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urhoneycombwitch · 10 months ago

Text

I know what they call you.

You’re a little lost in your head. Eddie wants to find you. shy!reader

foreword: The healing properties of good head <333 Anyways I labeled this R “shy” but she’s more… introverted? Reserved? this one goes out to the weird and off-putting girlies who have a lot to say but are kinda quiet instead. Timeline may be a bit wibbly but designed it to be early 4th-season era, with R (early 20s) having played an undetermined part in the various Upside Down battles from seasons previous. Loosely based on this anon every1 say thank you anon!

cw: alcohol/weed used as a social crutch, R is hassled by a guy at a party (but her boys back her up), brief vomit mention, implied bad home life for R, light SH by way of tight grip, PTSD, R has breasts+V, praise kink, oral (R receiving), one (1) spank, multiple orgasms (R), soft dom!eddie, overstim, coming in pants (E)

wc: 11k

It’s spring break, 1986, and you’re cursing the name of your so-called “best friend” Robin Buckley.

You didn’t even want to go to this stupid kegger in the first place, arguing with her the whole ride over from Steve’s backseat.

“Don’t you think it’s totally lame that you’re basically being chaperoned by two gap-year losers?” you’d said, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the console, seatbelt pulling taut across your Rolling Stones tee. “You’re a big girl, Robin, you don’t need Steve and me to babysit you anymore.”

Robin began protesting but Steve interrupted, tapping at your forearms without looking away from the road- “Sit back, wouldja, that’s not safe. And for the record, it’d only be lame if we were, like, thirty and still going to high school kickbacks. Gap-year drinking parties are a rite of passage.”

You’d sat back against your seat with a huff, arms crossed, unconvinced until Robin turned those big pleading eyes your way over the back of her seat. “You wanna talk about lame? Lame is me getting anywhere within a 60-foot radius of Vickie. I am totally hopeless around that absolute beauty.”

She’d twisted in her seat and reached for your hand, and you gave it to her grudgingly (the two of you ignoring another of Steve’s gripe about vehicular safety) as she said, “You’re like, the best wingwoman I’ve ever met. Please come to the party and help me avoid the natural disaster that is me running my mouth.”

Robin wasn’t just being generous- you were a killer third wheel. Especially when alcohol was involved: the walls that you naturally upheld around your introverted demeanor by day turned liquid as whiskey by night, often scoring you major cool points with your friends for things you barely remembered doing the day after.

So you’d relented, and in turn resolved to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible (in the name of Robin’s aid, of course), but turns out your best friend didn’t even need your help in the first place; within 5 minutes of setting foot in the crammed house party Robin won a spot right next to Vickie on the living room couch, starry-eyed gaze saved only for the redhead that bore no room for your intervention.

Three shots ago, the situation would have struck you as funny, but it’s been a lonely time (what with Steve abandoning you, too, in favor of chatting up some college blonde); drifting from packed room to packed room, sneakers sticking to the floorboards, winding through throngs of sweaty dancing students just to keep on top of your alcohol consumption.

Kind of like hunting in the wild, you muse, leaned against a wall with red solo cup in hand. Flirt with Amy Thacker and her low-cut blouse to access the watering hole (Mystery Punch, green both in color and flavor); let Lenny Baker put his paws on your waist to gain entry to the standing liquor cabinet. The stuff of nature docs.

If this dimly-lit Hawkins party is the savanna, then you are the antelope- grazing on snacks, never staying in one spot for too long, minding your own business and staying way the hell away from the lion’s den (the group of jocks in Hawkins Tigers polos).

Unfortunately, you push off the wall in search of a refill at the same time Lenny Baker decides to sidle up to you, nearly knocking the cup from your grasp when he bends his thick head to shout in your ear above the music.

“Great party, right?” His arms are crossed above his tank of a chest, blocking you from a smooth exit via the kitchen archway.

“If you’re into drunk teens, I guess,” you say back, pointedly, licking a stripe up your wrist from where the punch had sloshed onto your bare arm.

When you look back up Lenny’s still standing there, watching you with a hungry edge that’s starting to make your well-honed antelope-sense tingle. As you not-so-subtly cast your glance around for Steve, Lenny leans in again, close enough to give you a sour whiff of his breath. “I’m legal, if that’s what’s got your panties in a twist. And what’s wrong with having some fun?”

“I’m not into having fun with douchebags who ‘roid away their remaining brain cells to bully my friends,” you retort, flatly. You doubt this guy knows you’re connected to the Hellfire group (de facto sitter, second only to Steve), but the insult seems to land anyways.

Lenny scoffs, going for a low blow to offset the sting of his bruised ego- “If you’re trying to play the part of slut, you were doing a way better job earlier.”

What the meathead hasn’t picked up on yet is your absolute lack of care about him- or anyone else at this stupid fucking party, for that matter. Besides Robin and Steve, obviously, but they’re equally indisposed at the moment. You’re feeling bold enough that you could play dirty: throw the dregs of your drink in his face, make a real scene- but the shots from earlier are hitting you sideways and you’re not entirely confident in your ability to multitask.

So instead, with a wink, you tell him, “At least this slut knows when to quit,” and turn on your heel, abandoning the kitchen escape route for a closer door that leads to the back porch.

You suck in lungfuls of cool night air, trying to clear the fuzz of booze from your vision. When you don’t hear any angry footsteps following in your wake, you sink against the wooden bannister and tip back the last of your drink in one swallow. Maybe Steve doubled back to the car…?

With your empty cup left neatly on the railing, you set off down the couple of steps that separate you from the grass, except the toe of your shoe catches on a hidden groove in the wood, and nothing is within reach to grab onto as you trip and begin to fall.

The stumble should have ended with you facedown in the dirt, but something- someone- solid breaks your downward path, catching the upper half of your body in a sturdy hold even as your legs twist around themselves.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, I gotcha. You okay?”

The voice is instantly familiar, one that you’ve heard ringing out from underneath the drama room door on countless occasions as you’ve waited on your various child wards to wrap up their D&D sessions.

Eddie Munson is holding you in his leather-clad arms, larger than life with that big cloud of hair and doe-eyed gaze matching yours. He helps you stand, properly, dropping his hands once you’re stabilized and taking the warmth of his palms with him.

“You okay?” he asks again, tilting his head, looking at you with fresh concern from under that mop of bangs. “Looks like you had a lot to drink.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you drawl, bravado flooding back in. “Am I really gonna get a fucking lecture on drinking from my local drug dealer?”

Instead of rising to the bait or bristling at your tone, Eddie grins- delighted, wolfish- before letting out a low whistle. “Who coulda guessed: resident Shy Girl has a mouth on her.”

You twist said mouth into your own smile, one that you hope is coy and charming and not dorkily lopsided (because you stopped being able to feel your face after that last drink), and coo, “You thinkin’ about my mouth, Munson?”

He laughs- a full, vibrant sound that lights up the night. There’s a flutter in your ribcage, knocking up a frenzy at the noise, like it wants to get out and at him, but you tamp it down and play it cool.

“You’ve only seen me in the cold, unforgiving light of day,” you continue, as Eddie rifles through his pockets, surfacing with a pack of cigs, eye contact yet to be broken. “My nighttime alter ego is a real riot, all liquored up.”

“Well, I happen to think you’re a riot in the sober light of day, too.” Eddie shrugs a shoulder as he flips the lid of the cigarette box.

You’re unsure if he’s messing with you- he’s gotta be, right? The only meaningful interaction you two have had in the past handful of years has been through the courtesy of the children in your respective care- a few surface-level conversations during carpool pickup, some flirting on his end that you’ve always been too skittish to return.

Well, until now, you guess. Maybe this is a good thing, him seeing you like this- it’ll either scare him away, or you’ll finally make good on the quiet crush you’ve been harboring.

You’re about to speak again when the porch door opens with a bang; you and Eddie swivel at the same time to see Lenny clomping noisily towards the steps, voice booming out over the thrum of bass back inside- “This freak bothering you?”

You look between the metalhead and the jock, eyes wide and mocking as you call back, “No, but you’re starting to!”

“Jesus, talk about poking the bear,” you hear Eddie mutter behind you, but your focus is taken up by the fact that Lenny is tromping down the steps and reaching out to grab your upper arm, his cold and clammy palm taking up a sizeable amount of space.

You can feel that rage, simmering and easily accessed, start to crawl over your skin. You stand your ground in the face of someone much larger than you, sneakers planted firmly, chin tilted in defiance- I’ve killed monsters in alternate dimensions, asswipe. You might’ve scared me back in high school but now I dare you to fuck with me.

Before Eddie can jump to your defense, you’re already going in for the bite, voice dripping with derisiveness. “So glad your right hand found its way off your dick for a change, Len. How about you do me one better and take it far, far away from here?”

Lenny’s face is almost purple with anger as his grip tightens, and you feel Eddie moving in at your back- to do what exactly, hard to say, ‘cuz Lenny’s got about 60 pounds on the lanky DM- but just as fast as the tension has ramped up, it gets diffused with the arrival of one Steve Harrington from around the corner of the house.

He cuts a smooth path through the grass to your other side, Robin’s sweater slung over one arm, twirling his car keys in neat loops around his finger, boasting a casual demeanor that doesn’t match up with the steely look he’s giving Lenny. “You heard the girl, Baker. Time to am-scray.”

Whether it’s the rumors of Steve’s nail bat or the manic look in your eyes or the fact that he’s outnumbered, Lenny’s got plenty of reason now to drop your arm.

Which he does, spitting one last “bitch” at you before hulking off into the night.

The anger in you recedes like a wave. You breathe out a dry laugh, then turn back to the boys, clasping your hands over your heart with faux-dopeyness. “My heroes. How will I ever repay you?”

“Shutting up, for a change, would be a great start,” Steve grouses over the sound of Eddie’s cackles.

“Holy shit. Can’t believe your girl’s feistiness almost landed me in the hospital.” Eddie shakes his head, plucking a cigarette out and sticking it between his plush lips.

“She’s not my girl,” Steve says, even as you wind your arms around his chest from behind, tucking your chin over his shoulder. “She is, unfortunately, my problem.”

“I love when you two talk about me like I’m not here.” You simper at Eddie from your draped position.

He’s watching you with a fondness that feels overly familiar, through the haze of smoke streaming from his nostrils as you pat the chest beneath your hands- “Don’t worry about ol’ Stevie boy. He’s turned into quite the good guard dog after the whole Russian mall takeover last year.”

“Aaaaand that’s enough talking from you,” Steve says firmly, twisting out of your arms and putting his own around your waist. “Say goodbye to your new buddy, we’ve got a Robin to collect.”

As Steve steers you towards the direction of his car you wave at Eddie, a motion that he returns, his rings glinting in the porch light.

“Christ, you really are somethin’ else with some drinks in you,'' Steve fusses, helping you into the backseat, hand shooting up to block the door frame before your head can collide with the metal. “Did you seriously have to bring up the Russians?”

“He probably thought it was a joke, Steve,” you say, exasperated and fighting the twisted middle seatbelt with uncoordinated hands. “You know… those things that you tell people when you wanna get in their pants?”

The crack was aimed at Steve’s recent string of strike-outs in the dating department, but he throws it back at you. “You’re trying to get in Eddie Munson’s pants?”

“No,” you sputter, indignant and feeling suddenly too hot.

Steve knocks your still-struggling hands from the belt, clicking you in himself, before pointing an accusatory finger in your face. “Stay here while I get Robin, and no throwing up in the Beemer.”

He shuts the door, Robin’s sweatshirt hanging from one shoulder while he stalks back into the house.

You let your head fall back against the seat and close your eyes, bright cherry embers of cigarettes between lush-lipped curves dancing behind the dark of your lids.

___

You manage to avoid throwing up in the BMW, saving the worst of it for the downstairs toilet of the Harrington house after Steve drags you and Robin indoors. Once your body is purged of the spirits, you collapse into your usual side of the guest bed, sweaty and exhausted, murmuring an apology to Robin who squeaks at the rocking movement of the mattress. In a few minutes, you’re lulled to sleep by the gentle snores of your best friend.

The morning sun is a very rude awakening, Robin apparently having forgotten to close the blinds before leaving with Steve for their shifts at Family Video. There’s a full glass of water on the bedside table and a few loose Tylenol tablets, the word “DRINK” sprawled on a sticky note in Steve’s handwriting.

You wince, down the meds along with half the water, and start the search for your sneakers.

When you’d signed up to protect a bunch of teens at the end of the world awhile back, it had seemed like a one-time gig. But now, here you were a few years later, loading yourself into your curb-parked junker to willingly cart around the same kids.

While wearing yesterday’s clothes. Even with the sprays of cologne that you’d stolen from Steve’s dresser, you’re pretty sure you’ll be fooling no one.

Evidenced by your first stop in east Hawkins for Dustin Henderson, who clambers into the front seat with a scathing appraisal. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you reply, shifting the gear to drive and grimacing at the subsequent squeal of metal that pierces into your left temple. “Learn from my mistakes as a washed-up twenty-something and cool it on the teen drinking, all right?”

“Washed up though you may be,” Dustin intones sagely, digging through his backpack and producing two brown-paper bundles, “you are now one Claudia Henderson Breakfast Sandwich Deluxe richer.”

You take the proffered sandwich gratefully, steering with one hand to peel back the oil-stained paper from the still-warm bread. “God. Is your mom looking to adopt?”

“She’s kind of got the perfect child already, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground for ya,” Dustin says around a mouthful of cheese and egg.

The solid breakfast helps your stomach ease back into a place of normality, but with your next stop adding two more kids to the mix, the rowdy bickering that follows puts that Tylenol to work.

“You’re an idiot,” Max is saying to Lucas over the sound of his indignation in the back seat. “You seriously think Indiana Jones would win against Supergirl? She can shapeshift, and she has heat vision.”

“All I’m saying is, it’s really hard to see a whip coming.” Lucas is stretching the limits of his seatbelt in his earnestness to get his girlfriend on his side.

It doesn’t work- Max rolls her eyes and taps at your shoulder. “Help me out here. His logic is totally shit, right?”

Making a turn onto the main road, you nod your assent without looking back. “I think you should listen to your very smart girlfriend, Lucas.”

Max makes a triumphant “hah”, and Dustin adds fuel to the argument’s fire when he drags in some other comic book character that you’ve never heard of.

You hazard a glance in your rear-view mirror at Max, who’s too busy dishing out an enthusiastic rebuttal to notice. Her auburn braids swing with the movement of the car, and you wonder if they were done by her mother before work or if Max had to rely on her own hair expertise again.

You’ve got a real soft spot for Max, always have. While you both have plenty of cause to bond over shitty home lives, it’s also Max’s brash and defiant attitude that drew you to her. She’s got the bravery you can only hope for, something that you are sure to tell her frequently, even though the compliment is hard for her to take.

You score a parking spot that’s right in front of the arcade, calling after the kids already scrambling out of your car that you want to leave at noon, sharp. They all give some form of distracted acknowledgement before disappearing into the building, so you figure the earliest you'll be getting out of here is noon-thirty.

Not like you have much to do today, anyways, besides bother Steve and Robin at work- since the arcade is conveniently located right next to Family Video, it’s a perfect excuse to wait out the kids’ spring break activities in the company of your nearest and dearest.

You’re cutting a swift track up the sidewalk when you nearly collide with Eddie Munson, for the second time in less than 24 hours.

“Hey!” He beams at you, a wide, easy thing that fits on his face so well, like it was made to be there, boyish dimples digging in. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” you agree, trying to smile back but probably landing somewhere in the grimace region as memories of last night float to the forefront of your mind. Small talk. You can do it. Say something. “Um. Were you getting a movie?”

“Nah.” Eddie shakes his head, hooks a thumb at the Family Video doors behind himself. “Keith’s one of my regulars. That guy might actually smoke more weed than me.”

You hum mildly to show you’re still paying attention but really you’re looking at Eddie’s hair, dark curls that shift with each of his movements. His hair isn’t black, like you’ve been led to believe this whole time- with the morning light shining through, highlighting the halo frizz around the edges, it’s actually a deep, chocolatey brown.

Similar to his eyes. Which are trained on you. Because you haven’t talked in a weird amount of time and are now just openly ogling his hair.

Before you can open your mouth to apologize Eddie asks, “You wanna smoke?”

You nod, perhaps a tad too enthusiastically, and then stretch on your tiptoes to peer around Eddie’s frame at the Family Video sign. “Yeah, but we gotta be fast unless you want the Wonder Twins joining us.”

His grin slips into a smirk, and he winks before taking your hand in his. “A quickie, then.”

That fluttering thing in your ribs is back. The metal of Eddie’s rings are cool against your palm as he leads you around the side of the building, dropping your hand once you both are leaned up against the red brick.

Trying not to outright stare again, you watch from the fringes of your vision as Eddie lights up and breathes a cloud of smoke into the air. His nails are painted black- they weren’t last night. An image of him- hunched over a kitchen table, tongue sticking out of those pillowy lips in concentration, a nail polish brush held in his long fingers- flits across your mind.

Eddie holds the cigarette out, filter-side towards you, and you shake your head lightly. “No thanks. I don’t actually smoke, I just wanted to talk to you.”

Eddie glows. Before he gets the wrong idea you start explaining, arms crossing tight over your chest in unconscious defense- “I wanted to talk about last night. And say I’m sorry. I’m not usually so…”

“Badass? Charming? Hot?” Eddie fills in when you trail off, taking in another deep drag of smoke.

Christ. You feel heat rushing from head to toe as you ward off his flattery, nails nipping into your upper arms. “I was gonna say… talkative? I guess? I’m normally not one to pick fights, but Lenny was being a dick and I don’t like the way he treats the kids, or you, for that matter, and I was drunk and mouthy but that’s not an excuse to drag you into it and I’m sorry-”

“Hey, hey.” Eddie’s tone is soothing, low, cutting smoothly into your feverish confession. He reaches out and strokes the back of his knuckle across your hand, tiny half-moons from your nails leaving their impression as you soften your grasp on yourself.

He doesn’t seem to mind that you can’t look anywhere but at your sneakers planted in the gravel as he says, “You have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart. I’m a big boy, I can handle myself when it comes to dickwads like Lenny Baker. And I would say that rescuing fair maidens is part of my job description, but…”

Eddie stubs the half-smoked cigarette out against the brick, flicks it to the ground, and waits until you look up at him again before saying “You don’t seem like you’re in need of any saving.”

That flutter, again, as you hold his eye contact for as long as you can stand it.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “There she is.”

Mortified, you resist the urge to scream into your hands as you push off from the brick, instead squeezing them into fists at your sides. “Oh-kay. Well. I better head inside or Robin will send out the search party for me.”

Eddie lets you walk past him, but just before you turn the corner he says, “I’m across from the Mayfields in Forest Hills if you ever want some company. Or some good weed.”

Footfalls from his thick-heeled boots recede into the distance, and you take a minute to calm your breathing before pushing your way through the doors of Family Video.

Steve’s stocking a shelf of New Releases at the front of the store, vest-clad torso faced away as the bell above the door signals your entrance. On autopilot he monologues, “Welcome to Family Video, let us know how we can be of service.”

“Aw, I miss the days when you were forced to say Ahoy, mateys!” You tease, Steve turning to give you an irritated frown as you prop your hip against the register counter.

Robin clacks away on the computer, hitting the Enter key a little harder than necessary as she says, “You’re about one mall fire and a bajillion NDA’s too late to ever hear that shit again.”

Keith must be lurking around in the back office, ‘cuz the three of you only refer to last year’s cataclysmic series of events as a “mall fire” when you’re talking in code.

Or if you’re trying to be funny. But based on the dark circles under Robin’s eyes and the harried way Steve’s shoving a hand through his hair as he drifts towards the counter, you surmise that the three of you are very much on the same page this morning with regards to humor and hijinks.

“I didn’t know it was possible to be this hungover,” Robin groans, sinking her hand into a torn-open Skittles bag and popping a handful into her mouth. “Sugar is supposed to help, right?”

You snort, fiddling with a stack of paper brochures as Steve leans against the counter.

“Had any more run-ins with the town riffraff?” He asks, feigning casual, honey-colored eyes roaming around the shop.

“I’m visiting you, aren’t I?” You shoot back, unreasonably defensive.

“Another point for the pretty lady, and Harrington strikes a zero,” Robin totals in her best sports broadcasting voice. “What the hell are you talking about, Steve?”

“Drinky McGee over here was spilling her guts last night to none other than Edward Munson,” Steve replies, looking satisfied when Robin’s eyes bug dramatically.

“Eddie?” Robin hops off the stool, sliding her hands from the other side of the counter to stop your own from ripping the brochures to shreds. “And what, pray tell, were you spilling about with Eddie Muson?”

“Nothing.” You pull your hands from Robin’s, rolling your eyes as if the stakes are low, when in fact the stakes are as tall as the Empire State Building. You can practically hear the wind whistling from this height. “I wasn’t… we barely talked. He was backing me up when some jock started messing with me. That’s all.”

Robin whirls on Steve with animosity- “You left her alone long enough for some meathead to get involved? Jesus, Steve, the hell is wrong with you?”

“Like you shacking up with Vickie after two Tears for Fears tracks is any more responsible!” Steve snaps.

Having spent enough time with both your friends to know their propensity towards petty arguments, you slap a hand against the counter to derail. “Hey! Both of you knock it off. It’s fine, I’m fine, we survived yet another night out on the town unscathed. Let’s just… drop it.”

Steve looks properly chastised, but Robin gets a glint in her eye that confirms she’s not thrown off the scent so easily.

“You know what they call him, right?” she asks you, lowering her raspy voice even further.

“Eddie The Freak Munson,” Steve supplies, but shrinks noticeably when Robin gives him a withering look. “...not that, then?”

“Of course you, Steve The Hair Harrington, would only know him by that name.” Robin shakes her head, disapproving, before turning back to you with a wicked grin. “Word on the street holds Eddie The Munch Munson in very high regard.”

Steve scoffs at this, but you blink, uncomprehending. “Munch, like… he eats a lot of food?”

You feel very suddenly and violently ganged up on when Steve and Robin give you mirrored quizzical looks.

“No, babe,” Robin says, slowly. “Munch as in he eats pussy.”

“Jesus christ.” Heat courses through you as you scan the empty store, even as Steve chuckles and says, “You really are a prude.”

A skittle sails airborne into the side of his temple and he flinches, Robin coming to your aid. “That’s no way to talk to a lady, Steven.”

“I’m so not a prude.” You’re quick to jump to your own defense. “I just… didn’t know what that meant.”

You’d had a boyfriend for 6 months your sophomore year of high school, Ben- nice enough guy, but you’d mostly dated as an excuse to get all your firsts out of the way. Some laid-back hookups have occurred since then- it’s not like you’ve been chaste all these years, for fuck’s sake.

But you certainly wouldn’t give any of those boys a prize-winning nickname for their ability to eat you out.

“It’s all baseless gossip, right?” Steve grabs a nearby wheeled cart and pushes it to the New Releases, resuming his shelf stocking. “I mean, what the hell else are small-townies good for other than trading lies like baseball cards.”

“I dunno,” Robin says, thoughtfully, sucking at her front teeth. “If the token lesbian is hearing about it, then he’s gotta be some sort of sex god.”

Steve’s making a snarky comeback, but you can’t hear him over the whistling in your ears.

You stare blankly out at the parking lot, one hand absently crunching at a brochure, trying really hard to think of anything but those plush lips and all the places you want them.

____

Ever since the events of last year ripped a hole in your found family’s world, you make it a weekly habit to visit Max.

You’re always armed with some excuse- made too much pasta, please take it off my hands and put this tupperware in your fridge; I was on my way to the thrift store and thought I’d stop by, wanna come with and help me pick out some new jeans?- so that it’s harder for Max to deny your company. Slowly, over the last handful of months, by way of secondhand book offerings and slices of leftover pizza, Max has let her guard down enough to let you in.

Even on days like today, when her demeanor suggests active disdain (calling you “mom” with a caustic bite when you ask after her last meal, rolling her eyes when she finds you doing the leftover sink dishes), you don’t take it personal. Her coldness towards little acts of kindness is due to the shitty way other people have failed her. And plus, you’ve put in enough effort to be able to see the warm side of Max Mayfield.

Like now, for instance- she’s giving you a bone-crushing hug on your way out, freshly-braided hair pressed tight to your sternum as you hug her back and sway in the doorway. The hug is quick and fierce, over in seconds as she slips back into practiced indifference

“Stay out of trouble this week and I’ll buy you a pony,” you joke as she pulls away, and the smile that she cracks makes it all worth it.

“Make it a racehorse and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she says, giving you a small wave before closing her front door.

You walk down the dirt path to your parked car, keys in hand. Tonight’s schedule is that of a responsible, sensible young adult- the classified ads on your desk at home need trawling through, and a laundry pile the size of Hoosier Hill waits expectantly on your floor.

But there’s this crawling under your skin, a feeling that tends to flare up every so often, a craving for some sort of release gnawing at the edges. Usually the cure is sad music and masturbation, or some of Steve’s parents’ wine and a cheesy romcom.

Or weed. That tends to work, too.

You’re shoving your keys into the pocket of your denim jacket and walking across the way to Eddie’s trailer before you lose your nerve, scuffing your sneakers against his porch while you knock.

He looks surprised to see you, dark brows raised, leaning into the palm he’s got on the doorframe- “Oh shit. Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, tracking one foot up the back of your calf, feeling timid under his gaze. “Do you… can I buy some weed?”

When he nods, you duck under his arm and drop to one knee on the carpeted floor to untie your laces.

“Shit, sweetheart, don’t go to all that trouble.” He lets the door close, enveloping you both in the moody lighting of his trailer. There’s a radio playing the local rock station dimly from one of the bedrooms, and as you toe off your shoes you notice a gleaming black guitar leaned upright against the couch.

“Do you play?” You drift over on sock feet to gently brush across the strings, a faint and discordant noise rising and fading underneath your fingertips.

“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice comes from just over your shoulder as he watches your gentle fingers on his prized possession. “I’m in a band, actually. You should come see us play sometime.”

“That’s cool,” you say earnestly. “I remember when you got in trouble for that talent show performance- your band was totally swindled out of first place, if you ask me.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you hazard a look at him over your shoulder and find him staring at you again, something you’re still not used to, giggling out a little “What?” as his eyes stay on your face.

“You’re pretty, that’s all.” The Dio logo on the front of his tee ripples when he shrugs a shoulder. As if he knew it would embarrass you, he leaves no room for your disagreement, turning away into the kitchen, stretching tall for the metal lunchbox on the top of his fridge.

His shirt lifts with the stretch, a flash of stomach lined with a trail of dark hair that makes you swallow back the gathering saliva in your mouth.

“So, weed,” he’s saying as he pops the lid on the box, shaking out a small bag of fuzzy-looking green clumps. “I can set you up with a couple of days’ worth, if you want.”

“That sounds good,” you reply, mustering courage to drift to Eddie’s side, pretending to assess the baggie he’s holding, committing to memory the way his long fingers deftly pluck apart bud from stem. “That way I can come back and buy more.”

His fingers pause, halfway to the metal grinder nestled in the lunchbox as he says, “You know, you don’t need to use weed as an excuse to come see me. I think we’ve already established I like lookin’ at ya, so you’d be doing me a favor if you came by more. Just to hang out.”

This offer sits between you as he grinds the weed down, then tips a stripe of it neatly across some rolling paper. His dexterous fingers pinch and tuck until a joint takes shape, a small strip of the paper poking out.

He holds it to your lips, brown eyes shimmering with warmth as he waits.

A Stevie Nicks song starts up on the radio, muffled by the trailer walls but crooning through all the same. This close to Eddie for the first time, you can smell him- balmy and spicy, like bergamot and Irish Spring.

You lean into the joint, licking across the paper in one unbroken motion. Your tongue catches on Eddie’s thumb when you pull away, and there’s a salt-warm taste that settles in your mouth.

“Good girl,” he says, in that low-toned voice, and you have to fight to keep your thighs from pressing together in your jeans.

“Wanna smoke here?” Eddie smooths the spit-damp end of the joint down, giving the end a twist. “Good way to test out the merchandise. First one’s free.”

You shake your head as he extends the joint- “I’m definitely paying you, Eddie. And no, I can’t smoke here.” With you being the unspoken addition to that sentence.

“Aw, shucks, sweetheart,” he drawls, devilish grin creeping back in, “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

His brows shoot up again, then waggle, obscenely. “Afraid I’m gonna be too tempting to resist once you’re in the clutches of the Green Dragon?”

Something like that, you think, wryly, but that fluttering is back and you really want to shut it up, so against your sensible, better judgment, you take the joint from Eddie’s hand.

“Got a light?”

You haven’t smoked in over a month, and with your tolerance so low two hits is all it takes to get you sprawled out on the living room floor, arms akimbo like you’re making a carpet snow angel.

Eddie’s a bit more restless in his high, plucking melodious and listless tunes from the couch with his guitar, one foot propped on the coffee table near your head.

Feeling loose-limbed and confident, you stare unabashed up at Eddie. He’d put his hair into a low bun, earlier, and there are a few dark tendrils swinging free around his neck with the rocking movements of his body to the music.

He hits a snag, string buzzing out a dissonant noise. “Can’t focus with you lookin’ at me.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, except you’re not at all. “Now you know how I feel all the time.”

He sticks his tongue out at you, your girlish tittering in answer; you pat the carpet beside your hip. “Come lay with me.”

His body responds easily to your request; Eddie props the guitar back up against the couch and stretches out next to you with a sigh, a wave of that smokey sweet smell coming with him.

Under your weed-filtered view, the popcorn ceiling above you is moving, whorling and undulating in the muted light. You’re feeling gutsy and sure of yourself as you ask aloud, “Do you really think I’m pretty?”

Your head turns so you can meet Eddie’s eyes, which are dancing across your face- cheek to lips to nose back up to eyes- and he doesn’t make a joke, this time, his words coming with weighty seriousness.

“Yeah, I do. I think you’re beautiful. Always have.”

“Always?” Your echo is a soft and seeking thing.

“Yeah, always,” he confirms, simply, as if it’s a fact of life. “Woulda made a move sooner, but you always seemed so…”

“Unapproachable? Aloof? Bitchy?” You fill the gap in his speech with adjectives that have been used to characterize you in the past- usually by boys in the heat of an argument over inconsequential things that have been lost to time, only the labels sticking around.

Eddie gives you a reproachful look. “No. I was gonna say, you seemed like you were always in your own world.”

This throws you for a loop. Neck on a swivel, you look back up at the ceiling as Eddie continues.

“I wanted to get to know you more, but I’ll be the first to admit I was intimidated by you. I mean, you’re way out of my league-” Eddie ignores the sardonic snort you give to this- “-and I just assumed asking you out would've ended with an epic crash and burn.”

The ceiling stops swaying, and you swivel back to hold Eddie’s eyes again, the weed making honesty easy. “I always kinda thought you were beautiful, too.”

Awash with the bravery that only comes from being in an altered state, you keep the momentum that’s aided by Eddie’s soft smile and push up on your elbows.

“I know what they call you.”

Eddie blinks up at you, then slowly, slowly, pushes himself up onto his elbows too. “Yeah?”

It’s a taunt, a dare, an I bet you won’t.

Shows how much he knows. When you’re drunk or stoned, he’d be hard pressed to find a bet you can’t win.

You say it, unwavering. “Eddie The Munch Munson.”

His lips fall open, leaning in towards you as if drawn by a magnet, and you think he’s gonna kiss you until he falls back against the carpet, scrubbing his hands down his face. “Shit. Fuck. We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” You’re a little taken aback, ‘cuz while it’s not an outright rejection, Eddie’s upping the drama, hands pressed into the sockets of his eyes, groaning as he tips into your side.

With his forehead pressed into the curve of your shoulder, he says softly, “I think we’re both a little too stoned to be thinking clearly. And I really, really want you to think clearly when it comes to this.”

“Comes to what?” You’re egging him on now, trailing your fingers up his bicep, coy and angelic.

He rolls away from you, making a pained noise with his face smushed into the carpet before pushing himself off the ground. “You know what, princess. New topic, for the love of god. You hungry?”

You are, actually, and when he extends his hand to help you up, you take it.

Eddie whips up a box of mac and cheese while you sit on a counter nearby, conversation engaging and fluid as he cooks.

Between interjections of ‘scuse me, angel, gotta get into this cabinet and can you take over stirring for a sec? you answer all his questions. You tell him your favorite bands, the states you’d visited on a road trip when you were six, even giving him the whole “my mom’s a nice enough person but we don’t get along” spiel that you don’t usually get to until a third date.

If that’s even what this is. He’s scooping steaming noodles into two bowls, passing you one, leaning up against the counter closest to the one you’re sat on. Your knee rubs against his ribcage as you eat.

In between chews, he lets you ask about himself- his favorite bands, the states he’s never been but wants to travel to someday, the highlights of his golden years with his mom that he misses every day.

There’s a quiet lull, after your bowls are scraped clean and set aside. He helps you off the counter and tells you to pick out a movie; you load The Black Cauldron into the VCR and settle into the couch cushion.

Eddie puts an arm around you, lets you play with his hands for the bulk of the film, running your nails methodically across his palms.

By the last act of the movie, you can feel your high beginning to fade, taking your courage with it; when the credits roll, you’re ready to call it quits and sleep off the hangover in your own bed.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Eddie asks, following after you as you tug your sneakers back on in the hall.

“Yeah, Eddie, I’ll be good. Thanks for the weed,” you say, pulling your jacket tight around your frame. “And for the- for everything.”

The smile appears again; the one that cuts deep dimples into his cheeks as he watches you step onto his porch.

When he says your name, you turn, keys in hand- “Yeah?”

Leaning into the doorframe like he had earlier, he cants his head, streetlight a warm glow across his cheeks. “You wanna know where I got my nickname, you come back in a few days. Sleep on it tonight.” And then he closes the door.

___

So, technically, he told you to come back in a few days, and showing up less than 24 hours later has to hint at being some sort of desperate.

Which, fuck it, you kinda are, at this point. Frankly it’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long what with the whole being plagued with visions of Eddie Munson’s hands and lips and hair and that stupid fucking nickname every waking and dreaming hour you’ve spent apart.

While you can appreciate the honorable nature of Eddie asking you to make a clear-headed decision, you’re wishing for a hundred things to take the edge off as you change out of the PJ’s you’ve been moping in all day.

Black tights stretch over your calves as you think of the whiskey you mom keeps hidden in the downstairs cabinet; denim miniskirt smoothed over your hips as you long for a deep hit of weed; hands shakily plucking your black tanktop into place as the urge to be anything but sober gets swallowed down.

You make the ten minute drive to Forest Hills in silence (relative to the weird engine noises your hunk of metal car decides to make), wracking your brain for silver-tongued excuses but instead drawing blank after blank.

By the time you’re rolling to a stop in front of Eddie’s trailer, you still have no idea what you’re gonna say to him- only that something needs to be said. Max is at the Sinclair’s for the night, one less person to worry about witnessing you slamming your car door shut and walking right up to Eddie on his front steps.

He’s wearing a pair of overalls, grease-stained, shirtless underneath- the tail end of a larger ink piece peeking out against his ribs. There’s a lone bike tire on the ground, held steady by the spokes his boot rests on as he wrenches the middle hub, biceps rippling and flexing with each movement.

Certainly a sight that would have stopped you in your tracks, on any other day. But you’re determined to have it out with the returning wingbeat behind your navel, planting your Converse in the gravel just before the first step that Eddie’s sat on.

He doesn’t seem surprised to see you this time, instead giving you a lazy smile on a half-tilt, wiping the tire oil from his hands onto the front of his overalls.

“What brings a fair maiden such as yourself to this ugly neck of the woods?” Eddie leans the tire up against the steps and rises to greet you.

You’re gonna lose what little nerve you have left if he touches you so you act quick, speaking as you cross your arms- “I need to tell you a few things.”

That stops him up short, just a few feet away as he inclines his head, hair loose around his bare shoulders. “I’m nothin’ but ears.”

A wet, rattling breath catches in your chest. You give a cursory scan around to confirm that the rest of the trailer park citizens are indoors, soft lights from rows of windows luminous against the darkening twilight sky.

“I have a… a thing,” you start, unsure of where to begin, really wishing you’d come up with a polished script on the ride over instead of being forced to flounder through for the right dialogue. “It started last year. With the mall fire?”

When Eddie nods his understanding, you continue, in short starts and bursts, like you’re fighting with the words before they come out.

“Something… happened. To Robin, and Steve, and to- to me. It was really bad, for awhile, and then it got better, but I’m still…” your hands squeeze tight into the flesh of your upper arms, nails stinging. “I’m fucked up from it. And the only way I can talk about it is if I’m fucked up, too. S’why I can only hold a conversation when I’m drunk or flirt while I’m high, like there’s this bad thing inside of me that I can’t look at when I’m sober-”

There’s a frantic edge that’s slipped in to your voice and Eddie steps towards you, as if to soothe, but you’re not ready to give in yet so you take a step back, choking out the last few words- “I just- I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t, not yet, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

From somewhere in the forest behind, a bright chorus of crickets swells as you fix your focus on the ground, as Eddie’s boots crunch forward on the gravel, toe-to-toe with your sneakers.

He moves carefully, as if worried that you’ll spook- lightly brushing his fingers across yours, drawing your awareness to the fact that your nails are dangerously close to drawing blood, a sigh as you release.

“Thank you for telling me.” Unlike your own voice, his is low and sure as his thumbs brush against the red half-moons in your arms. “You’re really brave, you know that?”

He doesn��t leave room for you to dispute this, instead tracing the underside of your jaw with his knuckle, forcing you to hold his gaze, those deep brown eyes soft with empathy as he says, “I don’t have any expectations of you, ‘kay? I’ll be all ears when you need me to be, but you don’t have to spill all your secrets every time you come around. You wanna just watch shitty cartoons and keep my couch warm, that’s fine by me. Nothin’ else needs to happen.”

And it’s his acknowledgement of your admission, his softhearted way of letting you know that nothing needs to happen, that makes you brave.

Brave enough to tilt your chin into the lift of his finger as you say, “I didn’t just come here to apologize.”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob against the taut vein in his neck as he swallows, hard.

“Yeah?”

When you nod, Eddie blows out a breath and turns on his heel, motioning you to follow him up the stairs.

Your eagerness is obvious as you scramble up the steps after him, heart starting to thrum in tandem with the flutters as he shuts his front door behind the both of you.

“Take your shoes off,” is all he says, in a low, strained voice, before turning into the kitchen.

Obedient, you drop to one knee and jerk apart your sneaker laces with trembling hands.

Now on nyloned feet, you step onto the linoleum tile of Eddie’s kitchen. He’s faced away from you at the sink, taut lines of his shoulders rising and falling as he washes his hands.

“You’re sober?” He asks, still at the sink, drying his hands on a patterned teatowel.

When you realize he can’t see your nod, you speak- “Yes. Yeah. As a judge.”

A soft exhale through his nose, amused, as he finally turns to face you. Eddie’s eyes do that hypnotizing dance- skipping from your chin to your eyes to your lips back up again- and you let him, feeling exposed to the point of nakedness with the intensity of his focus.

“I want to hear you say it.”

The sentence winds through the air, joins the wings in your stomach, sits low in your belly as you shift your weight from side to side, a gentle rock to ease your flayed-alive nerves.

You say it. “I want your mouth.”

Eddie takes a step closer, nearly toe-to-toe with you again. Over the familiar layer of bergamot and fresh hand soap he smells like the outdoors, and faintly of mechanic oil, hearty and wild.

“Where?” It’s a single word, but with so much weight- suggestive, a taunt, an offer.

You breathe him in, eyes fluttering closed, ‘cuz brave as you’ve been it’s still hard to say some things while looking at him. “Want your mouth… on me.”

He crowds into your space, one hand gliding smoothly to set against your waist, the other fitted against your neck, tapping a thumb to your lips.

You part them, passive and wanting, but he doesn’t press his finger to the pad of your tongue like you’d hoped. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke to the corner of your mouth to make room for his own.

“Where?” he asks again, this time into your mouth. You can feel the tip of his nose graze yours, pinpricks of his hair tickling your cheeks.

“Please,” is all you manage this time, awash with heat when you feel his smile form.

“S’okay, sweetheart. I’ll work you up to it.” It’s a touch condescending, skirting that fine line between tease and mean, the same tone of voice that has your thighs pressing together.

And then, he gives you what you asked for. His plush lips- the ones that you’ve been fantasizing about for what feels like eons- are pressing against yours.

It’s a kiss that starts chaste, tender, but soon devolves into a heady, fevered thing when you push your tongue past the seam of his lips. He melts into you, using the hand he has on your face to keep you steady as he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, grazing his teeth into the plush of it before going back to twining his tongue with yours.

There’s an audible wet click as he pulls away, both of your chests heaving in the quiet that follows; Eddie rests his forehead against yours briefly to catch his breath, and then he’s tugging you down the hall and into his room.

It’s pleasantly messy and lived-in, posters and photographs taking up most of the walls, guitar cables snaking and criss-crossing atop his dresser. You take a seat on the bed, hands tightening into the flannel duvet while Eddie begins to undo the buttons of his overall straps.

Wholly fascinated, you watch as he pushes the thick material from his body and kicks it to the side, leaving him in just his guitar pick necklace and a simple pair of black boxers. Now on full display, you drink in the sight of the most skin you’ve ever seen of his- tattoos at his chest and arms dark against the rest of him, pale and gleaming softly in the yellow light of the bedside lamp.

You’re trying to figure out if the larger piece on his ribs is a dragon or some other mythological creature when he moves in to sit next to you, his kisses erasing all thoughts.

Eddie’s making these throaty little noises as you kiss; his hands track lines from your hips to your sides to your shoulders, your chest unconsciously pressing into his touch.

When his thumb catches on the outline of your beaded nipple through your shirt, he hisses lightly, drawing back to look at you again- “Is this okay?”

You nod, but he doesn’t seem satisfied with that, tsking as he swipes with his thumb again, watching closely as you react silently to the touch.

“Hard to tell when you’re enjoying yourself if you’re quiet as a churchmouse,” Eddie says, in a tone that’s reminiscent of training a pet. “You gonna let me hear you?”

Your teeth catch on your lower lip as he thumbs across your nipple again, shockwaves coursing into goosebumps as you choke out, “I’m not s-so good at that. Not without- fuck- weed..”

Eddie huffs a laugh, a little derisive but you figure he’s probably got the right, seeing as how you’re this worked up and he’s barely touched you.

“You’re plenty good at this sober, sweetheart. Want me to prove it?”

His hand falls from your breast, extricates one of yours from the covers, and slides it up the meat of his thigh- then to the front of his boxers.

The first noise you make for him is a small gasp, one that matches his own as you cup your palm over the thick jut of his hard cock.

“Told you,” he says, sounding strung-out, his hand still closed around your wrist, “You’re doin’ just fine at working me up.”

You wrap your fingers around the bulge as best you can with the fabric of his boxers separating skin from skin, gaining confidence to explore as his grip on your wrist loosens. The black ink at his ribs expands and shrinks with the bellows of his breath, jolting and stuttering with each stroke of your hand.

Just as he’s drawing in a breath to speak, tightening his hold around your wrist in warning, you still your movements. Delicately, slowly, you slide out of his grasp and take his wrist in your hand, placing his palm on your own thigh.

The whole “reciprocating pleasure with sound” is still a hard one to give in to; maybe you can compensate for your hesitancy by showing instead of telling. You guide his hand up, into your skirt, parting your thighs until his fingers find the wetness soaking through both your panties and tights.

“Fucking… jesus.” Eddie moves with the fluid surety that you lack, middle finger running up the seam of your clothed pussy, your hips jerking reflexively when he catches against your clit. “This all for me, princess?”

In answer, you lean to bury your face into the crook of Eddie’s neck. He lets you, taking the opportunity to hook your leg over his thigh, spreading you out as much as your fitted denim skirt will allow.

You pant into the column of his throat as he strokes you through the light layers, the fabrics grinding friction into your clit caught under his fingertip. He rests his chin on the crown of your head, cooing praises that have your stomach muscles tensing.

“That’s it, good girl, such a good girl for me.”

Your clit is throbbing now as he rubs you in small, quick circles, and you’re so close to falling over the edge that you have to pull his hand away.

Eddie picks up on your unspoken plea; he tugs the skirt down your hips then tosses it blindly over his shoulder, reaching for the edge of your tights. He slips them down your thighs, your calves, peeling them off you with reverence. When all that’s left is your best pair of satin panties, he maneuvers you up against the headboard and stretches himself flat on his stomach, nose pressing into your core.

That heat has come back, flashing through you with a vengeance as Eddie mouths at your pussy through the satin, sloppily but with purpose enough to have your cunt clenching around nothing.

You stay up on your elbows, watching that mane of dark hair bracketed by your thighs, but when Eddie pulls your underwear down and off your ankle your weight falls back against the mattress.

The flat of his tongue licks a wide stripe from your weeping hole up to spread the wetness around your clit. When he sucks the bundle of nerves into his mouth, your head presses back into the covers, hands grappling above you for something to anchor your grasp.

When Eddie flicks the point of his tongue against that bright spot of nerves your hands find a pillow to grip, and when he moans into your pussy the vibrations have you instinctively pulling the pillow against your face, teeth biting into the fluff, masking the whine that would have been loud in the otherwise quiet room.

You think you might be able to get away with this setup (what with Eddie seemingly focused on making you explode into a million little pieces) but there’s a sharp smack before the outer skin of your thigh is burning, white-hot from the kiss of his rings.

Eddie’s mouth leaves you only for the time it takes for him to rip the pillow from your grasp and scold, “Uh uh, none of that, c’mon,” and then he’s back at your clit, suckling with renewed vengeance.

There are little stars bursting at the edges of your vision, your hands shooting down to grip at Eddie’s hair when he pistons the point of his tongue against you again. Your hips are subtly bucking into his mouth, shaking thighs involuntarily closing around his ears. Normally you’d be concerned about Eddie’s air intake but going off the moans he’s burying in your pussy, you’d hazard a guess that he’s really into it.

As if in confirmation, he pulls off your clit with a wet pop, laving his tongue up the junction where thigh meets pelvis, voice sounding wrecked- “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. Fuck, you got me so hard. Gonna blow a load in my boxers like a teenager, y’taste so good. Gonna let me hear you? Hm? Wanna hear you.”

You’re dizzy with want as you prop yourself on your elbows again, mouth falling open as Eddie sinks two of his fingers up to the ringed knuckle inside your velvet walls.

His other hand comes to rest on the soft curve of your stomach, pinning you in place, before he looks up at you, black pupils nearly eclipsing the chocolate brown.

“What do you want?” he asks again, patiently, as if he doesn’t have two fingers nestled inside your cunt.

Your efforts to grind into him are stopped with his firm hold on your middle, and he tuts at you again- but instead of a reprimand, he seems to soften a bit.

“C’mon, angel,” Eddie says, with such tenderness that makes tears prick at the corner of your eyes. He presses his lips to the inside of your thigh before encouraging, “Lemme hear you say it, and I’ll make it so good for you. Promise.”

“Want you to make me come. Please.” Your voice is unsteady, but it’s audible enough.

Eddie rewards you by sinking his fingers further, to the hilt, heel of his palm catching against your clit. When you let out a warbling moan, he nods- “That’s it,”- before setting a steady rhythm for fucking his fingers up into you.

“Fuck, Eddie- fu-uck…” you’re trying, really trying to stay in the moment and not get caught up in the noises you’re making- for him.

When Eddie reattaches his mouth to your throbbing clit and angles his fingers to hit into that soft, spongy spot with each thrust, you feel waves of pleasure start to wash through you. There’s just time for a choked “Shit, Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum,” before you’re spasming around his fingers.

Somehow, you manage to stay on your elbows, bracing your body through the convulsive shocks, white-hot stars joining the wingbeat rhythm as Eddie takes you apart with his mouth and fingers.

He moans, long and low, fucking you through it and then some- your orgasm has been completely wrung out when you push at his forehead, whimpering at the overstimulation.

“No, baby, one more, please. Gimme one more,” Eddie lifts his head to plead with you, sweaty bangs glued to his forehead- and then he’s back between your legs.

It’s this moment that makes you retrospective. Sex with boys, in the past, has always been a quick means to an end: a few minutes of foreplay, tamping down your own pleasure for the sake of blowing off some steam.

But now, pleasure was being given to you in spades by Eddie Munson, and you wanted to give it back to him.

You come on his tongue and fingers, again, stomach tightening beneath his warm palm, and this time you really loose the sounds caught in your chest: a strangled mix of your bliss-soaked whines with his name, Eddie Eddie Eddie.

You feel the bed frame jolt below you both as Eddie’s hips thrust into the mattress in a frenzied tempo.

“Fuck me.” He pulls away, finally, panting into the side of your knee. He rests his head against your leg, lips tinged pink and shining wet, gazing at you with lust-blown eyes. “You are so fucking hot. Holy shit.”

Bashful as your peak wears off, you pull him forward so you don’t have to look at him when you whisper, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, princess,” he says, slumping against your chest and into your arms. “That’s going straight to my long-term spank bank. Number one. For sure.”

You slap playfully at his shoulder, and he rises on his elbows to kiss you- once on the lips, twice on the cheek- warm palms on the outside of your shoulders.

“Are you… d’you need any help?” you ask, reaching to tuck his hair behind his ears, feeling the crush of insecurity leech in. “I dunno if you even- I mean, did you…”

From all the physical activity, your breasts are half-spilled out of your bra, and Eddie bends to kiss at the tops of them, affectionately, shaking his head as he goes. “There is no world in which I would’ve lasted, just now. Very noble of you to assume, though.”

He grins at your giggle, then says- “I dunno about you, but I need some new underwear. Wanna borrow a pair of my boxers? Bet you’d look cute.”

________

Later, when you’re both cleaned up, dressed, and full from a pizza delivery, Eddie invites you outside for a smoke.

You sit with him on the porch couch, legs slung over his, a big flannel blanket shared over both your laps while he smokes with the hand that isn’t on your thigh.

There’s a crunching of wheels on gravel, and Max Mayfield’s bike lamp cuts through the dark.

“Hey, Heavy Metal,” she calls out, undoing her bike helmet and leaning her bike into its kickstand. “Are you done fixing up Lucas’s tires or do I have to keep hauling my ass all the way across town to see him?”

“I’ll have it done tomorrow, Red,” Eddie calls back, giving her a salute.

Halfway to her door, she remarks, “You two are gross, by the way,”

You cross your arms in the sweatshirt Eddie loaned you, slipping into irksome older sister mode easily. “So how’d it go with your boyfriend, tonight, Maxine?”

She flips you both off, but you catch the smile on her face before the front door bangs shut behind her.

Eddie chuckles, smoothing his palm up your thigh, then takes another drag. “You gotta come night smoke with me more often, angel. The streetlights suit you.”

“Gonna get me hooked on nicotine, too?” Your sock foot pokes him in the ribs and he tuts, snapping it up in his free hand and digging his thumb into the arch of your sole.

“Fuck no, your teeth are too pretty to ruin. Want you to come keep me company while I destroy my lungs.”

Another cloud of smoke lifts dreamily around Eddie’s face. His thumb is working wonders on the tense muscle of your foot as you tip your head to rest on the back of the couch. With the nearby streetlamp, his profile is cast in a warm glow; you do a dance of your own, eyes taking in the strong slope of his nose, tracking down to his lips, back up to the wild curls at his temple.

Eddie feels you staring, turns to fix you with a quit it look that you can’t help but laugh at- “What, so you’re the only one who’s allowed to stare?”

“That’s right,” he confirms, leaning forward to set his cig in an ashtray, bullying his way into your space, rings cold under your chin when he tilts your face towards his- “Gotta pay the piper for that obvious violation, sweetheart. Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

This time, when the flutter within you kicks up, you have a place for it to go- melting softly into Eddie’s lips.

___________________

I wrote the last third of this while blasted please don’t judge too harshly lmao

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x shy! reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #stranger things fic #eddie munson fic #robin buckley #steve harrington #mdni

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annie-creates · 1 month ago

Text

I deserved it

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x reader

Genre: angst

Words: 1000

Note: This story is inspired by this amazing song so I'm very greateful to the person who used it for an Agatha edit. Please be aware there's a talk of scars in case it makes you uncomfortable.

When Agatha Harkness entered your apotheke on the outskirts of your town, you thought it must have been a mistake. She would never step into a mile radius of yours willingly. But she wasn’t alone, she had a young boy with her. A kid who was a little too excited to get on the path of death for your liking, but at the same time it intrigued you. It was clear Agatha herself didn’t really want to be here, but once he told you about the coven list, you understood she really didn’t have much of a choice. If she wanted to find the witch’s road, she needed a coven with you in it.

Against your better judgement, you came to the meeting point, other witches already gathering. Quite a weird group in your opinion, Agatha must have been desperate. You couldn’t fathom she’d choose any of them willingly. That’s how you got yourself into the shenanigans of trials and tests, each one crazier than the one before. You weren’t all exactly friendly with each other either, most of you having some old beef with Agatha. Which at least didn’t leave you alone in your reservations towards her.

In the chaos of the last trial Teen got hurt and you all rushed outside to tend to him in the calmer surroundings. Everyone seemed desperate to find something to help, but surprisingly most of all Agatha, who pushed Jen to come up with anything that would help. You stand by his side, calling to your healing powers your hands starting to glow.

„Don’t touch him!“ Agatha screams at you, the cruelty in her voice taking you back.

„Do you want him to live or not?“ You spit back after the initial shock, masking your hurt expression.

In the mean time Jennifer makes her makeshift potion, slowly healing his wound. You take a few steps back, still hurt by the refusal of your help. You watch as they take him to sleep, opting to help Lilia with setting up a campfire instead. She notices your sudden quietness but doesn’t comment on it. The day has been hard on all of you.

“He might get a scar from this one,” Alice comments as she and Jennifer return, leaving Agatha looking after the kid.

“I bet he’ll find it pretty cool,” you answer halfheartedly.

“Do you guys have any magical scars?” She asks, stirring up a friendly conversation. “You’ve already seen mine.”

“I have these from the bounds,” Jen admits showing her wrists with lines that were hardly visible now.

“Look at this,” Lilia shows the side of her neck. “It’s from a vampire… right before I knocked out his other tooth.”

That gets everyone laughing and you must chuckle a little. What a weird group, and yet you kinda did click together. Maybe the choosing wasn’t completely random after all. All covenless witches, renegades who didn’t fit into the society of the outside world. You hear Agatha’s steps before she sits down by the fire, an opportunity they can’t pass on.

“Do you have any battle scars Agatha?” Alice asks lightly.

“Check this out,” she unbuttons her sleeve rolling it up. “Knitting needle right to the elbow.”

“Wow,” Jennifer admires. “What about you Y/n?”

You slowly look up at her, being a little lost in your own thoughts to follow the conversation too closely. You debate yourself for a minute with a loud inhale and exhale, deciding to also share a little piece of your troubled past. So you open the first few buttons of your shirt. There, in the middle of your chest, lies a deep pink scar.

“Oh my god, where did you get that?” Jen asks surprised.

“Well… a long time ago, I had this… person. And I wasn’t able to protect someone very dear to them… so she promised to cut out my heart and never forgive me,” you admit, your eyes glossing over as you remember the painful memory.

“Wow that’s cruel,” Alice whispers taken back by your dark story.

“I guess I deserved it,” you shrug, suddenly feeling colder.

The other women shake their heads clearly disagreeing but it’s not their place to argue with you on your self-esteem and worth. Agatha stays quiet, remembering the day she almost cut your heart out for the loss of her son. Even now, decades later she couldn’t understand how you could fail the one time she really needed you, and it only strengthened her decision that she can’t trust anybody when it comes to important stuff.

You get up after a minute, too lost in your own mind to entertain the ladies. You walk through the forest, immediately missing the warmth of the fire. Were you a good person? Reliable? The people in your life now would surely say yes, the witches on the road didn’t know you enough to judge, and Agatha would definitely have a different opinion. So what’s the right answer? Could you even believe in yourself? If not, how could you ask others to?

Your mind travels back to earlier today when Agatha forbade you from helping, rather entrusting Teen’s life in the hands of a stranger than yours. Did she really think so little of you? That you’d hurt the kid? The answer came walking behind you, subtle rustling of leaves revealing her presence. With a spiteful feeling you think she came to make sure you didn’t poison the boy or something.

“You know, this road is like Switzerland…” Agatha waits for you to turn around and look at her. “So I won’t attack you here… If I don’t have to.”

“Oh what a relief…” you scoff, folding your hands over your chest.

“But don’t expect the same courtesy when we’re outta here,” she warns you. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

“Wouldn’t imagine anything else,” you sigh.

“You were right you know?” she adds, already on her walk away from you. “You deserve much worse than just a scar.”

#agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x you #kathryn hahn #kathryn hahn x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #agatha harkness angst #Spotify

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losing-it-lately · 6 months ago

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first kiss with remus

wc: 0.7k

remus lupin x reader, yule ball fluff

You looked like heaven. So soft to touch and yet somehow untouchable in that ethereal sort of way. Maybe he’d spend the rest of his life dreaming about you standing across from him in that dress; rivulets of champagne satin draped onto your form, each curve and love handle appearing delicate to the touch. Your waist seemed to be the perfect resting spot for his hand, and your lips the perfect resting spot for his.

“Hey, you look really nice all dressed up.” The words fell on deaf ears. His eyes so fixated on your lips that he didn't recognise words, just gentle sounds that pulled a small smile onto his face. Remus was still thinking about the way that the light hit you, and your hair all fixed up, and your lips; the lips that should be on his. “Hello,” you repeated, finally garnering his attention.

“Hey,” he whispered with a gentle joy husking in the mellows of his deep voice. Remus felt like his voice had been unused for so long, left waiting patiently until he spoke to you.

“You look nice. All dressed up.”

“Thanks.” He had gotten up for a ‘smoke break’ after he caught you slipping outside in his periphery. He had quit cigarettes a month ago after hearing you lament about the smell of smoke and your childhood asthma, and if the sickly sweetness of tobacco irritated your nose and hurt your lungs, he would rather burn every cigarette in the nearby radius than keep you away from him.

“You look nice too… Lovely even.” A small smirk forming on his face. You liked his confidence, his jokes, his snark, even when it seemed like it was nonexistent. Somehow, you made all the other noise fade away, just your laughs and a large void of silence, of serenity, left.

“Remus Lupin calling me lovely!” A dramatic exclamation, something silly and joyful and light. There was no way you could have known that there were a million other things that Remus Lupin could call you: stunning, gorgeous, radiant, and maybe, one day, his. Your hands patted the front of your dress, your eyes sparkled in the light from the stars, and your lips looked so kissable. Maybe James had sparked the punch bowl, or maybe Remus was royally screwed; your smile was making his heart warm.

The silence felt long, just two people looking at each other, and then you bit your lip. You wanted to kiss him, you wanted to kiss Remus, and it was going to put you in an awkward position. He’s just an acquaintance, not even an actual friend yet, and you could ruin this potential thing by making one wrong move. Your face flushed with heat and your smile turned to a pout; you didn't know this was something he needed.

“I think someone’s calling me.” You sprung up the first step, attempting to quickly run away from the situation, but Remus pulled you back in; his arm wrapped around your elbow, warm and wanting. It brought you in too close, facing him with only inches between the two of you. He could feel your breath and smell your perfume. It was different today, probably something more expensive to celebrate the night. He wished he had used another word instead of lovely, perhaps lovable would have been right, or priceless.

“Wait.” Another whisper. You were holding your breath now. He pleaded with something ragged and desperate, “please.”

His other hand crept up to your jaw, fingers caressing your lips. You felt real under him, and soft, and smooth, and dreamy too. “Can I?”

“Yes.” He wanted to memorise the way your lips felt agreeing to him. How many times would he have to ask you for a kiss before his hands knew what your agreeance felt like; how long did you keep your lips apart, how did your breath feel on him, how high did your lips quirk up, ready for him.

He lowered his face, pausing and moving his fingers to rest on your cheek. One hand on your arm, the other holding up your head, you could feel Remus’ warmth surrounding you. Waiting with your eyes closed as he took his time trying to commit this moment to memory. Finally, his lips met yours. He would never forget this night.

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starsfic · 1 month ago

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Grandpa and Great-Uncle AU: The Beginning

Summary: An hour after Shermie agrees to go to Gravity Falls, his son asks him to take his grandchildren.

AO3/ Ko-Fi

-_-

An hour after he hung up the phone, it rang again.

"Hello?" Shermie said. He wondered if it was Stanley, wanting to hammer out some last details or canceling the plans. "This is Shermie-"

"Uh, hey dad," Mark didn't sound as steady as he usually did. In fact, he sounded on the verge of tears. Shermie straightened up, concern rising. Mark calling upset was so common by now that his back didn't hurt after two years. "Uh, it's Mark... something happened..."

Ah, shit. With the state of his son's marriage, Shermie had to guess. "Did you or Ariel leave with the kids?"

"No," His daughter-in-law spoke up, her voice muffled. There was a sob in her voice that made Shermie want to hang up and drive over. However, it was ten in the evening and Piedmont was an hour away. "I fucked up and I said something really nasty to Mark and Mason..." There was the faint sound of her blowing her nose. "Mason overheard me saying something nasty about him and Mabel to Mark."

Oh. Oh boy.

"This is why I told you-"

"I know, Dad," Mark said before Shermie could start on again about marriage counseling and divorce. Everyone in the family knew that this relationship was a ticking bomb that would hurt the twins. "We know. That's why we called."

"We were hoping that you could take them for the summer," Ariel said, sounding much calmer now. "We don't want them to get caught up in the middle of us being shitty about each other." The foul language made Shermie raise a brow, but he stayed silent. At least they were taking responsibility and getting the twins out of the blast radius. "I- We know it's a lot to ask..."

"But, I would say yes," Shermie had to interrupt. "But I'm actually staying the summer with Uncle Stanley."

There was a pause. "Really?" Mark said, sounding baffled. "I thought he didn't want any of us visiting because of how dangerous the supernatural stuff could be." That decision had been made after the one and only visit to Gravity Falls that Mark had when he was three and nearly got abducted by fairies. It hadn't solely been Stan's decision, but Shermie had agreed.

"He...He said he needed backup because of how old he's getting and how busy the Shack is, plus how the portal's coming along," Shermie tried not to tremble at the memory of Stanley's voice, thick with so much regret and anguish that he was tempted to drive to where Filbrick was buried and smash his gravestone. "But, he's not doing well mentally. He didn't say it, but I know he's having a hard time, especially with how long it's been." It would be thirty years tomorrow. "I'm going to go to see what I can do, if I can maybe talk him into walking away."

Probably not, but he had to try. Stanford Pines wasn't worth this.

"Maybe the twins might help?" Ariel said, interrupting his thoughts. "You know how excited he got when he visited them in the hospital."

Oh, yeah. At the memory of Stan's elbow in his face, his nose ached.

But Stan had been delighted when he realized that there was a second pair of twins in the family. Shermie's favorite picture was of him holding the twins, their mom hugging him.

"I'll have to ask him. Give me a second." He hung up and his fingers trembled as he typed in Stan's number. Shermie wasn't sure if it was hope or anxiety, but he held his breath as it rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Stanley, um...Here's the thing. Mark and Ariel want Mason and Mabel out of the house during the summer," Shermie said, trying not to panic as he said it all in one breath. "I told them that I was going to be visiting you and Ariel suggested I take them with me to-"

SMASH.

Shermie jolted at the noise, dropping the phone. He scrambled to grab it, his heart racing at an uncomfortable rate. "Stanley?!"

"Sure, bring them!" There was another smash. "I've missed the little gremlins. I can take them fishing." Another smash. "I didn't really get to do that with Mark when he visited."

"What are you smashing?"

"Oh, my beer." There was a thump. "Anyway, let me know when you guys are coming. I have to set up the attic and find the spare bedroom and find my cigars." And with that, the line went dead. Shermie blinked before he started dialling Mark's number.

Well, that was a hell of a yes.

"Hello? Dad?"

"He said yes."

#Shermie Pines #Mr Pines #Mrs Pines #Stan Pines #Gravity Falls #GF #Gravity Falls AU #GF AU #AU #Grandpa and Great-Uncle AU #my writing #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #prompt fill #prompt fic #au

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delespresso · 6 months ago

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DESERVING ━━ Antonio Dawson x fem!reader

author's note; this one has been in my drafts for a while and honestly i have mixed feelings about it. but oh well, i might as well just put it out lol enjoy <3

summary; antonio had only ever been casual with her, but called it quits a while ago. only to come back after a rough case, finally realising it wasn't so casual after all

━━ ☄. *. ⋆

Molly's wasn't as crowded that night. She sat at the bar, nursing a drink in her hand as she rested her head in her palm with her elbow on the bartop. After a long day of back-to-back surgeries at Med, all she needed was a drink to wind down.

For the past couple of months, that drink was with some company. Tonight, it went back to the usual routine.

She wasn't sure where any of it went wrong. She hardly even realized there was anything wrong, really. Maybe it just wasn't right.

She took a large swig of her drink at the thought. The only thing that kept her mind off him had been her patients. Now that she didn't have that, she zeroed back into him without wanting to.

He'd consumed her entirely in the short months they were together. She should've known better. Getting involved with a man recently divorced – what was she thinking?

It felt so good to just be wrapped up in someone after long, awful shifts. And it was a win-win situation. She wasn't the only one benefiting from it.

Refusing to sit at the bar any longer, she shot her drink down in one go and left some cash on the bar. Usually she'd be chatting with Hermann before she left. Not tonight.

She didn't want to drive after that. Maybe she'd only had about two glasses, but she didn't want to take any chances. So she walked. She'd take her car in the morning.

Her apartment was just down the block anyway. It hardly took her more than five minutes to get back there.

Fiddling through the keys in her hands, she turned down the hallway towards her door. Stopping short when she looked up, very nearly dropping her keys.

“Antonio?”

Her voice came out uncertain.

He turned instantly. His fist dropped, he was just about to knock on her door.

For a moment the man just stood there and looked at her. He put his hands back into the pockets of his coat, rocking on his heels slightly as he cleared his throat.

“Hey,” he greeted.

Hearing his voice again seemed to sober her up suddenly – if she was even that tipsy in the first place. The last time they'd spoken to each other was three weeks ago. The time he hit the brakes on what they had.

“Hi,” she nodded.

Antonio hesitated. He dropped his gaze for a second, before shrugging lightly.

“Look, I uh–”

He met her gaze. She hadn't moved an inch. They were facing each other in the hallway of the apartment.

“I just wanted to check on you,” he admitted gently. “It's been a… rough day.”

She nodded slowly. It had been a rough day, for sure.

Bomb threats all over important locations in the city. Police stations, schools, hospitals – Chicago Med was the very last. They may have mostly been a hoax, but Intelligence didn't take it lightly.

Antonio's team was all over it. The second one of those bombs was real, dropped off at the park just within half a mile radius from Chicago Med – they went head first to find the perp. He ran with his team to investigate it all, while she was busy rushing the victims through surgery.

“It was,” she agreed. “It was rough.”

The keys tapped along her palm lightly as she looked at him. Neither of them seemed to be able to tear their gazes away.

“And how are you?” she then asked softly.

Antonio only stared at her. He looked tired. Like he always did after long cases like this one. These bomb hoaxes had been going on for weeks. It was only today that something truly happened.

And while they haven't found the perp, he took a small step back and let his team play their part as well.

“I've been better,” he replied.

She let out a slow breath. Holding the key in one hand, she gestured to her door lightly.

“Wanna come in?” she offered.

She wasn't sure why she did that. If it was even a good idea after everything.

After all, it was him who said they should stop. That it wasn't the right time for either of them. That they should probably work out their own careers first.

Antonio took a beat. His lips parted to speak as he looked at her, then he glanced at her door.

“Is that okay?” he asked.

She only stepped past him in response, unlocking her door and stepping in. Holding the door open to the side, she gestured for him to enter.

The place was just like he remembered. Although, he doubted much would change in merely three weeks. They ended up standing on two different sides of her kitchen counter, a bottle of beer in each of their hands.

Antonio glanced around the place, his fingers lightly tapping on his beer bottle.

“You finally got the heater to work,” he commented.

She'd been having an issue with her heater forever, it felt like. But now as he stood there, he realized it was warmer here despite the cold outside.

She hummed, nodding as she took a sip of her beer.

“I got a new one,” she replied. “Nothing lasts forever, right?”

Their eyes met. Something about what she said made them both pause and think. She didn't mean to imply anything, but she noticed what she did a second too late. Her eyes dropped and she took another sip of her beer, no longer knowing what to do with herself.

Antonio was just as bad. But he did know how he felt, at least.

“We were good together,” he spoke softly, breaking the sudden silence.

She paused. His words were like a wound in salt.

He knew he shouldn't. He shouldn't be pushing after he was the one that had broken her. But he couldn't stop himself. Suddenly he was around the counter, beer bottle abandoned as his hand reached up to cup her cheek.

When she looked up at him it was with those same doe eyes he fell for. The ones that made his blood rush and heart pumping. The ones that felt like a breath of fresh air after being cooped up for so long.

“I messed up. And instead of fixing it, I made it worse,” he told her. “And I'm sorry. I don't say it as often as I should, but I'm telling you and I mean it. I'm sorry.”

The words hung heavy in the air for a moment as she simply stared up at him with her soft, tender eyes. There was a clear hurt still in them and it made his heart clench.

“I don't deserve you. I really don't. But God if you let me, I'm willing to put in the work. To be the man deserving of you. I just… I just need your word. And your time of day.”

When he continued, she didn't even notice the way her eyes watered. This was the most vulnerable this man had ever been with her. Her heart was thundering as she realised she never got over him. And she knows she never will.

She didn't say a word. She didn't give him an answer, not verbally. Instead, her hands reached up for his jacket to tug him down gently so their lips could meet.

And when she kissed him it was with everything she had. It wasn't lustful or hungry. It was pure love and desire. A yearning that never once faded.

When he kissed her back, she knew then. It was undeniable — she was his. And he was undoubtedly hers.

liked this tale? be a member and buy me some coffee!

#antonio dawson imagine #antonio dawson x reader #chicago pd #antonio dawson #one chicago #oneshot #antonio dawson fanfiction

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mineralsrocksandfossiltalks · 1 month ago

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Monday Musings: From Fins to Feet

About 131 million years after the first fishes appeared, the first tetrapod climbed on to dry land. Tetrapods are animals with four weight-bearing limbs (among other things but we're here to discuss limbs). Amphibians, reptiles,

birds, and mammals are all tetrapods. Yes, you are a tetrapod.

So where did all the tetrapods come from? Fish of course! You are a very, very derived fish.

And those poor fish had a lot of hurdles to jump before they could exploit the resources on dry land. The biggest one was how the heck they were going to move around up there. Fish cannot support their own weight, there's no need when the water does it for you.

In fact, marine animals in general use the water for support and will suffocate under their own body weight if beached. Water is one of the reasons whales can get so big while land animals are limited.

Skeletons had to make some major changes before they could be useful out of the water. The vertebral column of fish are adapted for the stresses of lateral stretching during swimming.

For a tetrapod, the main force acting on it is gravity. This means the backbone needs to be modified to keep the body from sagging between the limbs like a pair of overlarge pants not held up properly by a belt. (I mean, our ancestors went through a lot of effort to lengthen the limbs to make walking easier and some people go and sag their pants like the wish to be fish all over again.)

Not only must the spine be altered but so must the fins. They simply can't support weight let alone move that weight anywhere. That's not what they were evolved for.

Sarcopterygian fishes, also known as lobe-finned fishes, developed early arm bones in their fins, bones other fishes lack. This allowed them to pull themselves across land (whether that was underwater or not) much like an army crawl.

Eusthenopteron foordi is one such fish. Part of the family Tristichopteridae, it possessed very early forms of the modern tetrapod arm and leg. Its front fin was attached to the back of the skull and the limb bones were very short. These two characters combined to make movement of the front fin very limited.

Another lobe-finned fish of note is Panderichthys rhombolepis.

Its humerus was nearly twice the length of Eusthenopteron's and its radius was longer and wider, while its carpals shrunk.

Its humerus was also held more horizontally than vertically, closer to the tetrapod state. However, its pelvic girdle was less derived than Eusthenopteron.

The final sarcopterygian that nailed some of the transition from fully aquatic to partially aquatic was Tiktaalik roseae.

It has very robust bones in the pectoral fins, good for eventual bearing weight. However, it still retained the fish-like metapterygial axis, a line of bones which the fin radiates around.

It didn't quite have a wrist yet, but its fin was flexible like a wrist which may have helped anchor it in fast currents. Although not entirely preserved, the hind limbs were nearly as long as the front limbs, a tetrapod trait.

Then came the stem-tetrapod, Acanthostega gunnari. It possessed four limbs but the front limbs could not bend forward at the elbow and therefore could not be put in the weight-bearing position. Another remarkable thing about its feet was that it had eight toes! EIGHT! Seems a bit excessive if you ask me.

It's pelvic girdle was fused with the sacral ribs of the vertebral column which was novel for the time. (The pelvic girdle is unattached even from itself in fish.)

Finally, we have Ichthyostega stensioei. It had four robust limbs that could actually support its body on land for a short time.

And that is how vertebrates transitioned from water to land...at least as we know it right now. Tune in tomorrow for some trivia! Fossilize you later!

#paleontology #fossils #fun facts #history #comparative anatomy #fins to feet #tetrapods #lobe-finned fish #science #science education

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anjney · 2 years ago

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Manufacturer of PPCH Pipes and fittings in Ahmedabad, Exporter of PPCH Pipes and fittings in India

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azulyrae · 8 months ago

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❛ —— 𝐈𝐕 : The Bishop.

to yearn for a mate was to dance around the thin line of blind devotion. azriel thought of himself a maculated sinner with the nerve to beg the cauldron for a sacred connection. he shouted at the skies until his throat dried and his voice lost to the clouds; until his wings were too sore to fly and his heart was too tired to hope.

to abandon the pursuit of a mate was to abandon the thought of everlasting love. yet, there she was. a fever dream above expectations, with similar scars and a soul who mirrored his.

after a rough argument, azriel travels to the core of his mate’s memories, and finds that there’s always more than meets the eye — and that, at last, his prayers were well-answered.

the fourth chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

THIS CHAPTER HAS DESCRIPTIONS OF PAST SEXUAL HARASSMENT! please be safe while reading it!

word-count: 5K.

But I don’t know what else that I would do, than to try to kiss the skin that crawls from you; than feel your weight in arms, I’d never use. It feels good, girl, it feels good. Oh, to be alone with you.

— To Be Alone, Hozier.

Azriel felt distressed due to the bothering awareness of the growing sweat running down the extension of his forearms, dripping from his hair to the bridge of his nose; from his elbows to the earth; from his palms to the wooden-hilt of the pair of swords he maneuvered. His steps were fast and precise, crushing the leaves underneath as he retreated, footwork and handiwork aligned to exploit the radius of his abilities. It was a frenetic and relentless pace born from the increase of her amelioration, which granted him the long-awaited opening to no longer repress his movements — since the better [Name] got, less was the need to inhibit his polished instincts, battle aggressiveness, and speed.

The female had a long way to go: more than once had the wooden-sword touched her arm or legs, and if it was made of silver or steel, it would’ve sliced her skin, drawing blood from the teared flesh. However, those occurrences grew infrequent after proper repetition. [Name] had been trained before by a mortal man whose identity she was yet to reveal, and by Mor herself, an experienced and talented warrior in whom Azriel would trust with his life if it was required — had done it even, countless times before. A month under a regained routine of guidance and practice, and [Name]’s muscular memory had already started to act accordingly to what it had been once taught, growing accustomed to the intensity of heated confrontations.

Neither her proficiency nor her dedication were a surprise: [Name] remained with her sais in hand whenever they were meant to rest, spinning the blades on her fingers as though it was an interesting pastime of hers. Azriel presumed that her previous knowledge of daggers and throwing knives was half-responsible for such a swift familiarization, for the sais were turning into an extension of her body. The female spun one in her fingers as they played a match of chess or ate their meals or even jogged on the beach at nighttime, and the male couldn’t help but to grin to himself at the fact that he had given her the most well-suited pair of blades, one that was perfect to her fighting style.

As the two darted around the jungle in quick steps, Azriel reminisced times when a quite drunk Mor had insisted on the importance of having a vast knowledge in the matters of dancing. She would sway left-and-right in a long, red dress, twirling in her feet and dragging Azriel to the center of the room. Mor tried to convince him to learn a few waltzes, arguing that battling was but a mere variation of dancing — only that it also happened to involve swords and life-or-death situations. At last, Azriel brushed her off after two or three songs, their closeness enough to steal his breath away, a fresh and sadistic torture that made his skin crawl. He couldn’t see it back then, and wouldn’t dare to either.

To battle was to reap one’s life, to either stare into their eyes as the Mother claimed their souls or to move forward onto the next opponent. It was a chaotic scenery of gore and severed limbs and warm blood. It wasn’t something that one ought to equate to a delicate and intimate thing such as a waltz. Yet, as his feet stepped back in a defensive manner, being followed-in-suit by [Name]’s offensive stance, he understood what Mor meant.

They were a pair of agile dancers, pooled in sweat and driven by obstinacy and an equal sense of competitiveness. One could presume that [Name] would’ve cowered at the sight of his swords — one in each hand —, but she grew bolder, more courageous, and at last understood the dynamics of that particular match of chess, applying her relentless and unpredictable strategies that drew one to an inescapable and pitiful defensive stance. It had been a long time since Azriel had guided their waltz: the charge of it was entirely hers.

[Name]’s durability remained a matter to work upon whatsoever, especially if he was to consider the intensity of her battling: a repetitive and vexing thing that could tire out even the strongest defense. However, as of then, it happened to do the same to her, and the longer Azriel refused to relent, the more she lost her preciseness and strength.Yet, in terms of technique, she wasn’t at all disappointing.

The Spymaster raised his right arm across his chest, placing the wooden-sword above his left shoulder. That granted him a further boost as he lowered down the weapon, outlining a half-arch towards her carotid; an attack that, were their battle under different circumstances, would’ve been lethal. [Name] spun both her sais. The one in her dominant hand was held horizontally, and it trapped the wooden-sword in between one of its guards; the other one remained somewhat vertical and served as leverage, its blade crossing the inside of the guard from the other pair of sai she held. The movement itself resembled a plus sign, with his wooden-sword caught in the middle due to the positioning of her blades, making it impossible for the opponent to rid his weapon from that lethal trap.

If Azriel had all but a single sword, the battle would have ended then and there. [Name] would have used her sais to snap his blade in two and the lack of protection would have been enough for her to spin one of them and drive its point straight into the side of his neck and pierce through his carotid. That was not the case whatsoever. Because [Name] raised both her arms to meet one of his wooden-swords in the middle, both her armpits were left defenseless.

He pressed the edge of the other sword held by his left arm against one of those vulnerable spots, and his voice had neither cockiness nor glee when he stated: “You’re dead.”

During the first weeks of his training, when he was yet learning about the pressure and most lethal points where it was best to strike the opponent, Azriel found it odd and entirely embarrassing that one could die due to a cut to the armpit. It was, if anything, the stupidest and less dignified manner with which to perish in battle. However, the moment Truthteller first sliced through that vulnerable part of his rival’s body, his misconceptions were muted at the horror of such a death. Blood gushed everywhere as if he had squeezed a cherry in between his fingers to drink its juice. It pulsed non-stop, meeting Azriel’s face and blade and armor, droplets invading his eyes and painting the world in a horrific tone of bright red. His opponent fell to his knees and convulsed in utter agony, his hand clinging to the maimed tissue of his armpit. The sight left him petrified to the point where he was not even able to strike the dying male with a merciful slash of Truthteller and free him from that suffering. Instead, he observed as the Mother claimed that tortured soul and was haunted by the sight of it ever since.

The mere idea of losing his mate in a similar manner brought tremendous dread, and was enough a reason to cause a turmoil in his stomach and a sudden wave of nausea. Azriel pictured it, challenging the discomfort within him, punishing himself with that awful perspective. He had waited more than five centuries for his mate; the other half of his soul; and five more centuries he would torture himself was she to perish due to the lack of training. That end would paint her image not as his love, but as his sin; his greatest failure.

The snap that came when she broke his wooden-sword in two was enough a sound to ground his mind back to the present, drifting it away from the what-ifs as though his thoughts were a lonely sailing boat under the mercy of a turmoiled sea. Azriel didn’t miss the touch of her armpit, how it drove itself straight into the point of the reminiscent wooden-sword, but neither had he missed the glint of her eyes, staring into his very soul.

“You’ve read my mind,” he accused, steadying himself as she took a few steps back, twirling her sais.

“I was invaded by them,” [Name] argued. “Your thoughts are as loud as a parade of drums and tambourines.”

“Rhysand would disagree,” Azriel countered, sensing the need to defend himself.

“I’m more sensitive than a daemati, as we are both well aware.”

He found himself itching to lose himself within the banter that his mate offered. The bewitching character of their bond was quite an odd thing to witness, but the more time he spent with her, the more Azriel believed that it was not their connection to blame for that senseless tendency, but her. Compelling and argumentative, melting the solid ground of the world in which he stood into a puddle of his well-established beliefs. To fall into her words was to abandon all logic; to stare into that puddle and envision a glimpse of the male he had once been, before centuries of war and death engulfed him in the abyss of pessimism and paranoia: convinced, challenging, eager.

It was a sight to behold, neither uncomfortable nor familiar; a reasonable prospect of a version of himself he had long decided was lost and buried under the piles of corpses — both foes and allies. But to stare into the past, to envision himself through the reflection of the lake of his melted world, would do him no good. Because the male that stood above that pile was the strongest, the necessary means for his Court’s survival.

Azriel caught himself stepping on that puddle, returning to reality, avoiding the goodness that his mate could bring to the surface. His thoughts were back to the gore of that slash; the severance of that inconvenient artery. Because a world without his mate was inconceivable, and if to keep her alive meant to remain chained to his worst version, then so be it.

He drove the wooden-sword straight into the ground. The tip shattered, and the entire extension of it came apart in a dozen pieces. [Name] merely glimpsed it with a somewhat sense of unamusement.

“You were careless,” he snapped, for once not caring to conceal his anger.

“I’m well aware,” she bit back with a scowl.

“You’re not,” the Spymaster insisted, his steps diminishing the distance between them. “You’ve never had to witness death at such a close range; never had to feel your opponent’s blood splattering into your face; you don’t know.”

Her nostrils flared and her entire body trembled with the intensity of her own anger. Azriel could smell it, escaping through her pores as though wildfire in a dry forest.

“There’s something that I’ve read,” she started out slowly, an edge to her voice that he had never heard before. “An interesting theory, really, about the limitations of the mind and its projection. Let’s try it out.”

[Name]’s teeth gritted with her last sentence, and Azriel had no time to react before his mate latched one of her hands to his face, her fingers and nails biting into his temple. He felt as though the weight of earth shifted under his feet, his breath stolen from his lungs with a violent and invisible force. The skies, once painted orange and yellow and filled with white clouds, morphed into darkness. The stars were dim — not even a speck of the sight Velaris offered during the night — and the Spymaster was no longer within the borders of a forest; could no longer hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shore far from where he stood. Instead, Azriel was in the middle of an unknown and miserable district, the houses so small and precarious he could not believe half-a-fae fitted inside. The streets were empty, the torches were long put off. He found the scenery as peaceful as it was deplorable, but the previous silence was soon replaced with a loud piece of music.

His eyes followed the source of said cacophony. Azriel could distinguish the sound of lutes and a hurdy-gurdy, flutes and drums. His thoughts wrapped around the concept of a gleeful festival, but were instead met with a single home with bright, colorful lights shining through the closed curtains of many windows; with at least three floors built of bricks and stones, whose roof was a well-planned triangular structure covered in soot and of many different tiles. Above it all, stood a lonely and small gyrfalcon of white feathers, poorly hidden.

The door to that house — so different to the ones from the street before — opened. Azriel noticed the presence of a muscular man, tall to the parameters of a mortal, and concluded that one was most likely to be the guard to that place. He felt the urge to scoff with a well-placed arrogance, aware that he could take that man down with half a blow. However, the smaller frame that walked past through the guard and ventured into the night streets caused his stomach to twist and drop. Azriel hastily read the title painted above the entrance: “The Lupanare”, and felt a sudden urge to throw up; a numbness to his fingers and nerves that refused to subside.

The female figure under the door was dressed in fine silks of translucent shades of blue. The attire had a thin and long skirt divided in four sections; the one in the middle was made to protect the sight of the female’s intimacy; the other two sections began at the side of her hips, leaving the entire front of her legs bare to the external eye; and though he could not see, Azriel figured that the fourth section was a mimic of the first one: a piece of fabric that scarcely protected the ass. The odd skirt was connected to the top through a thin belt made of silver, with adornments meant to mimic shells, that encircled her entire waist. While the bottom had one thicker layer of silk to cover the intimate parts, the top left nothing to the imagination: it was made in the format of a V, leaving her entire waist, back, and part of her abdomen bare. The silk was so thin, one could see the breasts almost as though they were uncovered, as the only barrier that stood between the eye and the body was the top’s dark shade of blue. It was held together by silver ligaments, a large shell above each clavicle and a chain that encircled the neck. Azriel stood far from the female, but he could hear her voice almost as though he was by her side.

“It’s best to change before leaving,” the guard seemed to instruct her in a deep, yet oddly worrying tone.

“I don’t have the time. There’s something wrong at home, I can feel it.”

The voice that answered broke him entirely. It was no ordinary female. For the love of the Mother, it was his mate. Azriel’s heart, all of sudden, danced around two different beats; his breathing was split into two halves; his soul, however, remained one with that of the female that hurried out of the brothel. He felt enraged and saddened; worried and aware. It took him a moment to realize that, by sharing her memories, [Name] began to share her feelings as well.

The Lupanare left his sights as his mate ran into the night, wearing nothing but a set of thin silk wrapped around silver chains. Azriel felt the urge to move; to grab that fragile figure and soar with her through the skies, away from those dull stars and into the dazzling night of Velaris. But he could not. He was stuck into place as though a tree with roots too deep in the soil. One could not change the past any much as one could alter a memory.

When that sight of [Name] came closer, Azriel noticed that she was inches smaller and less agile; she seemed younger, although not too much, perhaps a year or two, at best. He grew used to her fae-form; to how it increased her height and speed and the overall flow of her movements. Seeing her in that mortal shell was unfamiliar to him, and Azriel wondered how his mate felt about that whole ordeal.

The memory shifted accordingly to her steps. The music was long gone, as were the colors. She had left the district of the brothel and was running along the poorest streets, passing through alleyways and locked one-floor houses without a thought in the world. No longer had Azriel started to worry about the safety of those actions, someone grabbed her shoulder, and plunged her against the dirty wall of a narrow alley. His mind shouted at Azriel, all logic evaporating from his entire being upon witnessing that scene. Every nerve within him commanded his limbs, demanding him to move. It was his mate; his heart; the very reason why he had been born, why he had endured those five centuries of sorrow and loneliness. His mate needed his aid, and he wasn’t there.

The revolt that ran through his veins as though liquid fire had gone cold with terror. Not his: hers. Azriel could sense it, had his soul shivering because of it. Again, he felt the need to move; and again, he could not. This time, it was not desperation and rage that moved him, but the utter necessity to comfort her, to keep her safe.

“It was only a matter of time,” the man slurred, and Azriel felt the hot breath and smelt the stench of alcohol, regardless of the distance. “I knew one of that brothel’s little birds would eventually try to flee from the cage earlier than they should. Now, I’ll take what’s mine.”

A hand covered her mouth. Azriel tasted the soot. With a grin, however, the man decided to place his hand on her throat instead. “There’s no need to scream. No one hears the weeps of a whore.”

It was torture. Azriel desperately tried to free himself from his mate’s memories, and thought that, at last, as cowardly as that was, he could tear his eyes from the scene. The Spymaster looked up — seeking solace in the stars and founding none — and his eyes caught on the white gyrfalcon, propped on a roof. He prepared himself for the worst, but instead, heard a masculine shout of pain.

Azriel’s eyes landed on the scene. His mate had managed to hide a dagger somewhere in between the thin silks of her attire. It was on her dominant hand, the blade digging into her attacker’s stomach. She pulled it out just to plung it again. And again. And again. The man fell backwards on the ground, blood was pouring from his mouth and stomach. His mate fell with him, digging her dagger into his chest and ribs and throat. He felt the warmth of blood as it splattered on her; face and chest and legs, the shades of blue mingled with red. He felt the burning behind his eyes as the tears fell down her face.

At last, she got up, spat on the body, and pressed her back to the wall. Her soul shattered in a cacophony of feelings: satisfaction, fear, anger, horror. But no sympathy. Her hands were trembling, but she would not let go of the dagger, whose steel blade was reddened and wet. The minutes that it took for her to compose herself felt like an eternity. His mate turned on her heels, prepared to leave that scenery, and Azriel caught the glimpse of a taller figure observing at the entrance of the alleyway. The Spymaster had only managed to discern the long and bright red hair before the memory faded.

Azriel felt disoriented. His vision burned with the sudden brightness of the afternoon sky. He heard the sound of the waves and felt the warmth of the Sun against his nape. The shared reminiscence took but a small fraction of time, yet it felt as though they had been lost in the tissue of the past for non-ending hours. [Name] had taken a few steps back, her hand no longer touching his face, and despite the consequences, the pain that came with the lack of her was equal to the worst of punishments; to drink the most lethal of poisons. Inside her memories, he had a taste of what it meant to be one’s mate. There, Azriel grew roots inside her soul, and she had nestled herself at his very core.

She was observing him then, and he drowned in her eyes, addicted to the sight of her; to her entire being. “The owner of the Lupanare, Moira, prided herself in the fact that her… workers… were free of diseases.”

Her voice. Azriel regained the control of his nerves and will, commanding his legs to dash towards her. Yet, the Spymaster felt the tug of a bold shadow on his collar. They had developed the tendency of remaining hidden during those times of the day, weak due to the light. Yet, one of them darted forward to ground him, to make Azriel see not with his heart, but with his eyes. [Name] stood far from him, hugging herself; her scent was one of unsuruness and hesitation; she craved the space between them, clung to it as one living in the desert would to water. Azriel stopped in his tracks, not daring to give another step.

“Moira stated that, for the expenses to offer an environment secure from diseases to be worth it, the price to spend an hour with the women should be befitting to the efforts placed in their health,” [Name] gulped, as if the mere act of remembering that treacherous woman brought a sense of great pain. “Safe to say, the men that came to the brothel had coins to pay for their stay. Those who could not afford the time, had to resort to the women on the streets.”

Azriel took in her expressions and the sight alone clawed at his heart. “I get it. You don’t need to tear up old wounds for my sake.”

She moved her head in denial, closing her eyes. “It makes no difference when said wounds never healed enough to make for scars.”

Azriel went quiet. He wished he had a word of comfort to offer, but the typical, easier ones, were of no use. The Spymaster could appeal to the passage of time: [Name] was now immortal. A longer life meant opportunities to rewrite the script of one’s trajectory; to bury the awful instances of time with centuries of greatness. But how could he gather the courage to voice said things, when five centuries later, he remained haunted by what had happened when he was a boy of ten? Reminded of said horrors whenever he caught a glimpse of his hands?

[Name] seemed, however, grateful for his silence. “The women of the Lupanare were forbidden fruits to those who couldn’t afford them. Most of them had been either trafficked or expelled from their homes, but some rare exceptions, like me, had a place to return to in the morning. By the end of it, there was only me. The men who couldn’t be regulars at the Lupanare would pry at the edges, waiting for an opportunity to grab the ones who dared to walk home. I was lucky to have a dagger, to know how to wield it. The others were not.”

She took an instance to catch her breath. Azriel was startled to watch his mate take a few steps closer to the trees. He feared he might have upsetted her in some form, but his worries were gone as soon as he caught a glimpse of his shadows whirling around her in mute comfort.

“That memory I showed you… it was from the night Tamlin took Feyre. I wasn’t home then, but I felt a disruption within me, every aggravating instinct shouting at me that I was needed somewhere else. It took me three hours, but at last I was able to flee without being seen. I was careless. I was grabbed. I got rid of the problem. That was my first kill.”

Azriel felt the urge to apologize. He tried doing as much, but his mate brushed that away with a wave of her hand. “You didn’t know.”

“Did I shout my thoughts again?”

A smirk crept over her lips. He felt slightly relieved. “A little bit.”

“Regardless, I lost my temper. I apologize.”

“You weren’t entirely wrong,” she insisted. “I’ve never had to dispose of the men I killed. That first one—”

“Lucian did it for you,” he concluded, and she blinked in shock.

“You glimpsed it so far beyond? Well, yes, he did. Somehow. I never got the courage to ask,” [Name] sighed. “Feyre must’ve let it slip that one of her sisters wasn’t home; either that, or Tamlin saw it through her. Whatever happened, he sent Lucian to fetch for me, and so he did.”

“He enchanted you?”

She nodded. “I returned with instructions to wait outside for him. He gave me a new set of clothes. I changed. When I entered that small home, the fact that Feyre left to help a rich aunt sounded natural. My memories were filled with burlesques, I was the result of a well-placed spell.”

[Name] left the shelter offered by the trees, and Azriel could hear the whispers of protests coming from his shadows. The sudden proximity sent a shiver down his spine, for his mate was but a few inches away, and the feeling of the bond they shared remained fresh in his mind.

She pulled the long sleeve up, and there, inside her forearm, Azriel glimpsed a burnt scar. Fire had maimed his mate as much as it had maimed her. It was a long trail; the flames spreaded from below the shoulder to above the wrist.

“Moira had us tattooed. She said it was a sign of our employment contract, but we all knew better. It was a mark, one meant for the commoners to identify us as whores and to mistreat us in the streets. Moira wanted to make sure that we’d never be able to find a job again, that we’ll always be her property. Tamlin’s spell clouded my family’s memories well enough but not the memories of the town. When we were given another Manor, Elain wanted to celebrate. We threw this enormous party, but the glares I’ve received from the guests that night were enough to undo the spell. Suddenly, my youngest sister was nowhere to be found and I had a past that couldn’t be erased and a tattoo I wanted gone.”

“You’ve… burned yourself?” Azriel inquired, though the thought alone sounded horrendous. He could remember the pain vividly; had frequent nightmares of flames taking over the skin of his hands as though starved beasts. To have a self-inflicted burn scar…

“I’ve tried to, but was too much of a coward to get it through,” she answered, tugging the sleeve down. “I still had three friends — soldiers —, stationed at the village. So, one night, I went to the tavern they were regulars at, and paid them to burn that thing.”

Azriel was appalled. “They accepted it?”

“We all have mouths to feed or broken dreams to drown out with cheap wine,” she came to their defense. “The three were stationed at the end of the Mortal Realm for a reason. I knew they’d never agree to burn me for free, and Tamlin was kind enough to give us some coins, so I used it.”

The last sentence came with a scowl, and her tone was filled with scorn at the mention of the High-Lord of the Spring Court.

“When Nesta went after Feyre, I was still enchanted. And when she told me the news that there was nothing to be done… I guess I also felt the need to punish myself. As if I had to pay.”

Azriel moved his head in denial, holding back the urge to touch her chin. “You’ve paid more than enough for errors that weren’t yours.”

“I know that now,” she whispered. “But not then. So I drank half a bottle of cheap whisky; they soaked my arm with alcohol, and burnt it with a cloth. The pain made me pass out. The healing was one of the worst things I’ve gone through.”

He knew. Mother above, Azriel knew that all too well. The female in front of him was his mate, with aches and scars that had, too, been carved deep into his core, leaving nothing but bitterness and shame on its wake. Azriel should’ve known which words to say; which advice to give; but he doesn’t. He can’t help his mate heal a wound that he hadn’t learned how to heal himself.

The Spymaster watched with certain helplessness as [Name] picked up her sais, twirling the blades between her fingers. Her eyes were glued to his hands — uncovered ever since he learned that gloves were too much of a hassle to keep. Again, his throat dried up with the amount of words unsaid, the sentences that sounded too shallow. Azriel opened his mouth — if only to try —, and watched it in awe as [Name] used her strength to tear the cloth of her shirt. The long sleeves fell on the grass and she kicked it aside, allowing the afternoon light to press kisses to her now bare shoulders.

“Someone told me my training attire wasn’t adequate,” she voiced. A short laughter echoed from his parted lips, sounding odd to his own ears. It had been a long time since he last laughed. [Name] opened a smile at the sound. It had also been a long time since she had smiled.

“You should listen to that someone more often,” he teased, grabbing the fallen branch of a tree to mimic a wooden-sword.

“That wouldn’t be smart. He brings branches to sai fights.”

“And somehow, he manages to win.”

“Beginner’s luck. He’s a bit younger so I cut him some slack.”

“You called me an old male yesterday after managing to outrace me at our beach’s jog.”

“Have I?”

Azriel grinned, using his knee to split the branch in two. “If I win this one, I’ll have you shift into a kitchen mouse to follow Cassian around the House of Wind for a whole day.”

“Well, when I win this one, I’ll have you clean up my bathtub of experiments.”

Azriel remembered the stench left by the chemicals, and the glimpse of the once white marble covered in a dozen different shades of violet. He shuddered at the mere thought of it, knowing that she was making sure that he wouldn’t go easy on her during the rest of their sparring. He dashed forward. The branches were larger than the previous wood-swords, so her range of stances were drastically diminished.

But that was his mate. His [Name]. The world was her chessboard, and she didn’t mind sacrificing pawns for the sake of victory. His offense met hers, and their next match was but a metaphorical waltz on tiles of black and white.

general notes: last chapter I said I wished I had those wild AO3 explanations for delayed updates and, well, talk about manifesting. since I love oversharing!! I had a small surgery!! and my laptop broke, it’s the first time I’m uploading on my cellphone and I feel like a millennial. also, what do we think of what we read of Az in House of Flame and Shadow? let me know, let’s chat!

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @arilindemann @bsenpai @rachelnicolee @piceous21 @forsiriussake @sassybluebird @esposadomd @brujitafantomatico @witchymomfrien

#acomaf #acotar #acowar #azriel #azriel imagine #azriel imagines #azriel x reader #acosf #acotar x reader #azriel / reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #sjm

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lilac-5ky · 1 year ago

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Roommates from Hell, pt.6 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 6: A Tale of Two Sisters

Chapter 5 | Chapter 7 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist | Requests

A/N: This chapter required my blood, sweat, and tears to finish.

There was a passage in one of your old school books—the ones sprinkled with little pink hearts that contained the initials of your history teacher even in books outside his field of teaching, and simultaneously, the ones Toji finished skimming over a week ago—that talks about the loudest sounds recorded in the world.

To this day, the record is held by the volcanic eruption on the Indonesian Island of Krakatoa, clocking in at an estimated 310 decibels, followed by the sperm whale’s call, which registers at 230 decibels, and then the Tsar Bomb, ranking third with an incredible 224 decibels.

None of these facts left him particularly impressed, and they were sure to vanish from his memory in the days ahead, but in the moment of his rude awakening, that junk tidbit of knowledge was all that kept the small 150-decibel sound wave confined in his handgun’s barrel. Because the so-called scientist who jotted down that crappy passage hadn’t borne witness to the catastrophic knocking that threatened to demolish the apartment’s four walls with its tenants inside at 9:32 in the morning.

The honor was all his, and maybe yours too, although your head remained comfortably tucked in the crevice of his elbow, oblivious to the torture he endured alone.

Whoever was banging away at the door was going to pay.

Pressing down on your forehead with a flat palm, Toji attempted to detach you from his body—

—except it ended with your arms adhering to his torso and your face sweetly rubbing into his neck, hogging him as if he were some sort of gigantic teddy bear that would cruelly be taken away from you. His name was at the tip of your tongue—liquid honey in his ears. He’d take it over any other sound in the world, amplify and draw it out in all tones and pitches until he forgot his name was ever spoken by another.

He made up his mind. Whoever was banging away at the door was going to die.

Gently pulling your body into his, he switched your places on the sofa and angled your head against the armrest. You almost got your clutches on him a second time, but he shook your bandaged paws off his pants before you had the chance to drag him down.

This would be quick. One bullet to the head, one body bag over the corpse, and one visit to the car’s trunk. If anyone asked, he was loading clothes to drop off at Goodwill later—no one would ask. Everyone was terrified of approaching him within a five-meter radius.

Tripping over his slippers, he kicked at them until his toes fell in place and rushed to the door with a glare capable of disintegrating metal. He didn’t mean business with the whole impromptu assassination plot, but he was dead serious about returning to you as quickly as possible. And if you were awake, then—

“We don’t give a shit about your shitty movement, got no cash for your stupid ass cult, and ya can take whatever piece of crap you’re sellin’ and shove it up your—oh.”

As soon as the door flung open, the words stagnated in his mouth, leaving Toji in the awkward position of welcoming your guest with the most unwelcoming scowl plastered on his face. Not to mention that he was still naked from the waist up and carried the scraps of morning wood in his sweatpants—courtesy of yours truly.

“It’s you,” he grumbled, cocking his head against the door frame with his arms folded over his chest.

“Long time no see,” the woman—perhaps the only woman in the whole wide world to wear a crochet dress over denim jeans—greeted him with a warm smile that stretched to her ears over the final syllables of the words “little brother.”

Toji remembered the first time he met that woman as if it were yesterday that the three of you—four, if the little human swimming in her belly counts—sat down on the top floor of a private dining sushi place in Akasaka. Folded screens, tatami mats, and legless chairs, with a view of pruned cedar trees. The real deal.

He’d granted his own invitation the day before when he snatched the small rectangular paper you were fumbling with all morning, weary eyelids hanging low and chin propped atop the mop stick’s handle, minding neither the commotion of hungry customers nor the 77th consecutive stroke over the exact same three spotless tiles.

You were an excellent cook but a lousy waitress. Forgetful, clumsy and hopelessly unaware of your surroundings.

In a flash, the business card changed hands, and he was reading its contents aloud.

“Ueno Hinata, Associate Fashion Designer at Shodi Apparel—what’s that?”

“Hey!” You snapped awake from your daydreaming, yet not in time to prevent the mop from dropping . “It’s none of your business!”

“Hmm?” Toji trapped the mop under his heel. “Ya taking 30 minutes to serve my damn fries is very much my business. Theirs, too.” He gestured toward the rest of the tables. “Quit mopin’ around.”

He booted the mop back into your grasp and returned to his seat, watching you gather the cleaning tools and bolt to the kitchen.

Your candid apologies did nothing to placate the crowd. Not a single “thank you” or “you can keep the change” for your effort to appease each of their outrageous requests. They treated you worse than they’d treat a roach scurrying between their tubby feet—stomp and shoo it away.

You didn’t deserve this.

Tearing his eyes away from the spectacle, he remained slapping the card in his palm. You were right. This was none of his business.

Eventually, you showed up at his table with the usual tray in one hand, and your balled up apron on the other. Your shift was over—or it would be in ten minutes after the other part-timer showed up.

You decorated the booth with the apron, and he scooted over for you to plop down beside him, noticing the dark skin patches below your eyes.

“Can I have it back now?”

Even with your pouty lips and scrunchy nose, Toji wasn’t compelled to give up on his loot. He slipped the card in the middle, only to retract his hand the second yours moved forward. You snarled at him and grabbed onto his tray, but again, he was faster.

“And what would it be?” He rephrased his previous question, witnessing you gradually shrivel into yourself like an overcooked shrimp.

“It’s… my sister.” You bit your lip into a sigh. “I have a sister.”

This wasn’t what he anticipated.

“Didn’t your folks kick the bucket?”

One beat you were nodding your head and shaking it the next, your fingers massaging the pulled roots of your ponytail. “I don’t even know, okay? I don’t know how this woman found me, how she knows my name and dad’s—I don’t know shit about any of this. She popped by my house last night, introduced herself, and said that I should give her a call if I wanna learn more about our family.”

His teeth clenched around his fry, breaking it into two uneven pieces that his tongue forced down his throat. Something about others knowing where you lived and imaginary sisters sprouting out of nowhere to pay house calls left him deeply uncomfortable. He knew that bunch. He’d gone around a lot more than you to acquaint himself with all kinds of shifty con artists that posed as distant relatives and inserted themselves into people’s lives just to rob them of their few meager possessions.

Hell, someone could say the same thing about him and he wouldn’t refute it, but it was better the devil you knew than the devil you didn’t.

Toji was about to tear the card into shreds when suddenly, he halted. Since when did he start mingling with others’ lives? Since when did he start caring whether the naive little girl he spent the last two years fooling around with was found conned or gutted, for that matter?

Unwilling to answer either, he pulled back. “So what are you gonna do? Want me to track her down?”

“I think I’ll give her a call.” You traced the name on the card, first with your eyes and then with your forefinger. “She didn’t seem like a bad person.”

You wouldn’t recognize a bad person if the word “bad” was tattooed on their forehead.

“Then what?”

“Then—I should meet her, right? That’s what she wanted.”

His mental groan was so loud that he hoped you sensed his frustration without him putting it into words. You didn’t. Your clueless ass skipped straight to the landline behind the counter, leaving him with little choice but to take matters into his own hands.

And that was pretty much how he ended up ordering himself the priciest sashimi platters off the menu, filling the table to the brim with bluefin tuna cuts whose notability he’d already forgotten. Marbled, fatty, tendon-full—it didn’t matter, as long as they cost your host a fortune.

Fashion designers were loaded. If the woman with the wacky glasses at the other side of the table was who she claimed to be, then she’d better prove it.

At least the sushi had nothing to prove. The ass cheek, or back cheek, whatever it was called, melted on his tongue like candy, and for the first time in his life, he moaned from something that wasn’t wrapped around his dick.

“I’m so sorry for his behavior, Miss Ueno.” You willed your head in a small bow, nudging Toji in the ribs to do the same.

He wrote you off, pinching about four pieces between his chopsticks, all the while entertaining the idea of seducing the pregnant woman in front of him. He was wasting his time with you. This was his chance at a good life.

“Don’t worry about it! I invited you to this place ‘cause the food’s crazy good, and little guy,” a swollen hand rubbed her equally swollen belly bump, “craved yellowtail for lunch. Eat as muuuuch as you want!”

“When are you due?” Toji asked through a full mouth.

Hinata counted the weeks on her fingers. “Today marks the—uh, 37th week, so he should be here soon. I’m registered for the 28th this month.”

With the way her belly bulged under her teal wrap dress, it’d be a wonder if she didn’t go into contractions right on top of the halibut, pleading with the chef to sever the umbilical cord with his kitchen knife while the kitchen staff played nurse.

“Have you decided on a name?”

His question overlapped with yours. “What about your man?”

“We are thinking ‘Kenzo’, after Takada Kenzo. My husband’s also in the industry, but he’s a numbers guy.” She picked up the teapot and gave your cups a refill, much to your insistence to serve instead. “Who knows, maybe next time I can get him to leave his books and tag along. I’m sure he’d love to meet you!”

“How much do ya make?”

“Toji!” You protested.

However, she didn’t seem to mind. “Enough to treat the both of you to dessert later.” She winked at you. “So eat up!”

You lowered your head and drove a blood-red slice into your mouth, swallowing too hard for the bite’s size. Before you could pick another, Toji dumped an assortment of his favorite cuts on your plate, urging you to try those next. Your eyes crinkled in appreciation that trickled down your lips, pink and tender and delicious as they tempted him to rekindle their taste.

“Not to be rude, but…” Hinata snipped his smile while at the primitive stage of being sewn. “I don’t remember inviting Pretty Boy over here.” She chuckled awkwardly. “Who are you?”

Toji would be the easy answer. The mindless answer. A cursed name that clung to his opponents’ final vitriolic-laced breaths and a blessed name for the heathens who chanted it as if it were gospel—he doubted that response would cut it. Not when her goal was to determine what he was to you specifically.

A hitchhiking pest embedded in your back; one who sowed your work benefits—unshakable in its nature. A watchdog that nudged you back to your feet whenever you found solace in the dirt. A potential downfall in how he could barely contain himself around you anymore, scheming dozens, if not thousands, of meaningless plans to get you in his bed—plans he always chickened out of.

He refused to recognize that, over the years, he’d become a shoulder for you to lean on. That he was any good as an influence, a friend, or that other laughable something. And so he spat out the one term that was tried-and-tested and could only be perfected through continuous failure.

“Family.” Toji grinned once he noticed you had no intention of correcting him. “So better get talking.” He cleansed his palate with a handful of pickled ginger. “Whatever ya tell ‘er will wind up in my ears, anyway.”

“Oh?” Hinata quirked a brow. “Is this what I think it is? In that case, don’t hesitate to call me sister, too.”

“Not happening.”

“Shame.” She frowned. “I’ve always dreamt of having a kid brother to spoil rotten, but if you insist, then I guess that means more for—”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions, sis.” Toji flashed an earnest smile.

“You don’t have to do this.” You glared at him and glanced at her. Meekly. “Paying for our meal is already too kind.”

The woman took a sip from her Konacha and folded her hands on the table—her otherwise cheerful demeanor turning solemn in a heartbeat. “I know I don’t have to, but I want to. Whether it’s buying you and your boyfriend lunch, or giving you a little extra something to get by, I want to act like a big sister for once. I don’t expect you to start calling me sis from Day 1, but can’t you at least let me do that?”

“I—” You chewed on your lower lip, searching for answers between her intertwined fingers. “But he’s not my boyfriend…” you trailed off, a tinge of pink encompassing your voice.

She laughed through her nose. “Lover, then?”

The undigested fish in your stomach swam up your throat, ripping out a violent cough that Toji was quick to soothe with a heavy palm on your back. You flinched away, mustering a broken, uncertain “I’m fine”.

He rolled his eyes. “Workin’ on it.”

“Best of luck!” Hinata cupped her mouth so that only he could hear her whispering, “But not too much luck, don't make me into an aunt this early."

He’d previously failed to spot any similarities between you, but something about your alleged sister’s smile reminded him of yours. Not the phony front you put up at the diner, but the spontaneous grimace you broke into whenever you watched him lose at the simplest game of odds at the pachinko. Hers felt like hubris in comparison, and he almost pounced at her, ready to rip it out.

You’d worked damn hard for that smile.

Her glee waned as she dug through her oversized handbag and pulled out a binder so hefty that the table whimpered in anguish. “I think it’s time I explained why I called you here. Don’t want a certain someone losing his head!”

There was a moment of stillness while she sorted out her papers, during which his eyes were free to wander in your direction, catching you dissecting your flounder into hair-thin slices. If it were just you and him and the roles were reversed, you’d tell him off for playing with his food, but it wasn’t. They weren’t. He wasn’t. He’d pulled the trigger and had no idea how to mitigate the impact; he was merely capable of muffling the noise.

Toji wasn’t good with any of that emotional shit. The only memory in his thick skull of exercising comfort existed from his picking up a dying sparrow off the streets to cradle until its tiny head froze over his thumb. Never before had death felt heavier than the accumulation of speckled feathers weighing down his palm.

He contemplated doing the same for you—whisking your hand into his and holding it until the end of things—but contented himself with a scowl. This wasn’t kindness. It was pity. You’d rather be put out of your misery, and maybe that’s what the bird wanted too.

“Let’s get it over with.” His cheek sank into his fist.

For the next hour, Hinata droned on about the extramarital relationship between her mother and your father, backing up her claims with various pictures, letters, and all sorts of unfeigned documents.

The story itself was simple. A typical boy-meets-girl, featuring a chummy, albeit penniless, lad with big dreams and a proper girl from a proper home with a proper housekeeper and proper old money parents.

They fell in love over the summer he worked menial work at their estate and got into some unprotected handy panky below the sheets. The girl’s folks found out and threw him out, but it was too late. The bun was already in the oven, and the boy was off to meet his next dame.

He was virile enough to father another only three years after the first, and when business started booming, he found himself on top of the world. But he was just too darn hapless. His ill fortune caught up with him and everything he’d built came crashing down. He jumped from the wreckage to the next ship in line, unaware it’d be his last cruise.

An unpleasant story through and through, with loopholes and points that were smeared by whiteout. She said a nice woman dropped his belongings at her door—Toji bet his money she was from Welfare. She said she tracked you down through the many pictures he kept of you and your mother—he guessed it was a PI’s work and that there were none, or else the box would be delivered to your doorstep first.

She said your father passed away peacefully in a hospital bed—he supposed that was code for found behind the dumpsters of a local bar’s trashed alleyway.

Even without him voicing his suspicions, it was a lot to take in, and he was surprised you’d steeled yourself to sit through it all in absolute calm, not a single tear shed or sob heard. You were fully sober, and somehow that worried him more than a breakdown would.

By the time you made it out of the Minka-style building, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Dark clouds gathered silently over the sky, white lapses growing plentiful among them. The flashes were distant enough not to alert him, for as long as he observed the exchange between you and your sister, who’d asked for a rain check for that dessert. Pregnant women tire themselves out too quickly.

Your courteous full-body bows were reduced to minor head tilts and small smiles that were easily returned. Of course they were. You were so lovable that anyone with a good set of eyes, let alone two of them, would embrace your credulous nature and simplistic, nearly child-like mindset with open arms. Your sister wasn’t immune to that either. In no time, she’d start calling you the apple of her eye, and the sentiment in her heart would soon match that of her words.

You would be loved.

“Are you sure you don’t want me driving you home?” Hinata asked once he’d turned his back on the saccharine sight. “It’s not a bother, really.”

It is a bother, Toji mused, stuffing his hands deep in the pockets of his windcheater. It was truly bothersome how she’d paid for the entire lunch with her card and how the bulky Range Rover responded to the key beeper in her hand; how she turned out to be a genuinely decent person who could offer you the stability you’ve always wanted—the stability he lacked.

But most of all, it was a goddamn pain in the neck that he couldn’t get over himself for one minute to congratulate you like a normal person would on your newly found family.

He could only focus on the fading image of you being driven away from the restaurant’s parking lot and away from his life, and he could only feel himself getting smaller and smaller until he was but a shit stain in your memory, one that the incoming downpour would wipe clean.

The engine’s purr turned distant as the car sped off in the opposite direction from where he was headed. His destination wasn’t clear. He’d once followed you because you had somewhere to go when he had no place to be, but as he dragged his feet to retrace every single path you’d crossed together, he hoped that the next U-turn would come with a new distraction. One that’d spin him round and round in a game of merry-go-round until either vertigo numbed his senses or your name spilled out of his guts.

A beam of light split the skies in half, cracking the silence of the gods with a spectacular roar. He pulled his hood over his head. If he broke into a jog now, he could make it out. But when his eyes lowered to the ground, a second pair of shoes flapped their way across the ripening puddles and into his field of view. No way.

“Are you competing for a medal or something?” An exasperated voice reached his covered ears. “Wait up!”

Undeterred, Toji accelerated his strides, slowing down only when his pursuer’s hands linked around his bicep. “Not my fault your midget feet can’t keep up.”

Instead of coming up with a witty remark that would spark a heated debate amidst the deluge, your lips parted into heartfelt laughter that shook him whole. Even your ears were smiling, and for a moment, he was left staring at you in utter awe. He knew for sure his joke wasn’t that funny, but that was about the first and last thing he was certain of.

“Are you that happy?” He asked the obvious.

“Of course I’m happy! I have a sister now, Toji. An older sister. My older sister.” You tested the different combinations.

“Why wouldn’t you be?” He murmured. “No reason to be unhappy when ya finally got yourself a real family. Loaded ass bitch.”

“What are you talking about?” You asked and he shook his head into a bitter “Nothing.”

Without warning, your head drooped over his shoulder, your eyelashes threaded with the same droplets of dew that gingerly laced your hair. A minute later, you’d come to resemble a wet dog, but that gave him an entire minute to process how cute you looked right now.

“She’s nice, isn’t she?” You hummed.

He shrugged, failing to meet your expectations without much effort. “Got a nice rack on her.”

“She’s my sister, you pig!”

You unlatched from Toji in disgust, only for him to sling his arm over your shoulders and unceremoniously shove your head into his chest. Your bottom lip stuck out, glossy from the rain. Just like a drenched pup, he smirked, bringing his fingers to part the dampened hair from your eyes.

“So what kept ya from goin’ home with that precious sister of yours?” Toji flicked your forehead gently. “Didn’t want me losing my way, or something?”

“Not everything is about you.” You said in a stubborn tone. “I just happen to enjoy a good rainfall.”

“A good rainfall.” He sneered. “Sure.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He wished that the water would wash the red tint on his cheeks away. “Said I like the rain too, stupid.”

The world came to a standstill, or rather his brain did, because he’d stopped thinking rationally. All the data he perceived—such as the sneeze you suppressed by pulling your upper lip over your teeth, the way you sneakily lowered the zipper of his jacket to stick your hands in, or even the mere fact of your presence and existence, both blessings on their own—fed straight into his chest, coaxing the appropriate response.

His destination was long reached.

“Let’s date. You and me.”

“Don’t you think we should call someone? It’s been hours.”

“Like who? The Grim Reaper?”

“Is Auntie dead?”

The urgency in your adorable nephew’s voice overpowered that of Hinata’s mild concern and Toji’s indifference, both further away from where you lay lifeless on the sofa. Well, not as lifeless as Toji wanted you to be, but convincing enough for them to be having this conversation and for a pair of hands to go digging for sand in the corners of your shut eyelids.

You had no idea why the two of them were there or how much time had passed since you nodded off in Toji’s arms. Everything was a blur, and if it weren’t for their voices, you wouldn’t be inclined to wake up until the next century.

Maybe playing dead for a while won’t hurt.

“Hmm?” Toji already sounded significantly closer. The light thuds from his slippers halted once he was standing before you. “Let’s find out. Gimme that.”

You felt a shift of weight on the sofa and realized that must’ve been Kenzo. Then a soft pop fired near your ear, and you were tempted to peer your eyes open, but you didn’t. You decided to save your questions for later and concentrated on your breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale—was that rubbing alcohol?

The scent grew stronger as the unmistakable tip of a brush tickled your skin in two symmetrical strokes that curled near your cheeks and finished at the ridges below your nose.

That’s it. You were going to murder him.

Denying Toji the opportunity to give you a matching goatee and sideburns, you raised your hands over your face. The marker blotched a dot of black ink where it pressed against your bandaged palm and he was forced to put it away.

“See?” Toji inched closer with a shit eating grin on his lips. “Fine and dandy.”

“Auntie!” Kenzo slipped between you and threw his arms over your neck. “You look like Gold Roger!”

You patted the child’s back, your eyes trailing behind Toji as he bent over the coffee table to drop the sharpie, the entire table an atelier for Kenzo’s art supplies. Colored papers were splayed beneath the mayhem: drawings of animals, triangular mountains, his oversimplified condo, and people whose faces you barely told apart, assuming the frizzy-haired woman was Hinata, the beanpole in the rectangular suit his father, and that the two severed heads with incomplete bodies belonged to you and Toji.

How grotesque.

“How are you, sweetie?” You planted a kiss on Kenzo’s cheek that he wiped with the back of his hand, claiming he was too old to be treated like a baby.

“Are you, now?” You ruffled his hair and attacked his neck with more sloppy kisses that he failed to protect himself against. “Got a long way ahead till you can call yourself big, little man.”

You wouldn’t call yourself a fan of children, but Kenzo was an exception. He was nothing like the kids at the diner. He didn’t eat with his nose or sleeves. He was bright, diligent, and focused. He’d gotten the first prize at his school’s science fair at the age of seven and declared his interest in becoming an astronomer at five.

He still jumped around when excited, sang along to the lyrics of his beloved anime openings, and had an incurable sweet tooth like the rest of his peers, but he was manageable. He was a good kid—

“But I want to be big, like Uncle Toji!”

—that had taken an extreme liking to Toji.

“Honey, you’ll even outgrow Uncle Toji at this rate.” Hinata interrupted, crossing over to your side.

She pulled her son off you and twirled him in the air before setting him on the floor. He made a beeline for Toji, who was dusting the corner of the bookshelf with his forefinger, maintaining his bored stance even while he was being shown something “exceptionally cool” on Kenzo’s Game Boy.

The two looked nothing alike, which should’ve been obvious considering they weren’t blood-related, but watching them side by side, you entertained a curious idea. An idea much younger, far whinier, and twice as lovable as the current version of Toji, with maybe just a little bit of you poured within.

Hinata’s fingers dispelled that thought as they snapped in front of your eyes. “Are you okay?” She asked in a low voice, her hand soothingly rubbing your shoulder. “Toji told me what happened.”

You didn’t want to imagine how he could have possibly justified you being tied up like a rotisserie chicken and knocked out on the sofa long enough to witness the sunrise and miss the sundown.

“Can you help me get that shit off my face first?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?” Hinata asked right as the cotton swab came poking at your cheek, soaked in that horrible fluid you’d only recently grown to distaste.

Ever since you were brought out of the hospital in a baby carrier, you never set foot in that place again. You hoped to keep it that way and to keep rubbing alcohol away from your nostrils for the rest of the decade.

“Mustache is making a comeback.” Your sister reasoned, but her quip was lost on you.

She pulled your skin taut and scrubbed so hard that you thought a piece of your cheek would come off. For someone who spent her weekdays drawing mannequins and her weekends doing “social drinking”, she was freakishly strong.

Torn between staring at either her face or hands, your attention fell to her fingers—spotless and polished with a finely touched French manicure that contrasted her mismatched appearance. Artists were weird. You knew she owned million-yen Chanel handbags, and yet she dressed like a hot mess outside of work.

Not as if you had the right to talk when you bought all your underwear in bulk.

“What are you smiling for? Something good happened?”

You really ought to exercise better control over your reactions.

“Just admiring your nails. They are pretty.”

“Mm, yeah?” She bit the bottle cap between her teeth while pouring some more rubbing alcohol on a fresh cotton swab, flicking the old one to the bin under the sink. “Could give you her number. She does wonders.”

You almost laughed in her face. “Last month I did laundry with dish soap ‘cause we didn’t save for detergent. You think I have the cash to burn on manis?”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She rubbed again. “My little sister is a repressed eighty-year-old man.”

“That’d make you at least eighty-three, so I’m glad.” You deadpanned.

“What a bunch of geezers we’ve become.” She finished up by dabbing a wet towel over your lips. The excessive friction brought your face to a boiling point that no depilatory cream or wax tape could possibly achieve.

Just when you thought your torture was over and got up from the closed toilet lid where you were seated, your cheeks were forcefully seized and squeezed into resembling a pufferfish. “Not so fast, Missy! We aren’t leaving until you fess up.”

“Fess up what?” You managed through puckered lips.

“Don’t what me now.” Your face deflated as she took a step back, slyly blocking your only escape. Damn it. “How long has this been going on?”

Before the interrogation could progress, you turned on the faucet and let the water run to obscure your voices. You could go a day without showering

“About four months.” An immediate gasp. “He needed a place to stay, and I provided—that’s all there is to it.”

“Four months?” She covered her mouth for dramatic flair. “You didn’t think of telling me you two were living together for four months straight?”

“I—we both got busy, okay?”

Her eyebrows wiggled suggestively as her voice gained a sultry intonation. “Busy?”

“Not like that, you Perv!”

Sometimes you couldn’t help but wonder why it was you that Toji went around with instead of her, before remembering she was already married with another man's child in her guts when the two met—not as if that’d been a reason to stop him in the past.

“So what you’re trying to say is that you’ve been sleeping in the same space for months, using the same bathroom, eating at the same table, and nothing’s happened?”

She scrutinized the souring look on your face through squinting eyes. You could lie to her like you lied to him—or you could actually tell her and receive some actual advice from someone whose dating experience didn’t come from three miserable college hookups and an overused vibrator.

She’d nearly lost all hope when your gaze lowered to the floor. “Something isn’t nothing, right?”

“You did it?!” Your sister yelled so loudly that you mildly considered shoving the sink’s plug in her mouth. You went for the more hygienic option instead.

“Keep it down!” She zeroed in on the hand prodding out of your ridiculously long sleeve, following it down to Toji’s shirt which seemed disproportionate on your body. A good fit for him, but a glorified mini dress for your shorter, muscle-free physique.

You filled her in on last night’s incident, skipping over the part where you got jumped by a cursed spirit (that’d apparently turned into a finger-eating car door in Toji’s explanation) and mincing your words when it came down to how you ended up sharing a sofa with him.

In return, she went over each and every vowel known to man, her reactions akin to those of an impressionable child being told tales of malevolent yokai.

“So…was there tongue involved?” Hinata grinned.

“How’s that important?”

“Stay married for 12 years, and you’ll see for yourself. Your heart will race even at afternoon dramas. Do you know when was the last time Takuma bought me flowers? Or took me on a date without the kids. Or—”

“I thought we were dealing with my problems.” You cut her spiel short.

“Right, right.” She took hold of both your hands and spoke in an authoritative tone that all but convinced you of her non-existent credibility. “Here’s what will happen. You’re gonna go out there and you’re going to kiss him again. Plain and simple.”

“Kenzo is also outside!”

“I’ll cover his eyes, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not!”

Your sweaty palms were heating up in their encasement of flesh and bandage like taiyaki. This was a mistake. You were better off seeking advice from Toji himself than from your scatterbrained sister, who thought everything was doable and achievable so long as you put your mind to it.

She didn’t know half of it. She only knew the Toji that was effortlessly charming and made everyone laugh with his cynical admissions and crude punch lines. She didn’t know of the Toji that flipped through women as if they were pages of a magazine that he left dog-eared—never to be smooth again. Toji the hitman, who gambled his every penny away, and whose body count didn’t matter nearly as much as his clothes turning up with lip stick stains around the hem did—

How many times have you gone through the same rows of adjectives and accusations to excuse your own shortcomings?

“Y/N. Do you know what the meaning of life is?” You shook your head, distrusting what might come out of your mouth. “The meaning of life is… I don’t know either.”

“Kinda anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

Your sister smiled. “I wouldn’t be here if I knew. I’d have a big statue sculpted in my honor, or a university named after me. Maybe a planet, too.”

“You sure think big…”

“I might not know that,” she continued, “but I do know what being alive means. It means living—it means indulging yourself in an overpriced manicure once in a while or buying a dress that you know you aren’t going to wear. It means making stupid decisions and hitting your head on the wall afterward. It means laughing at yourself when you should be crying, and it means loving—hard, with your entire being. If you insist on calculating the consequences of everything and deny yourself those simple freedoms, then that’s not living; that’s surviving. You understand what I’m trying to say?”

Live. You never considered that your mother’s final request would shackle you into doing the exact opposite, nor did you ever question your way of living. You always thought that as long as you stood still, you wouldn’t be lost; that as long as you floated, you’d never sink. But it was only then you realized stability meant decay.

Hinata let your hands drop and turned off the faucet, stepping away from the door. You were free to go, yet you were anchored in place.

“One last thing. For what it’s worth, the look in Toji’s eyes is the same as Takuma’s when we first met. Men come in different flavors, but they all look stupidly cute when they’re in love. Do what you must. Live a little!”

"That’d be 980 yen."

Right after walking out of the bathroom, you discovered you’d not only slept through the majority of the day’s meals but that the fridge had been emptied out. You would have been more frugal with your race earnings had you known you’d be receiving guests, but then again, you didn’t foresee being attacked by a curse, nor did you count on Toji whipping up pickled plum Ochazuke for everyone either.

Granted, he went heavy on the salt, but eating something he’d prepared with his own two hands made up for the briny dashi and the salty tears running down your cheeks.

The four of you split evenly into groups of two: you and Hinata in the kitchen, while Toji kept company with Kenzo on the couch. Your sister ran her mouth off about her hotshot clientele—sighing whenever a local celebrity whose name you didn’t know came up—and went on about their participation in whatever rising idol group or promotion material you weren’t interested in knowing.

"Ma’am…?"

At the time, you were immersed in the fighting game Kenzo and Toji were hunched over. Every few fatalities, the console would change hands, and a new round of explicit slurs would be fired by the man capable of single-handedly mowing down armies but unable to take down an eight-year-old in a war of button-flicking.

They were too absorbed to catch you staring their way, playing your personal game of spot-the-difference between Toji’s various expressions. He looked the same as he did any other day. A little disinterested, somewhat vexed, and a great deal of livid while his fingers battered the screen in the futile hope of finishing that "whore-rrible Mileena".

They were still duking it out when you popped outside under the guise of getting ice cream, and you were still discrediting Hinata’s notion by holding up the entire queue at check-out with your wool-gathering.

"Ma’am, if you’re not gonna pay, please step aside so the next customer can—" The employee paused as a hand snatched the wallet from your grasp and paid off the bill in your stead. "Are you with her?"

You blinked at the crossing of your eyes, struggling to comprehend how a 25-minute distance was closed in less than 3 minutes, until you decided it was possible. It’s Toji. And you blinked again when he picked up the bags and dragged you by the arm out of the store.

You murmured a silent thank you that fell quiet behind the sound of plastic wrap unfolding in his hands as an impatient Toji stuck the first cone he grabbed into his mouth. He bit the chocolate coating off as if he were a snapping turtle and chewed at the frozen cream without letting it thaw first.

"Kids are the fucking worst." He spat, malice running sweetly from the corners of his lips. A small smile crept up yours. He was a bigger kid than the one he accused. "Using fans to fight like some pussy," he trailed off. "How the fuck are pussy fans stronger than harpoons?"

"You’d rather he beat your ass with a sword?" His death stare threatened to make you regret your very birth. "Okay. Guess not."

On the way home, his complaining grew in volume but lowered in pitch—a mosquito-like buzz that constantly lamented over the gaming industry and the corruption of youth. The gist was that inaccuracy in game design led to false expectations, and one day the kids who grew up playing those games would bring a knife to a gun fight and end up with their brains blasted. Global collapse was also thrown into the mix, but at that point, his train of thought had derailed too far to follow.

Toji was a sore loser and a sorer winner—the type to rub his minor achievements in others’ faces and use them as an excuse for rewards. However, he hadn’t said a word about last night’s incident. He didn’t ask for anything in return, and he didn’t wake you up to handle your family either. Even now that he was holding your bag for you, he acted as if that was something to be expected from him.

Toji didn’t win too often, and you didn’t have much in terms of a prize, but you’d started contemplating a premature surrender because victory suited him—because you wanted him to win.

"How’re ya feelin’?" His frustration dissipated enough for him to ask. "Your hands—they hurt?"

You instinctively glanced down. Maybe if the bandages hadn't cut your blood flow, you could’ve had an answer.

"Saw you spilling that water earlier." Toji went on, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. You chased his frown to his eyes. He was looking straight ahead, either at the stars or at the asphalt road—never at your face to see you faltering.

"Is that why you’re here? Because I spilled some water on the counter?" Your eyes glowed like discs of light, antagonizing the moon that waned above your heads.

"Well…yeah." He admitted, kicking at the pebbled ground right after. "Stop making things weird, weirdo."

The name was meant to be taken as an insult, but instead it moved you—both in the figurative and literal sense—as a rush of confidence pushed you in front of him. Thin eyebrows furrowed while he studied your stance, a slight curl forming near his scar when he realized you were still in his shirt, the hem tucked inside a pair of denim shorts.

You studied him back—the darkened eyes you couldn’t tear away from; the choppy strands that ran rampant down his ears, long overdue a cut; the chocolate smeared around his lips. You tried to see what Hinata saw, wondering whether the secret lay in the lenses of her glasses or in how her vision of him wasn’t laced with a decade’s worth of longing, until you saw it for yourself. A soft glow of tenderness that flickered like a candle in the dark, harmless on its own yet keen on escalating into wildfire.

"You care about me." The knot in your throat came undone. "You actually care about me."

Toji scoffed. "You say that as if it’s some grand discovery."

"And you liked it, didn’t you?" Your cheeks burned scarlet under the pale moonlight.

"The kiss. You… liked it."

He cocked his head to the left. "What kinda backward confession is this?"

"I want to talk about what happened last night."

A groan came out before he cruised by, his chin jotting out as he did. "Save it. If you’re gonna start moanin’ and naggin’ it was all a mistake, I don’t wanna hear shit."

"What if it wasn’t?"

He froze in his tracks, the plastic wrapping that was clenched in his fist slowly cascading to the street—as slowly as you turned around, resuming your previous positions a step ahead.

Cautious thoughts swarmed up in your brain, each tiny voice screaming for a chance to be heard only to be muffled by the three words you chanted like a mantra. Live a little. Again and again. Live a little, and then a little more. Live a little until all the littles gather and turn into a lots—until you are compensated for every a little you let slip away.

Live.

Your palms acted before your feet, framing his cheeks in position for you to place a chaste kiss on his lips, the suspicion of cream pulling you back in for another.

"We should do this more often." You suggested with a demure smile. The scene was almost comedic due to his stupefied expression being sandwiched between your bandaged palms. Stupidly cute, indeed.

His answer came in the form of his mouth colliding with yours, the lightweight sensation of the plastic bag with the remainder of ice cream countering that of the strength poured into his arms as they encircled your waist. The inconvenience of kissing while standing hit you. He had to lower his neck, and you had to crane yours, your heels lifting off the ground.

"Fucking finally." Toji panted out, grinning at how the chocolate on his chin had rubbed off on your skin. "Y’know, the offer from that day still stands," he mumbled with his thumb fluttering above your lips. "But it’ll mess ya up even more."

"So now you care about those things?" You chuckled lightly. "Go ahead. Mess me up all you want, prick."

"Careful what you wish for, dumbass."

Your hands slid behind his neck while you closed your eyes and waited patiently for his lips to find yours, his tongue darting around before prodding its way into your mouth, sweetness clinging to every languid swirl.

You weren’t sure if this was the kind of stupid decision that would have you banging your head against every wall available or the kind of blessing that came once in a lifetime. Regardless of all the possible consequences, kissing him was the only outcome you were certain of.

A small peck marked the moment’s ending as you remembered you were standing in the middle of the street, your public display of affection turning into a raunchy spectacle for the dim street lights and the concrete pavement bollards.

The two of you had just climbed down the final slope leading to the apartment block when Toji spun your arm around and forced you in a direction different than where you were headed, without any real explanation other than a cheeky "Can’t ya tell? Kidnapping you".

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