#I think he canonically smoked one cigarette and I never let it go | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 1 year ago

Text

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre.

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp.

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?”

Or somethin’ along those lines.

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark.

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in.

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice.

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor.

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned.

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone.

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice.

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up.

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick.

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep.

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression.

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly.

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain.

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread.

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me.

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose.

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it.

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be.

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile.

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him.

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else.

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me.

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?”

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply.

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.”

He tilts his head away in dismissal.

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest.

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight.

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too.

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?”

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits.

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!”

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices.

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate.

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow.

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up.

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me.

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down.

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work.

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause.

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought.

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen; Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night.

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes.

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter.

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger.

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it.

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face.

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin.

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.”

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing.

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently.

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving.

Give me strength. Give me strength.

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe.

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly.

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me.

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact.

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive.

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation.

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?”

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace.

“Kiss me again, then.”

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth.

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second.

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid.

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own.

A switch in his brain must flick on.

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt.

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable.

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt.

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return.

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?”

He kisses the hollow of my neck.

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this.

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me.

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.”

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him.

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.”

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton.

I sigh, try not to squirm.

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing.

I nod. “Yeah.”

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering.

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips.

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back.

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world.

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine.

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra.

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut.

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip.

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper.

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead.

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl.

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point.

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else.

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me.

My cunt flexes.

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.”

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?”

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager.

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter.

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.”

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.

“Lie back.”

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth.

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger.

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit. My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse.

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers.

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here.

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away.

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see.

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him.

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders.

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him.

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside.

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound.

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out.

“It’s okay,” I reply.

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver.

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

#true detective #rust cohle #marty hart #rust cohle x reader #rust cohle x reader smut #okay cool this is a bit niche hope you liked it #this show made me question my life's purpose #the first season at least #thanks matthew mcconaughey #anybody else here like Fiona apple or what #the idler wheel TD

861 notes · View notes

bellaxgiornata · 9 days ago

Text

You Are My Sunshine [1]

Pairing: Jax Teller x Fem!Reader Word count: 5.3k [Series Masterlist] [Jax Teller Masterlist]

Summary: Recently released from a stint in Stockton Prison with a few of the Sons, Jax is still struggling with Tara returning to Chicago over a year after he killed Agent Kohn for her. When he returned to Charming, Jax noticed a coffee shop had sprung up across the street from Teller-Morrow Automotive and the clubhouse, oddly finding himself watching the strangely cheerful owner through the windows. One night he feels drawn to step inside, but he's left even more confused when the owner feels like the embodiment of sunshine itself. Jax quickly realizes that the more he visits her shop, the more at peace he finds himself.

Warnings/tags: 18+; sunshine!Reader/grumpy!Jax (somewhat), fluff, angst, friends to lovers, eventual smut, canon divergent, canon typical violence (more tags to possibly come)

a/n: Not everything will be true to canon in this little series, and this first part starts out in Jax's POV. I just couldn't resist the idea of Jax with someone so bright and bubbly bringing some happiness his way. As a note since I'm newer in the SoA fanfic scene, I always do my best to refrain from adding physical descriptions to Readers, but they are still some form of a character personality-wise. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Placing the cigarette between his lips, Jax flipped open his lighter and held the flame up to the tip of it. He was itching for something right now–a smoke, a drink, a fuck, a fight. He couldn’t quite tell the difference anymore. Everything felt the same–a neverending blur. The days had all begun to bleed together ever since he and the guys had been released from Stockton the other month.

And everything felt the goddamn same as it did before he'd gone in.

Taking a drag on the cigarette, he pocketed the lighter and leant back against the brick of the clubhouse behind him. Laughter and blaring music was pouring out of the building, the noise always far too loud to be contained by the structure. The Sons were partying again tonight, celebrating a successful closure of a deal from earlier in the day. But for some reason Jax hadn’t felt like partying. The air in the clubhouse felt suffocating, which was why he’d stepped outside into the balmy summer night for a cigarette instead.

As a trail of smoke curled its way upwards from between his lips, Jax stared vacantly across the otherwise empty lot, his eyes landing on the line of motorcycles across from him. His mind inevitably wandered back to Tara while he smoked, something it often did ever since she’d reappeared in his life over a year ago just to disappear all over again. Running away. That's what she had always done best.

He hated that he couldn’t get her out of his head even after all this time. But what he hated even more was that part of him still felt like it was holding onto the ridiculous hope that she’d come back to him. That she might wake up one day and return to Charming and somehow just accept him for who he was, who he'd always been. But that was a fucking bullshit hope and he knew it.

Jax’s jaw clenched in irritation, his fingers tightening around his cigarette as he drew it back up to his lips for another sharp inhale. It was impossible not to think that Tara had used him just to get rid of Kohn knowing that he’d be sympathetic to her situation. Knowing damn well that Jax would never have just walked away when she came to him for help. And it pissed him off that she’d played him like that–that he had let her play him like that. Especially when he’d been so fucking vulnerable after Abel had been born with all of his health complications weighing on his mind.

He had needed her in return, but Tara hadn’t cared about what Jax was going through. She hadn’t cared about the fact that until that moment, Jax had never killed like he'd killed that night for her. Every time before had always been for the club–for self-defense, retaliation. But that night? That night it had been out of love. It had been because he'd been protecting someone he cared about. And Tara had thrown him away a second time right afterwards, not even bothering to think about how any of it had affected Jax.

Movement across the street caught Jax’s attention, breaking through his spiraling, agitated thoughts. His head turned as he stood in the dimly lit parking lot, pulling the cigarette away from his lips and blowing out a plume of smoke as his eyes landed on you across the street through the large glass windows of your coffee shop.

Honest Coffee. You’d opened it at some point when he and a few of the Sons had been doing a few months in Stockton, but ever since he’d gotten out, he’d found his gaze drawn across the street to that building more times than he’d ever willingly care to admit. And he wasn’t entirely sure why, either. Jax was not the kind of guy you’d find sitting inside of a coffee shop sipping on some fancy ass, overly sweetened and overpriced bullshit cup of coffee. That wasn’t his thing. So of course he’d never actually ventured inside the shop that had opened up across the street from the clubhouse and Teller-Morrow Automotive.

But for some goddamn reason he couldn’t help but look.

The entire place stood out amongst the old, worn brick buildings beside it. You’d painted the exterior brick white and hung up some bold, black sign with the shop’s name on it above the entrance. There were even a few little tables and chairs on the sidewalk out front along with writing on one of the large glass windows that read ‘Support your local caffeine dealer.’ Which, for some goddamn reason, amused Jax to no end considering your shop was located across the street from actual arms dealers.

And there were plants. Goddamn, the amount of plants. A few large potted ones sat outside by the front doors, and there were a handful hanging over all of the large open windows. And, from what Jax had been able to see when he’d ridden past the place multiple times, you had plants on the tables inside, too. So many fucking plants it was like you were making coffee in a damn jungle. He didn’t understand why you had so many or how the hell they always looked like they were thriving. He’d often heard Gemma even compliment the goddamn plants the few times she’d stopped over to get herself coffee.

But it wasn’t entirely the plants or what you’d done to the building to make it appear so warm and inviting in downtown Charming that had him constantly staring across the street. It was you, if he was being honest with himself. You were always working there. He’d already come to assume that you were more than just a barista and that you actually owned the coffee shop with how frequently you were there. And you were attractive, that wasn’t even remotely a question. But you were nothing like the women at the clubhouse, or Redwoody, or Diosa. Where most of the women he’d encountered in his life were all rough and hard edges, you always seemed so soft and sweet. Like a warmth just radiated off of you everytime you smiled.

And you were always fucking smiling over there. Whenever Jax watched you through the windows, whether he was outside having a smoke with the guys or by himself, you were guaranteed to be standing somewhere in that shop talking to someone with a smile on your face. Despite the fact that he didn't understand how one damn person could smile so damn much in a day, he’d sometimes found himself wondering what it would be like to see that smile up close, to have it directed at himself. There was just something about it, even from this distance across the street, that made it look different from any other smile he felt like he’d been given in his life. Like it was real and not covering a hidden agenda.

Jax took a final drag on his cigarette before tossing it to the ground beside his feet, crushing it out beneath his shoe. His eyes were still on you through those large glass windows as he did. It looked like you were closing up the shop for the day. You were alone inside, the entire place empty as you swept the floor with a broom. But it almost looked like you were dancing as you cleaned, your hips swaying as your lips moved. The corner of Jax’s lips twisted upwards faintly at the sight. Who the hell were you? You were cleaning in an empty shop in downtown Charming, all alone just after sunset, across the street from the disliked and notorious motorcycle club, and you were dancing as you swept?

Who the fuck looked so happy to be cleaning?

Without even thinking, Jax pushed off the wall of the clubhouse and let his feet carry him away from the party raging behind him. An incredulous look was etched across his usually hard features as he began to cross the empty street and make his way towards your coffee shop. Eventually he came to a stop just outside of the front door, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans as he watched the back of you for a minute through the windows. Unquestionably you were inside dancing and sweeping as you listened to–what Jax assumed as he stood just outside–stupid coffee shop music. An amused huff came out of him as he shook his head at the sight.

Not even bothering to check if your shop was closed on the hours listed on the door, Jax slipped a hand out of his pocket and pulled it open. No bell chimed to alert you of his presence, meaning you continued your cleaning and soft singing to yourself with your back facing him, completely unaware you had a customer. A smug smirk tugged at his lips as he sauntered further inside the shop, making his way over to the counter near the register before resting an arm against the white countertop. He leaned his weight against it, crossing his ankles as his head cocked to the side, his blue eyes fixed on you.

Christ, you looked adorable. Not a thought he often had about women. Usually he went for the ones at the clubhouse barely dressed in much of anything who were always very eager to spend the night with him. Even a few of the girls at Diosa and the pornstars at Redwoody that had sometimes caught his eye would never have been called anything close to ‘adorable’ by Jax. But you just looked so goddamn sweet and you hadn’t even noticed him standing behind you staring.

Clearing his throat, Jax figured he should probably alert you to his presence. He didn’t want to scare you, which he had a feeling might happen if you turned around and spotted someone that looked like him just quietly watching you.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so damn happy sweeping a floor before,” Jax called out.

The way you startled at his voice, spinning around abruptly with a soft, surprised gasp while throwing a hand over your heart, had a pleased grin growing on Jax’s face. You looked so surprised with your wide eyes and parted lips. He almost wanted to laugh, but instead he bit his bottom lip and held the sound back.

“Relax, darlin’. I’m not here to rob your coffee shop,” he teased.

Almost immediately your expression shifted, the look of surprise disappearing and being replaced with a friendly smile that lit up your entire face. The sight of it did something to Jax, taking him by surprise. Because it was nighttime, you were alone in your shop, and here Jax had stood unannounced behind you, and yet your reaction was to just smile at him like he was some old friend you’d been expecting to see?

A soft laugh fell from your lips as Jax watched you turn around towards him, leaning some of your weight against the broom handle in your hands while your eyes took in the sight of him. He noticed the way you'd briefly scanned his kutte, but that kind smile remained stretched across your pretty mouth when your gaze once more met his.

“I wasn't thinking you were going to, you just startled me,” you answered. “You're extremely quiet on your feet, you know.”

Jax chuckled at the comment, his grin growing a little more amused. If only you knew the half of it.

“I may have been told that a time or two,” he replied, his eyes still taking you in without a hint of subtlety.

“Well,” you began, a playful lilt to your tone, completely unbothered by his gaze, “you know what they say about strange men showing up unannounced after closing, don’t you?”

Completely thrown by the unexpected teasing question coming from someone who looked as sweet as you, Jax couldn’t fight back the small chuckle that managed to fall out of him. “No, darlin’, I don’t. What do they say?” he asked.

Your perceptive eyes, which were still lit from the warmth of your smile, watched the way Jax continued to lean so casually against the countertop. You didn't appear even remotely fazed by his presence here and he found that so incredibly odd.

“That they want a coffee,” you answered matter-of-factly.

Jax raised a brow curiously at your response, your smile somehow widening even further on your lips. You were not what he'd expected–and he'd already expected you to be something sweet and nice. But it was almost like you were more than even just that. It felt like the goddamn sun was shining on him when you smiled at him, and he didn't know what to make of it. No one in Charming that was an outsider to the club was this kind and friendly to its members. Most of the town had a healthy fear and a good amount of disdain at this point for the Sons.

But not you, apparently.

“Thought you were closing?” Jax asked, shaking the thoughts from his mind as he eyed you curiously.

You laughed lightly yet again, turning and resting the broom against the shop’s counter now. “Didn't stop you from sneaking in, friend.” You glanced over your shoulder at him, completely genuine in your question as you asked, “So, would you like a coffee?”

An amused noise of disbelief rumbled out of Jax. You spoke to him as if he was any other goddamn customer coming into your shop. He'd never been treated so normal before.

“Guess if you're offering, sweetheart, then yes,” he finally answered. Jax moved over, lowering himself into one of the chairs at the small counter as he watched you make your way around it. “Though I can't say I'd normally be caught dead ordering anything from a coffee shop.”

Coming to a stop in front of him just on the other side of the counter, your head tilted curiously to the side as you studied him closely. Jax stiffened under the weight of your gaze. It almost felt like you were seeing right through him with the way your eyes ran over his face so carefully. As if you were really taking him in. He wondered what you saw when you looked at him, but then that damn sweet smile was plastered across your lips again before you were speaking.

“Then I'm honored to be the first. And,” you continued, the sound of your voice somehow temporarily soothing that constant burning rage inside of Jax, “I'll even make it on the house. Free of charge this time.”

Jax blinked back at you, stunned into silence for a moment. But then he shook his head, waving a hand at you. “Not gonna let you do that, darlin’. I can pay for a coffee.”

“Didn't say you couldn't, I'm just trying to spread some kindness. Looks you've had a rough day,” you replied, a softness in your voice that wasn't there a moment ago. But then the bright, playfulness was back as you pointed a finger at him. “You look like a regular coffee kind of guy. No creamer, bit of sugar. Am I right?”

“I…yeah,” Jax answered, a little taken aback at how quickly you'd read him and how easily you spoke to him. “Yeah, I am.”

“There's sweetener on that counter behind you,” you said, gesturing at something behind Jax before you turned around.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder at what you’d pointed out before he focused back on you. Watching in silence, his eyes remained on the back of you as you started on his cup of coffee, but his brows soon furrowed as he watched you work. He'd never seen someone make coffee the way you were doing now. What in the hell were you doing?

“Don't you just...have a machine, sweetheart?” Jax asked slowly.

A soft laugh came from you as you worked, your back to him as you answered. “Pour over is better than drip. I promise.” Glancing over your shoulder, you smiled at him once more. “Just trust me.”

Still baffled and confused as to what in the hell you were doing, he couldn't help but to keep watching you in silence, completely confused as to how in the hell you were making him what should be just a simple cup of coffee. He really never had stepped foot into a coffee shop before–a big chain one or a locally owned place. He didn’t even know why he’d crossed the street and come over here in the first place, especially with the party going on at the clubhouse where he was supposed to be.

Lost in his thoughts, Jax’s eyes inevitably dropped down to your ass, taking in the shape of it in your jeans. His head tilted appreciatively to the side as his attention focused on that instead of trying to understand the strange pull he'd felt to step inside your shop once and for all tonight. His tongue slipped out, running along the length of his bottom lip as he took in the unobstructed view before him. You filled your jeans out damn good.

“So you got a name, friend?” you asked, your voice breaking through his thoughts. “Or am I just supposed to keep calling you ‘friend’?”

Jax found himself mentally chastising himself at your interruption, his eyes moving back to yours as you turned around, leaning your back against the counter behind you. There was a sincere expression on your face, like you actually cared to know who he was, and that had him feeling guilty for the way he'd just been looking at you. You weren't like the girls he surrounded himself with, you were actually good. He shouldn't be eyeing you like that. There was no way in hell you'd ever be interested in a man like him, and you definitely didn't look like the one-and-done kind of girl.

“It's Jax,” he answered. “Jax Teller. You got a name, darlin’?”

A small smile curled the corners of his lips upwards when you gave him your name so easily. He had a feeling this was one of the rare times he wouldn't just immediately forget a woman's name after she'd given it to him.

“You always this cheerful, darlin’?” he asked next, unable to resist the question that had been gradually growing in his mind the longer he sat here. “Or is this some professional, friendly barista persona that you throw on when you're here at work?”

Jax watched as you turned around to the back counter against the tiled wall again, picking up the strange glass container you'd just made the coffee in before pouring it into a to-go cup for him. You were quiet as you worked before turning around and crossing the space over to where Jax was sitting. Reaching a hand out, Jax accepted the coffee from yours, but when his rough fingers brushed against your soft ones, he felt the corners of his lips twitch.

“Owner,” you said softly, your hands resting on the countertop. “Not a barista. And it's not a persona I throw on for work, this is just me.”

Jax’s brows drew together at that as he got off his chair and made his way over to the counter by the entrance to add in some sweetener to the coffee. How the hell was anyone just that friendly and cheerful naturally? Without it being a front? But as he stirred his coffee, wandering back over to the counter and taking his seat again, he noticed that you looked sincere.

“How the hell are you this friendly to everyone?” he asked, sitting back down in the chair at the counter, his coffee momentarily forgotten.

“Because I like being nice,” you simply replied.

Jax made a face at that answer. Who the fuck liked being nice all of the time? That had to be bullshit. There had to be people you didn't like, people that you weren't quite so kind towards. People like him who definitely didn't deserve an ounce of kindness.

“Bullshit,” Jax argued, eyes narrowing at you in suspicion. “There's gotta be rude customers you aren't such a ray of sunshine towards, right? Bad people you don't want in here?”

He watched as your fingers lightly drummed against the countertop, your smile smaller but not gone from your lips. Almost like it was just a permanent fixture on your face.

“I believe everyone deserves some kindness,” you answered genuinely after a moment, holding Jax’s gaze. “Because you never know the weight of what someone is carrying on their shoulders. And sometimes, all someone needs is a kind word or a smile in their day.”

Jax just sat there in silence for a moment, staring at you like you'd just said the most absolutely ridiculous thing. And honestly, he felt like you had. You looked so naive and innocent standing there behind your counter full of those goddamn plants you appeared to love so much.

“You realize who I am, right?”

The question had slipped out of Jax without much forethought, but he was curious now. Were you somehow that oblivious as to who your shop was across the street from? Was that why you were being so friendly to him?

“Yeah,” you answered with a nod, your eyes focusing behind Jax at the clubhouse through the window for a second before returning to him. “I've seen a lot of you with those…vests? Over there across the street.”

Jax couldn’t stop the chuckle that rumbled out of him. Vests. That was cute. Jesus, you really weren't part of his world at all, were you? You probably had no damn idea about the pistol in his “vest.”

“Kuttes, darlin’. They're called kuttes,” he told you as he drew his cup towards his mouth while he spoke. “They're a bit different and more important than just some vest.”

Jax took a sip of the hot coffee, entirely planning to continue his explanation about how wrong you were about the kuttes, but he was taken off guard by the drink. He hadn't expected it to taste as good as it did. He'd drank coffee before–a shitload of it most days because Jax was no stranger to sleepless nights even before Abel came into the picture–but this didn't taste like the acidic, burnt trash that he'd grown used to masking with sugar.

The sound of your delighted laugh drew his gaze back up to your face. A bright, amused smile was shining back at him. The sight momentarily had Jax forgetting about everything–the coffee, the kuttes, his anger at Tara, the clubhouse party he should be getting back to. All he could do was stare at you, taking in the sight of your smile and the way it felt like it had somehow warmed him more than that hot coffee ever could.

“Is it good?” you asked, gesturing your head towards the cup in his hand. “The coffee?”

Blinking a couple of times, Jax looked back down at the paper cup warming his hand, attempting to return to his senses. “Yeah,” he answered. Roughly clearing his throat, he snapped out of whatever it was that your smile had just done to him. “How the hell do you get your coffee to taste so damn good?”

A pleased smile spread its way across your face when Jax looked back at you. He liked the way a glimmer of something–pride, maybe–reflected back at him in your eyes.

“All about the roast and the extraction, Jax,” you replied. “Fresh, good quality beans that have just been ground make a world of difference. But I'm glad you like it. I've always said a great cup of coffee can help make a bad day better.”

Jax chuckled again, shaking off that weird sensation from a moment ago and drawing the cup up to his lips for another drink of the hot liquid. Goddamn, is this why people paid more instead of just making it their damn selves? Did it actually taste that much better from a coffee shop?

“Maybe for some people,” Jax mused as he lowered the cup, his eyes fixed on you behind the counter. “But I don't think a cup of coffee is gonna do a damn thing to fix my problems, darlin’.”

Unfazed by his attitude, you simply shrugged a shoulder in response. “You never know, maybe you just haven't had the right cup of coffee yet.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Jax's mouth. You were adorable. Naive, but adorable.

“I don't think coffee is the solution to anything other than how damn tired I am,” he disagreed.

Loud shouting from across the street caught both of your attention from the shop, the noise interrupting the conversation. Jax noticed the way your eyes darted to the window almost instantly before he sighed and looked over his shoulder behind him. A handful of the guys were outside drunk and having a smoke in the clubhouse lot, a few of the hangarounds clinging to them in their short shorts and crop tops. The sight of them out there was sobering. He knew he should get back to the clubhouse, especially now with how he was beginning to feel a little guilty that he'd interrupted you trying to close your shop.

Turning around in his chair, Jax entirely expected to see some sort of judgmental look on your face at the Sons and the croweaters across the street. It was how everyone outside of the club looked at them. But there was only a hint of genuine curiosity before your gaze shifted back to him in front of you. His brows furrowed faintly together at that, but he quickly pushed the growing questions away. It didn't matter.

“I should get back over there,” Jax told you. “Make sure those shitheads don't cause too much trouble. And I should let you finish closing up.”

He rose from the chair at the counter, his lips straightening along his face as he got to his feet with his coffee in hand. For some reason, he found he didn't really want to go back over to the clubhouse, though. Whatever frustration he'd been feeling before he had walked over here tonight had somehow just vanished within the short time he'd spent sitting here talking to you. Something no amount of drinking, fucking, or riding his bike had even managed.

“You're right, it's well past close for me now,” you admitted, glancing at the clock on the wall behind yourself.

Another pang of guilt flooded Jax at your words. It was completely his fault that you were here so late now because he had stupidly walked in here for…he didn't even know what. Except that smile returned to your face again almost immediately, as if you weren't even upset that he had interrupted your night.

“I'm curious about something, sweetheart,” Jax found himself saying, his eyes narrowing at you as he spoke. “Would you have kicked me out at some point tonight, or are you too nice for that, too?”

Another small, casual shrug came in response to the question. “Eventually, yes,” you answered. “I do need to eventually go home and sleep before coming back here tomorrow morning.” You paused, that look on your face like you were seeing straight through him briefly returning before you continued. “But you looked like you needed…something. Figured a coffee wouldn't hurt, at least.”

Jax stood there staring at you, just taking in what you had said and that warm, friendly smile. It didn't make sense–you didn't make sense. And he wasn't sure how he felt about the way you seemed to actually see him. It was unsettling.

“You're an odd one, sunshine,” he murmured.

Almost instantly, a delighted laugh met Jax’s ears as he took another sip of his coffee. As he swallowed the drink down, his own lips couldn't keep from drawing themselves upwards at the sound.

“Sunshine?” you asked, both of your brows raising back at him.

Bottom lip rolling between his teeth, Jax bit back the grin threatening to spread across his face as he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sunshine,” he repeated. “Suits you. You're so goddamn friendly and nice.”

“Well that's a new one for me,” you told him.

There was something different about the smile on your face now, but Jax couldn't quite place what it was. He'd never had a woman smile at him like that before. Not even Tara.

The thought of Tara was like a kick to the chest, a jolt of pain shooting through Jax. His expression abruptly fell, aware that all the usual thoughts he'd had about her after she had left him a second time were going to come back and hit him hard the second he walked out of your shop.

“Right. I should let you close,” he replied tersely.

Giving you a nod in goodbye, Jax's mouth felt dry as he turned around towards the exit. A confusing mix of thoughts were swirling in his mind now.

“Goodnight, Jax,” you called out behind him.

The sweet, soft tone gave him pause as he rested one hand on the door handle. His blonde brows drew together, jaw clenching tight as that familiar rage and darkness inside of him felt like it was clawing its way up his chest, threatening to spill out of him in the form of some rude comment that would knock that friendly smile off your face. He didn't deserve you treating him like this. He was a terrible person. He knew he could prove it to you with just a few simple words, but before he could open his mouth, you spoke again.

“Feel free to stop in again sometime,” you told him. “You're welcome here anytime just like anyone else, Sons’ President or not.” A soft noise almost like a little laugh came next before you added on, “Preferably when I'm open, though.”

His body went rigid at that pleasant, melodic little laugh of yours. Slowly, Jax turned to look over his shoulder at you still standing behind the counter. You were indeed over there smiling, but the urge to be an asshole just to show you what kind of man he really was–that he shouldn't be treated like everyone else–disappeared almost immediately at the sight of it. How the hell did you keep doing that? Keep disarming him so easily with just a goddamn smile?

“I'll keep that in mind,” he muttered.

Without giving you a chance to say more, confused as to the weird effect you seemed to have on him, he pushed the door open and stepped back out into the summer evening. The noise from the clubhouse across the street carried its way to Jax’s ears as he began to make his way back over to where the Sons were smoking in the parking lot. He took another drink of his coffee as he went, his thoughts briefly straying to you and that entire strange encounter he'd just had.

There was just something about you that was so damn unfamiliar to Jax. You were all light and warmth, like the embodiment of sunshine itself. Nothing like anyone he'd ever met before in his life and it intrigued him as much as it bothered him. For weeks he had been watching you through your shop window wondering what it would be like to have you smile at him like he'd often seen you smile at all of your other customers, and now he knew. It felt like the summer sun finally rising to start the day after a long, dark night. And Jax found himself oddly craving more of your warmth, suddenly not giving a shit if he got burned in the process.

#jax teller x reader #jax teller x you #jax teller #jax teller fanfiction #sons of anarchy #soa fanfiction

132 notes · View notes

itsaleiah · 4 months ago

Text

WHO ARE WE TO FIGHT THE ALCHEMY? | geto suguru

“Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me!”

in which Gojo Satoru & Shoko Ieri reminisce the relationship of their closest friends.

genre: romance, canon timeline, so much fluff, slight angst & slight suggestive content!

pairings: geto suguru x you (feat. gojo satoru & shoko ieri!)

“Ah, young love.” Gojo swooned as the young couple passed them by, holding hands and looking at each other with nothing but love. His hands placed on his cheek while his body wiggled with yearning. Shoko, who was beside him sighed, resigning to her fate as the designated person for the six-eyed nerd to annoy. (She had no choice, Nanami was out of town and he had been pestering her non-stop ever since he arrived at the morgue, barging in as if he owned the place. Shoko, with red exclamation marks over her head tried her best to calm down — even if it meant relapsing with just one hit of smoke.)

“Would be nice if you had one of those, no? So you’d stop pestering me.” Shoko deadpanned and the strongest’s head could not turn more faster than it did with a look of betrayal and faux sadness painting his face.

But then there was silence.

“..”

For once in her life, Gojo Satoru was silent.

And it shocked Shoko.

But one glance at the couple, she realized why.

“Now that I think about it.. They kind of resemble (Y/N) and Suguru, no?” He said, his tone low. Shoko’s body slumped a bit once she heard the name. “She home yet?” She asked and Gojo chuckled, shaking his head while he placed his hands on his pockets. “Nah. You know her. Megumi’s been asking a lot about her though. Says he misses her.”

Shoko chuckled and threw the cigarette away. “What can you say? She raised him, she’s practically his mother.”

“Don’t I get credit as well? I raised him too, y’know!” And there he is again, Gojo Satoru.

“(Y/N) raised the both of you.” Shoko deadpanned as she started walking back to the morgue, leaving the poor white-haired boy to follow behind.

“You’re not even going to wait for me? How mean!”

AUGUST 30, 2005, THE SUN & MOON CATALOGUE & Y/N'S DORM

“What do you plan on getting, (N/n)?” your best friend, Shoko, asked you while she laid on your bed. She was reading a book that Suguru let you borrow a while back while you busied yourselves by grabbing the materials you needed for your nightly ritual — the ritual being an hour skincare routine.

The two of you always had this tradition. (The tradition starting when you became friends and decided to go on a shopping spree using your cousin's credit card.) On every Saturday you have a girl’s night. And if by chance, very lowly though, you have a mission, you’d go there together. Shoko didn’t go on dangerous missions but in her words: “A mission with you doesn’t seem dangerous, you’d make it much more fun. And besides, I know you can protect me.” With a smirk on her face.

“What are the choices?” You asked, turning your focus from the skincare materials to her. “Hmm… we could go to the 24/7 ramen store that Satoru keeps recommending..” she started, placing her index finger and tapping it on her lips. “Or… we could go to the mall?” Her eyes landed on you, smiling lazily.

“Ramen store sounds nice. The mall would be fun too but I think it’s too late to go outside now.” You smiled apologetically and Shoko tilted her head and placed her legs on the headboard. She replied: “Never stopped the boys though?” Causing your brows to furrow in confusion. Right on time, your boyfriend messages you which gets you the answer you needed.

“What in the hell..” Shoko muttered, almost choking on her lollipop when she watched as Satoru and Suguru try to enter your dorm — the task being impossible with the amount of boxes and paper bags in their bodies. Satoru even has two paperbags in his left leg! Your eyes widened, both mortified and falling deeper in love (If that was even possible) with Suguru Geto.

Suguru smiled and was finally able to enter, his best friend sauntering from behind and hopping with his right leg trying to balance the bags. “Sorry for the intrusion girls.” He smiled with his eyes closed, ignoring the elephant in the room which was… How much did he spend for this?!

“Well, well, (N/N)! looks like you won’t be worrying for new clothes this time around!” Satoru exclaimed, a cocky grin in his face only for the grin to fall when he lost his balance and fell on the floor of your dorm, causing a loud thud to occur, the three of you already sensing a hearing from Yaga.

And just like your thoughts, five minutes later your said teacher comes in your dorm while the three of you smile sheepishly at him, his eyes already focusing on the boys.

“…I take it you all have an explanation for this?”

JUNE 2, 2005 = JUJUTSU HIGH’S LIBRARY.

“You do realize you’re staring right?” Your boyfriend, sat just in front of you teased, keeping his eyes on the book that he was reading. Lucky book to have his full attention. You were practically killing it with your stare.

“Hmm? Dunno what you’re talking about.” you feigned innocence, opting to suck your lollilop to stop your hatred annoyance at the book taking up his time unaware that he too, was staring at your candy with the same deathly stare you were giving his book.

You crossed your arms and huffed, a childish pout on your face. So what if you’re staring? Its not your fault that you’re being grouchy! He promised to spend quality time together but is now focusing on a book instead of you! Fine then, let book-chan be his new girlfriend!

“What is it?” The boy in front of you finally had enough of your sulking and sighed, closing the book that he was reading and you cheered internally, the voice in your head doing a “Yahoo!” and a somersault.

(Y/N) = 1 Book = 0

“(N/N.)” He called out again, this time his voice much more softer as he stared at you. God, you could just drown in those purple eyes of his..

“I.. want to paint your nails.” You blurted outright, his but other than his handsome face and toned body, you were focused on something else. His hands. Not in that way, of course! At least, not now.. his nails! his nails remain perfectly trimmed and it just made you want to..

“Well go ahead then sweetheart.” You gave him a dopey grin and stars circled around you, immediately pulling out the Pandora Box (a cursed tool that was inherited from your line) that you use to give what you needed to pamper and make your boyfriend into the princess that he is.

“Where’d you —“ He tried to ask but you shush him while flapping your hand around. He laughed and just nodded, not questioning the Pandora Box that you have around you.

He leaned in before taking the lollipop from your mouth and throwing it at the trash without even looking.

“Wha—!? I was eating that!”

“Too bad.”

JUNE 12, 2005 = GETO’S DORM & Y/N’S DORM

“Would you marry me if I was still a worm?” You asked suddenly causing your partner-in-crime besides you to freeze at his action. The two of you were tasked to handle a mission together — something about a couple and how the boyfriend turned into a worm. Which lead you to what was happening now.

“(Y/N)..” Was all he said and stared at you. You smiled nervously, you don’t know what’s going on in his mind! You can’t tell what the expression on his face was supposed to be. “I — “ You were about to start when..

Kachow!

“Suguru, oh no!”

ONE WEEK LATER, GETO’S DORM & (Y/N)’s DORM

“Now that I think about it, the picture you sent looks exactly like the cursed spirit that we exorcised that day.” You mumbled, feeling yourself slowly drifting to dream land again now that you have your very soft boyfriend holding you and protecting you from the cruelty of the world. He chuckled as he played with your hair, “It kinda does? Doesn’t it?” He indulged in your sleepy thoughts and his eyes softened even more when he noticed you asleep, buried in his chest.

“Hmhm.” You hummed before finally lying limp on his arms. Suguru smiled and stared at you — a thing that he'd do whenever you'd fall asleep before he does, which was every night. You were just so.. adorable. He couldn't help but pinch your cheeks as you grumbled in your sleep at the contact. He laughed slowly before pushing away a few strands of your hair, kissing your forehead. “I love you.”

June 23, 2005 = JUJUTSU HIGH, Y/N'S DORM

10 minutes later you heard a knock on your door. You smiled, “Its open!” Not having the energy to open the door for your boyfriend despite your excitement to see him. your body twitched for the sleep that you needed despite sleeping through your first class. missing something. missing somebody.

June 30, 2005 = Y/N's (And Suguru's) dorm

Just besides you in bed was your troublemaker boyfriend (roommate at this point) who was messaging Satoru, being able to see their conversation from your peripheral vision. Satoru must have sent something stupid because the boy beside you did not seem pleased, subconsciously placing his hand on his hair, something he did whenever Gojo did something stupid or embarassing.

You giggled when Suguru's face went from stress to panic then to acceptance, six eyes probably sending a picture of Waka Inoue. Sigh, figures. Satoru would never change. Even you, his dearest cousin, wasn’t spared by his… special interest and obsession with the idol. Suguru immediately and aggressively closed his flip phone, not bothering to treat it upmost care and gentleness. “What did the phone did to you?” You asked, tilting your head with a teasing smile that Suguru couldn’t help but melt into.

“Satoru was caught kissing Waka Inoue's cardboard.” He deadpanned, unaware of the pout in his face. How cute.

Your eyes widened, your mouth gaping and you couldn't help bur let out a laugh. “He — What?!” Now, now, in the few months that you had escaped from your household — all thanks to the three friends that you considered your boyfriend, best friend, and family — you had realized that Satoru was much more.. chaotic than he was back then when you were children.

Don't get me wrong, he was chaotic as well when he was a kid, he was often putting you in trouble with your aunt and uncle — though unintentionally, of course but you guessed that his constant childishness now had to be the influence of your boyfriend who helped him cope and be more childlike — a privilege that was robbed from the both of you at a young age. Despite his often irritation and embarasment towards Satoru's actions (who wouldn't be embarrassed?), he allowed him to act more freely and joke around and even join the fun sometime. Because that's how he is. Kind, gentle and loving.

You could recall the happiness in Satoru's voice when he told you that he had made a new friend, a true one and despite being locked up in the Gojo Residence and being treated like a breeding stock sold for auction, you never held any resentment towards him and couldn't help but be happy for him as well as dream and hope to experience the same happiness that he was receiving.

And now you have said freedom with the man that Satoru described to you, now your boyfriend beside you. And Satoru was right, life was better with Geto Suguru around. Geto Suguru truly was golden, wasn’t he? The question of who’s much more in love with the other — you or him? lingered around the people around you. And until now they don’t have the answer.

Because there choices were wrong. Because there was no right answer. Because one look from the both of you to one another was enough to answer the question.

“Apparently there was this Waka Inoue meet-n-greet. He’d been waiting for hours by now,

He suddenly opened his phone and started typing and to your surprise, your flip phone — that was pink and has a frog keychain gifted to you by Gojo when you first bought your phone, mind you! — started ringing the same time he sent the message. You gave Suguru a dopey grin and opened to see who this handsome man that's bothering you is.

You giggled, admiring your boyfriend. He had his hair down making him much more irresistible in your eyes. You smirked before pulling in his shirt, causing him to fall on top of you. His lips made its way to your neck, causing you to gasp sharply and giggle.

“By the way.. I bought tickets for us tomorrow.” He confessed, his eyes admiring you.

“Yeah? What movie?”

“Human Earthworm.”

“Human — what?!"

a/n: this has been in my drafts for a while now! so from the vault, tadaaaa:)

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk gojo #jjk x you #jjk geto #jjk fluff #jjk fanfic #geto suguru #geto x reader #jujutsu geto #geto x you #geto x y/n #shoko ieiri #jjk shoko #jujutsu kaisen shoko #smau #jjk smau #geto suguru x reader #anime

120 notes · View notes

rheanyraaaa · 1 month ago

Text

Robb Stark Headcannons

random thoughts some of it explicit

some of it is like modern au and some of it you could say could work in the GOT canon universe but that’s on you.

——————————————————————————

i feel like he’s a very bold guy, he takes his work seriously, and he takes YOU seriously. If you’re upset at him, even if it’s a joke, he’ll get stressed for a moment, he’ll laugh and then be like “you’re not actually angry are you?” and then you’ll fall into a fit of laughter at his silliness.

Robb’s the type of guy to sleep late and then wake up early, he prefers seeing you all snuggled into the pillow before he drifts of to sleep. When you guys were just friends you found he was always able to get out of bed and not cause a stir, but when you guys started dating you started to realise how groggy he really gets in the morning. You tell him to sleep in but he hates it, says it makes him feel lazy.

when it comes to sex, he’s more into the aftercare and makes sure that’s equally as important, he’ll never ever push you so hard, even if you’re eager to please him or give him head, he’ll look into your eyes and see the tiredness and not give you a chance. He’s definitely good in bed though, an absolute animal, he likes it when your on top though, the first few times he found it fun, he liked you all dominating made you look cute, but also it was easier to wrap his arms around you up there, but later on into your relationship he’d take the lead, only in the beginning did he let you do what you want, then it was hair grabbing and tit sucking.

When it’s christmas or holiday season, he’ll watch as you decorate the whole house, running up and down sticking fairy lights and tinsel all over, he wasn’t that handy, wouldn’t help, and you’d get angry and you’d have to drag him to come help you.

He likes it when your with kids, makes him feel all queasy inside, watching you take care of them, turns him on, then he starts thinking of getting you pregnant and that’s been on his list for time, but he better put that ring on it before you get mad about being pregnant and unmarried. You’ve had this conversation before, he doesn’t really care about getting married, he wants to, for sure, with you and no one else but he really cannot be asked about the whole child after marriage, he’s always desperate to put a pup inside you and gives you a good old puppy look when you take the morning after pill, and you give him a good smack on the arm and thats gets him back to normal.

nonetheless he’s so inlove with you, he gets sad when your not holding his hand or touching him or being in his presence and he gets angry when his siblings are all over you, he wants your attention, that’s the reason why he doesn’t like bringing you to events, you at first thought it’s because they didn’t like you, but no Robb confesses on a drunken night how jealous he gets when his family is all over you, and it makes you giggle.

Robb’s a heavy smoker, he’s always got a packet of cigarettes, you hate the stench so he never smokes infront of you, but once you caught him smoking in the garden and him putting it on the floor instead of the bin and so you threw a slipper from the window at him, and he picked it up and put it in the bin.

Robb does like his beer as well, and you’ve threatened to sell it or give it away every time he doesn’t do as you tell him, but he begs on his knees and you let him go, with those puppy eyes of his.

#asoiaf #robb stark #robb stark imagines #robb stark x reader #robb stark x y/n #robb stark x frey reader #robb stark x oc

98 notes · View notes

grudgecollector · 8 days ago

Text

Afterglow | Nam-gyu / American!Reader

You're reading part four

Story Summary: Nam-gyu gets a new job and finds himself falling for the girl behind the deli counter.

Words: 1.9k

Tags/Warnings: Nam-gyu and Thanos have PTSD, canon divergence, Thanos lives, heavy angst, fighting, references to past substance abuse, slight suicidal ideation

A/N: Oh boy oh boy, now this is a chapter I cooked up with the devious side of my brain.

This is a particularly heavy chapter, lots of angst, but in the next one I'll make up for it I promise (maybe ;))

Also I'd like to thank you guys again for the continued love on the Afterglow series. I wasn't expecting to do this many chapters, but I love them.......

MASTERLIST | Mini playlist to fit the chapter

October thirty-first, Halloween, one of the most anticipated holidays for kids and adults alike. You couldn’t help but feel a little giddy at the idea of being able to celebrate with Nam-gyu. It made you feel like a kid all over again, happily trying to plan out costume ideas, helping decorate his apartment a little bit. You were trying hard not to go overboard with your excitement.

Since Halloween wasn’t as popular in South Korea as it was in the United States, you wanted to make sure that you could give both him and Su-bong an authentic experience. Candy, costumes, make-up, scary movies. Even parties, which you were never fully privy to in the past, but willed yourself to make an exception this time around.

You jiggled your spare key a little in the lock of Nam-gyu and Su-bong's apartment, wiping your feet on the welcome mat outside before removing your shoes. Your umbrella was still dripping on the concrete just outside the door, you silently hoped to yourself that nobody would take it while you were inside.

Su-bong was sitting on the couch twirling a finger through his fresh hot pink hair, fingertips still stained in the dye. He was watching one of his many guilty pleasure shows at a low volume. His brows were knit together in what seemed to be concentration, and something a little more.

“Hey, Su-bong.” You greeted with a smile, setting down a few of the things you had brought for tonight.

His head snapped over to look at you, “Oh hey, didn’t hear you come in.” His own smile faltered a little, it was distant, the usual happy spark in his eyes replaced with something a lot more unrecognizable.

“I think Nam-gyu’s still asleep.” He answered your unspoken question flatly. His usual teasing and friendly demeanor shut away.

Strange…

All you could do was nod. Your eyes stayed on him for a beat longer than usual before you made your way down the short hallway to your boyfriend’s room.

You carefully grasped the knob to his door and opened it slowly, not wanting to accidentally wake him up. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke that lingered in the air. His room was almost pitch black if it wasn’t for the little bit of light let in by the open door.

Right on the bed was the outline of your boyfriend underneath the covers. His weighted blanket was pulled tight around his shoulder as he laid on his side, breaths coming out in slow quiet snores.

Worry tugged at your heart, it was four in the afternoon, usually he never slept this long.

You passed the threshold of his doorway, closing the door quietly behind you. A part of you didn’t want to disturb him, deep in your stomach you know you should just leave him be. But you just couldn’t, not with the thorny feeling of curiosity jabbing itself into your side.

“Nam-gyu.” You whispered softly, a gentle hand settling itself on his covered shoulder. “Honey it’s really late, you should probably wake up.”

He woke up with a startled gasp, his body going completely rigid underneath his sheets. You could hear his quickened breaths against his pillow, a tell-tale sign you recognized all too quickly. You were quick to press the switch to the lamp on his nightstand, his room being cast in a soft yellow light.

There in the bed lay your boyfriend, a trembling man under a heap of blankets. He glanced over his shoulder with worried eyes, tears already brimming. Almost a year with him and you had never seen him so utterly terrified.

Your name fell from his wobbly lips, trapped within a choked sob, he looked like a scared child seeking comfort.

You wasted no time making your way to your usual spot on the bed, sliding underneath the heavy sheets and bringing him into your chest.

The sobs he released into your shirt were raw with emotion, as if they were being torn from his body unwillingly. You didn’t care that his tears and snot were seeping through the fabric and onto your chest.

He was shaking like a leaf in your arms, hiccuping sobs forcing his fingers to grip tighter around the back of your shirt.

~~~

Su-bong clenched his jaw at the sound of Nam-gyu’s sobs. A part of him wanted to storm into his friends room and tell you to leave, that he would handle things himself. But he couldn’t… He wouldn’t do that to either of you.

You were the closest thing to normalcy Nam-gyu has had in his life since the games. Su-bong knew that more than anyone ever would.

He watched for two years as his friend dragged his body through life pathetically. Picking at his arms every now and then as the itch, the urge, that unmatchable craving started to eat at him as he was consumed by his ever present thoughts.

And once you came along, the dust finally seemed to settle. It was like watching his friend be built back into the man he met, while he wasn’t as selfish or as snide as he used to be, he finally found his smile again. His laugh no longer sounded forced.

He was finally happy.

Su-bong would be lying to himself if he said that you being around was a comfort for him too. After the things both Nam-gyu and him did back in South Korea, they both needed that reminder that innocent minds such as yours were to be cherished. Those genuine smiles and laughs, clueless to the true horrors in the world.

Nam-gyu was always so distant around the anniversary of the games. Shut off from the world, sleeping away the day just so he didn’t slip back into old habits. He always looked so hollow when he would finally show his face, dark bags under his puffy eyes, hair a mess, wearing the same exact clothes that he had been wearing four days before.

A sigh fell from Su-bong’s lips as he noticed the cries of his friend finally started to quiet down, occasional choked sobs drifting through the thin walls.

Su-bong knew that if you were going to continue being in a relationship with Nam-gyu, you had to at least be given a half truth eventually.

Given a glimpse of the extent of Nam-gyu’s gruesome, tormenting, past.

~~~

Nam-gyu felt so pathetic. His eyelids clenched so tight he was almost scared his eyes would pop in their sockets. He tried his best to will his tears away, the sobs subsiding into pitiful whimpers and sniffles.

“I’m sorry… Fuck… I-” He was quick to push himself away from you, albeit a little harsher than he intended. Sitting up quickly and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I…”

He couldn’t even form a coherent sentence, his mind twisting and spinning so rapidly. Nam-gyu brought his hands up to his face, dragging his blunt nails along the skin of his raw cheeks. He hoped that the brief bite of pain would bring him some sort of relief.

God his fucking hands… If only they could stop shaking for just a second.

Nam-gyu could feel your eyes boring into his back. He couldn’t bring himself to look over his shoulder at you. Your sweet, caring, beautiful face. It made his gut twist in a sickening way when a sudden gory image flashed in his head, an image of you in the games, dying in front of him.

“I need to go.” He suddenly breathed out, rushing towards the door before you could even think to reach out for him.

The world felt like it was spinning around him as he rushed to grab his jacket, slipping on one shoe at a time.

His mind was on one thing and one thing only.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going Nam-gyu?” Su-bong hissed, cutting through his friend’s tunnel vision.

It wasn’t an actual question, Su-bong knew exactly what Nam-gyu was planning to do. To search for that glorious hit that could make him forget everything that tormented his fragile mind.

“Dude… You can’t do this shit. Not today.”

He snatched the keys from his trembling friend’s other hand, throwing them all the way into the kitchen, completely out of reach.

“Su-bong…” Nam-gyu whispered his friend's name in warning, eyes glued to the wooden floor of their living room.

“Your fucking girl is here bro… Do not do this shit.” An accusatory finger was jabbed lightly into Nam-gyu’s chest, “You can shut me out all you fucking want, but not her.”

A tornado of emotions swirled recklessly inside of Nam-gyu. Right now all he wanted to do was forget, to wash all of his guilt away with one simple hit. That’s all he wanted. His heart was racing so fast in his chest, and his ears were ringing so loud he could barely concentrate anymore.

“Sit down and smoke some weed or some shit, but we both swore that other shit off years ago, together. You can’t go sliding back on me now.”

Nam-gyu’s hands tightened at his sides, body flushed.

Their eyes, their faces, everything was burned so brightly behind his eyelids.

“I can’t do this anymore!” He finally shouted, making Su-bong flinch a little, “I’m so fucking tired! I just- I can’t… FUCK!”

~~~

There was the sound of shattering glass in the hallway, so sharp and loud as you stared at Nam-gyu’s door. Still in shock from his sudden departure, seemingly running away from his deep seated emotions.

You threw back the covers hastily, ripping open his door and finding both boys fighting, yelling at each other in a way you had never seen them before.

A picture frame was lying broken on the floor next to the front door, glass spread throughout the living room floor. Su-bong’s foot came dangerously close to one of the shards as Nam-gyu continued to jab his finger into his friend’s chest.

“It has been so fucking easy for you! You don’t even act like it fucks with your head like it does mine!” Nam-gyu screamed at him, angry tears running down his cheeks.

Su-bong couldn’t help but scoff, pushing against your boyfriend’s shoulder to force him to back up, “You don’t think it’s been hard on me?! Why do you think I go out so often?!” He pushed again, “I can’t stand being here by myself! I can’t get that shit out of my head! So I drown it out by going to clubs and bars!” Another push, “Don’t you think I wanna go out and get so fucked up out of my mind, do something I’ll really fucking regret?!”

This time it was Nam-gyu who pushed him back, much harder than Su-bong had done to him, “Don’t fucking touch me again.” His voice was cold, bordering emotionless if it wasn’t for the slight tremble in his words.

It broke your heart to see him like this. There was so much pain built up inside of him, all you wanted to do was grab his hand and usher him back into his bedroom. Hold him until he calmed down again.

But you knew that wouldn't be possible, not with how fired up he was now. You felt hopeless, unsure how you should act under situations like this.

You had been shaken out of your thoughts finally when Nam-gyu's hand grasped the doorknob firmly, "I'm going outside for a smoke. I gotta cool off." His gaze barely flickered past your shoes when he glanced towards the hallway. "I'll be back in a bit."

#sorry lol #squid game #nam gyu #player 124 #squid game x reader #squid game x you #squid game reader insert #nam gyu x reader #nam gyu reader insert #nam gyu x you #violet writes

103 notes · View notes

sleepyeepyp3rson · 11 days ago

Text

tf141 as Hozier songs !! (x female!reader section in each)

an: used to so this with hazbin hotel characters, this was my og format before i started writing fics, decided to go back to it!! also shout out my poor best friend who had do read the spam texts of me explaining which song goes with with each character

hope this keeps yall fed until tf141!wwe au pt 2 drops :33

tw: vauge mentions of (soap's) death, canon typical mentions of violence, small references to ghosts childhood abuse, price in the gulag, religion/religious doubt, and civilian death

(masterlist)

John Price

If I ever say Too Sweet isn't Price, I want you to shoot me because THATS NOT ME!!!!

This song is him in every aspect. He's not a "good man," he knows that. He's committed atrocities, and done things no one else has the guts to do, and he does it all in the shadows.

He'd corrupt anything sweet he put his hands on. He has his boys, sure, but they're not sweet. And that's what's best for him.

He's fine where he is. Captain John Price. He doesn't need some sweet thing, it'd be bad for his health anyway.

He's watching his sugar intake.

(x reader section)

He's scared, honestly. And John Price is not a scared man. Not in the gulag, not facing down Shepherd, not staring down the barrel of a gun. He makes other people scared. He is the boogeyman. There's no way some sweet thing can make him scared.

But you do.

He thinks that at any moment, he'll break you. He knows how to nurture skill, he did it with Gaz, but he doesn't know how to be gentle. Not anymore. He tries though. Tries softening his harsh edges, makes two cups of coffee instead of one, apologizes when he's too blunt with you, tries his best to keep Captain and John separate.

He messes up sometimes, slips into commanding officer mode when you drop glasses or mess something up, but he doesn't mean to. He cups your face when you cry, tries to make it better. Just let him fix it. He can fix it, he always does.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

He gets two whole songs! (Price is my favorite but these fit a little too well for me to pick one.)

Simon's a soldier first. Hardened by the years, mean, rough, with blood stained scarred hands. He chose the military not because he was attached to his country or from a sense of loyalty, but because it was this or nothing.

He is what his father made him. A rabid dog, and given the chance, he'll tear men to bone.

His only other job was a butcher. He was made to draw blood. Made to be this Ghost, this horrid thing that haunts the nightmares of anyone unfortunate enough to hear the stories. He would retire if he could. But he can't. This is it. There is no Simon, only Ghost.

Even when the mask comes off, and he stares into the mirror, the scars covering his skin keep him there. Trap him in his own web.

He is a soldier, but he is nobody's. He's just Ghost. Livin' the dream.

(Jackie and Wilson, x reader section)

He finds you in a bar. Or, more likely, Soap finds you and won't stop talking his ear off about "That bonnie lass in the corner, just look at 'er, Lt." And through grumbles, he turns his head and-

He stops short. Guess Johnny knew him better than he thought, if he knew his type that well. And behind the very, very intense stare he's giving you, he's thinking about the future already. Maybe kids, name them Jackie and Wilson, go on coffee dates or whatever it is a bird like you likes. He'll learn.

He'll bury his mask if you ask. With his childhood bear in the backyard. Deep, deep in the mud and dirt, where he can finally keep the Ghost down and be Simon.

This world certainly isn't for him. He never got to feel like a kid, but this sudden crush has him feeling childish.

Johnny snaps his fingers in his face. "Aye! You're scarin' the lass! Stop staring."

He huffs, the smoke of his cigarette blowing out. He puts it out, and by the time he looks up, you disappeared. More of a ghost than him.

John "Soap" MacTavish

This is mostly x reader, but also also! thought the song fit his general attitude and death (HE WASN'T IN THAT URN)

He's used to working on empty. Chugging through missions and fighting his way through Hell to get back to a base with mediocre food. He likes it though. The rush of explosions, the quick decisions and actions, his team. He likes it.

But good Lord, his Mam will kill him for this. An early death is what she warned him of when he left home, with a wary pat on his cheek and a prayer.

Where is his mother's God now? Where is He as Johnny lies on the ground, the splitting pain in his head, the bullet under his skin making his vision blurry?

He sees no God. He only sees Simon, leaning over him.

He won't die. He can't. He crawls right back to his team everytime. He'll crawl home to them.

(x reader section)

You save him. Through hushed curses and Simon looming over you. You removed the bullet from his head before he could be lost.

He thinks you might be an angel, through the fever. The combat medic who saved him, the one person who could reach him in time, sent down from heaven.

He knows you've seen your fare share. He knows you don't care about what he's done, he knows you've seen the explosions and bombs and guns and came right back to your post everytime. You're just like him.

He tries to court you. To show his unending devotion. It doesn't work out well, but maybe he shouldn't have followed Simon's advice.

But one day, while he's lingering by you while you're trying to patch someone up (definitely breaking a few rules,) you take one look at him, sigh, reach in your pocket for your pen, and you write down your number on his hand.

He beams, leans down and gives you a peck on the cheek and leaves.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Gaz!!!! He gets arguably my favorite Hozier song because I LOVE HIM AWOOO AWOOOOO

Whenever he gets the adrenaline rush of battle, he feels like he's floating.

When he was in the SAS, he got that feeling often. The rush before the jump, the air wooshing around him, knowing he was doing something good. He was doing the right thing.

He's doing the right thing now too, but sometimes he doubts. Seeing his friends shoot bystanders alarms the morals floating around in the back of his head, makes him want to jump in between the barrel of the gun and the enemies and keep the peace.

But he can't. This is the right thing. They have to do the dirty work, right? The things no one else will do falls on them. Of course it's not pretty.

He takes a deep breath, and he jumps out of the heli. He falls, yet he feels like he's floating up, like the world is falling away from him.

(x reader section)

He'd do anything to keep you from falling away from him. He knows what the world is like, he knows what he's done, and while he knows there is good, he knows the bad is tenfold. He needs to keep you safe from all of it. To keep this floating feeling in his palms before it slips away.

He comes home from missions ragged, and you soothe.

And in your arms, he is weightless again. He has his wings, he's got the adrenaline he lost long ago back, he is in love.

And he finds himself craving that always. So much so, that on base between one mission and another, he's ranting about you to Price. "--everything to me. Always has been, since I saw 'er, Captain. Has me feeling lighter than a feather."

"Maybe you should get on with it and marry her then."

And that alone has him buying a ring the next day. His Captain knows best, after all.

#Spotify #tf 141 x reader #cod x reader #john price x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader

94 notes · View notes

cinematicnomad · 8 months ago

Text

cinematicnomad's steddie fic recs

i've been reading a lot of stranger things steddie fics over the past 2 months so i've decided it's time for me to make one of my requisite fic reclists, both for myself, and for anyone else interested. here's my usual reminder that i prefer lengthy fics, and that i am also a sucker for canon divergent fics (which basically all of these are bc eddie is alive post s4 obviously unless it's a time loop fic—if i tag a fic as "canon divergent eddie lives", assume this means the fic is compliant through the end of s4 except for eddie's death) and happy endings. all these fics are complete, though it's possible that if the fic is part of a series the series may not be complete. i will try to always add appropriate tags!

T = teen M = mature Ex = explicit NR = not rated

bracing for impact by writersagainstwritersblock (1/1 | 9k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; wayne POV; steve has bad parents; outsider POV

wayne watches as eddie falls hopelessly in love, with of all people, goddamn steve harrington.

it's not a big deal by aidaronan (1/1 | 11k+ | M) canon divergent eddie lives; alternating POV; mutual pining; angst w/ a happy ending

eddie survives, but his entire life is locked away in the upside down forever (his books, his dnd stuff, his guitar.) everything that wasn't on eddie when steve carried him into the ER, gone. so naturally steve starts giving him things. handing eddie back those little outward markers of who he is.

you oughta know by thisapplepielife / @thisapplepielife (1/1 | 12k+ | M) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; future fic; angst w/ a happy ending

days stretch out, long and slow. steve tries to ignore the only thing he’s sure of: eddie ran. he ran from him, ran from all of them. or: steve's having a rough couple of years, thanks for asking. compliant fic: i'm brave, but i'm chicken shit (1/1 | 13k+ | M) eddie POV; eddie centric; 1990s; recreational drug use

introduced me to my mind by alchemystique (2/2 | 16k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; mutual pining; getting together; happy ending

"eddie," wayne says, and eddie fights the urge to scream, or laugh, or cry. "i'm not running," eddie tells him, even though that is a fucking lie. "you should call him more," wayne says, and eddie rubs the meat of his palm into his eyeballs until he sees stars. doesn’t think about what 'call him more' means in context—do they talk about him? series: sweet leaf (4/4 | 16k+ | T) outsider POVs; rockstar!eddie; period typical homophobia

steve harrington's guide to making it work by eggbertsheggbert (8/8 | 23k+ | NR) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; bad harrington parents; steve is kicked out; angst w/ a happy ending

steve harrington has never been good at asking for help. especially not since he started being seen as the protector of the group. so, when his parents kick him out after discovering his sexuality, he figures he can get extra shifts, save up, and get a place before anyone realizes anything is wrong. join steve as he takes on the weight of the world. he's got it figured out, he's definitely NOT struggling, and—above all else—he can make this work.

the power of love by lacerta26 (8/8 | 27k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; outsider POVs; series; post-canon; coming out

jim gets mostly to the end of the house and then someone speaks. "i came out here for a smoke," eddie, his voice low, hushed. "yeah, but this is much more fun," steve now, almost laughing but not quite. * jim had only stepped out for a cigarette when he learns something new about steve and eddie and if this was one of the boys bringing home a girl, he’d have the exact stern words to make sure they were being a gentleman but his usual shovel talk isn't quite going to cut it because he has to let them know it's fine, more than fine, for them to be who they are, here.

hands where i can see them by SolarMorrigan / @solarmorrigan (12/12 | 29k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; multiple POV; established relationship; emotional hurt/comfort

eddie thinks that he and steve have a good thing going; being friends with benefits is honestly a pretty sweet deal. steve is a great friend, the sex is great, everything is great. except for the fact that steve hadn't realized they were only friends with benefits. except for the fact that steve thought they were in a relationship. except for the fact that eddie doesn't realize how much he'd valued that relationship until it's gone (and he's trying his damnedest to get it back).

it's alright if you love me by alivingfire (7/7 | 31k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; outsider POV; character study; 5+1; steve-centric; hurt/comfort

"oh, haven't you heard? steve harrington doesn't cry." in which steve harrington breaks up, breaks a few hearts (including his own), breaks free, and finally gets to break down. or: 5 times steve didn't cry, and 1 time he did.

off the beaten path by pukner (6/6 | 34k+ | M) canon divergent post s3; alternating POV; queer awakenings; cliffhanger ending (must read sequels)*

"i'm saying this," says steve, loudly, cutting him off, "because someone i love is, uh, gay. and i love them, but like, platonically. and also me calling you a queer might've been a little hypocritical, in retrospect." there is a long, baffled pause. "what," says jonathan, "steve, are you—are you coming out to me?" steve frowns, "oh, yeah, i guess i am. cool." or, post season 3, steve manages to figure out that he's bisexual, despite his best efforts to repress it, comes out to robin and jonathan byers of all people, and figures himself out. also, there's a cute guy who might be actually insane running the kids' dnd club and he's got his eye on him. and his bandana. too bad eddie munson hasn't had a similar revelation. he's still under the impression that he's a straight man obsessing over steve harrington for normal, extremely heterosexual reasons. OR: steve figures out he's bi before eddie figures out that he's gay. eddie still manages to fall first. series: *off-script (2/2 | 67k+ | Ex) eddie POV; internalized homophobia; mutual pining

a tattoo is worth a thousand words by writersagainstwritersblock (18/18 | 40k+ | M) canon divergent post s3; eddie POV; babysitter steve harrington; getting together

"ambidextrous, princess, it’s what makes me so good with my hands." eddie wiggled his fingers. "you mean for guitar?" steve asked, completely missing the innuendo, and also nearly knocking eddie flat at the thought that steve harrington knew he played guitar. "you stalking me or something?" eddie asked. steve frowned. "uh, no, but your band played in the middle school talent show, it's pretty hard to forget a thirteen year old screaming death metal before his voice dropped." eddie almost laughed at that. almost. "you saying i'm unforgettable, princess?" "if that’s how you want to take it, munson." eddie realized this was turning towards something far more dangerous than taunting a boy known for getting into fights, like flirting with a very, very straight boy known for getting into fights. OR after the events of season three steve shows up on eddie's doorstep asking for a tattoo... and then keeps showing up much to the dismay of eddie's traitorous heart. sequel: visible ink (12/12 | 57k+ | M) outsider POVs; firefighter!steve; tattoo artist!eddie; found family

the one in which a time loop is fucking exhausting. by badpancake (12/12 | 41k+ | T) canon compliant; time loop; steve POV; temporary character death; suicide; angst w/ a happy ending

it’s the first time in a while that he doesn’t know what comes next. he’s dove into the water hundreds of times. screamed as his flesh was torn apart, heard master of puppets in the distance and held back tears. felt max’s cold, small hand in his as she laid in the hospital bed. there are things that always happen, no matter how hard he tries: el doesn’t arrive in time. eddie dies. max is put in a coma. steve fails. they lose. "steve, how many loops have you been through?" his head is nodding, and his eyes are watery, and eddie has approached him like a spooked animal. "i lost count.” AKA: the one where steve harrington is stuck in a time loop, and eddie munson is really fucking hard to save, or: fuck volume 2, these bitches are in love.

steve the reluctant by rachtay13 (7/7 | 46k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; oblivious steve; steve plays dnd

robin raised her brows. "you know what, harrington?" she nodded her head. "yeah, you know what? i dare you to make a friend. i dare you." read for steve in denial, excessive d&d gameplay, robin as a mermaid, and eddie's glinting rings. as one reader said "the most frustratingly dense version of steve i have ever read and i am HERE for it."

you're so fucked up and i love it by genericfanatic (18/18 | 54k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; eddie POV; accidental relationship; hurt/comfort

eddie munson hated steve harrington. he'd apparently saved his life, dragged him out of hell and got him to a hospital while nancy rushed behind him working on alibis and half truths to prove he couldn’t have murdered chrissy. and here he was, doomed to live for the foreseeable future, in debt forever to steve fucking harrington. but eddie really hated how normal steve fucking was.

where do we go from here? (quietly fading away) by allandmore (9/9 | 60k+ | M) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; angst w/ a happy ending; non-graphic violence

"what's scarier than saving the world? figuring out what to do afterwards. i get it," eddie turns on his side, one shoulder on the wall, and grips the front of steve's shirt. His face is so close steve can feel the warmth of his breath. "but we've got time now. right, steve? we bought us all time. time to figure all our shit out. isn’t that what matters?" OR steve harrington struggles to find purpose after the upside down. (but maybe purpose doesn't have to be big. maybe it's helping dustin navigate sophomore year. maybe it's reminding robin to send in college admission letters. maybe it's eddie munson. maybe).

star of the masquerade by glorious_spoon (6/6 | 64k+ | M) canon compliant; eddie POV; time loop; temporary character death; angst w/ a happy ending

steve jerks awake, sitting up so quickly that robin almost topples over and staring wildly around the room. when his gaze lands on eddie, he blanches visibly. "oh, shit," he mutters. "come on, no. come on. not again." "harrington?" eddie asks slowly. he does not love the way that steve is staring at him right now. he really doesn’t. steve looks like he’s staring at a ghost, a bloodied monster, like eddie is something that should not exist in the light of day. "you good, dude?"

one size fits all by entanglednow (10/10 | 65k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; fake/pretend relationship; misunderstandings; slow burn

steve just wanted to do something nice for a friend, he doesn't mean to get eddie's ring stuck on his finger, and it's definitely not his fault that everyone he knows is jumping to conclusions.

renegades (leave a light on) by queerofthedagger (13/13 | 66k+ | Ex) canon divergent s2; eddie POV; road trip; slow burn; strangers to lovers

eddie doesn't expect to get into trouble for his recent drug business, although he probably should have. even less does he expect steve harrington of all people to save his sorry ass with a nail bat that looks awfully at home in his hands. least of all, though, does he expect harrington to insist on skipping town for a while to avoid the fallout. the winter holidays of '84 seem intent on proving him wrong on all fronts. thrown into a spontaneous road trip-slash-cut-and-run to san francisco—just until things back home blow over, munson—eddie has all the time in the world to confront such questions as: why would harrington care to help him? why does he wake up from nightmares more often than not? and, maybe most importantly, why is the former king so ready to leave hawkins behind on a whim? or: idiot boys make impulsive idiot decisions, and along the way—reluctantly but inevitably—they fall in love. a story of endless winter streets, finding family, and leaving home to find a new one.

falling without caution (people watching) by super_skam310 (10/10 | 66k+ | NR) canon divergent eddie lives; eddie POV; slow burn; eventual happy ending

steve harrington is a man that demands your attention; whether your give it willingly or not is inconsequential. eddie's camp tended to be in the latter category. OR eddie's borderline obsessive watching of steve spanning from steve's freshman year to season 4, culminating in the unfortunate realization that the king had been dethroned the moment nail bat hit monster flesh and that maybe steve harrington was lovable all along.

in the margins by foxy_mulder (4/4 | 70k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; angst w/ a happy ending; suicidal thoughts; hurt/comfort

steve is having a hard time adjusting to the new normal, after everything that went down. he doesn't want to bother his friends with his problems, though, when they've got so much weight on their shoulders already. steve stumbles on an alternate version of hawkins, where none of it ever happened. everyone’s alive, his headaches are gone, his friends actually want to hang out with him, and he’s…happy. (the party has to fight another monster. but this one doesn't prey on people's fears. it preys on their deepest desires.)

skull rock era by chattrekisses (11/11 | 71k+ | Ex) canon divergent s2; steve POV; slow burn; internalized homophobia; fix-it

steve harrington never planned for eddie munson. steve was supposed to marry his high school sweetheart, have 2.5 children, and take over the family business. he was supposed to live a blissful life on a nondescript cul-de-sac, complete with a white picket fence and a closet full of tasteful polo shirts. he was supposed to make a graceful transition between being the golden boy and being the american dream. mediocrity was what destiny had designed for steve. reality had other plans. (or, steve and eddie, against all odds, fall in love.)

roll for seduction by spikeisthebigbad (37/37 | 74k+ | Ex) canon divergent post s3; steve POV; steve plays dnd; fix-it

when steve reluctantly agreed to play dungeons and dragons with the hellfire club he expected to hate every second. he did not expect to spend his friday nights flirting with eddie munson. what if eddie and steve were dating during season 4? starts after season 3, and eventually ventures into season 4. not canon compliant.

in over my head by staymagical (16/16 | 75k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; alternating POV; head trauma; temporary amnesia

one moment, steve is entering his room, ready for bed, and the next he's in forest hills staring at a very confused very concerned eddie and the run-down remains of the old munson trailer. three hours later. thus begins a secret shared between friends, steve leaning on eddie as they try and understand and navigate this new terrifying post-concussion symptom of steve's. with vecna dead and the gates closed, it can only be steve's own scrambled brain giving up on reality. it's a race against the unknown, trying to find answers and search for solutions before it happens again and steve isn't sure how long he can keep pretending he is alright when he is anything but.

leave the light on sometimes all night by anniebibananie (7/7 | 78k+ | M) au—no upside down; steve POV; hurt/comfort; slow burn; eventual smut

june 1986 steve is lonely. he’s always been lonely, honestly. an empty house, absent parents, friends that didn’t really know him. frankly, he probably doesn’t really know himself, either. it used to be easier to ignore—between sports and parties and searching for the next girl to hang around with. then nancy wheeler told him he was bullshit. in the wreckage of the storm, he realized she probably hadn’t been that off base to call his life bullshit. [life in hawkins, indiana is boring, ordinary, no supernatural entities. steve still changes. luckily, he still makes some new friends, too. certain people are simply meant to be in the same story.]

the lathe by palmviolet (13/13 | 82k+ | M) canon compliant; steve POV; time loop; fix-it; angst w/ a happy ending; implied self-harm

"this time, do it right. this time eddie won’t bleed out in his arms, in anyone’s arms. this time, steve will do it right." — or, steve relives the day they try to kill vecna over and over, and eddie just can't seem to stop dying. steve finds this totally unacceptable. sequel: disaster / lucky (1/1 | 7k+ | M) coda; eddie POV; implied/referenced self-harm; trauma recovery

it's got what it takes by rose235b (20/20 | 83k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; friends to lovers; slow burn

“i can walk you to your car if you need to go though.” eddie’s hand stopped moving. robin’s eyes snapped towards steve as if it wasn’t a nice thing to offer. “i’ll just maybe grab the vest so i can leave it for tomorrow.” he was undeterred though. if he could help eddie munson after the worst period of his life by literally just walking, steve would walk across the entire state of indiana. eddie looked back at him, his eyes narrowing slightly as he seemed to search for something on steve’s face. “okay.” it came out softer than steve was used to eddie being. steve's on his never ending quest to make up for past mistakes. eddie's post-vecna mess of a life seems like the perfect place to start. - or, two idiots fall in love very slowly to the tune of 80s music.

(something happens and i'm) head over heels by gibbouslunation (11/11 | 94k+ | T) canon divergent eddie lives; alternating POV; head trauma; angst w/ a happy ending

eddie made a strangled disbelieving noise, expression flickering. "you are not apologizing to me right now, for like, feeling a normal way about stuff. i can’t believe you." steve pushed a shaking hand through his hair. his heart rate no longer in his ears meant he felt he could at least think a little more clearly. "maybe it was the heat. doesn’t always have to be something messed up, right?" eddie gave him a placating nod. "sure, heat exhaustion is a helluva thing." it had been happening a lot recently. the…forgetting. zonking out. whatever. he was pretty sure he was just extra exhausted, it had been a few weeks since everything but it might have just been the adrenaline or something finally wearing off. sometimes it was like he just forgot someone was speaking, or couldn’t remember for a moment what they’d been talking about. like blinking out of a fog maybe. it does not get better, in fact, it actually continues to get worse.

water closet by stillmadaboutpetra (7/7 | 103k+ | M) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; found family; slow burn; character study

steve's heard that a lot of life changing conversations usually happen in the kitchen or on the porch, but in his experience, it's the bathroom. a series of bathroom conversations (plus a whole lot of everything else) that slowly change steve, and his little world, in the wake of surviving vecna.

burned on the pyre by oklahoma (13/13 | 105k+ | Ex) canon compliant; steve POV; time loop; temporary character death; angst w/ a happy ending

"i’m gonna save your life, eddie munson." - caught in a time loop created by eleven where he is forced to relive the same day over and over, steve has to come up with a plan to kill vecna entirely while also making sure eddie and max don’t lose their lives in the process.

the beat has just begun by forgetthemoon (12/12 | 106k+ | M) canon compliant; steve POV; period-typical homophobia; fix it; slow burn

vecna dies. so does eddie. the world doesn't split open. in the aftermath, steve goes home to an empty house. well. almost empty. steve sighs, hanging his head. one more thing. then he can go to bed. the dirty towel can wait until later. he tosses it towards the bathtub without looking and turns to the sink, grabbing his toothbrush and toothpaste. when he looks in the mirror, eddie's staring back at him.

lonely is the night by intrajanelle (23/23 | 109k+ | T) canon divergent post s2; canon rewrite; eddie POV; hurt steve; angst w/ a happy ending

harrington had fallen, splayed in front of his preppy little beemer, like the jock equivalent of a fallen fucking angel. eddie, not having thought this through, watched harrington’s eyes roll to the back of his head, and said, "well, crap." or: post-season 2, eddie and steve get to know one another.

i can give you a heartbeat by soupbitchin (14/14 | 113k+ | T) canon compliant; eddie POV; ghost!eddie; happy ending; fix-it

being dead isn’t like eddie thought it would be. for starters, he’s a lot more alive than he expected. or, the ghost of eddie munson’s still hanging around, and he’d really appreciate if someone could notice him, thanks.

the end is here (and we do it a hundred times over) by placebythering (13/13 | 125k+ | M) canon compliant; steve POV; time loop; temporary death; suicide; angst w/ a happy ending

steve jolts awake, staring up into the dull beige of the camper’s ceiling. there’s a distinct brown stain, likely from a leak. the cushion of the back seat is hard against his back, and if he strains he could hear yelling and laughing from the outside. he wonders if he’s finally lost his fucking mind. —or, steve relives the day of the end over and over again.

caught in the middle, helpless again by margosfairyeye (14/14 | 131k+ | Ex) canon compliant; eddie POV; time loop; angst w/ a happy ending; canon-typical violence

fuck, eddie has been here before. the deja vu was bad enough but this is like, double, this is like deja deja vu or deja vu vu or something, this is unprecedented shit here. and eddie knows what comes next, knows like the roiling ache in his stomach that they’re going to go in, go though the portal and into the upside fucking down and didn’t they already do this? -- -- eddie loops through the time from lover's lake to his death, over and over again.

blood, love, and rhetoric by sourpastels / @lesbiansidney (18/18 | 143k+ | M) canon compliant; alternating POV; eddie lives; canon typical violence; accidental roommates

eddie believes three core things about the art of performance. 1. all the world's a stage. 2. performance is both a weapon and a shield, he wields it as both. and 3. you can’t act death. to quote stoppard: “it’s not gasps and blood and falling about—that isn’t what makes it death. it’s just a man failing to reappear, that’s all…” and eddie had gasped and bled and fell about, and was foolish enough in that moment to believe that was death. but he forgot a crucial step: he reappeared. or: steve is taking it day by day, flitting between the high school and the hospital and hopper’s cabin, locking any thoughts of eddie munson away at the back of his mind. meanwhile, eddie is just trying to get out of the upside down, with nothing but a nail-shield and the world's worst company.

sleight of hand by smithereen (19/19 | 143k+ | Ex) canon divergent post s2; alternating POV; internalized homophobia; slow burn

steve needs a weed dealer. he gets a bit more than that. (this is an AU set a couple months after the snow ball in season 2.)

take the money and run by thisapplepielife / @thisapplepielife (22/22 |143k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; alternating POV; road trip; getting together; future fic

"rules. like, there’ll be no eating in my car. you're not driving my car. no heavy metal," steve keeps listing, "you’re not picking up women and fucking them in m—" "i'll try to control myself," eddie interrupts with a quip, a smirk. fucking girls in steve’s car, or anywhere else for that matter, isn’t going to be an issue, unless something pretty fundamental shifts in him. steve continues, completely ignoring eddie, "you’ll wipe your feet. you're not dragging dirt all over my car. no hitchhikers. no cutesy road games. no smoking in the car. i'm not paying for all the gas." "ass, gas or grass, got it," eddie says, like he's taking this very seriously. he is not taking this seriously. or: road trip!

if your heart surrenders by asbealthgn (39/39 | 163k+ | Ex) canon divergent pre-s1; alternating POV; slow burn; secret relationship; angst w/ a happy ending

“that one’s on the house, okay?” eddie says, and steve opens his eyes to look back down at him. on his face is the slightest hint of concern, and something else steve can’t place. he’s still holding his hand. "thank you," steve says. he’s not sure exactly which thing he’s thanking eddie for, the weed or the hand in his or the lack of judgment at his fucked up head. he just knows that he’s grateful. eddie gives him a smile, a gentle curve of those pretty lips. "anytime, harrington."

tuesday's gone with the wind by thisapplepielife / @thisapplepielife (9/9 | 184k+ | Ex) alternate universe – no upside down; eddie POV; rock band; drug use; plane crash

corroded coffin's leased plane went down on june 13th, 1995 in the woods of louisiana. ten people on board died. eddie munson survived. before he survived, he really lived. companion series: wildflowers...and all the rest (15/15 | 151k+ | Ex) gareth POV; original female character; one shots; growing old; slice of life

gossip by jcmadgirl (11/11 | 213k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; pre-canon; sexual assault; angst w/ a happy ending

steve's whole life story, told through multiple snapshots of the events that made him into the person that he is today. or, a rewriting of stranger things from steve's POV.

i never did believe in miracles (but i've a feeling it's time to try) by cuoredimuschio (26/26 | 215k+ | M) canon divergent eddie lives; multiple POV; slow burn; mutual pining; getting together

eddie is beginning to think that, somewhere in the helter-skelter of surviving the upside down, being swarmed by possibly rabid but definitely rancid demobats, and charbroiling vecna’s slimy ass, he accidentally tripped through the wrong gate and landed in an alternate dimension. well, a different alternate dimension than the one he was already in. because steve harrington is flirting with him.

vignettes of lost connections by hardlyhalcyon (halcyonfrost) (50/50 | 229k+ | Ex) canon divergent pre-s1; alternating POV; secret relationship; angst w/ a happy ending

steve harrington and eddie munson had met long before dustin henderson dragged steve down to reefer rick's cabin. hawkins wasn't a huge town, and there was only the one high school, but the two were never friends. didn't even like each other. in all their darkest moments however, they somehow found company together. or the one where steve has depression, eddie becomes his safe space, and when eddie encounters battles he can't fight, steve reminds eddie of his own strength. a pre-/peri-/post-s4 fic with steddie before s4 events, continuing through and after.

as the world falls down by daeneryske (36/36 | 245k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; steve POV; bad harrington parents; period typical homophobia; angst w/ a happy ending

after saving eddie from the upside down, steve hides him at his house while the party concocts a plot to clear eddie's name. what steve doesn't expect is how much he likes hanging out with eddie as they get to know each other. under the looming shadow of the mind flayer threatening to destroy hawkins, steve and eddie realize they're each grappling with their own darkness, from steve's father's impossible expectations to eddie's feelings of worthlessness. their friendship develops into something more even as the party prepares to fight Vecna and his monsters one last time. steve must decide if he's ready to shrug off the rigid roles assigned to him and become his own person. eddie must learn to embrace what steve has been trying to show him every day since nearly dying: that he's worth saving.

nothing else matters by bigskyandthecoldgun (31/31 | 279k+ | Ex) canon divergent post s2; steve POV; secret relationship; period typical attitudes; everybody lives

"you ask a lot of questions about me," steve tells him. "because you're interesting," munson says, quiet and honest. "you're a lot different than what i've heard." steve hums, eyes closed. "yeah," he says, eyes fluttering open when munson takes the joint from him again, "you are, too." or: steve ditches the prom to get high.

since you've gone (i've been lost without a trace) by steddieeddie (7/7 | 300k+ | M) canon divergent s4; multiple POV; comatose steve; grief; angst w/ a happy ending

may 31st 1986, two weeks until graduation. robin, eddie, and nancy are all set to walk across the stage, eddie being given a free pass after the whole ‘almost framed for murder’ thing. the three have been trying to be excited about their graduation, but it feels almost mundane to be excited when steve wouldn’t be there. they would be sat out on a football field in the blistering heat while waiting for their names to be called, with dustin and max in the crowd, cheering them on in steve's place. there would be fake smiles plastered to all their faces, no matter how realistic they tried to make them. none of them have genuinely smiled since steve got vecna'd. sixty-five days. steve had been in a coma for sixty-five days. the doctors keep telling the party that it doesn't look good, that steve's injures had been severe, and that they didn't know if, when, he would wake up. but they refused to lose hope. he'll wake up. it's just a matter of time. OR five times steve harrington didn't wake up, and one time he did.

the most dangerous thing (is to love you) by brokebeatle (21/21 | 304k+ | Ex) canon divergent eddie lives; alternating POV; shared trauma; slow burn; period typical homophobia

"i know you care about what those little twerps think of you, and i can assure you they think way too highly of you," eddie says with a wink, and steve gives a half-hearted smirk for just a moment. "but look…i know i can’t ask you to stop worrying about those kids, so how about this? you worry about them, and you let me—actually let me—worry about you." steve pushes his hair back, and yet again, gravity instantly pulls it back down, since he’s looking at his feet. "…i don’t need anyone to worry about me." "too fucking bad. someone’s gotta do it, and it’s gonna be me." "why?" steve replies with a raspy laugh, shaking his head slowly. "why? why." eddie crosses his arms tightly across his chest, knocking his foot into steve’s again with a bit more strength. "because we’re friends, dipshit." —in which eddie's got a reason he's been planning on leaving hawkins since long before the world almost ended. the only thing keeping him in town at this point? his promise to be friends with steve harrington. and eddie doesn't break promises.

the man that i could be by ohstars (26/26 | 325k+ | Ex) canon divergent post s3; steve POV; secret relationship; period typical homophobia; angst w/ a happy ending

"steve harrington isn't straight. it's been a few weeks since he sat on that bathroom floor at starcourt with robin, where she shared her biggest secret with him and unintentionally unlocked an entirely new side of steve. since he’s had to come to terms with being open to exploring that side of him, but he's finally acknowledged that he's most likely, definitely, without a doubt into guys." -- after coming to terms that he may be queer, steve harrington does a little exploration on his own and meets the one and only eddie munson. just as things are going well and accepted the fact he's falling for eddie in their own little bubble, steve's world is shaken by a tragedy he can't quite talk about. and when the dust settles and he's nearly ready to put the pieces back together, his worlds collide when he realizes his eddie is the same eddie playing D&D with the kids. the same eddie who's now wanted for murder thanks to another upside down monster. how will he save the day when he can barely focus watching his ex mingle with his monster fighting team? series: the men we've become (4/4 | 45k+ | M) future fics; alternating POVs; domestic living

#stranger things #steddie #fic rec #steddie fic rec #reclist by cinematicnomad #reclist #steve harrington #eddie munson #i will probably continue to add to this post as time goes on #one of the benefits of a read more #but for now #these are all the fics i've read and loved #updated 6/16/24

151 notes · View notes

sim0nril3y · 1 year ago

Text

Second Meeting

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!Reader Scenario: Set a few weeks after their first meeting Simon bumps into a familiar face on another night out. Warnings: No mask Simon (It's my personal headcanon in his regular life he probably wouldn't wear it), mentions of smoking, mentions of alcohol, suggestive conversation, slight mention of smut, canon-typical swearing (I mean, it's Ghost for fuck sake!).

Just how did Simon keep getting dragged onto these nights out? His friends always seemed to talk him around enough, speaking some shit as if he owed them something because he was rarely home these days. They missed him. They wanted to spend some time with him. They wanted him to chase a pretty bird and bed her. Fuckinghell… he was beginning to think that his “friends” really didn’t have his best intentions at heart. A night in watching the football would be ideal, even going down the pub for a quiet one would be preferable to them always dragging him out-out to these dingy little clubs.

It was just a relentless assault on each of his senses. The beer was fucking abysmal. The music was too loud – if you could even call it music. The floor was sticky. It was hot. There were too many people around him. God, these birds must be desperate if they were grinding up against him. It must be because they couldn’t get a good look at him in the light. They couldn’t see the scars and burns that littered him. The tattoos that spread up his arms. Too rigid. Too regimented. Unable to just let loose anymore. Simon simply stood there assessing every little thing about the room.

Once the tension had built too high Simon was quick to excuse himself. Barging unapologetically through the crowd and outside. Fuck, he’d rather be home right now watching the highlights. He knew that Man United won their game, he wanted to watching it, but his mates had insisted that going out-out would be much more fun. Last fucking time that he would listen to them…

“Oh, we’re going to have to stop running into each other like this…” Glancing over his shoulder Simon was somewhat shocked to see you standing angelically under the streetlamps, cigarette burning between your fingers, shuffling from one foot to the other attempting to generate some body heat in another dress that was less that weather appropriate. “You stalking me, kid?” A brow quirked in you direction before you beamed a grin back at him in response, a small silent conversation between you both: so you remembered me... how could I fucking forget?

A musical laugh fell from your lips, daring a few steps closer to him, as if they were more than acquaintances, maybe something closer to friends, or more… “Bet you’d like that.” He saw the way your teeth tugged at your lower lip. Flirting. Tempting. Dangerous. “Been to every club in town just looking for you~” Your tone was teasing and Simon let out a low laugh. “I have to say. I was a little disappointed that I didn’t hear from you.”

“That right?” Simon blew his smoke away from your face as you took a few more daunting steps in his direction. “Fun game, bet you don’t even remember my name.” “Simon~” The name shot from your lips in an instant and fucking hell did he like the way it sounded on your precious, pink lips. “Impressed?” Placing your cigarette between your lips and inhaling sweetly. “There is a really easy way to get rid of me, Simon~” He hated the way his trousers grew a little tighter each time his name rolled off your tongue. “Take me for a drink.” Then shrugging your slight shoulders. “After that, if I don’t interest you, then I’ll disappear and you’ll never hear from me again.”

Those walls he’d built up where beginning to crack and crumble. How did this fuckin’ kid find a way of getting under his skin so effectively? “Fine.” The smile that broke over your face was memorable. “Dog and Duck?” It was a local boozer, one that had a bit of a reputation for being rough. “Or you bit classier than that?”

“I can be whatever you want me to be…” Your playful lilt spoke to him on a level he’d never experienced before. Moving to stand so that he was looming over you, observing that smug little look on your face. “Last chance to go find a boy your own age to play with…” It was more of a plea than it was a suggestion. There was no way that he would be able to resist you if they kept playing this game. He had done such an efficient job to build these walls up to protect other people and to protect himself. He couldn’t just allow you to come in and bulldoze them down. “But the older boys are so much more fun~” Fuck, you were snarky and witty. So much of him loved your attitude but part of it shook him to the very core. Simon knew what he needed to do; humour you. The moment you found out more about him then you would run a mile. He would just be another bad dating story to tell your friends. Until then, he would just humour you.

Masterlist | Ask | 29-08-2023

#simon ghost x reader #simon riley x oc #simon riley x reader #ghost x oc #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x you #ghost x civilian!reader

429 notes · View notes

alittlebitofloveliness · 10 months ago

Note

Well since you said it…

Ponyboy Curtis head canons and, if possible, cherry head canons 😁

I'll do Cherry later this weekend, but for now here's some Ponyboy headcanons!

-Has tried to quit smoking multiple times, usually because Darry wants him to, and never succeeded. The second he gets even the tiniest bit stressed he’s got a cigarette lit and back in his mouth. At this point he's pretty much accepted he's locked in for life

-Had to get glasses and HATES them so Darry pulled some overtime and got him contacts

-Worries a lot about Darry, not just because he tries to carry too much roofing at once and regularly hurts his back, but also because he’s terrified of what could happen if Darry was to somehow slip off a roof

-His middle class school friends think he’s REALLY cool (like Pony, they’re all a bunch of nerds) and Pony loves it because the entire gang very much does not

-His school friends are also TERRIFIED of the gang, like they see Two-bit or Steve coming to talk to him and hightail it out of there. They’re even scared of Johnny which Ponyboy thinks is hilarious (he doesn’t realize that Johnny’s dark gaze and bruises are terrifying to someone who doesn’t know how he got them)

-Thinks Curly Shepard is the funniest person alive and is determined that Curly never find that out

-Cannot for the life of him figure out why Johnny and Curly don’t get along

-Tutored Two-bit in English so he could finally graduate

-The gang is split between those who are determined to be a good influence on Pony and those who aren’t. Dally and Two-bit are the bad influences, Johnny tries to be a good influence, and Steve claims to not give a fuck but is the best influence of all in that he’s never let/asked/encouraged Pony to take part in illegal activities

-Pony thinks Curly Shepard is good looking in a dangerous way. Real good looking in fact.

-Is NOT afraid of girls no matter what that Johnny Cade says (I mean it man I ain’t SCARED of them, they just don think like us, and quit you’re laughing, it ain’t like you have any luck with girls either-)

-Is TERRIFIED of Tim Shepard

-Is also terrified of Angela Shepard because even though she has the same eyes as Curly, her's are like a snakes, all cold, emotionless and deadly, whereas Curly’s are always twinkling with ether mischief or anger

-He’s actually really good at stealing things (Two-bit taught him well), he just doesn’t do it often because he feels bad about it. But if a shop employee is rude to him he’s no holds barred and could leave with like half the store under his coat

-Can get away with literally ANYTHING in his English class after he gave Mr. Simes his theme, and uses that fact to his advantage

-Regularly falls asleep in his math class but manages to talk his teacher out of calling Darry every time

-He and Darry have the same taste in literature and regularly share/discuss books. It bores Soda to the point where he jokingly tells them to go back to arguing all the time because it was at least more entertaining to listen to

-Steps on peoples heels when he walks behind them

-HATES country music so fucking much and if Johnny plays that goddamn country record ONE more time-

-Is determined to make sure neither of his older brothers find our just how much time he spends with Curly Shepard

-Cut the blond out of his hair as soon as he possibly could, even though it made his hair shorter than he liked because he hated the light colour more than he hated the short length

-Has the worst poker face known to man but is actually decent at poker (because he cheats, but unlike Sodapop he’s good at cheating so he rarely gets caught)

#the outsiders #ponyboy curtis #curly shepard #angela shepard #tim shepard #darry curtis #sodapop curtis #johnny cade #dallas winston #headcanon #two bit mathews #steve randle #the outsiders headcanons

162 notes · View notes

narcolini · 24 days ago

Text

white room - pt. 6

johnny davis x gn!reader, 18+, canon typical themes and language, 4.8k words, 6 of ? ao3 link | previous part a/n: hi <3 this felt like a whirlwind to write so i hope it translates

The car show-wheel show-fighting and drinking show, proved to be all those things at once, making ‘em all right when it came down to it; well, Kathy most of all. But she didn’t end up going, and by the time you were looking for that bike of Johnny’s in the dark, you were almost wishing you hadn’t bothered neither. She had the right idea after all, and she did warn you, or whatever, but when have you ever picked sense over instinct?

It started off nice enough, of course, you know, drinking and eating and chatting, and couples fucking on the hoods of cars too shiny to be fucking on, and cigarettes burning like the world was getting rid of them—but you was liking it enough to not be minding about all that. Even felt good to be out somewhere new again, cause you’ve never had much of a social life since moving back here. And Johnny was handsy and handsome and quiet in all the usual ways he is, and you were feeling real good about that, too. Like you belonged there, and not only belonged there, but belonged there with him, with Johnny. Side by side, yeah, going steady and steady going.

And that Danny kid must’a thought the same thing, cause he did wanna talk to you, and he found a minute when Johnny had gone to take a leak to ask you some stuff—nothing real personal or anything, just stuff you’d expect a guy to be asking when he’s doing whatever it is he’s doing, you know?

He said, “Can I put you down as Lips for this?”

And I said, “Sure, can’t be the only one of these bozos having a boring old name, can I?”

And he pressed the little button of his tape recorder thingy, half-smoked joint on the edge of his lips, clinging on for dear life, and said, “Ah, I don’t know that anyone rolling with Vandals can be boring.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” you asked, cause he was right, in a sort of way, but you know. You like talking a certain type of talk when you’re getting to know someone, don’t you? Specially a someone with a fancy microphone sitting between his fingers like that. “Rolling?”

“You tell me,” he said, “that’s kind of the whole thing I’m after.”

“What? What people think they’re doing vs. what they’re actually doing, you mean?”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “exactly.”

“Well, I could talk your ear off, right down to the bone, on all sorts of things like that if you want me too, but I bet you ain’t got the tape for it all.”

“Oh yeah?” He took a big drag, and let it out again, though the thing looked like it had nothing but paper left in it. “How’d you and Johnny meet?” he asked.

And you know, you promised Johnny, so you just said that you met him around.

“Around?”

“Yeah, around.”

And that you weren’t nothing serious, but weren’t nothing not serious, you know?

“How’s that work?”

“Just does.”

Nothing serious, but something sort of something, and you left it at that, all right, you aren’t one to be breaking nothing without meaning to—

“You don’t wanna talk about it?”

“No, I don’t mind talking about it.”

“But Johnny does?”

“Something like that.”

You’re just spending time with each other, you said, you and Johnny, you’re just getting to know each other and enjoying the fact, that’s all. You didn’t really say nothing about anything after that, every question that went a little too far, you shrugged off, you know, real professional about it, like they do at work when something’s close to the wire and purposely so.

“Johnny ever mention how things with him and Betty ended?”

“We don’t talk about that so much.”

Come on, right, your old thing and your new thing, that’s the kinda stuff no-one’s looking to mix up, and especially not someone like Johnny, you mean, well, what’s the kid thinking asking a thing like that? You had to say something, just to put him back in his place a little.

But then you really, actually, didn’t say much else afterwards, zipped up real tight, you promise—and besides, Johnny came back round about then, and Danny seemed to sense he was suddenly being nosey to a sort of person that don’t like being nosed to, and packed up real quick. Which was a little sad, sure, cause you would’a liked to hear him ask something the both of you could answer, but he just said,

“I’ll talk to you another time, Lips.”

And that was that.

Wasn’t long after that they started fighting, which was all sorts of dumb, and made you really wish you had spent more time talking to Danny, or maybe even gone to find somewhere to take a piss yourself, because, God, what a mess that was.

If it was any other guy, or bunch of guys, it would've really got to you, would’ve maybe even scared you, but, Hell, your boys were as misplaced as the other club they were scrapping, whichever way you looked at it. Something about someone accusing Cal of scratching some bike, something real small you know, and it would’ve maybe been nothing if Benny hadn’t made it something, but he came flying in all hot and swinging, and then the whole field was a mess. All punching and rolling and swearing. Like watching a group of toddlers work out that if they folded their hand up, it could make a, what’a ya call it? A fist. Wow.

Real load of tools.

At one point, Johnny had three guys hanging off him, and if you weren’t rolling your eyes so much, you could’ve thought that was impressive, you know, holding his own like that. But it was all just nonsense, and you were getting no sort of attention or consideration or nothing.

And like you said, if Benny hadn’t come in like that, and punched the guy when he was just talking to Johnny, only talking, the whole thing could’ve been avoided. They had no real reason to be fighting like that until Benny came in hotter than anyone with any sense would’ve, and he kept going like that, right up until his hand went through a window and the blood and the glass got all mushed up into some guys face—and that’s when Johnny finally had the brains to put a stop to it.

Thank God, you remember thinking, somebody finally told the dog ’no’ before he bit down too hard.

Never seen nothing like it, and what was weirder still? Afterwards the lot of them sat down with a crate of beers, and the guy that was accusing Cal of scratching, ended up sitting right there with him, laughing about some other story from another day. Like nothing ever happened, while their fists were still bleeding and their noses were going all black and blue.

It’s whatever, right? Guys being dumb fucks, and fucking dumb about it. The way you look at it, it had nothing to do with you, still got nothing to do with you, and as long as they were only hurting other fools like themselves, you ain’t too worried about it.

But it did sort of bother you afterwards, how Johnny was with you. He went even quieter than quiet. Spoke to Benny a little, and to Brucey. Took a beer from you to hold it against his knuckles—though it wasn’t much cool by then—and that was sort of it. When you was sitting about the place later, he didn’t even sit by you; just took a lean against his bike and left you between stinking drunk 1, and stinking drunk 2, which is what you’ve taken to calling Wahoo and Corky, cause you’ve never seen them anyway different.

You figured maybe he was tired. Or embarrassed. Or hurting from the scrap like an old man should be, but none of those things explained kind of ignoring you the way he was.

You couldn’t make peace with it—you still can’t—and by the end of the evening, you were standing while they were all sitting, and Johnny was across the circle from you there, and he hadn’t looked up at you since the fire got started. Too busy drinking and listening to Cal telling some story about a pot smoker he knew back some time ago. Which really did start to bother you. Cause, what? The fire, or some story you’ve heard a million times, is more interesting to you, John?

“I think I ought to be heading out now,” you said, real loud so the conversation died a little, and you sure enjoyed killing it. “Don’t fancy camping out here,” you said.

Then everyone was looking at you, but Johnny last, and no-one said anything until Corky said, “I’ll take you.”

Which would have sure enough been a death sentence, but did you more of a favour than he even knew, cause it got Johnny groaning and pulling himself up like it was the hardest thing in the world.

“Fuck you talkin’m bout,” he muttered, “fuck you will, Corky. Come on. Come on, Lips.”

And then his arm was over your shoulder and your arms stayed crossed, cause for a second you weren’t sure you wanted him touching you like that, though that second didn’t last anywhere near as long as it should’ve. If you had any pride, that is.

“So you do remember me?” you said, trying to be smart and cutting, in that petty way you can be, when things start stinging more than they itch.

“Huh?” he said. “What’s that?”

But he was already turning you toward that bike of his, somewhere out there in the dark. Red, shining, beacon that it is. So you decided to leave it.

And maybe it was a punishment, and maybe it was just a coincidence, and maybe it was kind of sort of both—but after that, you went away for a little while.

You got some friends a ways from here that just had a baby, well, you say just, but you’re hearing it’s—she’s—starting to crawl already, so maybe your just and their just ain’t really the same thing—but they had a baby anyhow. Two people that were stuck in the same company as you, and used to eat lunch with you, but two people people that got the fuck out of there when you didn’t, and made better for it, you know. Not that you hate your job, but it won’t be the end for you, and they took a highway to the start of the end; the good end you reckon, marriage, baby, big house with a fenced in yard, and you’ve never seen them since.

So you go to them. Figure you owe it to them, for being the only ones there that were worthwhile making friends of, and owe it to yourself to do a little something or other every now and then. Can’t just be work, porch, Johnny, sleep, work, forever now, can it?

You pack up a little case, and wrap up those baby suits that are almost definitely too small by now, and stuff the lot and yourself onto a bus that goes overnight, cause you really aren’t keen on staying up for long journeys on your own.

They’re real happy, by the way. And the baby’s a dream, round and squishy and smiling like she knows everything you don’t, and it’s real good seeing them again. Felt like sitting right there at the lunch table like they never left, and if you’re honest, the whole time you’re there, you never mentioned Johnny once to them. Cause they wouldn’t…well, why would you? And you find you don’t really think about him all too much either. It’s just baby noises in the day and drinking when the house is finally quiet.

Which you think you needed, really, just for a change. Just you and them, you as you used to be, not even that long ago. Like opening the door to a neighbour who’s been away for a while.

You’re glad you went, and you’re just as glad to come back. Johnny creeps up on you on the bus home sorta, like, you’re trying to sleep, but you get thinking about him again, about how good it’ll be to see him. To kiss him. To tell him about your trip into the land of the normal people, where none of you guys are ever gonna belong.

But when you do get back, God, a week could’ve been a year.

Johnny turns up the next morning, Sunday, like he’d been coming by every day, or something, like he was coming by just to prove that you weren’t there still, only to find you actually were there, and, fuck, he looks so different. You almost feel like you don’t know him when you clock him through the window.

What it is, you see, is he’s not wearing his jacket, his colors. No leathers or patches. Got some blue shirt on and a white one underneath it, like he’s a, well, like he’s just some truck driver, or something. Some regular guy. And he’s not on his bike neither, he’s got the car, so when you’re opening that door it feels like you’re greeting a stranger.

A stranger who says, “Where’ve you been?” before you’re even off the step.

No hi, no hello, no thank God you’re back, I missed you so much, baby. Just, where’ve you been?

“Around.” You hug your arms a little. What’s going on with you—is what you wanna ask him, but he cuts you off right as you open your mouth.

“What’s that mean?” he asks, though he’s saying it like he doesn’t believe you before you even answer, like he’s mad at you, almost.

And look, you know, you’re not really in no position to be petty about it, seeing as you took a trip without saying nothing, and he’s not being any ruder than he might’ve been some other time, but it grates on you. Gets your hackles up. It’s only been a week, right? Just a week. What the hell can happen in a time like that?

“It means I’ve been around, Johnny. Seeing friends up state.” He don’t look satisfied by the answer, rattling his keys in his hands still, lingering on the street down there. So you say, “I got a life too, you know. I don’t just sit around, waiting for you to swing by.”

You don’t mean it like a real insult, just a matter of fact thing, and he seems to take it as much. Which is almost as worrying as if he didn’t, cause he really doesn’t seem like the man you left behind the other weekend.

“You could’ve told me,” he says, “could’a let me know.” And he is mad at you, you think, but he’s something else too, and he can’t even look at you really, just stares at your feet, at the step you’re waiting on.

So you drop down onto the next one, to give him a little help. “I could’ve,” you say. Probably should of, but you don’t feel like saying that part, cause, well, you’re not perfect and you don’t try to be. Who is? Gotta give yourself a little leeway sometime, don’t you?

He clears his throat. Flicks his eyes up for half a second that you don’t miss. “I was worrying about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Wrong fucking time to take off, Lips.”

He says it like he means it, in more than a boyfriend grumbling about missing a few kisses kind of way, which makes you frown, and cross your arms, and say his name once to get him to finally look at you. “Something happen?”

He shakes his head, no surprise there. Always fighting it on a reflex. Then he looks down the street to the right of him, then at his keys, thumb toying with one of them, and then he nods. It’s small, but you see it.

“You wanna come in?” you ask, and he makes a noise that’s Johnny speech for yeah, but I won’t be saying as much, so you turn back, up to the door, and he follows like he never has done before.

“Sit down. I’ll get a beer.”

Johnny grunts, but does what you say—and you hate that. You really do, you have to make yourself look away from him and into the kitchen before you can think too much on it. It’s just more fucking clues of him being all outside of himself, blue shirt, tired eyes, slack shoulders as he drops into the couch, there’s something up with him, sure, but it’s more up than it ever has been, you know. And you hope this isn’t your fault. It really can’t be all your whole entire fault, right?

Something happened, he said, something, not you, but something. And he was annoyed sure, but not cause you went away, only that you weren’t here when that something happened and he needed you to be, yeah? That sounds sort of reasonable, don’t it? Yeah, that’s all it is, you’re sure.

The fridge is empty, cause of course it is, but there’s a warm box of bottles in the back of the cupboard, so you take two of them out to him.

“Sorry,” you pass him one, “would’ve chilled ‘em if I knew.”

“S’okay.”

He pops the cap with the end of one of his keys, and then he holds it back out to you, cause he’s figured out what you haven’t—that you didn’t bring nothing to open them with—and switches his for yours, then opens that one too.

You take a swig at the same time. Him sitting, you standing. Looks real fucking weird from where you are, Johnny sitting in that beat up couch your Pops left behind. You never did think about what it’d be like to have him in here, and honestly, it’s sort of like nothing, but that sight, yeah, that’s a little strange. Johnny on the couch you opened Santa’s presents on. He’s right there in the middle, over the line where the two cushions meet, sinking in like he’s growing out of it, coming up like a loose spring, which leaves you no room as much as it leaves you plenty.

“First time you been in here,” you say.

“Yeah.”

“You like it?”

He looks at you over the end of the bottle, lips poised for another drink.

“Right. Yeah. Doesn’t matter.” You sit on the arm of the chair behind you, the big lounger that you eat, sleep, and live out of. “You don’t seem like yourself, Johnny.”

He makes you wait a little, rubbing his free palm over his face, scrubbing away at the look that won’t shift, but he does eventually tell you. Figures he can’t be sitting there saying nothing, when he’s already given you enough to know there’s something that needs saying. He says, “Benny got into some trouble.”

And of course, you say, “What sort of trouble?”

“The bad kind.” He shakes his head, making a noise like he’s got a word stuck and won’t let it out, settling on, “yeah, s’bad,” instead.

“Well, is he alright? What happened?”

“Got into it with some guys.”

You scoff. “Ain’t that normal for him?”

“Got his foot cut off, nearly. Almost all the way. The ankle.”

“Jesus Christ.” Now you’re looking like a real asshole, laughing at a man getting his foot chopped off. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, looking at the rug, “yeah. Bad.”

“Why’d someone do a fucking thing like that?”

He drinks again and wipes his lips on the back of his hand afterwards. “For wearing his colors someplace that don’t like it.”

You sit on that for a minute, because that makes sense, sure, in the world of men eating men, but from that to something going right through Benny’s ankle, is a Hell of a leap to make. Elevation takes a few steps, you know, two to tango—but from the look on his face, you figure this ain’t the sort of thing Johnny’s gonna be gossiping about. No retelling of the punches that led to the slices, that’s for sure.

“D’you know who did it?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Did you tell the cops?”

He laughs. Well, sort of laughs, more like exhales with a smile weaselling up behind it. “No, we didn’t tell the cops. We handled it. S’all done with.”

He says it with finality. With a big, fat, DO NOT ENTER sign pressed over his forehead. Done with. Handled. Don’t ask me no more things about it.

Yeah. The warm beer’s feeling even warmer now, with how cold your palms are going.

You’ve seen how clubs like the Vandals deal with arguments that aren’t really arguments, and you’ve seen how men act, when they catch a tougher man, out-toughing them. Handled never means what it would mean to regular folk, so you ask,

“What’d you do?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Johnny, what did you do?”

He looks at you long enough to decide if you’re a person worth lying to or not, you reckon, and he settles on the right half of the debate. “Burned it down,” he says.

Now it’s your turn to breathe like you’re laughing, but only, it’s in blind disbelief when it’s coming from you. “Burned what down?”

“The bar they was hanging out in. Their place. Their Spotlight.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“Benny could’ve lost his leg, could’ve been off the bike for good.”

“And you could’ve been in fucking jail, Johnny, what the fuck?”

His head shakes a little, and he sits back into your couch with the beer on the crotch of his jeans. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s done. Nothing happened and nothing will happen.”

You’re chewing on your lip, cause as much as you wanna tell him how stupid he is, how downright crazy and fucking irresponsible he is, you gotta play your next cards real neat. Cause this is the point, right? This is where the ship passes dock and you can either throw yourself overboard, or tuck in and hope the storm ain’t a bad one.

“And the guys that did it?” you churn out. “Handled them too?”

“Does it matter?”

“My God.” You put your head in your hand, massaging out the vein that’s no doubt bursting free of the skin. Handled it. They handled it. Jesus, you knew they were sort of bad, sort of righteous, and you figured they dabbled with shit the same way all big groups of dudes dabble with shit—you mean, even the kooks your Mom surrounded herself with had secrets that you could’ve never imagined, if you hadn’t been right there to hear it from them.

“You should’ve seen him, Lips,” Johnny says. “Was in a real bad way. Just for being one of us, y’know, he didn’t do nothing.”

You take another drink, having forgotten it was even an option, and honestly, you can’t even look at him for a little while. You put your eyes on the label like you’re reading it, or whatever. He thought he was gonna lose him, clearly, thought his Benny was one tendon away from disappearing on him, and look what happened. How quick he went from Johnny Davis to Johnny Strabler.

“So, what?” you say eventually. “You never wearing your patches again?”

“Nah, just when we’re on our own, y’know. Just for a little while.”

You snort. “Great plan. Gang violence eradicated from America.”

“Hey.” He says it so sharp that you look up at him. “No. Don’t say shit like that.”

“You gonna deny it?” you bite back. “I don’t see many chess clubs burning places down, Johnny.”

He doesn’t think you get it, doesn’t think your view of things is the fair view of things—you can tell by the way he’s frowning at you. “We look after each other,” he says, “wasn’t gonna let them do that to one of ours and get away with it.”

You shake your head, growing real tired of it real quick. It’s done, you suppose, like he said, everything’s all square—until some other guy pisses on their territory, that is.

“I don’t like it,” you say, which is putting it way lighter than he deserves, but you can’t think of nothing else to say. He’s set on it, the shit’s over with, and you weren’t even around when it happened. You didn’t come into it at all, really.

“So you’re gonna leave again,” he says.

“What?”

“That’s why you went away, right? After the show?”

“I told you, I was visiting friends.”

“Without saying nothing?”

You shrug. He didn’t ask if you’d be around when he dropped you off that night, and you were still icing him out for being so indifferent with you—which, you might’ve asked him about now, if things didn’t go the way they have, cause if he was regretting you seeing him scrapping with a bunch of fools in the grass, then he sure got over that quick. Sitting there, drinking your beer, talking about burning bars down and ‘handling’ guys for hurting what’s ours.

“If you don’t…if you don’t want this—“

“I never said I didn’t want nothing,” you cut him off, real snappy with it. “I’m just thinking, is all. Jeez.”

He nods, looking a little bit hurt, like a pup that caught Mom’s canine tooth, but you kinda think he deserves it. Just this once. “I had to do something,” he says. “Make a point.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“S’better that they’re scared of us.”

“Johnny,” you wince a little, “I really can’t be dealing with you saying things like that. It’s not—it’s not you.”

He hums one of his hums, and it’s not agreeing or disagreeing at all, it’s something completely flat. Undecided. Something he does just to save him from saying anything else.

“Benny’s gonna be alright?” you ask, cause you’re trying to shake all the drops of the conversation off of you, tick all the boxes and shut it up for good. “He can walk still?”

“Yeah,” Johnny nods, then clears his throat, “Doc says it’ll take a bit, but, yeah. S’gone be alright.”

“Well, that’s something.”

Benny will walk again, meaning Benny will ride again, meaning Johnny really shouldn’t go doing something stupid again. At least not on that scale, you hope. You wish it wasn’t hooked up that way, but well, wishing never got you nothing so far. If Benny is what makes him tick, then God, keep it ticking.

“You wanna go get some food?” you suggest, watching him finish the last of his beer. Cause he did say he’d been worrying, you remember, when he first got here, and maybe he really had been swinging by every day just to check on you. “Feel like I should at least make up for my, y’know, disappearing on you.”

And he really should make up for—

“Nah, I gotta head off.”

“Oh?”

“Gotta go get the girls. Said I’d take them shopping.” He stands, leaving the bottle on the floor by his feet, and wipes his palms down his stomach as he stretches. “Stopped by just to—yeah. I’m glad you’re back.”

You nod, standing too, in that awkward, expected of you way, that people do when guests are making an exit.

“Glad you’re sticking around,” he says, “even with all the…”

“Yeah.”

With all the violence and bullshit that should have you running for the fucking hills. But the way you see it, you spent all your childhood in those hills, and a long while after that too, and you really don’t feel like making your way back there anytime soon. First time in a long while that you’ve had somewhere flat to plant your feet.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him. Meaning now, and in the bigger sense, too, which he gets. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he puts his arm up to touch your waist, cause you’re far enough that he can’t reach anything else. “Come by after you drop them home?”

His eyebrow quirks a little. “Yeah? It’ll be late.”

“I’ll be up.”

“Alright, sure. I’ll come.”

And you’re glad of that, cause as he leaves, he’s still sort of looking like a stranger to you—even more so than he did when he got in here—and you got a mighty need to find out where that man of yours went. Where he’s staying, somewhere under those new clothes of his. You’d wait up all night, for him to come back around, if it meant finding him again.

____________

taglist: @drabbles-mc @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa @raven-black102 @lyralu91 @hoodeddreams13 @businesscalamity

#johnny davis x reader #johnny davis fanfiction #the bikeriders x reader #the bikeriders fanfiction #johnny davis #i feel like i should make my posts prettier but alas #bickering is pretty? smile?#<3<3

30 notes · View notes

aggro-my-beloved · 6 months ago

Text

Prom? (Shaw Pack x Listeners Imagine)

note: I just made an A03 to post my works on as well, please feel free to follow and interact with my stuff there if that's more comfortable for you! (@aggro_my_beloved)--I also realize it's not prom season, but I never got to go to mine and am simply coping. TLDR: let me live :)

pairings: miloxdarlin' (non-canon), asherxarden (non-canon), davidxasher? (non-canon) davidxangel, miloxsweetheart, samxdarlin', asherxbabe

warning(s): mentions of childhood trauma, gambling addictions, alcohol addictions, sex addictions, an overall depiction of a horrible father.

summary: The pack reminisces about Dahlia High's prom night, and Marie may have overshared a little too much about hers.

word count: 2.2k

estimated read time: 10.5 mins

2010

Marie drew back to admire her son, donning a crooked cotton tie, his father’s black leather loafers scuffed to hell and loose on his feet, as well as a toothy smile. The improvisations of his wear are minor faults, hardly noticeable to the naked eye with thanks to his mother’s stitchwork. The three-piece suit tunic that once hung to his lower thighs, and pants that skirted the floor now fit him like he was born in it.

“Look how handsome you are,” Marie clasped her hands and guided them to shield her face. It may hide her gummy smile but does little for her eyes prickling with tears.

“Ma, please don’t cry.” Milo’s plea proved fruitless, as the interlocked fingers separated to wipe desperately at the dark circles beneath her eyes. Perhaps it was the endless nights the woman spent hunching over a sewing machine or the number of times Mrs. Chen, who owned the dry cleaner on 3rd, sent the old suit through the cycle. The stench of cigarette smoke was seemingly embedded into the fabric no matter what she tried. “Like bad tattoo, Miss Greer—it cannot be undone!”

Milo didn’t mind the lingering smell, for he’s had years of training his nose not to curl in the backseat for fear of his dad’s scornful gaze clocking him in the rearview mirror. One particular coughing fit from his younger years resulted in the boy being sent to his room for being disrespectful—but he heard his father explaining to his mother amidst his tramping down the hall that the glaze over his eyes and reddening cheeks was “simply hay fever.”

He hoped that, for the sake of his date, he could mask the smell with enough cologne to go somewhat undetected.

“You don’t think Dad will be upset about his clothes missing, do ya?” Milo’s nervous chuckle hangs in the air.

“When he waltzes in the door from this week’s business trip, I doubt he’ll be awake enough to notice.” Marie’s copious euphemisms for Colm and his dangerous compulsions did not go unnoticed by Milo at age seven. The ten years added to his belt only gave him time to decode them. Awake really means sober. Business trips are in reference to casinos, bars, or brothels—a very flexible term, to the boy’s surprise. He wants to applaud the front he’d seen through like glass since childhood.

“Besides,” her hand occupies itself with the navy tie, still askew, and aligns the windsor to perch evenly below his folded collar, “this is your night. You deserve to feel special, and so does this date of yours.”

Milo scoffs, fighting his eyes not to roll up to the popcorn ceiling. Facing his mother’s curiosity was no harder than the water stain from the upstairs neighbor’s dishwasher.

“How’d I know this would come up?”

“Come on, I’m your mother. I deserve to know who my little boy’s become so smitten for.”

“You’ll see them one day, ma. Patience is a virtue, after all.” It’s Marie’s turn to scoff and turn her cheek.

“Please, I only said that to get you to wait till Christmas for your Xbox.” She eyes the clock on the wall, reading six-thirty.

“You said the gang would be here to pick you up by now, right?” Milo also cocks his head to see the time.

“With Ash driving, they’ll be lucky to make it here alive.” His mother’s eyes are boring into his instantly, with furrowed brows and a frown to complement them.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Another nervous chuckle filled the space before it was cut off by a gasp. Milo’s hands pat around his jacket pockets, eyes flying around the room frantically. “Shit, I forgot-“

“No, you didn’t.” Marie shuffles to Milo’s desk, opening a lower compartment where she’d stowed away his boutonnière and his date’s corsage. “I figured this would be a spot you never check. You said their favorite color is—“

“Yes, yes oh this is perfect! Thank you, ma.” Milo leans forward to kiss her cheek and envelope her petite body into a hug.

“Still don’t know this person’s name, don’t you think that’s kinda odd?” A series of knocks resound on the front door, cueing Milo to sigh and extend an offer he knew his mother couldn’t refuse.

“Would you like to meet them, ma?”

Marie raced him down the hall before he could finish his question. There’s an untimed beating in his chest that he can’t stop. Is it from the excitement of tonight, or who he’d be spending it with?

“Hi there, I’m M-“

“Hey, Mrs. Greer.” The figure lowered their head to the ground and dug the toe of their shoe into the concrete outside. Their hair appeared silky to the touch, skin looking just as soft as it glistened in the setting sun. The jewel tone of their wear complemented their complexion—comparable to a god(dess), their aura was all beauty and grace.

“Tank?!” Marie gasps. “Oh my gosh, please don’t tell Milo I called you that. He isn’t supposed to know I still eavesdrop on his conversations. You know what, let’s pretend this conversation never happened.”

“What never happened?” Milo tried not to choke on the cologne he’d spritzed on himself before dashing to find his mother.

Marie and Tank exchange a knowing look and suspicious smiles. They reply in unison, “Nothing.”

He squints his eyes, emitting a skeptical hum. “Already keeping secrets from me, huh?” He folds his arms defensively. “I expect this from you, but you…” His finger wags back and forth from his date to his mother.

“Consider it a trust exercise, babe.” Tank steps inside fully to clutch Milo’s hand with a shy smile.

“Babe,” Marie whispers, “so that means…you two?”

“Oh c’mon Mrs. G, it was only a matter of time.” Blonde, spiked hair, and sunglasses peek around the corner of the door, and Asher’s dazzling smile introduces itself to the three. “Who knows, maybe there will come a day you realize what you’ve been looking for has been here that whole time.” He lifted the sunglasses to shoot Marie a wink.

“Oh god, please ignore him. He’s on his third redbull and feeling extra bold.” Tank explains with a shake of her head. “Keep dreaming, Asher.” They add.

“And feel free to not wake up.” Milo chides, urging the two to giggle. “You look good, by the way.” He and Tank lock eyes.

“Thanks,” their eyes flicker up and down to take in their date. They add in a low voice, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“You don’t have a date, Asher?” Inquires Marie. Silence falls between the three teens before they’re all laughing wildly at the parent’s cluelessness.

“What’s so funny? Asher’s…” The boy’s eyes grow big, awaiting Marie’s words of flattery and reassurance. His ego deflates when she starts over. “He could have a date if he wanted to.”

“He does.” Milo squeaks through his laughter. “Well, in a way.”

“If you can call it that.” A low, rough voice disrupted everyone’s laughter as David marched into the room.

“David. Oh! Wait, you two…huh, strangely that makes more sense than I thought.” Marie hums, shrugging her shoulders.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m confused.”

Marie opens and closes her mouth, unsure of how to respond. “Wait, you two aren’t...?”

“I’m going with Arden. She and I agreed that if we couldn’t find dates by this weekend, we would go together.”

“Pity date.” Tank coughs into their elbow.

“Where is Arden? Is she hiding back there?” Marie cranes her neck for a better angle at the apartment’s threshold.

“Waiting in the car with Chrissy and Amanda. And it’s still a date.” Asher argues, sparing a glance towards his fellow pack member. “That’s more than big guy over here can say.” Asher juts a thumb toward David’s looming body in the back.

“Awe, David, why aren’t you going with anybody?” Growing a few inches this past summer (in several places) along with enough facial hair for a 5 o’clock shadow promised David enough street cred for a few romantic ventures. His pack mates went as far as placing bets on which of their peers would win their friend over enough to accompany him to the dance but were all left in shock as he turned every choice of theirs down. Marie’s question didn’t faze David. He’d explained it a million times to his friends and father this past week.

“Going stag. It’s just a personal choice.” The mom snorts at this.

“I remember when I went to my senior prom. It was the same night your father and I got together. Nobody had asked me, and he was planning to “go stag” as well. A couple of drinks of punch and one slow dance later, we were in the locker rooms just—“Four pairs of eyes were on Marie now, who realized she’d gotten too caught up in reminiscing.

“Uh, forget about it. The end’s not that important.” She waves off with darkening cheeks and a sheepish smile.

“I think it’s kind of interesting. I bet the songs and outfits were so much different years ago.” Tank interjects with a smile.

“Yeah, how long ago was your prom, Ma?” Adds Milo, who takes the opportunity to snake his arm around Tank’s waist. They sidle up closer to him as a result.

“How old are you?”

_________________________________________

Present Day

“I can’t believe how long ago that was.” The four friends peer down at the photo of them gussied up and taken by Marie. Asher was still in his sunglasses and throwing up a "rock on" sign with his tongue out, David had his arms crossed and was rolling his eyes at the ridiculous pose. Tank and Milo stood back to back, finger guns held under their chins and against their chests with goofy smiles. Fourteen years of the developed picture left it with sun spots and wrinkled corners, but the memories of that night still felt new to each of them.

“We look sick as hell!” Asher nods. “Well, except David. He just looked sick of us.”

“Some things never change.” Angel pipes up, daring to bring a finger to the corner of their mate’s mouth and lift it.

“I think it was just you that he was sick of, Ash. There’s only so much pop music this stick-in-the-mud can handle.” Tank points.

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea to play Taylor Swift the whole car ride there! You’re pointing fingers at the wrong guy.” Asher raises his hands defensively.

“Well, it wasn’t me either. Only Amanda and Arden listened to her.”

“Didn’t Christian request the DJ to play Paper Rings at our wedding?” Babe tilts their head in wonder, breaking their concentration away from the photo.

“I’d love to see you in that getup now, darlin’.” Sam chuckles against Tank’s ear.

“You’ll have to dig in my closet for it. I’m not even sure I still own that.” They laugh to themselves, suddenly nostalgic for their high school days.

“I have a question: whatever happened between you two?” Sweetheart inquires, looking between the past couple. There wasn’t a trace of jealousy in their voice, their aura, just pure curiosity.

“I think it was just a summer fling. By the time graduation came around, neither of us felt that mate connection with each other. So what was the point of pursuing it, you know?” Tank nods along to Milo’s brief explanation as if they were mentally checking off every word.

“Ooh, ooh! Remember how good the punch was?” Ash interrupts.

“I’m surprised you remember. You had half the bowl.” Says Milo.

“So?” Asher replies. The three all choke back laughter.

“The shit was practically jungle juice! I could taste seven different liquors from one sip. And I’m pretty sure David escorted you to the locker rooms 'cause you were about to hurl.” Tank says.

“The locker rooms, huh? Did you two happen to share a dance…one of the slow variety?” Milo quirks an eyebrow.

“...it’s a possibility,” David mumbles with a scowl. Everybody on the couch begins giggling mischievously. “Wasn’t my fault the little shit wouldn’t let me drive him home because Hey There Delilah started playing. Anyway, it was barely a slow dance, he was just leaning on me the whole time whining about how nauseous he felt.”

“Hope y’all left room for Jesus in that gym,” Babe smirks.

“I think I also shared a slow dance with uh…Kathy Boone? No, Karly B–”

“Karly Brown! As in our classmate in the third period, Karly Brown? So, you technically went to prom with Karly Brown?” Tank leans forward on the loveseat occupied by them and Sam, who’s now invested in his mate’s eager tone.

"Two slow dances with two different people? On the same night? You little slut!" Angel hisses teasingly.

"I can't believe I got Karly Brown's sloppy seconds," Asher whines. I thought what we had was special, Davey!" The alpha chooses to ignore their pestering in favor of Tank's question.

“In a way, I g-guess.” David shrugs. “Why?”

“You two owe me twenty bucks!” They declare. "Suck it!"

76 notes · View notes

lovebugism · 2 years ago

Text

YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN, KID | the beginning.

summary: a year after the end of the world, you and steve share one cigarette and two confessions. (6k)

listen to: "as the world falls down" by david bowie

tags: f!reader, roadtrip fic, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst & comfort, post st4, selective canon divergence (some things happen, some things don't), reader goes by the nickname "scout" TW panic attacks, conversations about grief, steve harrington smokes but he's still hot, outfit inspo (not indicative of what r's body type/skin color/etc.)

a/n: kinda surreal that i'm posting this because it's something i've been working on/thinking about for Months. i put so much time and effort and tears into this series so pleasepleaseplease enjoy it! as always, let me know what you think! let's watch these two (sort of) friends run away and fall in love with each other, shall we? <3

JOURNALS | MASTERLIST | SPOTIFY

★。＼｜／。★

The beginning of the rest of your life starts in the murky alleyway outside The Velvet Lounge.

It’s pretty fitting, actually. You feel like you’re close to dying anyway.

The lightning strike of a panic attack comes first as a cold hand around your throat. The clawed talon of a long-gone monster strangles you — sucks all the air out of your lungs and leaves you gasping for a breath you know won’t come.

A second later and the light-up dance floor beneath your feet begins to sway. You blink, and it becomes the desiccated terrain of the Upside Down — again, and the glowing rainbow tiles return. Eventually, it becomes impossible to discern the real from the imaginary.

You feel a bit like the world’s caving in on itself as you stumble through the bustling crowd. The thumping of the heady bass strums throughout your body as you squeeze between a mob of sweatier ones. The merciless pounding makes you forget that your heart’s no longer beating.

The heavy breeze of a summer night smacks you in the face. There is no fresh air outside the buzzing nightclub, just more emptiness.

You lean against the brick wall, clutching desperately onto your chest as you stumble from the exit. The world around you starts to spin on its side, going blurry like you’re being pulled underwater.

You’re drowning, but none’s coming to save you.

To everyone else, you’re just a girl that’s had too many. The girl that’s lost too much.

You duck into the dark alley with the intention of withering away there.

A warm hand brings you back to life.

“Shit, Scout,” Steve Harrington curses behind you. “Are you— Are you okay?”

You’ve never heard the nickname leave his mouth so gently. You don’t think he’s ever touched you so softly, either. It’s all so foreignly tender compared to the war raging inside your skull — you think it would’ve made you weep if you were capable of catching your breath.

His presence is only startling in the sense that you hadn’t expected to find him there.

It was pretty much the reason you’d slinked through the dimly lit passageway in the first place — to die completely and utterly alone. The flickering orange lamplight and damp brick made this place more adequate for puking college kids, canoodling couples, and conniving Ted Bundy’s of the world. Not pretty Steve and his pretty clothes and his pretty hair.

You’re more humiliated at having been caught than you are alarmed by it.

You figure you really shouldn’t be. He’s already seen you at your worst. On your deathbed, crying so hard you puke, so far gone from the world that you’re practically a ghost — that kind of worst.

But for some reason, his wide palm on your shoulder makes you feel fragile. Small. He stands fathoms above you and you’re nothing but an ant under his sneaker — a little delicate thing he could crush completely if he wanted.

Instead, Steve holds you.

His long fingers cradle your trembling shoulder in a steady embrace. A warm reminder that you’re not alone in this gloomy alleyway that still thrums with life. That, in some ways, you’ve never really been alone at all.

“Yeah,” you answer finally, nodding but not looking over at him. You swallow through a tightening throat. “I just… I just need to, uh… to catch my breath.”

Steve eyes you with a gaze swimming with apprehension.

Your shoulder presses into the rough brick while your other hand clings desperately to your chest. Your fingers dig into the soft cotton of your shirt like you’re reaching for your thundering heart. Each of your breaths is ragged, forced, worked for. You grunt your way through every impossible inhale.

Facing away from him under the dim amber streetlight, he can barely make out your profile. He only gets glimpses of your scrunched face and the tear that glimmers gold on your cheek. But with his hand on your arm, he can feel the rapid up-and-down motion of your heavy breaths. Panic sizzles off of you and onto him like static shock.

“Yeah, it was getting kinda crazy in there, huh?” he says within a halfhearted laugh. “I didn’t know people like Duran Duran so much.”

It’s nothing more than a feeble attempt to get you to laugh.

And it works. Sort of.

You’d lost sight of Steve somewhere around the time “Girls on Film” came on. Nancy’s drunken hand pulled you to the dance floor, and every other tipsy woman followed right behind you. He hadn’t seemed to care much about dancing, though. He just sat in the corner booth with Robin until Vickie came by and stole her away. The last you saw him, he was sitting alone at the bar with a basket of chicken wings before disappearing entirely.

But he hadn’t disappeared, you figured. He was just here, in this eerily empty alleyway, trying to get away from it all just as much as you were.

Steve sees the corners of your mouth quirk upward in a grimacing sort of smile. A scoff sounds from your throat a moment later. He thinks that might be the sort of laugh you get from a girl who doesn’t have much to find humor in anymore.

Your newfound relief is his own.

“You okay now?” he asks once you’ve caught your breath.

You nod and settle back against the brick. The fabric of your shirt sticks to the prickly clay. “Yeah,” you repeat, more truthfully this time. “Thanks— Thank you.”

You’re forced to mourn the warmth of the broad hand on your shoulder when he pulls away from you.

He doesn’t stray far, though. He remains at your side with his back to the brick — his frame much taller than your own, broader too. His woody cologne swirls with the purer scent of a summer night and the distant smell of beer. He holds within him an air that can only be described as all-consuming. He’s exactly the feeling of everything warm despite the several inches that separate you.

Steve offers you the lit cigarette in his left hand, and for a reason you can’t name, his kindness takes you by surprise. You’ve fought a monster with the guy, but he still feels like a total stranger to you sometimes.

He sees you hesitate and thinks that this might be the first time either of you have been alone together. You don’t have anything in common except for the party. Without one of the members to accompany you, the fact becomes a heavier weight to bear.

It’s sort of like a peace offering — this half-gone cigarette. A ‘hey, I know we aren’t really friends, but maybe we could be.’

You take it. “Thanks…”

Steve watches you puff from the stick. You hold the thing between your thumb and forefinger, pinching it as you bring it up to your mouth. The huff you take isn’t a deep one, probably the fault of your still staggering breaths, but your eyes flutter shut on the exhale like you’re grateful for the nicotine fix.

He realizes then that he’s never looked at you before. Like, really looked.

Like a ghost, you tend to blend easily into the background, floating around in the shadows without ever being seen. You’re only out tonight because Robin and Nancy forced your hand, but in your darkened outfit — cropped tee, plain skirt, worn boots, all varying shades of black — you threaten to blend in with the night. You do it all with the finesse of a girl who’s all but disconnected herself from the world.

You catch him staring when you hand the cigarette back.

You don’t look weirded out by his prying gaze — quite the opposite, really. You cower under the attention, chin tilting toward your chest and a sheepish smile hinting at your lips. Embarrassed without any actual reason to be.

“Wanna tell me the real reason you came out here?” Steve asks you, covering the serious inquiry with a joking lilt.

Your brows furrow as you watch him bring the cigarette to his own mouth. He’s got this look on his face — raised brows, wide eyes, and quirked lips — almost like he’s teasing you.

You breathe out an awkward laugh.

“What do you mean? I just told you.” You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. It looks more like you’re wincing as you shift your weight on your feet. “I just needed to—”

“To catch your breath,” Steve finishes for you, smoke billowing from his pink lips. The grey lingers between you for a moment before disappearing entirely. He nods with a lopsided grin before handing you back the cigarette. “Yeah. I heard you. I just don’t believe you.”

Your eyes go wide. He can’t tell if you’re shocked by his bluntness or if you’re embarrassed at having been caught so quickly. Maybe a healthy mixture of both.

Your throat tightens all over again. You swallow thickly as you turn away from him and it feels like you’re forcing down a too big pill. The back of your eyes burn with unshed tears, so many stinging needles that you force yourself to blink away.

And even though you’re just trying not to cry at the reality of the situation you’ve spent a year hiding from, to Steve it looks like you’re searching for a way out. Your gaze snaps to the opening of the alley where nicely dressed people bustle on the other side, their conversations far away and muffled.

He hadn’t meant to make you uncomfortable. He just thought you could use a friend, considering you were only just recovering from the windswept panic spell.

“Look. You— You tell me why you’re out here, and I’ll tell you why I am,” he offers, partly to make you feel better.

The other half of it, which he finds it startling to admit, is that he doesn’t want you to leave.

He’d spent fifteen minutes by himself in the dark — half comforted by it, half frightened. Despite his distant unfamiliarity with you, he’s weirdly comforted by your presence. Steve’s seen enough people walk away from him to know he doesn’t want you to join them.

You look at him again, more glassy-eyed than you’d been before. Your sniffle is nearly inaudible. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “You know… A you-show-me-yours, I’ll-show-you-mine kinda thing.”

It sounds a lot weirder coming out of his mouth than he expected it to. It makes you laugh, though, so it feels sort of worth it.

“That sounds really pervy,” you tease with a more sincere smile.

“Yeah. Sorry. Just— Maybe just ignore that last part, yeah?” he stammers stiffly, laughing softly at himself shortly after.

You finally take a hit from the cig between your fingers. Your gaze falls to your boots.

They were a gift from someone you knew a long time ago — someone you don’t know anymore because they’re gone.

It was a well-loved anniversary present you’ve worn every day since you got them. They’re a bit tattered now, obviously worn on the platformed bottoms. You don’t know how many times you’ve glued the soles back together now — or how many times you’ve tried to wash away the faded bloodstain by the laces that refuses to come out.

It’s as stuck there as the memories in your head are.

And even though you’ve never talked about it out loud, you think you could write a million words about how looking at the stain makes you feel — about all the thoughts that swirl within you at the sight of it and why you can’t throw them out despite it all. You’d write about the boy who bought them for you, whose name it’s still so hard to say — the boy who you loved who was gone.

It was just easier to shove it all down.

You kept your grief horribly discreet, like a poorly stitched-together wound.

If you couldn’t even burden yourself with it, why should you expect anyone else to?

But here Steve goes, offering to let that raging wound breathe.

Something about the ultimatum makes it more comforting. It’s a lot easier to tell a kept secret when you know another hidden confession is coming right after it. You don’t know if you’ll ever get this chance again — to shield your grief with someone else’s.

“Okay,” you answer suddenly before exhaling the gray from your lungs. You outstretch your hand to give him the cigarette back. You try to smile. “You first, though.”

Steve puffs from the stick before he answers you. For a moment, it’s nothing but muffled conversations and a stifled bass that rattles the brick. The quiet is noticeably less suffocating than all the quiets you’ve known before — less lonely now that you’ve got someone to share them with.

“I hate parties,” he summarizes with a shrug.

“Yeah, I’m gonna need a little more than that,” you joke.

He flicks the end of the cigarette to dispel the ash. Grey specks fall to the damp concrete. When he hands it off to you again, your fingers brush his own. Your skin is much cooler than the humid summer air surrounding you.

“I mean, I used to like parties. I think,” Steve explains, still rather vague, gesturing with wild hands like you’re used to. “Really, I just liked to drink, you know? ‘Cause everyone liked me when I was drunk. I was the popular guy — Mr. Funny, Mr. Cool. But, uh… I guess somewhere down the line, I forgot how to have fun like that.”

“Forgot how to have fun?” you repeat with a sad sort of laugh. Your brows scrunch and your swim with sympathy. The streetlamp casts sharp shadows on his chiseled features, but he still looks at you so soft — eyes sweet with the tenderness he holds there and smiling just the same.

It’s hard to believe that the King of Hawkins High could’ve ever felt anything other than total elation when he had a whole ocean outside his front door on Fairview Lane.

“I think they have a name for that these days, Harrington.”

He laughs and turns to press his shoulder into the brick. He’s facing you now, and it feels much more like he’s looming over you.

You remain against the wall, still a bit overwhelmed by the presence of a boy who never would’ve looked your way a year or more ago. It takes everything in you not to duck away from him completely.

“Well, I was only having fun because I was drunk, right?” he elaborates, brown eyes a golden amber beneath the flickering light. They twinkle looking down at you.

“Sure…” you shrug to humor him.

“And, like, I can deal with the hangovers and everything no problem, you know, but the… The waking up the next morning. The remembering, I guess. Remembering everything I was trying to forget when I was drinking. That’s… That’s the worst part.”

You don’t realize how intently you’re looking at him at first. Every quirk of his rosy mouth, every twitch of his bushy brow, every glint of his chocolate eyes as he divulges a deeply held secret doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Behind all the pretty hair and expensive clothes is a boy much sadder than you could’ve imagined.

Something bigger had done a number on him. Something more than the end of the world.

His upturned gaze returns to you and you realize you haven’t blinked once.

You do a rather shit job of pretending you weren’t just staring. You haphazardly turn away again, handing him the cigarette despite not having put your mouth to it.

“Yeah, I— I get what you mean…”

Your words seem to surprise him. His brows pinch like he was more prepared to be made fun of than empathized. He takes the cig from you with an absentminded hand. It goes quickly forgotten.

“You do?”

“Well, not so much with drinking, but… It happens to me in the morning sometimes,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance, and trying not to seem like it’s a phenomenon you’ve experienced every day for a year and a half. “It’s, like, that split second of bliss right before the grief comes back, right?”

Steve blinks owlishly. Then nods.

“That half a moment where nothing bad’s ever happened to you, and it’s just the sun shining on you before the… the bad shit comes back again. Like it never even left.”

And Steve, who’s never met another person who could so easily understand him and that otherwise indescribable feeling so perfectly, is stunned into silence.

Maybe it’s his fault for keeping it all to himself, like a love letter he can’t bring himself to unfold. It’s entirely likely that he could find a million people in the world who’ve felt all the same feelings he’s garnered over the past couple of years. It still wouldn’t hold the same weight as being understood now — being understood by someone who’s been through the end of the world with him.

Being understood without all the empty words.

“Yeah,” he nods finally, clearing his throat. His cheeks glow red when he realizes he’d forgotten to speak because he was too busy looking at you. “Yeah, exactly— Shit!”

The sides of his fingers sting with a sharp ache. The cig in his hand drops to the ground, half the size of his pinky. There isn’t much left of it now, and that’s why it burns him so. It hits the concrete, more ash than stick. The skin of Steve’s finger blackens as it blazes.

“Oh— Are you okay?” you grimace.

Steve snuffs out the burning cigarette with the toe of his sneaker.

“Yeah, I— I just wasn’t paying attention,” he dismisses with the shake of his head, more so at himself than anything else. It’s the first time he’s had an actual conversation with you, and he’s already embarrassed himself twice. He’ll count himself lucky if you care enough to talk to him again.

“Your go, Scout,” he offers suddenly in a measly attempt to get the attention off of him and his blunder. He wipes the ash from his pointer and middle finger on his jeans. “See if you can out-miserable me.”

You roll your eyes at him, still smiling. “What is this? The trauma olympics?”

“C’mon. I’m kidding,” he assures with a lilt. He reaches out to nudge your arm with his knuckles and, like before, his touch is almost too soft for you to feel it. The act of platonic intimacy takes you momentarily by surprise.

His smile is crooked. His eyes glimmer with honey. “I was kidding,” he repeats.

“It was just that, um— that song,” you answer. It comes out more choked than you expected it to. “They started playing that song.”

Steve’s brows furrow. “What song?” he asks. Not pressing. Only curious.

“That one that… that Eddie played when I…”

“Oh.”

“I used to love that stupid song— I mean, obviously. It sorta saved me from what should’ve been an unavoidable death, so…” You manage to laugh at yourself as you ramble.

Steve can’t find it in himself to do the same.

He’d been terrified when it happened to Max — when the kid he was involuntarily babysitting started to float in midair, nearly succumbing to the curse of a monster that should’ve been make-believe. He was relieved when she fell back down again, but you? He was certain you were a goner.

You were too high up and Eddie’s guitar was too far away. The beginning notes of I Was Made For Lovin’ You were too grim and Vecna’s claws were in too deep. You were too distant, too banished.

For several agonizing seconds, you were destined to remain a stranger to him.

But here you are now, sharing cigarettes and secrets.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you shake your head at yourself. “But, um, anyway. Yeah. It’s just… Sometimes things will happen, you know? Like I’ll— I’ll hear a song or… I’ll see something that reminds me of him— of Eddie. And it’s just like…”

“…Like you’re in the Upside Down again?” Steve finishes gently for you when he sees that you can’t.

You nod, wordlessly for a moment, until the words catch up with you.

“Like nightmares, but when I’m awake,” you force through a closing throat. “And they’re so real. Like… I can— I can hear him. I can hear him talking to me, and I’m— I’m holding him, and I can feel him breathing, you know? He’s still breathing, but—”

You take a staggering breath in. For a moment, Steve’s scared you’re tumbling headfirst into another panic attack.

His attentive eyes flit between your scrunched up face and the trembling hands you hold out in front of you. You’re cradling something that isn’t there anymore. You look down at your palms with a horror that tells him you understand that, too — that the person you used to hold isn’t able to be held anymore.

“I can feel the… the blood. And it’s just… It’s all over me. And I’m losing him. I’m losing him all over again—”

You hiccup a measly sob when your lungs force you to take a breath you didn’t know you were holding. It puts an end to your rambling. You’re grateful enough for it. You’d already said more than you were planning to — more than you thought you’d say in a lifetime.

You think you must sound deranged, talking about a corpse like it’s still a warm body you hold every night.

In some ways, it is.

You sniffle and blink back burning tears. Your smile edges on sincerity. “So, what do you think, Harrington? Did I out-miserable you?”

Steve scoffs in the place of a real laugh. “I didn’t have a dog in that fight, did I? What you went through… I mean, I shouldn’t even be complaining.”

“Hey, c’mon,” you scold gently. “We both went through shit. It was all bad, no matter how you look at it. Just because we didn’t go through the same stuff doesn’t mean what happened to you is any less important.”

You just barely catch his cinnamon eyes going glassy before he turns away from you entirely. His stubbled cheeks blotch with varying shades of pink, glowing with an emotion he can’t keep hidden. He looks down at his dirty sneakers because he can’t bare to look at you now.

Understanding, that’s what this is. Understanding without all the empty words.

It’s still hard for him to believe them, though.

In the grand scheme of things, what happened to him wasn’t so terrible.

He wasn’t under any sort of curse. No one he cared about was irrevocably hurt, either. And he didn’t have to hold someone he loved in his arms while they bled to death — doesn’t have to feel like he’s still holding onto them a year after it all.

Despite the marred scars on his mind and body, Steve convinces himself that he has no reason to be sad — even though that’s not really how sadness works. Grief isn’t the kind of thing you can just will away, but he beats himself up when he can’t — when the heartache wins.

It’s a never-ending cycle. A loop he’s been stuck in since he was seventeen. A portal he was terrified would never close.

Now, at least, it feels sort of possible.

“You shouldn’t talk like that, Scout,” he jokes after the urge to weep has passed. He tilts his head to his shoulder and smiles a crooked grin. “I’m gonna start to think you like me.”

Without missing a beat, you retort: “Please, never ever think that. That would completely shatter my reputation.”

You both laugh with the knowing that it’s all just a joke.

You never had much of a reputation because you spent your whole life being invisible. You liked it best that way because never being seen meant nothing was ever expected of you. You’ll happily take someone you went to school with your entire life never knowing your name than any bogus Hawkins High royalty status any day.

Steve, better known by his title of King, wishes now that he’d taken a page out of your book. He learned the power of invisibility far too late.

“Who woulda thought, huh?” the boy sighs, chocolate eyes turned up to the velvet blue sky. “You and me… being friends.”

You arch a brow at him. “Oh, is that what we are now?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve scoffs like it’s obvious. “They didn’t tell you? You fight monsters together, and you’re bonded for life.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely. I mean, why do you think me and Henderson are so close?”

“So you’re saying you would’ve never been friends if it wasn’t for the end of the world?” you reiterate with a challenging squint.

“That’s almost exactly what I’m saying. Yeah,” he nods with his pink lips jutted softly out. “If none of that shit ever happened, I’d still be that raging douchebag I used to be. My life would be… so much different.”

“Worse?” you press.

He thinks for a moment.

Without the whole end-of-the-world thing, he never would’ve met Dustin. He never would’ve gotten closer to Robin. Nancy never would’ve had a reason to break up with him, and he figures he’d have long settled down with her by now. They’d be that miserable couple that somehow manages to make it.

He’d probably still be friends with Tommy Hagan, too, getting drunk at parties he’s too old to be at. He’d still be the King Steve everyone loved and hating every second of it.

Fighting monster after monster changed him for the better. Even with its horror, how could he ever take that back?

He winces at the realization. “Yeah…”

“So you’d do it all over again?” you ask, dumbfounded.

“I think so, yeah.” Steve’s smile is shy as he ducks his gaze, peering at you through his lashes. “I’m a total idiot, right?”

Your brows pinch together as you shake your head. “No. I don’t think so… Actually, I think the end of the world looks pretty good on you, Harrington.”

He knows you don’t mean it how it sounds. He gets the feeling you’re talking less about his appearance and more about why he’s standing out here in the first place — talking to a girl he’s halfway known all his life whose name he didn’t know until she almost died.

For the same reason — the one that’s brought you to him and this alley — he jokes back: “It looks good on you, too, Scout.”

Again, you laugh with the understanding that you’re joking. For the most part, at least.

You’re both so weathered with grief, looking much older than your years, forced to wear your woe all over. For whatever transformation the trauma might’ve done internally, it hadn’t done anything on the outside than leave scars that won’t fade.

When the laughter subsides, a silence roars to life.

Not a total one. You can still hear the pounding bass from inside The Velvet Lounge and the muddled chatter of people coming in and out of it. It’s not a totally uncomfortable one either, which is far more than you thought you could ever say about talking to Steve The Hair Harrington.

But it’s still sort of heavy in its way. Likely with the idea of what the both of you know and of everything you’ve confessed out loud.

Now that it’s all out in the open, Steve’s got no idea how to move on. How is he supposed to joke around now? How does he say anything but sorry to the girl who holds all her grief in her eyes?

“Hey, Scout?” he calls quietly.

Your leftover grin hasn’t yet faded. “Hm?”

“I’m… I’m really sorry.”

The smile ebbs entirely.

“Why are you apologizing?” you ask with the shake of your head, almost flinching at the sudden condolence. “You didn’t… You’re not the one that killed Eddie.”

“I know. I just… I feel like I should— like I should say it, you know?”

“That’s the worst part about all of this, I think. Like… you lose someone, and no one knows how to talk to you anymore,” you confess, a sad smile hinting at the very corners of your lips — so soft it’s barely there. Your gaze falls to your boots again. “Everyone just feels so sorry for you all the time. All anyone ever wants to do is talk about what happened like I don’t have to think about it enough, you know? It just… It makes it impossible to move on.”

Steve winces. He can’t ever say the right thing. “I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing,” you tell him, laughing. “I’m not saying that— I’m just… I’m just saying. I think it’d be easier if I didn’t have to stay here. You know, where everything happened. If I could… Like, if I could just go, I think that maybe I could get better.”

“You could,” Steve affirms with a nod.

Your brows furrow. “Get better?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs, amber gaze flitting between your glittering eyes and his dirty sneakers. “And… And leave. You know, if you wanted to.”

The thought alone makes you laugh. “By myself? With no car? Barely any money?”

“You wouldn’t have to go alone,” he promises.

“Yeah?” you scoff, still grinning like it’s all a joke to you. “And who would want to run away with a girl with a broken heart?”

He answers without thinking and with a lopsided smile. “The boy with nothing to lose.”

Your smile fades with the heavy weight of his offer.

It isn’t just about running away. It’s about running away together — two people with nothing in common besides a mutual hatred for a dark wizard from the underworld, ditching a town that hasn’t done shit for them, and pretending like nothing’s ever hurt them.

And at first, you’re shocked. Who wouldn’t be with such an offer thrown at their feet? But then, and more than anything else, you’re confused. Why would Steve want to run away? you think to yourself. Why would he want to run away with you?

When the bolt blue finally dissipates, you’re left with a simmering feeling of disbelief.

Steve shouldn’t want this, and he shouldn’t want it with you.

“You’re drunk,” you conclude, smiling because it’s a joke again.

“Yeah. Maybe,” Steve shrugs with his gaze pointed to the sky. The stars are hidden beneath layers of light and pollution. They’re out there somewhere, but he can’t see them — not from where he is now. He looks back to you, a sheepish smile playing on his pink mouth. “But… I’m not.”

“Would you seriously want to leave?” you squint. With me, you keep to yourself, unsaid.

“I’ve, uh— I’ve been wanting to for a while, actually. Even before all of… this,” he confesses, waving his hand out into the ether. He grins in reminiscence, but not the fond kind. “My dad— he’s just been dogging me about work and college and everything, you know? I think he wants me to be the same big shot business douchebag that he is, and I get it, but…”

You lean closer to him, brows furrowed. “But what?” you press.

Steve exhales a sad laugh. “I really don’t wanna end up like my dad,” he admits — a thought he kept like a thorn in his side finally said out loud. “And I’m scared that, if I stay here, I will.”

“So you’ve just been looking for a way out. All this time?” you wonder aloud. While I thought you were on top of the world, you were wanting out of it.

Steve shrugs, then nods.

“And a girl with nothing to lose?” you joke.

“Yeah,” he chuckles softly to himself. “That, too.”

You turn away from him again, deep in thought. Steve mourns your gaze — its attentiveness more than anything, the way you look at him and seem to understand him without saying a goddamn word. He didn’t think that was possible before now.

You think to yourself for a moment. Mostly because it’s something you know you should think about before you do it.

How will you pay your way? Where will you go? What will you do when you get there?

What will your parents say when they notice you’re gone? How long will it take before they do?

Who’ll feed the stray cats outside the trailer park?

Who’ll leave flowers at Eddie’s grave once a month and clean it when it’s ultimately vandalized by assholes who still think he was a mass murderer sent from Hell to do Satan’s bidding?

There’s a lot of questions you don’t have answers for.

What little you do know, though, you’re certain of.

You know there’s nothing left for you in Hawkins.

You don’t have much family — especially not since Eddie — and your friends aren’t really your friends. Sure, Nancy invites you out from time to time, but she’d never call you to dish about secrets and shared trauma in this way. Sometimes you think they only include you because your boyfriend died, and they all saw what it did to you.

And you also know that there’s nothing holding you back but grief. To absolve yourself from it all, to finally move the fuck on, you’re going to have to leave it all behind. It’s not like you’d be missing much anyway.

You’re still a ghost because you live in a soul-sucking town full of people who only want to talk to you when it’s to remind you that the only person you’ve ever loved is dead.

Nothing has brought you back to life quite like this boy and his secrets and offer to run away.

You think you’d been an idiot to walk away from it. From him.

“Fuck it.”

Steve almost flinches at how feverishly you turn to face him again.

His brows raise to his hairline, honey eyes going wide at the abrupt nature of your sudden reply. “…Fuck it?” he echoes, not nearly as confident as you’d said it — just grateful that you’d said it at all.

For a boy who always expects rejection, your innate acceptance of him and his previously kept secrets makes his chest swell with so much warmth that it’s started to burn him. He can feel his ribcage turning to ash and his heart melting as he speaks.

“Fuck it,” you nod, more serious than he’s ever seen you.

You turn to face him fully, something you’d been too timid to do just minutes ago. You’re more sure now — of him, of this. The proximity between your bodies forces you to tilt your head up to look at him. Similarly, his chin falls to his chest to peer at you.

Tucked away in this alley, you’re made of shadows and shades of gold. The lamplight still flickers over your heads. The brick still shakes with the drumming, muffled bass. You don’t realize until now that you can feel your heart beating again.

“Let’s do it,” you shrug with a blast of hopeful anticipation swelling in your chest, more optimistic than you’ve been in a year. “Nothing to lose, right?”

Steve grins.

“Nothing to lose,” he repeats, reminding himself of the fact when reality starts to set in on him. Even if he fails, even if it all goes wrong and he’s waking up in his childhood bed a week from now, he can’t get any lower than rock bottom. Besides, now he’s got you to fall back on, right?

“Fuck it.”

★。／｜＼。★

#published by bug #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #stranger things imagine #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfic #yoyok

758 notes · View notes