. It’s giving you too much time to think on those warm, honey eyes and those damn dimples. Trivial things about Eddie that you don’t care to remember past tonight. 

“My friend collects vintage Playboys,” you blurt out, internally cursing yourself immediately. What a stupid conversation segway. 

Should have teased him about the dog-eared pages, you regretfully think as you dare to look his way. 

His face is surprisingly smooth, eyebrows quirking up into the frayed edges of his bangs, “Oh really?”

You nod, “Yeah. Hell of a lot more bushes in the seventies.” 

A lot less of that model you like, you silently add, once more not voicing that concern out loud.

The dimples return. Those fucking dimples. “Hm, guess I should check them out, then.” 

“She collects them for aesthetic purposes,” you continue to ramble, filling the air, unsure of why you’re even defending yourself. You’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Eddie to dissect the small piece of your life you’ve offered, “It’s… It’s really cool, actually.”  

“It sounds cool,” he agrees gently. 

The other shoe is left dangling in the air, if it even continues to exist. 

You think about his earlier question, of whether you really wanted to keep up a miserable act for the entire twenty four hours. If the last hour hadn’t already solidified your answer, you knew now for a matter of fact that he had a point, even if he did proceed to insult you after the question. You didn’t want to spend this time miserable. The passing of time came easier when it was like this, all rounded-edged banter and friendly words exchanged. When Eddie Munson wasn’t being an asshole and making personal digs at you, he was actually a nice person to have around. 

You’d never tell him that, of course.

“It’s why I collect all that,” he motions his hand towards the shelving of figurines and trinkets, “I just think it’s cool, you know? I… Uh, I sort of lied earlier. Most of that shit isn’t that expensive. But it’s not about how much it’s worth money-wise, it’s just worth a lot to… to me.” 

A glimpse of crimson, a flash of vulnerability that proves that Eddie has a heart just as you do. It beats erratically, and it can bleed just the same. 

“That makes sense,” you offer in response. You may not get it, but you wouldn’t push his buttons on the topic. They may be nothing but clutter from your perspective, but the same could be said about the vintage Playboys your friend collects. The same could be said about plenty of things that are sentimental to you. “Doesn’t it get creepy, though? Like, you bring home a girl-”

“Or a guy,” he interjects, making you smile. 

“You bring home a girl, or a guy, and you’ve just got Gandalf staring you down while you make a move. Or… Or, Darth Vader?” you squint to pinpoint another figurine, “Is that Darth Vader? Didn’t you say Star Trek is better than Star Wars?” 

“Never said that,” he points at you with a tilt of his head, “I just don’t prefer Star Wars over Star Trek.”

“Have you seen Star Wars? It’s way more entertaining.” 

“Have you seen Star Trek?” he counters, but it’s clearly rhetorical as he continues on, “I like both. Having a preference for one doesn’t mean I’m completely against the other. Besides, the light saber effects are fucking incredible.” 

“So you prefer the prequels?” you ask eagerly. 

“I guess. I mean, the original trilogy is still badass and a classic,” he stands abruptly, and you’re worried you’ve said something wrong, but he just walks over to the Darth Vader figurine to pick it up and bring it back over with him as he flings down onto the couch, now several spaces closer to you rather than opposing ends, “It’s kind of hard to beat the ‘Luke, I am your father’ reveal,” his voice dips down to a deep tone, a fairly spot on impersonation, “But it was also nice seeing his origin story.” 

“Plus Ewan McGregor and Hayden Christensen are gorgeous,” you add, almost daring to lean over and bump shoulders with him. But you don’t. You keep what little space remains between the two of you. 

“Of course,” Eddie rolls his eyes, “The eye candy is what gets you.” 

“And the cool effects!”

“Right. Next you’re going to say you definitely watched for the plot, huh?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“And the plot’s name just happens to be Ewan.” 

You bite down the grin that starts to ache your cheeks, because you’re not supposed to smile around Eddie this much. “Now you’re getting it.” 

The hand holding the Darth Vader figurine suddenly thrusts out in your direction, and you find yourself jumping a bit. When you don’t take it, he waves it around a bit, raising an eyebrow, “It doesn’t bite, you know.” 

“You said to not touch your shit.”

It’s a pathetic lie, you both know it. But he doesn’t know how scared you are to brush fingertips with him, how the way his arm being so close has electricity buzzing from the soles of your feet to the crown of your head. One small shift, one outreached hand, and your skin would brush his. 

It would surely be nuclear. An explosion with no survivors, least of all you. 

“Oh, c’mon. You’ve disregarded that rule the entire time, why start being a goody two shoes now?” he teases. 

Which is fine, except Eddie teases a certain way – with his entire body. His knee knocks into yours, he leans into your space, a boyish grin spreads over his lips. You’ve seen him dance around this kind of lighthearted conversation with everyone else in your friend group except you. It’s uncharted territory, and your heart nearly breaks out of your chest from its rapid racing.

You’re just lucky that there’s two layers of jeans between your knees. The nuclear explosion will have to wait for another day.

Instead of an answer, you reach out and grab the figurine nimbly by the small leg. Your fingertips narrowly evade Eddie’s and you’re eternally grateful and his arm retracts. You poke and prod, gently wiggling the red, flexible stick that serves as his lightsaber and pinch at the edges of his cape. 

In your silence, Eddie speaks, “It’s not a crazy collectible or anything, like I said. It probably would have been more valuable to keep it in its packaging, but one time Wheeler brought his little sister over while they were in town, and she wanted to see him out of the box, so I took him out. You know Wheeler, right?” 

You shake your head, inspecting the figurine even closer now. It still looks brand new; you’d never be able to tell that a child, presumably, had played with the ‘toy’. 

“Oh,” Eddie looks taken back, faltering slightly, “Sorry, I- I just sort of assumed that…. You, uh…. You had met Steve’s children.” 

“Oh!” your head shoots up from where your nose had been nearly pressed into the figure, taking in the detailing of the chest piece, “You mean Mike? I’ve heard about him, yeah. Just in passing, though.”

There’s more for Eddie to say, it’s clear in the way his mouth falls open with the corners quirked, but then you’re interrupted by a phone ringing. 

Your phone. 

Steve’s contact photo occupies the screen for the second time tonight, a ridiculous photo of him scowling at the camera in a yellow jumper while holding a can of pringles in front of him, one of his hands bringing a single chip to his pouting lips. 

“Let me answer it,” Eddie insists, holding out his hand as you stare down at the phone, still chiming annoyingly. 

“Were they supposed to call this often?” you ask, knowing well enough that Eddie didn’t have the answer. 

His hand waves in impatience, and you don’t put up a fight as you let him take the phone and swipe the answering bar, focusing instead on the Darth Vader discarded into your lap as he puts the call on speaker. 

“Hello?” Eddie answers in a chirpy tone. 

“How many times do we have to te- hold on. Munson?” Steve starts off aggressive, but his tone melts into confusion, “Why the hell are you answering her phone?” 

“Because I’ve murdered her,” he flatly replies, but his face doesn’t match his tone at all. 

He fucking winks at you. Your grip on Darth Vader tightens until you’re afraid you're about to snap it. 

“Not funny.”

“Not a joke.”

“Where is she, Eddie?” Steve sighs like an irritated parent, in no mood for games, “Please tell me you didn’t manage to make her lock herself in a room again.” 

“I told you. She’s gone. Sacrificed to the Dark Lord or whatever. Just got to go dump her body in the lake-”

You shouldn’t joke along with him, but you still whisper the correction of, “The canals.” 

“Sorry, I mean the canals.”

Another deep sigh. You can picture the way Steve was currently pinching the bridge of his nose at the two of you. 

“I heard her, you idiot. Now that we know you’re both clearly alive and well…. Where the hell is our photo proof?” 

You both share a look, and you quickly mouth, already?  

Eddie shrugs and mouths back, I guess. 

“We lost track of time,” you finally say out loud, still locked in eye contact with Eddie. His brown eyes are surprisingly captivating, several autumn shades all woven together. Burnt orange leaves, red apples, brown sweaters. You never thought you’d be able to see a season in someone’s irises, yet here you were, picturing it clear as day. “Let us hang up and we’ll send the photo.” 

Steve starts to speak, but Eddie’s thumb is quick to end the call. The moment your lock screen stares back at both of you, you look at the time. 

7:41. Shit. 

“Oops,” Eddie whispers as he hands the phone back over, “They really gave us quite the grace period that time.” 

“Yeah,” you breathe out, quickly opening your damn camera app. “So, how do we want to do this one?” 

Eddie thinks for a moment before he launches himself back to his side of the couch, and motions for you to toss him your phone. 

And once again, you put your faith in him, not even hesitating this time. 

It happens naturally; you both mirror each other, drawing up your knees, your sock-clad toes bumping firmly against one another. Your back is supported by the worn arm behind you, similar to how Eddie’s is, as you face him. 

He quickly angles the camera towards you, sticking a hand out into the frame while raising his middle finger. You don’t know what to do, so one hand holds up the Darth Vader as the other mimics flipping him off. 

A soft click from your phone. The photo’s taken, and you’re not even sure if you were smiling. 

“Trade,” he leans forward, one hand holding out your phone, the other reaching out for Darth Vader. 

You oblige, and go through the same process for his photo. His white socks contrast your black ones, and the corners of his lips twitch upwards no matter how hard of a line he presses them into. You can’t look at him directly, and settle for watching him through the screen as you hit the small grey button to snap the photo. 

Just as quickly as he had shoved away from you, he’s back at your side, watching you send off the photos to the group chat with a thumbs up emoji. You take a deep breath, scanning over the pair of photos until it’s confirmed that they’re delivered, and lock your phone. Your brows are furrowed in your reflection staring back at you through the black screen. 

“Do you really want to keep up the miserable act the entire twenty four hours?” Eddie’s voice echoes in your mind. 

No, you don’t. No matter how wrong this levity with Eddie feels, no matter how uncomfortable it is each time you remember that he’s meant to be the enemy and not someone to share laughter and smiles with, you don’t want to waste these remaining twenty hours being miserable. 

“What’s up?” Eddie’s actual voice echoes in real time as you continue to stare at your reflection.

“Just thinking,” you grunt. The thought of admitting your decision to Eddie is much more intimidating than simply acknowledging it to yourself. 

“Dangerous.” 

Instead of quipping something rude back, you decide to be vulnerable with Eddie. You decide to crack yourself open just a small bit, just as he had done microscopically when he spoke of his collection of items. It’s a dangerous gamble, and you don’t give yourself the chance to overthink it. 

“You were right, earlier,” you force the words out, fighting the way they try to cling onto your tongue and remain safely in your throat. 

“About… what?” He looks distrusting, and for good reason. He said plenty of things earlier - you could be preparing to remind him of any number of rude things he’d spewed. 

“About keeping up the miserable act,” you explain, turning your head to him and abandoning the phone, “You were right. I don’t want to be miserable this entire time. It… It goes by faster when we’re not about to strangle each other, believe it or not.” 

You swear you see his shoulders sag in relief. “Well, yeah, I could have told you that. I did tell you that, actually.” 

“Shut up,” you force a scowl, “My point is… I don’t know, maybe, we could try to- try to just- we could be-”

“Civil?” he finishes the sentence you stumble over. 

You nod, “Yeah. We could be civil.”

The word feels foreign on your tongue. Civility was not something you’d ever considered with Eddie, but the last hour had proven it to be possible. 

“Okay,” he nods along with you. He turns his entire body to face you, knees once again bumping as he sticks out a hand for you to shake, “Deal. We will try to be civil the rest of the time.” 

“Civil,” you repeat yourself again, more sure this time, still staring at his offered hand.

An olive branch. The opportunity to work together to survive the next twenty hours. The opportunity for his bare skin against yours. 

You think again of nuclear explosions and pulsing electricity, of open chests and matching scarlets, of smashing glasses against walls and ruined parties, of wounds healing over in scar tissues as they glow a gentle pink.

Civil. You wonder if that’s one of the words they’ll include on your gravestone as you reach out your hand and let Eddie’s palm meet yours. 

taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @amira0303 @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @tlclick73 @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777

taglist is now closed.

[fishfingersandscarves]

I don't even bother scrolling the ao3 armandaniel tag anymore, I just wait for your glorious art and then read whatever you illustrate...

That being said if you had any recommendations I'd happily take the o' knowledgeable one

ah nonnie i am happy to pull some from my meticulously vetted list

remember to read and mind all the tags

a haunting just for company by valkyrisms

"I know what a breakup looks like," Daniel says. "The better question is, why are you coming to me about it? I'm the one who broke up your little sham." "This is what humans do, don't they?" Armand asks, letting his voice drop. "Crashing on their friends' couches when there's a blip in their romances?" "Except we're not friends. We're actually very much not friends." Daniel shrugs, as if it's all the same to him. "And I can't imagine the great vampire Armand deigning himself to sleep on my fucked-up sofa. That thing's been here since the nineties." "Well," Armand only says. "I saw you have a guest bedroom."

Lie Back and Let Me Unlock You by Thunder_Puss

Independently wealthy man, early 30's, seeks arrangement with young male aged 18-25, not too muscular and no more than 200lbs (anything more would be most unmanageable) to share my apartment and affection with for 1 year until slaughter. All needs up to that point will be met -surpassingly so, I must admit, as I can be rather doting. There will be no need to consider expenses as they will be covered entirely by myself- "-There will be a rigorous interview process consisting of correspondence by email..." Daniel shook his head, laughing. "Of course, buddy. I'm sure I'll have a lot of competition." He raised his whiskey glass to his lips and wet them. "If this sounds like an amenable blah blah... Christ, this guy is verbose. I'll have to bring along a thesaurus to keep up." Daniel Molloy was 24, not too muscular, and no more than 200lbs. He was also steadfast and enterprising -when he could keep his nose clean- and had nothing more interesting to do than chase a story about an independently wealthy man with the screen name Botticelli_Angel who seemed to have the world's most taboo kink. Daniel could play the part, see where the story took him for a while. If shit got too weird, he'd dip. (Spoiler: He doesn’t dip.)

the sin and this mess we're in by ringfinger

He’s sitting on a beach he hates, trading shitty jokes with a centuries-old monster whose body count would put Ed Gein to shame and who is almost certainly also plotting to turn him into a flesh lampshade. “Don’t be dramatic,” Armand says, picking up on that thread, “I do wish you’d stop returning to that.”

how memory makes monsters into myth by blueskiddoo

“I said I’m fine, Alice,” Daniel snaps, and time itself grinds to a halt. Not literally. Ha. The things you have to specify with vampires. Daniel wishes he could laugh, but the sound is stuck somewhere in his throat, along with his heart. Now, of course, his hand chooses to be perfectly still. Why the fuck did he say that? * daniel keeps slipping up and mistaking armand for his ex-wife and the more he looks back on his memories, the less reliable they get. he's pretty sure he married alice molloy, but how do you marry a woman who apparently never existed? armand is armand about it.

chase away my heart and heartache by sahwen

With nowhere to go and an eternity ahead of him, Armand decided to work his way backwards. Or: Armand's Tour de Divorce in six acts.

to stretch the night, to fill it fuller with dreams by typefortydeductions

Armand and Daniel return to Venice to confront some of Armand's oldest demons. Louis comes with them, trailing ghosts of his own.

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. by cannibalenthusiast

“Did we call each other boyfriend? Surely not. Sounds weird even saying out loud.” “You were my beloved,” Armand says. “My lover. My boy.” “Your human pet. Your mortal fool. I get it,” Daniel says, not neglecting to notice his use of the past tense. “You want to go see a movie?”

such a pretty box (all fancy wrappings, and a bow on top) by snuffreel

“That is a fascinating shade of scarlet. In the dark, now, it almost matches the color of her blood.” Or: Armand, Daniel, and the age-old question of what's really inside a girl.

flash the camera (you're a star) by exastris_scientia

Daniel is starting to think he should put a little more thought into the promises he makes in the heat of the moment. He’d qualified it a little, sure, so technically he doesn’t have to do it. And it’s not like he needs the money, not after Louis and Armand had thrown his that’s my whore number comment back in his face by actually paying him ten million fucking dollars. But a promise is a promise, even if it’s one literally no one would expect him to follow through on. Whatever. He said he would, so he will. It might be fun. So he starts an OnlyFans.

bang it up inside by leavethebes

"Come on," Daniel goads. "Come the fuck on."

she will be your living end by kanxie

Daniel reaches his hand out for Armand to take. They wait a few moments in silence as the world stops moving around them. The animals hush. The air stills. A faint smell of smoky dust drops from the sky and lifts from the ground. Rural Armenia has always been too quiet for Armand, but this is to a level where noise itself seems to atrophy into a cold, nightmare-like state. Armand takes his hand, and the usual dampened sounds of movement are stark in this nothingness. “It's okay to admit you're scared,” says Daniel. His deep and rumbling voice. Armand keens for it in the lamplight.

Armand and Daniel are at home when the bell tolls.

Backroads to Sonoma by burntcrimson

Where the hell have you been, Daniel wonders, and why me? A bloody American summer in the belly of the AIDS crisis.

open eyes and behind your teeth by tisiphones

It wasn't fascinating, the way the boy didn't know whether to lean into the touch or away from it, confused by the comfort and the pain it offered in equal measures. It wasn't. Armand could do the same thing — did do the same thing, whenever Louis deigned to touch him at all — and Louis still thought he was boring. It couldn't be this that had captivated him. But that didn't mean it wasn't fun. --- Armand weighs the pros and cons of dog ownership.

[laiiaaa]

A NICE NIGHT — CARMEN BERZATTO

summary Carmen happens to meet a stranger at the party Claire takes him to. A brief conversation is shared during a cigarette break.

length 2k

contents literally just nonsense, not infidelity but sorta toying with the idea idk????, inside Carm’s mind (he’s a nervous wreck), reader is a food journalist bc i just think the pairing is cute, Claire slander lowkey…look i just want Carmen to meet some random person organically and bond without feeling pressured to like them :/ very self indulgent :/ baby bear :/

Carmen’s not sure why he agreed to come here: a party with people he doesn’t know and doesn’t particularly care to, too much drinking, too much conversation, too much noise.

He’s trying not to hate it completely, he really is, but there’s that nagging in the back of his mind that just screams unwanted. And maybe a little regretful, or undeserving, or unsure of himself. He wants to like it here. He wants to tolerate it for Claire. Maybe. Maybe just a few more minutes. Maybe a few with a cigarette.

He’s lucky to find the backyard more or less empty, save for red solo cups and beer bottles thrown askew—and a girl standing against the railing, back to the house to face a dark canvas. At least this is better than the mess inside.

Playing it safe, he leans against the railing on the opposite side of the steps, figures it sends a message. We don’t have to talk. Or, more accurately, I don’t really want to. He feels that familiar itch crawling down to his fingertips and pulls out his pack, pops out a cigarette and props it between his lips. He pats down his pockets. And again. He pats down his jacket. And again. 

Fuck…

“Do you need a light?”

His head turns in her direction. Did I say that out loud? She’s looking at him, expectant. He must have. “Yeah, I, uh, it must’ve slipped from my pocket or somethin’.” He can’t tell whether he’s more on edge in a crowded room or in a conversation alone.

She walks over to him in a few steps, clad in a black leather jacket that catches his eye. Her cheekbones glow in the pale yellow haze seeping outside from within the house, and her lips are glossy and a little tinted like she’s just eaten cherries. Not that he’s paying any of this any mind; she’s only offered him a glimmer of her flame. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a bright blue BIC lighter, like one of hundreds he’s lost or forgotten about over the years.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and she nods in response, turning back to the yard just a foot away this time, taking a drag. A metallic flick gives him his fill and his nerves subside only slightly. He fiddles with the lighter for a moment, watching her almost, before extending his arm. “Here.”

She peeks over her shoulders, shakes her head lightly, and looks back. “Nah, you keep it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, don’t worry ‘bout it.”

He pockets it and inhales. “Thanks.”

She hums and it quirks up into a smile. “You, uh…” Another pull and plume of tobacco. “You do this typa thing often?” Carmen pauses, and she must take it as confusion. “Y’know, like…” The hand holding the cigarette makes a few circles as she turns her body towards him. “Parties. Kickbacks?” An eyeroll, a shrug of the shoulders he thinks is playful. “I dunno what the fuck this even is.”

“No,” he chuckles, and he thinks it comes a little easier than usual. A little lighter. “I-I don’t.”

“Yeah.” She sighs and smiles back at him, looks him in the eye for a blip of time. “Me neither.” Backing up, she moves down onto the first step and sits. She offers her name nonchalantly, adds by the way to the end of the introduction while shooting a look up at him.

“Carmen,” he offers. He clears his throat and steps closer. Am I supposed to sit with her? He chooses to stay standing.

She scoots to the side until she meets the railing, turns her hips to prop her legs along the step below, crossed at the ankle. Leather boots hit an inch or two below her knees. “You can sit here if you want.” Her head pivots toward the house to eye the furniture—two dingy lawn chairs and a collapsible table—and she takes another hit off her cigarette. “Not much place else.”

He nods, smiles because he thinks it’s the right move, and tries to sit down coolly. A few beats pass and he doesn’t know what to do in the silence. “Do you know anybody here?” he asks, lending a glance before looking down at his feet.

“Not really. A friend dragged me here to get me away from work. She’s busy actually talking to people.”

He smiles to himself, a gentle one hidden behind the collar of his jacket that makes his chest warm. I know the feeling. “I dunno anyone either. I, uh…” Fingers run through his hair to the nape of his neck. “A friend dragged me here, too.” A friend… The syllable feels heavy rolling off the tongue. Is that the right word for it?

“Really.” She smiles and exhales. “How come?”

“Uh…” He lets out an airy laugh, mouth tightening into a half-smile as he looks at her while still messing with the back of his hair. “To get me away from work, I think.”

A quiet giggle makes him think he could be doing something right for once—like maybe the whole social thing doesn’t have to be so hard, and he doesn’t have to be the funniest person in the room, and he doesn’t have to try and carry the weight of a conversation. Maybe he can just be.

“What do you do for work?”

Here we go again… He lets the question simmer for a beat. It’s an uncomfortable one: he doesn’t make money, the prestige is anything but, part of him shrivels up when he has to see the reaction. Another inhale before he ashes his cigarette. “I’m a chef,” he says, though it’s quiet. Ashamed.

“Oh, really?”

His heart drops. Maybe he thought better of a situation than he should’ve. “Heh, yeah, it’s not—it’s not, uh…” It’s not that special. Half of what I do is fuckin’ pointless. No, I don’t make a lot of money. Thanks for fuckin’ asking. 

“No, no, I think it’s cool.” She tilts her head to the side, another soft thump of laughter to break the tension. She doesn’t seem to mind too much. “I’m a, uh…” She looks to her hands, snubs out the last of her cigarette that’s burnt down to the filter. “I’m a food journalist, so—or, whatever you’d call it—just a writer now, maybe? I don’t even know at this point…” 

There’s an exhalation that has Carmen thinking that for once someone feels like he does—a quick-beating heart, jittery hands, an embarrassment unique to someone whose passion is a shame to a respectable world. 

“What I’m saying is, I’m not judging.”

His brows lift, a subtle nod—half relief, half surprise. “You’re not.”

“Correct.”

A comfortable silence. A few more plumes of tobacco escape his mouth before he realizes he can’t remember the last time he smoked more than half a cigarette. He likes a quick fix, just a taste of it to make the nerves go down before getting back to work; he doesn’t take it slow, enjoy the pull, indulge in the company of someone else. He doesn’t usually have someone else. 

He looks at her again, and for a blip of time he thinks she’s gorgeous, her head gently turned to the side, a barely-there smile adding warmth to the space between them. Part of him is thankful she hasn’t gone back inside, and he doesn’t bother wondering whether she’s staying because she wants to enjoy a crisp night in a bit of quiet, or if her friend isn’t all that much of a friend, or anything else. He’s here with Claire, anyway. He’ll be back with her any moment now, and he’s not sure whether he wants that moment to come. He likes it out here, in the dim light, away from the bustle, stumbling through a conversation with someone who isn’t running miles ahead. It’s not buried under a past that’s grueling to dig up.

So he goes out on a bit of a limb and asks, “What do you write about?”

She looks at him then, mouth open only slightly like she didn’t think he’d ask. “The food industry, mostly. Ethics, culture, history, that typa stuff.” A pause before she adds, with a bit of a tanginess to it, “Not recipes, or cookbooks, or anything like that. Might not be your style.”

“Not my style?” A crinkle forms between his brow, his lips curl up at the corners, gaze shoots down to his feet again.

“What, you’re reading Gastronomica in your free time, Chef?”

He strangles out a breath that’s somewhere between a laugh and a cough, making her smile. “Gastronomica?”

He tries not to think about it too much. Even in his professional prime he wouldn’t fuck with journalists; they were too prying, too nosy, asked the wrong questions about the wrong things. Who cares where his love of cooking came from? Is it a good dish, or is it not? 

This is different though. He’s not entirely sure why. Just that it is.

She offers a shrug, and a dismissive smile to follow that slowly wanes. “Doesn’t mean much in the real world, though.”

Self-deprecating. “I get that…” Too well. “It’s the same, bein’ a chef, y’know? It’s, uh, not a lotta money.”

She hums. “Not at all. I still like it, obviously, but—y’know, my parents would’ve been a lot happier had I…” A beat of laughter, sardonic and a little self-loathing. “I dunno, become a fuckin’...a fuckin’ doctor, or somethin’.”

He smiles to himself. A doctor…Claire’s gonna be a doctor. Respectable, easy to confess about. Not a lotta shame there.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t be complaining like that to you; I don’t even know you.”

“No, no I get it. I know what you mean.” He nods and watches his hands before looking back. “The, uh, the judgment. I get that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But, uh, it…it’s nice,” he admits, looking her in the eye, “It’s nice to meet someone who’s in that—that world, y’know?”

She hums and smiles in a way that makes his chest flutter. In a way that makes him think he’s understood. In a way that makes him painfully confused as to how he even broached the topic with someone who’s little less than a stranger.

The back door opens, and light spills onto the porch. Heads turn to inspect.

“Carm?”

Claire.

He freezes before sparking up a smile. “Hey,” he answers. It’s been too long since ashing his cigarette; he flicks it to the ground, standing up and turning to face his…friend. 

She takes a few steps yet stays tethered to the door. Music booms from inside and just the thought makes Carmen’s head throb. Her gaze flickers from him, to the girl sat on the steps, and back. “You made a friend?” Her grin feels mocking, almost accusatory.

“N-No—” he shakes his head, turns to look at the girl standing up— “Just, uh…”

“Just lent him a light,” she fills in. He watches her dust off her skirt, adjust her slouched over jacket, check her phone for a second before she looks back up at him. She smiles at him and looks at Claire with the same expression. “I’m headed out, though, so…” Her face softens when she looks at him again, and he wants to think it’s for a reason. “Have a nice night.”

His mouth goes dry before he remembers his manners. “Yeah, uh, you too.” 

“Thanks.” Her boots make a satisfying click as she descends, her hand an axis around which she pivots the railing to leave through the gate. He wonders where she’s going, whether she drove here herself separate from her friend, if she’s going to wait for an Uber to pick her up. If she'll ever visit The Bear once it's open.

“So,” Claire starts, grabbing for his attention again. “Ready to go?”

He nods, mumbles a hushed Yeah, and heads toward the door. She bares her teeth in a smile as she looks him in the eye and hovers an open hand near his. He follows her back inside where the music consumes his thoughts and the bass rattles through his shoes. 

After letting the air hang between their hands for a moment, he tucks them away into his pockets, thumbing away at his new lighter.