#Long Radius Elbow

[anjney]

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

[tonydaddingham]

thing is - and hear me out - if s3 does by any minute chance incorporate any suggestion of a sex scene, it is imperative for me that they commit to the bit. i need crowley to nearly topple over trying to get out of his jeans, i need aziraphale to complain that they cant do anything downstairs because that would be scandalous, and i need them to trip over going up the stairs because they keep getting distracted. i need one of them to accidentally get an elbow to the face, i need them to have a long forgotten book digging into one of their backs, and aziraphale is horrified when crowley launches it across the room, and i need there to be hard cut to whickber street having a huge power surge, lines sparking, all the power going out, and every car alarm in a 2-mile radius start screaming, i don't need it to be explicit or overly romantic but i do need it to be fucking funny

[metalforgeindia]

Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius - Metal Forge India

Carbon steel weld 90 elbows long radius is an essential component used in various industries. It is a pipe fitting that changes the direction of the pipeline by 90 degrees. The long-radius elbow has a larger radius than the short-radius elbow, which results in a smoother flow of the fluid.

In this comprehensive guide, we'll cover everything you need to know about Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius, and why Metal Forge India is the best manufacturer, supplier, stockist, and exporter in India for this product.

Introduction

Before we delve deeper, let's define a butt-weld elbow. It is a pipe fitting that connects two pipes of different sizes to change the direction of the flow. There are different types of butt weld elbows, including 45 degrees, 90 degrees, and 180 degrees. 

Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius is. Simply put, it is a type of pipe fitting that allows for a change in the direction of piping systems. The "90" in its name refers to the angle of the elbow, which is 90 degrees. The "long radius" indicates that the radius of the curve of the elbow is longer than the standard radius. This makes it ideal for applications where a more gradual turn is needed. Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius is preferred over other materials because of its durability, resistance to corrosion and abrasion, and cost-effectiveness.

Advantages of Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius

One of the main advantages of Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius is its strength and durability. This product is designed to withstand high levels of pressure and stress, making it ideal for use in applications where reliability is crucial. Additionally, it is resistant to corrosion and abrasion, ensuring that it will last longer than other materials that may be affected by these factors. Another advantage is that it is a cost-effective option for piping systems, which can save money without sacrificing quality.

Sizes and Dimensions

When selecting Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius, it's important to consider the appropriate size and dimensions for your application. Metal Forge India offers Carbon Steel Butt weld 90 elbow Long Radius up to 48″ with wall thickness ranging from 1.5 mm thickness up to 40mm for varied sizes.

Be sure to consult with their experts to select the most appropriate size and dimensions for your project.

Specification of Carbon Steel Weld 90º Elbow Long Radius

Family

Elbow 90º Long Radius

Grades

ASTM A182, A105, A105N, A350 LF2, A182 F5, A182 F9, A182 F11, A182 F22, A182 F91. Low Temp ASTM/ASME SA350 LF2 and Stainless Steel ASTM/ASME SA182 F304/L & F316/L.

Material

stainless steel elbows, carbon steel elbows, alloy steel elbows, and elbows in special alloys such as Monel, Inconel, and Hastelloy

Classes

2000#, 3000#, 6000#, and 9000#

Size

Elbow up to 48″ with wall thickness ranging from 1.5 mm thickness up to 40mm for varied sizes

Type

Seamless, welded (ERW), Fabricated

Finish

Short Blast, Sand Blast, Electropolish

Marking

Metal Forge India Specs, Desc, Heat no

Shape

90 Degree Elbow Long Radius

Manufactured by

Metal Forge India

Thickness

SCH 5 SCH 160

Variation

Long Radius, Short Radius

End

Beveled

Packing

Protected by Cap

Applications of Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius

Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius is used in a variety of industries. As it is preferred for its strength, durability, and resistance to corrosion and abrasion. It is an essential component of piping systems used for transporting liquids, gases, and other materials.

Here are some of the applications of Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius including;

Petrochemical industry

Pharmaceutical industry 

Food industry

Aviation and aerospace industry

Architectural decoration industry

Oil and Gas Pipeline industry and many more.

The manufacturing process of Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius:

Metal Forge India follows a rigorous manufacturing process for their Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius products. They source high-quality raw materials, which are tested for composition and other factors to ensure that they meet industry standards. The products are then manufactured through a precise process that includes hot forming, cold forming, or extrusion. The products are thoroughly tested and inspected to ensure that they meet quality and safety standards.

Importance of Choosing the Right Manufacturer

Choosing the right manufacturer for Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius is crucial for ensuring that you receive a high-quality product that meets industry standards and regulations. A reliable manufacturer will also offer excellent customer service and support. Metal Forge India is the leading Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius manufacturer, supplier, stockist, and exporter in India. They have a proven track record of delivering high-quality products that meet industry standards and exceed customer expectations. Their team of experts is committed to providing excellent customer service and support to ensure that their customers are satisfied with their products and services.

Final Thoughts!..

Carbon Steel Weld 90 Elbow Long Radius is an essential component of piping systems used in various industries. It offers several advantages, including strength, durability, and resistance to corrosion and abrasion. Metal Forge India is the leading manufacturer and Supplier of Carbon Steel butt- weld 90 Elbow Long Radius. With us, we have a huge stock of them, manufactured using quality materials. We not only manufacture carbon steel forged fittings and flanges our esteemed clientele spans the globe, including but not limited to the United Arab Emirates, United States, Germany, South Korea, Russia, Singapore, France, Thailand, Turkey, Vietnam, and Indonesia.

To learn more about how our products can enhance your piping system needs, please do not hesitate to get in touch with us today.

[nissansteel]

90 Degree Elbow

Need a 90 degree elbow for your plumbing or industrial application? Trust Nissansteel to deliver the durable and dependable products you need. Our elbows are built to last and designed to fit seamlessly into your system.

[urhoneycombwitch]

I know what they call you.

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

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.

for more shy!Reader content: masterlist

[skachacharealsmooth]

coming on main to say this just bcs i talk more abt sth over here but my ideal sonadow dynamic is soooo situationship coded. sonic will knock on shadow’s door at like 3 am sopping wet scrapes all over his body taco bell in hand stupid smile and shadow will just be like ughhhh fine whatever invite yourself in. they spend a few weeks together in domestic bliss or whatever until shadow notices that sonic’s leg is extra bouncy and his eyes are darting today at breakfast which means he’s gonna leave in the middle of the night off to chaos knows where.

shadow’s version of crashing and leaving is stepping in on sonic’s heroic endeavors but only when the situation is extreme enough to use his Top Secret Government Job as a reason. shadow isn’t using his occupation as an excuse, more so a valid reason to warrant rubbing elbows w sonic and co….and what follows is the most awkward bizarre palpable tension that you can cut through with a knife. like condolences to anyone that is within a 10 mile blast radius of them. when they’re parting ways sonic always says something so out of pocket in love goo goo eyes and shadow will think about it for the next five months nonstop. sonic then shows up on his doorstep and the cycle continues. actually let me expand on why this happens down below

shadow will not tell sonic that he genuinely has feelings for him for a multitude of reasons but the main sparksnotes overarching reason why changes over time. when they’re younger shadow is under the impression that sonic simply can’t be in a long term romantic relationship because he’s incapable. this type of engagement is just his speed and suits his lifestyle perfectly. as they get older, shadow’s opinion slightly shifts in favor of the idea that sonic would never settle down because his appetite to experience everything the world has to offer is greater than his desire to have and maintain in a romantic sense. getting serious is something he doesn’t want turns into getting serious is something he genuinely can’t bring himself to do.

on the other hand, sonic will not tell shadow that he has feelings for him and his reasoning stays the same. and it’s arguably more stupid. sonic is convinced that shadow just isn’t that serious about him. like every time he creeps out of the door in the middle of the night he secretly wishes that shadow will catch him and beg him to stay in this giant confession of love but that would never happen because coming and going is sonic’s thing and who shadow sees in between their meetings is none of his business. if he was that serious then he would confess. when they’re younger sonic fantasizes the doorway scene ending as let me come with you. as they get older, it turns into stay.

[prentissmultiverse]

No Strings to Hold Us - part II

Weeks of avoidance and unspoken tension between you and Emily come to a head when the case takes a deadly turn. tw: mention of death, violence

part I and part III

(words: 4410)

The weeks that followed your one night with Emily were a strange blur. She acted like nothing had happened—no lingering looks, no suggestive comments—as if she hadn’t unraveled you completely one night and then stitched herself back together before sunrise. It was all business as usual, as though she hadn’t pinned you against her bedroom door or whispered your name in a voice that still echoed in your mind when you least expected it. She was poised, professional, and utterly detached, and you played along, convincing yourself it didn’t matter. You’d agreed to leave it as a one-night stand, after all. Right?

You’d buried yourself in work, using every free moment to either assist Garcia with her endless data streams or pore over old case files that you could’ve sworn you’d memorized. Anything to keep your thoughts from wandering.

But late at night, when the bullpen emptied out and your mind was no longer distracted by the chaos of the job, the memories crept in. The way her lips felt against yours, the low timbre of her voice whispering things you hadn’t dared to repeat even to yourself… it all came rushing back. And just as quickly, you shoved it aside.

You were fine. This was fine. You could handle this.

It was a relief when a new case finally came in, promising to occupy every waking thought for the foreseeable future. The air in the briefing room was heavy as Emily stood at the head of the round table, commanding the team’s attention. She clicked a button on the remote, and the screen behind her lit up with five photos. Five women, each vibrant and full of life—until they weren’t. Their bodies had been found frozen solid on the outskirts of Anchorage, Alaska.

“The unsub has been active for just over six weeks,” Emily began, her voice steady and authoritative. “Five victims, all dumped along service roads leading into wooded areas. Preliminary forensics shows they were restrained for several days before being killed, and then… frozen.”

“Frozen?” Luke repeated, frowning.

Emily nodded. “The medical examiner’s report confirms they were kept in a freezer. The exact time hasn’t been figured out yet, but the marks on their bodies indicate prolonged exposure to sub-zero temperatures days or weeks prior to being dumped.”

Tara leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Freezing them could be a form of preservation,” she said thoughtfully. “He might be trying to keep them in a state he considers perfect or untouchable. It’s a form of control—maintaining his victims in a way that serves his needs, even after death.”

“And the dumpsites?” Rossi asked, gesturing toward the map on the screen. “Is there a pattern?”

Garcia’s voice chimed in; her tone uncharacteristically grim. “All the locations are secluded but within a two-mile radius of main roads. He’s careful to make sure the bodies are found, but he’s not exactly leaving a calling card.”

JJ nodded. “He might want them to be discovered but not immediately. It’s possible he’s testing something… maybe seeing how long it takes for someone to notice.”

The discussion continued, theories bouncing around the table as the team worked to piece together the unsub’s profile. You took notes diligently, your mind locked on the details. But then Emily licked her lips—a quick, absent gesture as she scanned her file—and your focus faltered.

It wasn’t the same as before. The maddening pull of desire had been replaced by something heavier, something that lodged itself in your chest and refused to leave. Every time her tongue darted out to wet her lips, your thoughts drifted. Not to the memory of her touch, but to the unspoken chasm between you. The wall she’d built, impenetrable and cold.

By the time the briefing ended, you were desperate for action—anything to shake the fog that clung to you. Emily’s voice cut through the lingering tension, sharp and decisive. “Wheels up in 30,” she said, and the team immediately dispersed to prepare for the flight to Anchorage.

You headed to your desk to grab your go-bag, the flurry of activity around you providing a welcome distraction. Tara caught your eye as she passed, giving you a small nod of reassurance. Across the bullpen, Emily moved with practiced efficiency, already coordinating with Garcia to ensure all the files and preliminary reports were ready to go. She didn’t look at you once, and you told yourself it didn’t matter.

As you shouldered your bag and prepared to head to the jet, JJ appeared at your desk, her expression concerned. “Hey, can I ask you something?” she said, leaning against the desk.

“Sure,” you replied, trying to sound casual.

She hesitated for a moment, her blue eyes scanning your face. “Is everything okay between you and Emily?”

The question caught you off guard, and you froze mid-motion. “Why do you ask?”

JJ tilted her head, giving you a knowing look. “Because you two have been acting… off. Like you’re avoiding each other. Did you have a fight or something?”

“No,” you said quickly, waving her off. “Nothing like that. We’re fine. It’s just… work stuff.”

She didn’t look convinced but didn’t press further. Instead, she added, “You know, Emily’s been through a lot over the years. She puts up walls, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t care. Sometimes you just have to read between the lines.”

Her words lingered with you as you boarded the jet, stealing glances at Emily as she reviewed the case file with focused intensity. Whatever had passed between you that night was a mistake—wasn’t it? You tried to push it from your mind as the jet soared into the icy Alaskan night.

The next two days were grueling. The cold seeped into everything, a constant reminder of the urgency of the case. The unsub struck again the night the team landed; his latest victim found frozen near an abandoned logging road. Every piece of evidence pointed to a pattern—one that suggested he was escalating.

Your thoughts about Emily faded into the background, replaced by the singular focus of finding the unsub before he took another life. Two could play the game of emotional distance, and you buried yourself in the case with a determination that matched her own.

By the third day, the team had narrowed down his location to the outskirts of Anchorage. A secluded property with a dilapidated warehouse stood at the center of your search. The unsub had a clear pattern: he always kept one victim alive while dumping another. This meant there was still a chance to save the latest woman he’d taken.

You moved in with the team, your FBI vest strapped tightly over your jacket and your weapon drawn. The air was sharp and biting as you approached the warehouse, the snow crunching beneath your boots. The team split up to cover all exits, the tension palpable as you readied yourself to breach the door.

The chaos that followed was a whirlwind of sound and movement. Inside, the warehouse’s narrow hallways twisted like a labyrinth, their walls dimly lit by flickering, outdated bulbs. Every step you took was cautious but deliberate, your breath visible in the cold air as you methodically cleared one room after another.

The tension in the air was suffocating. Furniture was overturned, and remnants of the unsub’s deranged mind cluttered the spaces—newspapers with headlines about missing women, scattered tools, and an eerie silence that felt like it could snap at any second. Then you found it. The freezer room was at the end of a dark corridor, its door slightly ajar. A faint mist of cold air seeped from the opening, curling around your boots like a warning. The sight sent a chill down your spine that had nothing to do with the freezing temperature.

As you moved closer, gun drawn, the hair on the back of your neck prickled with unease. The thought struck you like ice—the missing woman might already be inside. You hesitated for only a moment before gripping the edge of the freezer door and pulling it open slightly wider. A rush of cold air hit your face, and you squinted into the mist, trying to make sense of the shapes inside. But before you could process anything, a sharp blow landed on the back of your head. Pain exploded through your skull, and the world tilted violently. You stumbled forward, falling hard onto the icy ground, your gun slipping from your grasp as darkness threatened to claim you.

Dazed and disoriented, you turned your head just enough to catch a glimpse of the unsub. He stood over you, his expression cold and detached as he muttered, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

The door slammed shut behind you with a deafening clang, the metallic sound echoing in your ears as the lock clicked into place. You instinctively reached for your communication device, pressing the button. “Rossi, Emily, anyone, I—” Static cut off your words, the thick insulation of the freezer walls rendering your headset useless.

The bluish light of the freezer surrounded you. You struggled to your feet, black edges creeping into your vision as you leaned heavily against the steel walls. Your hands fumbled for the latch, your breath visible in short, ragged bursts. Your head was hammering. You instinctively touched the back of your head where the blow hit you. When you pulled your hand away from your head, it was slick with blood.

Panic clawed at the edges of your mind as the realization set in—you were trapped, and no one knew where you were.

Desperation surged through you as you hammered against the door, your fists pounding on the icy steel with every ounce of strength you could muster. "Help!" you shouted, your voice hoarse and cracking from the cold. "Is anyone out there? Please!" The thick walls absorbed your cries, muffling them into the oppressive silence of the freezer. The metallic surface bit into your bare hands with every strike, the icy burn making you wince, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

Your breaths came in shallow gasps, visible in the frigid air as your strength began to wane. The pain in your head pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat, and your hands trembled as they slid down the unyielding surface of the door. Still, the silence remained, as relentless and unforgiving as the cold surrounding you.

Slowly, your legs gave out, and you sank onto the icy floor as your strength faded. In the corner of the freezer, a pale figure caught your eye—the unsub’s latest victim. Her lifeless, frozen body was propped against the wall, her glassy eyes staring unseeingly in your direction. The sight sent a fresh wave of horror through you, but your body was too drained to react.

Your bare hands, sticky with blood, trembled as you tried to draw them closer to your body, seeking any scrap of warmth. The blood had already dried in streaks, a chilling reminder of how long you’d been here. You curled in on yourself, every instinct screaming at you to preserve your dwindling heat, but the cold was unrelenting, seeping into your bones. Each passing minute sapped more of your energy, and a heavy drowsiness began to settle over you.

“Stay awake,” you whispered to yourself, your voice barely audible over the hum of the freezer’s compressor. Your eyelids grew heavier, and your mind fought a losing battle against the exhaustion that clawed at you.

The frozen woman’s empty eyes seemed to bore into you, a grim reminder of what awaited if you let yourself succumb. You clenched your fists, the movement sending sharp jolts of pain through your skull where you’d been struck. Your vision blurred, dark edges creeping closer with every passing second. You needed to stay awake. You needed to survive.

Inside the maze of hallways, the unsub bolted, his erratic footsteps echoing off the narrow walls as he searched for an escape. His chest heaved with exertion, and his head snapped back at every noise, panic twisting his features into a mask of desperation. He rounded a corner and skidded to a halt, his path blocked by Tara and Luke. Both agents stood firm, weapons raised and aimed directly at him.

“Freeze!” Luke barked, his voice sharp and authoritative.

The unsub hesitated, his eyes darting between them and the corridor behind him. Tara stepped closer, her steady aim and calm demeanor leaving no room for negotiation. “It’s over,” she said firmly. “Get on the ground. Now.”

Realizing there was no escape, the unsub dropped to his knees, raising his hands slowly above his head. Luke moved in swiftly, cuffing him as Tara kept her weapon trained on the man. The unsub smirked faintly but said nothing.

The sound of running footsteps signaled the arrival of Tyler and Rossi, both agents skidding to a stop beside Tara. “You got him?” Tyler asked, his voice taut with adrenaline.

Luke nodded as he tightened the cuffs. “Yeah, he’s secure.”

Tara’s gaze swept the area before landing on Rossi and Tyler. “Where’s Y/N?” she asked, concern creasing her brow.

Tyler answered grimly, “She split off to cover the north side. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Tara’s expression darkened as she keyed her radio. “Y/N, report in. Do you copy?”

Only static greeted them.

Emily’s voice crackled through the channel as she and JJ made their way through the hallways and down to their team. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

Rossi’s tone was grim as he explained. “Y/N’s M.I.A. She went to the north side and hasn’t checked in.”

Emily frowned, adjusting her earpiece. “Y/N, do you copy?”

Still nothing. Only the faint hiss of static filled the channel, and a cold knot of dread began to form in her chest.

“We’re heading to you now,” Emily said, urgency sharpening her tone. She glanced at JJ, who nodded, and the two agents picked up their pace.

Tara stepped forward, her gaze fixed on the unsub as she holstered her weapon. “Where is she?” she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.

The unsub’s smirk widened slightly, his icy eyes gleaming with malice. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he sneered.

In that moment, Emily and JJ rounded the corner, their eyes locking onto the scene. Emily’s face was a mask of determination and barely contained anger as she strode toward the unsub. “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll make sure you regret it,” she said, her voice razor-sharp.

The unsub’s smirk grew wider, his voice dripping with mockery. “Her heart’s probably frozen solid by now. Stone cold, like the others. But if you hurry, you might just catch a glimpse of her before she’s gone.”

Emily’s jaw tightened as the unsub’s words sent a fresh wave of panic through her. She didn’t wait for the others. She darted away, her boots pounding against the floor as her mind raced. The thought of losing you—of not being there in time—was unbearable. She couldn’t shake the image of you alone and in danger, her heart twisting with guilt and fear. She’d ignored you for weeks, burying her feelings about that night. And now, the thought of never having the chance to make things right was too much to bear.

JJ called after her, “Emily, wait!” But Emily didn’t slow down, her focus singular as she sprinted toward the north corridor.

Behind her, the rest of the team followed, Tara and Luke keeping pace while Rossi and Tyler stayed back to secure the unsub and escort him out. Emily’s breaths came in sharp gasps, her pulse pounding in her ears as she closed in on the north side.

The cold was consuming. It seeped into your bones, coiling tightly around you like a predator, stripping you of the last vestiges of warmth. Your breaths were shallow, each one visible in the frigid air before dissipating into the oppressive silence of the freezer.

Your body trembled violently, the shaking now beyond your control. You pressed your back against the icy wall, seeking some form of support, but it offered no solace, only a harsher reminder of your dire situation.

Each breath felt heavier than the last. You tilted your head back, the bitter chill biting at the exposed skin of your neck. Your vision blurred, the room warping at the edges, and you blinked rapidly in an attempt to focus. Your limbs were growing sluggish, the once insistent ache in your fingers now replaced by a creeping numbness.

"Stay awake," you muttered to yourself again, your voice weak and cracking. It felt more like a desperate plea than an order. Your mind clung to the sound, hoping it could anchor you, but the pull of exhaustion was stronger.

Your eyelids fluttered, heavy with the weight of the cold. The world tilted as your upper body slid down the wall, your legs folding beneath you as you hit the icy floor. The impact sent a dull ache through your already numbed limbs, but it wasn’t enough to fully rouse you.

You tried to focus on the victim in the corner, her unseeing eyes locked onto yours. She seemed to be watching, waiting for you to join her in the frozen stillness. Her silent stare bore into your soul, and for a brief moment, you wondered if this was how she’d felt in her final moments—alone, cold, and desperate.

The frost crept further into your body, stealing the last remnants of feeling from your fingers and toes. Your thoughts began to slip, disjointed and slow, as if the cold had reached your mind. It was so tempting to let it take you, to surrender to the darkness.

Your head lolled to the side, and your vision dimmed further. The sound of your own heartbeat was a dull, erratic thud in your ears. You exhaled shakily, watching the vapor dissipate into the air, and let your eyes close.

Then, a noise.

A rattling sound, faint but distinct, pierced the silence. The freezer door screeched open, a flood of light and sound pouring in. You could feel the rush of warmer air hit your frozen skin like a shock, but your body remained numb, unresponsive. Heavy footsteps echoed against the steel walls, and then she was there.

“Y/N!” Emily’s voice was sharp, commanding, but trembling at the edges with barely contained fear. It cut through the fog in your mind, a lifeline in the freezing abyss. You wanted to answer, to let her know you were still there, but no sound came.

Her hands found you, gentle but firm, as she knelt beside you. “Stay with me, Y/N,” she pleaded, her voice softer now but no less urgent. She leaned closer, her warmth brushing against your frozen skin as her hands cupped your cheeks, tilting your face toward hers. “Open your eyes. Come on, look at me.”

Your eyelids fluttered weakly, your lashes barely parting. You caught a blur of her face—dark eyes filled with something raw, unguarded. She shook you lightly, her voice breaking. “That’s it. Just keep looking at me. Don’t close your eyes again. Do you hear me?”

She shifted, slipping out of her burgundy coat and draping it over your trembling frame. The heavy fabric smelled faintly of her—woodsy and warm, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. “You’re okay,” she murmured, more to herself than to you, as she worked quickly, wrapping the coat tighter around your body. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

Her arms slid beneath you, one looping around your back, the other under your knees. The chill in your limbs dulled the sensation, but you felt the press of her strength as she lifted you effortlessly. Your smaller frame was no burden for her as she rose to her feet, holding you close against her chest.

“Y/N,” she whispered, her voice dropping to something soft and almost tender. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re going to be fine. Just stay with me.”

Her warmth enveloped you, and though your body still refused to respond, your mind latched onto the sensation. It was a fragile comfort, like holding onto the edge of a cliff, but it was enough to keep you tethered.

As Emily carried you out of the freezer, the distant murmur of voices reached your ears. JJ, Tara, and Luke—calling out to Emily, asking questions—but their words blurred together, muffled and indistinct, like they were coming from underwater. None of it mattered.

All you could focus on was Emily.

Her voice, steady and constant, filled your senses. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing for me, alright? I need you to hang in there. We’re almost out.” Her hold on you was secure, protective, and you could feel the way her heartbeat thudded against your cheek where it pressed against her chest.

The cold still held you captive, your body a prison refusing to obey your mind’s desperate commands. Your fingers didn’t twitch; your lips wouldn’t move. It was as though you were trapped inside yourself, helpless.

Her voice grew sharper, tinged with hope. “I can feel you trying,” she murmured, her lips brushing the top of your head. “Come on, Y/N. Just a little more.”

And then, like a fragile thread snapping, your lips parted. Your voice was broken and weak, barely a whisper, but it was enough. “E…Em…ily…”

Emily froze for a split second, her dark eyes wide with relief as she looked down at you. “Yes,” she said quickly, her tone softening as she cradled you closer. “I’m here. I’ve got you. Just hold on for me, okay?”

Emily’s arms held you tightly as she moved with purpose, her every step swift and deliberate. You could feel the faint sway of her movements, her strength steady beneath you, but the cold clung to your body like an unrelenting shadow.

“Stay with me, Y/N,” she said, her voice firm, cutting through the fog creeping into your mind. Her breath ghosted against your forehead as she glanced down at you, her dark eyes filled with worry. “We’re almost there. You’re safe now.”

You tried to focus on her words, her warmth, anything that could keep you tethered to the present. But the exhaustion was like a siren’s call, pulling at you, tempting you to let go. Every breath was an effort, shallow and rasping, and your eyelids fluttered as the weight of the cold pressed down on you.

“Hey, no,” Emily said sharply, her voice a lifeline. “Keep those eyes open for me. Just a little longer.” She shifted you slightly in her arms, her burgundy coat cocooning you in its warmth as she quickened her pace. “You’re not allowed to give up on me, do you hear me? Not now, not ever.”

It was the desperation in her tone that struck you, even through the haze. It wasn’t the detached professionalism she’d shown you for weeks, the cool and distant demeanor she’d maintained since that night. No, this was different. This was Emily—unguarded, scared, and maybe just as broken as you felt.

The cold gripped you tighter, and as Emily carried you, her voice was a thread pulling you back from the abyss. But it was thin, so thin, and fraying with every second that passed. You tried to focus on her words, her warmth, the feeling of her arms wrapped around you, but your strength was slipping fast.

“Y/N, please,” she said again, and there was something raw in her voice now. Something breaking. Emily’s voice cracked as she spoke, her words stumbling out in a way you’d never heard before. “I’m not losing you. Do you hear me? You don’t get to leave. Not after… not after everything.”

It was the closest she’d come to admitting what you both knew but couldn’t say. For weeks, she’d avoided you. After that night in her house, when the world felt like it had shifted between you, she’d acted as though nothing had happened. She’d stayed professional, untouchable, and you’d mirrored her distance because it was the only way to keep yourself together. But that night had meant something. It had left marks you’d both ignored, pretending they didn’t exist.

But here, now, in her arms, all of that fell away. You could feel it in the way she held you, her grip too tight, her voice trembling despite her efforts to steady it. The walls you’d both built were gone, crumbling under the weight of the moment.

“You can do this, Y/N. You’re stronger than this. Just stay with me.”

You wanted to. God, you wanted to. But the tiredness was a force beyond anything you’d ever felt, a heavy, suffocating pull that dulled the edges of the world. Emily’s voice was still there, but it felt distant now, as though she was speaking through layers of cotton.

Voices echoed faintly around you.

“Emily, over here!” JJ’s voice cut through the haze, urgent and close.

“She’s freezing,” Emily snapped, her tone laced with both authority and fear. “We need to get her warm. Now.”

Tara’s voice came next, clear and calm but tense. “Notify the EMTs—she’s hypothermic and losing consciousness.”

The words registered faintly in your mind, but their meaning slipped through your grasp. You tried to fight the pull of the darkness creeping in at the edges of your vision, but it was like trying to hold onto water with your bare hands.

Emily’s voice was the last thing you clung to. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go.”

But her words, too, began to lose their grip on your mind. The warmth of her body against the cold pressing in from all sides blurred together, indistinguishable. The world grew softer, dimmer, until finally, you couldn’t hold on any longer.

The darkness welcomed you, silent and all-encompassing, as the last of Emily’s voice faded into nothingness...

to be continued...

[annie-creates]

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.”

[losing-it-lately]

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.

[delespresso]

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!

[starsfic]

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."

[anjney]

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

[shadowww-bunny]

「The game」 (Dean Winchester/fem!reader)

❥ Dean seems to be having a lot of fun, and your eye will soon twitch from his attempts to arouse your jealousy.

❥ fluff, established relationship

What would it be like to date a guy who has a reputation as a ladies' man? You felt it fully when Dean confessed his feelings to you.

Dean had incredible charm, a velvety low voice, an attractive smile and a mesmerizing gaze, which automatically made him a magnet for all girls within a radius of several kilometers. And, being a flirt by nature, Dean did not deny himself women attention. And then this game began. The hunter seemed to be testing your willpower and patience. He knew how jealous you could be and enjoyed it to the fullest. Despite your irritation, there aways was something about the situation that made him excited, his heart beating a little faster. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn't help himself.

You two were in the bar today. The lights were dimmed, and the air was filled with the smell of alcohol, the clink of glasses, and the voices of other patrons. However, you haven't heard it. All the sounds merged into one and faded into the background. All your attention was focused on the bar, or rather, on a certain person. And, looking at him, your hand was almost involuntarily clutching a glass of unfinished wine, which seemed about to crack.

Dean was leaning against the counter and talking with his trademark charming smile, while the barmaid listened and giggled at his words. Her laugh seemed sickly sweet and stupidly annoying to you, like all girls who want to show off in front of a hunter and end up in bed with him. As if they have a chance. It was almost ridiculous and silly, but you felt tense every time Dean flirted so shamelessly with someone who wasn't you.

Dean loved it. Dean loved watching you try to hold back, but your cheeks are flushed and your lips are pursed. Oh, that jealousy. It was adorable. Really. Of course, after that, Dean would have taken you out of the establishment and washed away the traces of irritation with his kisses and gentle whispers until you both forgot about it.

When your eyes meet across the crowded bar, you quickly look away, trying to play it cool even as your heart races. You know it's just a game to him, a way to get a rise out of you, but that doesn't make it any easier to stomach. This man is insufferable. You are supposed to be the one girl who matters, the one he wants, but here he is throwing around compliments like confetti to some random chick.

Dean chuckled at your disapproving look, clearly finding your annoyance cute. His posture remained relaxed and casual, and his elbow seemed to accidentally touch the barmaid's elbow. He continued to exchange playful phrases with her, his voice low and seductive. It was like he was testing your patience, trying to figure out how long you'd put up with his antics before you snapped.

And then, Dean came up with a stupid but tempting idea. He leaned slightly towards the barmaid and put his hand on her hip. It was a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but Dean knew you noticed, he could almost feel your gaze burning through him, and that made his heart beat with anticipation and excitement, already imagining your next move.

It took a few minutes before your patience ran out, and you found yourself getting up from your chair and heading resolutely to the counter.

"Having fun, Casanova?" Your voice was laced with sarcasm. Dean saw the twinkle of annoyance in your eyes, and if looks could kill, he'd probably be 6 feet underground by now, but he didn't care. Damn it, he'd be lying if he said it wasn't hot.

Dean grinned at you. His hand slipped off the waitress's hip and now all the attention was on you. "What happened to your pretty face, baby?" His voice is laced with feigned innocence and barely contained amusement, which makes you barely keep from rolling your eyes. "Are the drinks that lame?"

"Yeah, it totally sucks." You tried to sound casual and nonchalant, as if you weren't at all bothered by the spectacle the hunter had just put on. "We're leaving."

Dean is about to protest, but you step up to him, closing the distance between you and grabbing his collar.

What you wanted most of all was to pull him to you and kiss him in front of all the damn visitors to show that he was busy and you weren't going to share. The hunter probably expected exactly that, too, because surprise and disappointment flashed in his eyes when you just dragged him to the exit.

The barmaid watching you seemed uncomfortable. Her expression reflected embarrassment and slight indignation at the fact that you took the guy she was going to have fun with, but you didn't pay attention to her, hearing only a quiet snort.

When you and Dean were outside, you finally let go of him and crossed your arms over your chest.

"You're such a jerk." You mumbled, trying to sound stern.

"Maybe." A slight smirk touched the corners of Dean's lips. "But I'm your jerk, and you love me, don`t you?"

"Oh, shut up. I didn't say that." You snorted at his remark, even though his words weren't untrue. You loved him, even if he was a smug bastard.

"How rude." Dean pretended to pout, but immediately his feigned resentment was replaced by a sly smile. "Although I have to admit you're cute when you're jealous. Even though you look like you want to rip my head off."

"I'll do just that next time." You retorted with a mixture of sarcasm and dry teasing.

"Oh, really? Then maybe I can convince you?" Dean leans towards you, lowering his voice to a seductive whisper.

"Are you trying to bribe me with a kiss?" You raise an eyebrow and chuckle. "It's pathetic."

"Do you mind?"

"Nah, go on."

The hunter didn't need to be told twice. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer before he finally pressed his lips to yours. At first it was a light teasing kiss, but then Dean's tongue slid between your lips, intertwining with your tongue, making it more intimate and deeper. Despite the desire to maintain a mask of severity and irritation, you couldn't help but melt into the hunter's arms. You moaned softly into his mouth, putting your hands on his shoulders to keep your balance. Dean kissed you with such desire and tenderness that belonged only to you that the jealousy slowly faded.

The hunter's chest heaved with deep breaths, when he pulled away, and it was clear from his Cheshire cat smile that he, like you, had been waiting for this moment all night.

The game ended as quickly as it had begun. You couldn't say for sure who won, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was the hunter's hand on your cheek, the smell of his cologne, and the taste of whiskey on your lips.

[jenanigans1207]

1/6/25: Recover

“Dean, sit down.” Cas orders from where he’s standing at the kitchen stove, spatula in hand. He wields in the same way Dean does when he’s lecturing someone and cooking at the same time and Dean thinks both ruefully and in amusement about all the habits he unintentionally passed along to Cas. “I am perfectly capable—”

“Just let me check.” Dean insists, going to stand from the barstool he is perched on at the counter. “You’ve never made soup before.”

“Dean,” Cas says and this time there’s a clear warning in his voice. It’s deep and rumbly and probably the voice that Cas used to guide armies when he was an angel and instill fear into those who dared stand against him. To Dean, it’s completely harmless, and he stands up anyways and crosses to stand right behind Cas, peering over his shoulder.

Cas huffs a dramatic sigh to match his dramatic eye roll as Dean nestles his chin onto Cas’s shoulder and stares down into the pot. It’s quiet for a long moment before Dean nods a little, pressing a kiss to the side of Cas’s neck. “Looks good.”

“I have been alive for millennia,” Cas insists with frustration. “I think I can make some chicken noodle soup.”

“First,” Dean says, raising a finger to tick off his point. “When you were an angel for those millennia,” He drops his voice with a grin to mimic Cas’s and earns a half-hearted elbow to the ribs. “You didn’t eat. So none of those years count. Second,” he ticks off another finger, “Even if they did count, you’re not an angel anymore, so none of your angel experience counts. And you don’t have mojo to fix burned soup.”

“I would hardly have wasted my grace on burned soup.” Cas argues as he places the spatula back into the soup and begins stirring.

Dean allows himself to be dislodged, but he doesn’t return to his seat at the counter. “You consider feeding me unburned soup a waste?”

Cas doesn’t even bother to give him a verbal response, instead sending a withering glare over his shoulder to make his point. Dean grins at him, wide and full of genuine joy. It lasts all of about two seconds before he’s suddenly sneezing, reaching for the box of tissues that Cas had kept within a foot radius of him at all times for the last two days. He wipes at his nose miserably, reminded how raw it is from how much he’s been blowing it, and then he sulks back to his seat.

Once he’s seated comfortably at the counter again, Dean crosses his arms and pillows his head on top of them, making sure he can still keep Cas in his line of sight. Cas glances over his shoulder occasionally, watching as Dean settles in.

After a minute of silence, Cas asks quietly, “Are you feeling any better at all?”

“A little,” Dean answers, but now he sounds stuffy and the dubious look Cas sends him indicates that he hears it as well. “I’m just fucking sick of this.”

Cas takes one last glance into the pot before carefully stowing the spatula on the spoon rest that Dean had insisted they get for the kitchen as soon as they had made the bunker their permanent home. Once he’s set the spatula down, he crosses the room easily, one hand coming to rest between Dean’s shoulder blades and moving in small, soothing circles. Cas has always been warm and it feels good to Dean’s aching back and sore muscles. Cas’s other hand threads gently into Dean’s hair, brushing it away from his face and scratching gently at his scalp. It’s all Dean can do not to groan aloud and melt into a complete puddle underneath the stool.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” Cas says for what has to be the millionth time, though it has never lost even an ounce of its sincerity. “Just give yourself a couple more days to recover and then you’ll be back to normal.”

“You said a few days a few days ago.” Dean mumbles, but his eyes have slipped closed and there’s not any actual bite to his words.

Ever since he’d gotten sick, everything had been stupidly difficult. But in this moment, feeling Cas so close to him, smelling the soup that Cas was making just for him— well this is the best Dean has felt in a few days. He had fought it at first, insistent that he knew how to make chicken noodle soup and was perfectly capable of making it for himself. Cas had sat him down and told him with absolutely no room for argument that Dean took care of everyone else and now it was his turn to be taken care of. Any rebuttal Dean wanted to make to that died on his tongue somewhere between the stormy warning that was in Cas’s eyes and the coughing fit that had taken the words right out of his mouth.

And so he had relented, although it had taken a few days to get around to the soup because Dean hadn’t felt up to eating much at first. He’d spent most of his time curled up in bed, head pillowed on Cas’s lap, warning him repeatedly that he was going to get sick, too, if he stayed around Dean. Reminding him that he was human now, and human ailments were something he had to worry about. But Cas had insisted on staying and Dean really hadn’t tried that hard to push him away because he liked the comfort and the company.

And if he ended up making soup for Cas next week because Cas inevitably got sick— if he ended up rubbing circles into Cas’s back while gently brushing his messy hair off his fevered forehead, well, that was a trade Dean was willing to make. He could be taken care of if he needed to be, but only if it was by Cas.

[onlygenxhere]

A conversation between me, @innytoes, @missjoolee, @floating-in-the-blue, and @jatp-spinsb about that grindr post that went around a while ago about needing a screwdriver and not a hookup has led to a Juke version of that prompt. (I didn't think there was one) I'm not sure what to call it.

It was a lazy Saturday morning and Julie was cooking herself some bacon and eggs scrolling through the dating app Flynn had talked her into installing last night after her third glass of wine.

When the talk had turned to how long it had been since she’d been laid her best friend had insisted this new app was the way to break her dry spell. It was marketed as a dating app but was more popular for being the hetero version of grinder. On the plus side the men couldn’t message the women till they messaged them first. It was sexist as hell but when it came to a possible hookup Julie appreciated it.

She sighed as she swiped left on a guy that listed sky diving as one of his favorite hobbies. “Hell to the no.” She muttered under her breath.

She’d actually forgotten all about the app until her do not disturb turned off at nine and her phone started pinging that there were a few matches within the default radius of two miles.

She paused on a pretty cute guy that seemed to be a little too fond of his admittedly nice arms when the smell of her bacon burning finally pulled her attention back to her breakfast that was about to be ruined.

“Shit!” She dropped her phone on the table and only halfway noticed Dahlia, her cat, jumping up as she moved to save her bacon from ruin.

“Dahlia down!” She scolded over her shoulder as she turned the stove off and pulled the bacon out, laying it on a paper towel.

The cat ignored her of course, continuing to sniff at her phone, as she went about making herself a sandwich with her eggs and bacon.

She took a bite and moaned happily as she sat back down, pushing Dahlia’s nose away from her still open screen and froze.

Apparently the cat had sent the guy with the arms a message and he had replied.

Several times….

Me Ooo kiiiop

Luke Oh thank god Hi Hey I’m not actually looking for a date or hook up right this moment Not that your picture isn’t gorgeous But my bathroom sink is currently overflowing and what I really need is a flat head screwdriver I’m not sure if I have enough towels to keep my apartment from flooding. Hello?

Well shit. If his apartment was anything like hers there wasn’t a universal cut off so he’d have to wait for maintenance to get there and, again, if it was like hers, he could be anywhere from a few minutes to a few days showing up.

She checked his location and saw he was literally on the next block over and sighed. Guess she was going to get her good deed out of the way for the day.

Me Be there in five

She wolfed down her sandwich as she pulled out her little tool kit her tia had gifted her when she moved in, grabbed an armful of towels and her keys and was out the door in record time jogging down the block in her bare feet.

She was headed up the steps of Mr. arms, sorry, Luke’s building when her phone pinged twice.

Luke You’re a life saver Apartment 3C

“Of course you live on the third floor.” She grumbled as she started to climb. Realizing halfway up she didn’t have a bra on. At least her tank wasn’t white.

She banged at 3C’s door with her elbow three times as she tried to catch her breath before it was jerked open and she nearly fell in.

Her first thought was maybe he had a right to be proud of those arms because his profile picture hadn’t done them justice.

He also hadn’t been soaking wet in that picture.

Floppy brown hair curling around his forehead and dripping down his face, pajama pants hanging low on narrow hips and a sleeveless t-shirt plastered to an equally impressive torso.

“Oh thank god!” He grabbed the towels and the toolbox out of her hands and rushed down the hall. “Come on in!”

She took a steadying breath as she stepped inside the apartment. It looked much like her own with only a small sofa, books and a decent sized tv in the small living room. But where she had her piano by her balcony door, he had an amp and guitar.

Julie shook her head and moved down the hall to the bathroom curious how bad the situation was.

She tried not to laugh as she peaked around the corner. There were wet towels everywhere and a literal spray of water coming out from under one of the faucets. Luke was on the floor with her screwdriver turning something she couldn’t see.

Whatever he was doing seemed to be working because the deluge of water started to slow and then stop.

He sat up with a sigh, pushing his wet hair off his face and smiled at her. “All better.”

She felt a throb between her legs and her nipples tighten. Fuck, that smile should come with a warning label.

“Glad I could help.” She smiled back at him as she casually crossed her arms over her chest.

He stood up, that smile never wavering and placed her screwdriver back in the little tool kit. He clicked it closed and passed it to her. “Can I buy you breakfast or something?” He seemed to finally be looking at her, probably noticing her lack of shoes, her flannel shorts and her tank top that she definitely had a bra on under. “Or can I make you breakfast?”

She shrugged. “Do you have a dryer?”

“What?” He laughed.

She waved at the mountain of wet towels all over the floor.

“Ah, no.” He sighed. “I’ll have to take them to the laundromat later.”

She bit her lip. This was probably a bad idea, or a really really good one. “I have a dryer.”

“Yeah?” He took a step toward her, his eyes twinkling in interest. “I already owe you for the screwdriver and now you’re offering the use of your dryer too. I’m gonna have to take you to dinner or something.”

She could swear his eyes dropped to her lips as she licked them. “Or something.”

He took another step toward her, forcing her to tilt her head up to meet his eyes.

She let her arms drop to her sides as he slid a hand around her waist ever so slowly, giving her all the time in the world to back up or say something.

Talking was not on her mind right now. All she could think about was that wet torso pressing against her thin tank top as he pulled her tight against his chest, and how she owed Dahlia a saucer of milk for her accidental text.

“Hi.” He breathed across her lips. “I’m Luke.”

“Julie.” She whispered as he closed the distance between them.

[nowimjustastranger]

Hello, if you want to, for your gilded cage au, could we see the exact moment Liam realized Stan and Ford were obsessed with him in a way that was more then just using him as a tool? Like, that they see him as a younger brother? Would he be kinda touched or would he be like 'this might be worse for me'

In order to answer this ask, I decided to split it into two parts. One for each brother. Enjoy!

Part 2

Liam popped into existence in a familiar lab, stifling the overwhelming urge to sigh. Ford had been summoning him more often than usual as of late. Liam found himself in Ford’s vicinity at least once a day for the past month, the madman always preoccupied with some unethical experiment or another. Ford wouldn’t even spare him a glance either, just directing him to a nearby pile of books.

The subject matter varied from history to cuisine and it was actually enjoyable to consume knowledge about this strange planet he found himself bound to for the duration of the Pines twin’s lives. Of course, Liam could only read the books under the one condition that they didn’t leave the lab, so Liam had to stick around for longer than he’d like. But it was worth it because humans were fascinating.

Liam’s slit pupil lazily searched for Ford among the several jars and trays of specimens that were in various stages of dismemberment, having long since grown used to seeing the aftermath of such clinical cruelty. The human responsible wouldn’t be far, the summoning symbol branded smack dab in the middle of the madman’s chest ensuring that Liam appeared within a certain radius of him.

Stan had the same summoning symbol of course, although it was burned onto his back near the right shoulder. Liam had been there when they had done it, the twins taking turns pressing the glowing brand to the other’s skin. Oddly enough, the one doing the branding needed more comfort and reassurance than the one being branded. Liam hadn’t understood then because he didn’t know them well enough, but he thinks he does now.

“Ah, Liam! There you are!” Ford exclaimed, his sophisticated appearance a direct contrast to his manic nature. Ford wore pretty much the same thing every day with little to no deviation, which he achieved by buying a lot of duplicates. Admittedly, the white vest and black undershirt combo –the sleeves almost always rolled up to his elbows– complimented his fit physique.

And fortunately, for the sake of his wardrobe if nothing else, Ford covered up with a black leather butcher’s apron when he was in the lab. If the sheer amount of times Liam showed up only to see Ford elbows deep in some poor anomaly was any indication, the utter madman didn’t mind getting his hands dirty and he certainly wasn’t squeamish.

Stan, on the other hand, wore a white undershirt with a black jacket and slacks; no vest or tie. However, Stan did own a fluffy white monstrosity of a coat that he was quite fond of, insisting that it made him look the part of a mafia boss. Truthfully, Stan didn’t look terrible when he wore that hideous coat, but Liam was skeptical that anyone other than Stan could pull the look off.

“Ford.” Liam greeted blandly, eyeing the various fluids that were splattered on Ford’s apron with distaste. If Ford noticed or cared about the sorry state of his apron and custom made black leather gloves, he made no outward indication of it.

“I have something for you, Liam. Come, come!” Ford gushed with a worrying gleam in his eyes, gesturing toward the depths of the lab with a flourish since he knew better than to make a grab for Liam. Ford had been electrocuted many times due to forgetting himself and attempting to manhandle Liam like he often did with his brother, getting thrown a good six feet away from Liam’s corporeal form as a result.

“For me?” Liam asked, no small amount of wariness in his tone. This was Stanford Pines after all. The madman’s idea of a gift was almost guaranteed to be deadly, or at the very least completely unnerving. Liam didn’t like surprises in the first place, but this took that dislike to a whole other level, leaning closer to paranoia and maybe even an inkling of fear if he was being completely honest.

“Yes. I had noticed a need and promptly got to work fulfilling it.” Ford confirmed with a decidedly vigorous nod, his vague answer only serving to confuse Liam further. Liam himself hadn’t noticed anything off with his form or internal structure, so what need could Ford possibly be fulfilling? Maybe this was yet another ploy meant to convince Liam to let Ford examine him?

“A need?” Liam impatiently prompted when it didn’t seem like Ford was going to be forthcoming about what the fuck he was talking about.

“Here.” Ford said instead of answering, grabbing a golf-ball sized sphere off of one of his cluttered workstations, the glowing blue liquid inside the sphere churning as Ford thrust it toward Liam with a huge grin that spelled nothing but trouble. Liam made no move to take it, leveling Ford’s obnoxiously giddy expression with a flat stare.

“What is it?” Liam demanded, pupil drifting between Ford and the sphere a few times. He had to admit, there was a flicker of curiosity, but it was lost under an extremely warranted surge of apprehension.

“A pill of sorts. Meant to be taken orally.” Ford explained, as if that was the part that Liam had an issue with. Leave it to Ford to completely miss the point. Liam was half-convinced that he did it on purpose because surely he wasn’t this socially incompetent.

“Real enlightening.” Liam deadpanned, reluctantly reaching out to pluck the sphere from Ford’s hand. He would have to figure out what it was himself, and the only way to do that was get a closer look at the damn thing.

The first thing Liam noticed was that the sphere felt… strange. It was cold to the touch but it was almost pulsing with energy, the mystery liquid inside glowing even brighter where it came into contact with his hand. The color was familiar somehow, as if he had seen this particular shade somewhere before. If he had more time, he would dig the memory up to examine it properly. But Ford, for all his determination, wasn’t a patient man by any means.

Liam hesitantly drew his eye back and out of the way so his tongue could unfurl from the opening to scoop up the sphere, painfully aware of Ford’s intense staring as his tongue retreated back into the cavern so his corrosive saliva could weaken the outer shell. Liam’s teeth broke the sphere with a loud crack, the liquid so cold that it burned as it spilled into his oral cavity.

Liam could feel it eating away at him from the inside, rushing through his internal structure with such ferocity that it almost seemed intentional; as if the liquid was alive. Had Ford designed this in an attempt to hurt him? To kill him? To erase him completely? Unfortunately, those thoughts were gone almost as soon as they crossed his mind, burning up like the rest of him.

Minutes or hours could’ve passed by the time Liam returned to himself, feeling both jittery and numb at the same time. He blinked sluggishly, the lab’s high ceiling coming into focus. Off in the distance, Liam could hear two distinct and familiar voices speaking with obvious urgency. Although it took him a long moment to actually recognize the garbled gibberish as words.

“–still unresponsive. And I’ve tried everything, Stanley!” Ford bemoaned, the rapid tap of his pristine dress shoes against tile a telltale sign of his anxious pacing. When Ford spoke again, he sounded small and terrified: “What if I killed him?”

“Give ‘im a minute ta recover, Ford. Ya gave ‘im the cosmic equivalent of an adrenaline shot combined with steroids for fuck’s sake.” Stan drawled, his accent noticeably thicker than usual. He also sounded a little strained, like he was in pain. Liam would have to pay the personified headache a visit and make sure he hadn’t done anything reckless again. The conman had a knack for finding trouble.

“What else was I supposed to do? Unlike others of his ilk, his power isn’t limitless; using it so frequently for such a prolonged period of time was clearly affecting him negatively!” Ford snapped and Liam was struck dumb because even he himself hadn’t noticed that something was wrong, the change had been so gradual that he didn’t suspect a thing. Boiling frog syndrome. “He’d grown worryingly lethargic and started dissociating more and more often.”

“‘M not sayin’ that what ya did was wrong, Ford. ‘M sayin’ that he might need a damn minute. Panic in like… another hour.” Stan huffed, weathering the storm that was Ford’s rampant anxiety with an ease only borne from years of practice.

Liam figured it was high time to put Ford’s fears to rest before they could fester and the absolute madman did something ill-advised, gingerly climbing to his feet. He rocked back on his heels as he made sure that he was still in one piece, pleasantly surprised to find that he actually did feel better. Whatever Ford put in that sphere had worked.

“Ford?” Liam called out as he rose into the air, floating at eyeline. There was a crash from deeper in the lab, presumably because of Ford. A suspicion that was only proven correct when the madman stumbled out of the depths, a cord coiled around his ankle. The substantial length of it was dragging behind him, whatever had been attached to the other end missing due to the cord being severed.

Ford’s vest was nowhere to be seen, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the brand on his chest. It looked awful, the raised skin blackened. Liam had only seen it turn that color when Ford toed the line when it came to studying him. Ford mostly kept his questions uninvasive, but sometimes he did try to pry into the intricacies of Liam’s species or even outright study him without consent.

The brand –the deal– swiftly corrected his behavior with crippling pain.

Liam had an inkling that Ford’s actions had violated their binding contract, resulting in punishment. What Ford did could be construed as an experiment after all, which Liam didn’t verbally permit before proceeding. Such a grievous offence would’ve affected Stan too, which explained why he had sounded pained during the phone call. And, based on Liam’s observations, Ford was able to block out sensory input more effectively than Stan.

“How do you feel?” Ford asked breathlessly, his hands warm as his fingers closed around Liam, unceremoniously jolting him out of his thoughts. Liam’s first instinct was to shock the shit out of him for the audacity, but he graciously withheld since he wasn’t exactly keen on kicking Ford while he was down.

“Better.” Liam admitted, fighting a losing battle against his own nonsensical emotions when Ford’s expression visibly crumpled with relief.

“Good. That’s good.” Ford mumbled, listing forward to rest his forehead against Liam’s front, his ridiculously fluffy hair getting in Liam’s eye. The irritation was easy enough to ignore, especially when Ford adjusted his grip in order to cling to Liam like a limpet. Actually, it was Ford’s pathetic state that ultimately led Liam to concede defeat and stiffly pat Ford’s head, providing genuine –albeit clumsy– comfort.

Liam knew that if he wasn’t careful, this apparently not so one-sided attachment would eventually be his undoing.